10 Cheese Pizza

Well.
I did all of those things that I said I would do...
Traveled Europe, made it home with all of my luggage, moved into my new house, led Top Rope Training, hosted my younger neighbor to show her the college life, started my summer jobs, and I made a 10 cheese gluten-free pizza.  My father helped, well actually he did most of it.  But that 10 cheese pizza was symbolic of how a life-sized to-do-list doesn't end and as long as you have little comprehensive goals along the way, progression isn't as intimidating or difficult.  Now it is time once more to put my nose to the grindstone and my pizza to the oven so to speak. 

And my immediate emotional response to all of this is that I am tired.  Shot. Mentally and physically drained like the glass of milk I just drank.  (I missed non-goat, non-un-pasteurized, short shelf-life skim milk.)  If you would  have told me in 2010 that would ever be sick of traveling the world, I wouldn't have believed you. An International Studies major sick of traveling the world is like a statistician who can't stand the sight of numbers.  So here I am, drinking milk on my couch with a bitter stoicism on my face befitting of Leon the Professional or the Godfather.  I burnt the candle at all ends.  Scholastically, geographically, socially, linguistically, monetarily.  Must have been a pinecone-shaped candle.  Now it's shaped like a sphere, how do you burn a sphere of wax with no wick? CAREFULLY  I'd imagine... so how do I proceed with my sanity and still maintain my integrity which I will define as a manifestation of what is left of my dignity.  The stress of travel knocked some years off my life, robbed me of my HB stein (we will get to that); however it also brought me wisdom and greater understanding of the tendencies of humanity.  Every action has an equal and opposite reaction I suppose.  Newton must have believed in Karma.

Daily life in Baltimore consists of 8-10 hr work days and weekends where I struggle to put my new house together piece by piece.  I fear what will happen if I do not keep myself busy.  Spontaneous human combustion?  Will I become sublime?  that unrecognized stage of being in between gas and solid and then dissolve into a puff of inconvenience and contradiction? There is one thing I have come to know: I cannot seamlessly intertwine my Jordanian life with my old life.  It's like trying to work a really old yet beloved Microsoft video game (Age of Mythology?) on a new Macbook...  ERROR: Incompatible.  Furthermore, speaking arabic is not satisfying when you do so to yourself.  Fast track to the terrorist watch list I'd imagine.   Also, I have become frustrated recounting my tales of abroad.  I feel like I am imposing/preaching because what real interest do people besides your best friends have in Middle East abroad studies?  Most will never venture there anyway, and most are fixated on living in the now so as to 1) fulfill Hopkins expectations of productivity and 2) to avoid thinking about jobs post-graduation.  All acquaintances instantly forgot where you went off to anyhow (Turkey?  Africa?  Detroit?).  So is it better to think of it all as a dream and move on?  Perhaps, but I predict that in the near future I will be surprised by what manifestations my time abroad will have in my American life.
Moomkin some imported Arabic, some zait wa zatar (dried thyme) on my gluten-free english muffins, a few skype sessions with ex-schway Jordanian boyfriend halfway across the world, renewed passion about the arabic language classes at Hopkins.  Insha'allah indeed.

The Eagles Are Coming

I turned 21 on Tuesday and it was surreal in the best way possible.  My friend Biff asked me "so...tell us about some past birthday moments."  I remember enthusiastic soccer practices, special bagged lunches from my mom, chuckie cheeses, and of course, Fuego Con El Hob, the cookout event I held during final week at school for the past two years for the sole purpose of getting my favorite people in the world to get together in one location with food.  The joy of having all my favorite people in the same place is the best birthday present I could ever receive.  Therefore, I had the most incredible birthday (spread out over two days because of presentations).  My shway Jordanian boyfriend, SMiller, and my other close friends went to Mejana (my favorite restaurant) where they surprised me with a chocolate ice cream cake complete with two flaming fire sticks and a sugar slab printed with "happy birthday toufaha" (happy birthday apple!).  He calls me toufaha because I had such difficulty pronouncing the singular of Toufeh when I was yelling at him to give me my apple back one time.  In total, I got sang to 4 times and I was able to spend time with everyone I care about on this side of the Jordan River.  Couldn't have asked for more.

1) pre-ISP presentation thanks to prompting by Anna.  Glorious harmony btw (Anna and Dropeck).
2) at Mejana by the waiters and my closest friends here.
3) by my host family over sprite infused chocolate cake with my real mom on a skype call.  I have never felt so special.  I LOVE my Jordanian host family. They sang in english and then in arabic: sana halwa ya gamiir!
4) at Abu Khalil Chinese Restaurant the next day with all of SIT Tribe.  Thanks guys ;)  

Still haven't had a birthday drink though..cough cough can't wait for Europe!


Remember when I said "I've gave up being a perfectionist,"  well, that was a complete lie.  In retrospect, I definitely returned to my perfectionist tendencies for ISP period which culminated in my designing a Prezi (beefed up PPT) presentation with a script.  The prezi featured a clip from LOTR (as all anne-made presentations should), multiple representations of Celine Dion, and a shout out to Hans Zimmer.  I even went over the proposed time limit, like a BOSS.  I'm sure that my sponto-perfectionism was the result of regression to a time (high school) where life was less chaotic.  Other ways I regressed included my clothing--I mostly dressed like a man with baggy pants and T-shirts--but that could have been a product of the conservative environment.  This perfectionism wont last because overall, it is not practical.  One way in which my perfectionism did not fully manifest was my use of Arabic: I reached a new comfort level trying and failing words and phrases.

Now, the struggle is over, the 48-pg ISP is done and I have thrown my burden in the fires from whence it came.  I don't remember the taste of strawberries, or what it feels like to be barefoot in the grass of Hobbiton, or even what nature smells like, but now SMiller and I are done (all energy expended in the name of study abroad) and we are awaiting the Eagles to carry us away to be welcomed again in a more familiar land.  And the Eagles are coming at 7:10 am tomorrow morning in Queen Alia International Airport Insha'allah.  Though side note: if I get to the airport tomorrow, go up to the desk to confirm that the plane is coming and they say "Insha'Allah!" I am going to implode.  Insha'Allah (God Willing) is a versatile phrase, I agree.  And I do appreciate the versatility of many Arabic words like Shway and Mumkin, but Insha'Allah should not be used to describe things that should be considered certain like for example.....To a cab driver : "Khodnee 3la Safareh Britaniya" (take me to the British embassy)   His response "Insha'Allah".... uh what??  are we actually ever going to get there?  I don't know, and it's not in the hands of God, it's clearly within the capability and hands of the cab driver himself.  MEHHH.  #StrugglesJO

Now to comment on the lack of resolution of my identity crisis which led to some serious productive self-actualization.  Seriously, Maslow would be proud.

Ways in which I am a Jordanian
-Nescafe
-Love/obsession with camels
-Content with rationing water usage
-obsession with soccer
-an appreciation for cheap taxi rides



Ways in which I am not
-Love of sharp cheddar cheese
-I hate TV
-I value the tanness of my skin
-Pursuit of self-actualization


Sidenote: the word America pronounced "AMERRRica" in Anne has been our go-to to fill blank space in conversations or on long walks down Demashq street.  This word needs no context or explanation. 


WHAT AM I?  WHO AM I?  An end to this identity crisis?
55% American (freedom and liberty are great values to build a country on)

20% Cuban (I am in love with the spirit of la gente allí, I also love with the culture and language)

10% Hobbit (LOTR obsession (almost religion) and my last name)

10% Turtle (Addiction, the color green, introspective nature and appreciation with fresh green food and water,  as well as resemblance in looks?)

5% Jordanian (hospitality, love of hummas, gah'wa and headgear)


Now to answer some questions before they are asked of me:

Have you changed?
Yes, I suppose.  I am more conscious of my gender.  I am more cynical about the innate goodness of people because of the percentage of strange men cat-calling me, staring, or otherwise robing me of my dignity or my phone.  I am more open-minded in regards to the Jordanian culture of interdependence, family and Islam.  I am motivated by a desire to fix people's opinions of that culture, because I know there are many Americans who have sharp generalizations about the Middle East and Muslims.


Would you go back?
I would return because I do have a complete "life" here with a family I can visit, Jordanian friends, a gym, a group to play soccer with, favorite restaurants and academic duties.  I would have to live in my own place with a kitchen though so I could solidify a routine and control more of the factors in my life.


What was your favorite part?
My favorite site was Jerash, this of course was skewed I'm sure by events that happened in Petra and the aftereffects of food poisoning in Wadi Rum.  I visited Jerash on a beautiful sunny day.  The site is such that it is not popular enough that tourists are overwhelming, but not so unpopulated that they don't have scheduled events like the traditional chariot race in one of the most well preserved Hippodromes.  The hills were bright green, the ruins invited me to climb them.  I wondered on my own into the hills of my own thoughts and felt safe among the long grasses.  I enjoyed a few private moments Sound-of-Music style before rejoining the group.  I also felt like I had jumped back into "Ecce Romani," my high school Latin textbook, with Claudia and Uncle Titus and 5 miserable (though now so distanced from my current life that I remember them fondly) verb declensions. 


Now, I have to address my emotional response to this question.  One factor has defined my past Month and a half here in Jordan.  I know the frequency and length of my blogs has sputtered out in the last 1/3 of my study abroad experience, and know now that it is mostly due to this.  My favorite part of Jordan was not a location, or even a moment.  It was a person (whose name will not be displayed for internet publicity reasons)  He is my shway (sort of) Jordanian boyfriend (shway because of the expiration date on our time together, the sensitivity of the culture about dating and Islam, and because it is hard to DTR (define the relationship) comprehensively across a language gap).  I met him in the gym when I approached the front desk to ask how to get to the Sheraton hotel in search of a Cuban cigar.  He drew me a map and filled in the traffic circles with smiley faces.  My first reaction to his presence was "this man does not look Arab, and he smiles a lot."  He's actually supremely touchy about the first subject.  He knows he does not look Arab, and yet he represents Jordan regularly at International Jui-jitsu competitions.  His mother is French and he has a French passport.  As SMiller commented post- Wadi Mujib sunburn, "he got more of the French genes than the Arab ones."  When we took cabs together, we'd play a game to see how long the cab driver could mistake him for American before he would spout Arabic, shocking the cab driver and amusing SMiller and I in the back seat.  Time spent with him was filled with games, laughter and comfort.  He was our Amman tour guide/chauffeur/ and security guard.  We have a very similar sense of humor, and both of us value sports as an outlet for life frustrations.  He and I organized a trip to Wadi Mujib where we brought our groups of friends together.  We also organized 5 pick-up soccer games where in we were both rivals, and heartfelt teammates.  He, SMiller and I quickly became a team.  He drove us around in a 1984 Mercedes, called "debabeh" which means tank in Arabic. With him, I felt safe. Lastly, he taught me Arabic expletives and how to do humiliating arm workouts.  I trust him more than anyone in this country, especially after one specific event:

At Wadi Mujib, post-bike ride and waterfall trek, us Americans and Jordanians were sitting interspersed along the edge of the cliff overlooking the sun setting over the dead sea.  Shway Jordanian boyfriend was sitting about 5 feet in front of me.  I noticed a skinny, tall, Jordanian man smoking a cigarette directly to the left of the last American. Upon further scrutiny, I realized he was doing the creepy stare we get a lot here (the one where they undress you with their eyes) so I got Shway boyfriend's attention and pointed him out.  Shway boyfriend first called the creeper out, and when he didn't stop, Shway boyfriend rallied his fellow jiu-jitsu team and rolled over there.  The creeper and his friends backed off and left in their car not ten minutes later.  For those of us paying attention, it was the most glorious moment we have had abroad.  For once, Jordanian men defended our honor and confronted the creepier norm of other Jordanian men.  I later thanked shway boyfriend and he didn't understand why I was thanking him.  I explained how no one has stood up for us, and how we haven't been able to stand up for ourselves in the face of such obvious sexual harassment.  He expressed shame in the fact that so many Jordanians think that it is okay to disrespect women in public.  I will never forget how safe and respected he made me feel.  His friends, also incredible people, became instrumental and influential in my time here.  I felt like I finally had an "in" to the culture, and it put me at ease.  I feel like I had a very different experience from many of the other SIT Tribe members because of my last month here, which was spent primarily with Shway boyfriend and SMiller.  I am so lucky to have met him, because he completed my life abroad such that I feel comfortable enough to return here for an extended period of time to be determined.  Fulbright mumkin?

How was Jordan?
Tamam!  Quwais!  Bikheir!  Mumtaz!  Rosy retrospection has already set in, and I have no doubt that these moments constitute "the time of my life."  To what degree, I can not tell now.  I hope to be able to fully comprehend the impact it has had on myself once I get back into a routine in Baltimore.

With that,
I start my Euro-journey with Tim (friend from the program) and Lauryn (my facebook wife slash best friend from home):

1)    France. 
May 15-18 Paris
May 18-19: Night train to Rome TGV 7:42pm arrives 6:45 rome, station change in Milano Centrale 2:50 (gets in) train leaves at 3:15am
2) Rome
May 19-20th Rome
May 21: Pompeii day trip-> Florence

May 22: Florence
May 23: Travel day to Munich Florence Firenze station 11am to 6:25 pm Munchen Hbf

3) Munich
May 23-26
May 26: Travel Day 7:23 am to 3:25 pm Amsterdam Centraal

4) Amsterdam
May 26: Check into the Flying Pig
May 27:  World's largest Cheese Market/ Walk the canals
May 28:  6:15 am train gets in at 9:35 am to Paris Nord via Belgium

5) Paris

May 28: Breakfast, Notre Dame

May 29: Assorted France

May 30th depart for NY then Baltimore

4 countries, 6 travel days, 3 people, 1 world.

Ma'asalaameh al-Ordon!

Odrama bin Sodden

 Why do I constantly feel like I have to apologize for America?  And I don't just mean America as in the country I wouldn't mind being at this time, but America as a state of being (and myself as an embodiment of America)--because after my accidental crash course in cultural anthropology post-research project, I acknowledge that America does in fact have a distinct culture.  Even on top of the whole "salad bowl" idea of mixed culture culminating in one multi-culture, there is some wonderful, high-calorie "America" salad dressing that no one seems to give any credit.   
Among other things, our culture let's people be themselves in public within a fair set of guidelines, and it doesn't subconciously punish you for being a woman.  It also prompts people to drink and be merry while watching horses run around in circles, or cars drive around in circles, or sports teams...That's distinctively American.   So are hot pockets and pop tarts.


Basically what I'm saying here is that when I get back to the states, I'm going to walk around in a colorful hat, a tasteful summer dress that cuts off above the knees, and flip flops while gracefully gnawing a block of cheese and slurping a coke slushee from 7/11 and NO ONE WILL LOOK TWICE STARE, HONK, OR OTHERWISE DISTURB MY PIECE OF MIND.  I'm also long overdue for some Chipotle.

When I started writing this post, I meant to address Osama Bin Laden's fate but apparently every train of thought leads back to the common frustration that is barely concealed by the women on my program. So why do I feel like I constantly have to apologize for America?
Current events update: Osama Bin Laden is dead.  Americans everywhere cheered, danced in the streets, got drunk, and screamed "America, F*** yea" and I couldn't help but feel confused at why I felt like just another pop-star had died.  Like Michael Jackson had kicked the bucket, it was surreal, but it didn't quite effect me.  I do wonder if I should have been more emotional, but all I could do was appreciate the symbolism of offing the face of terrorism, which is a victory for sanity, no matter how you look like it.  I remember 9/11.  I was 11, and my Social Studies turned the TV on in class, which never happens.  I honestly thought it was a movie.  I had never been to New York, and imagined that these burning buildings was part of a film called King Kong.  I feel bad for not having felt bad.  Yeats later, I could be found bawling in a classroom in Colorado Springs after watching United 93.  I get it, Americans are amazing, I am proud to be one, but not when we are OverDRAMAtic and insensitive to the fragility of world peace.  In the MJ example, a hoard of Westerners coupled with random Middle Easterners experienced emotions, and such is the case with Osama's death.  I am content that he is dead because so many families of terrorist attacks get some form of reconciliation.  But I can't help reacting negatively to the images of Osama to comments online that say "f*** yea USA!" This is very anti-human, and OverDRAMAtic, and makes me worried once again about my ability to self-identify as an American on the streets of a Muslim State like Jordan.  But it turns out that most Jordanians in Amman cared more about the Barcelona-RealMadrid soccer game than about Bin Laden's death, so I was safe in my Barcelona jersey once again.  I guess I am taking a very RealPolitik approach to this, but such gloating is neither reassuring, productive, and may in fact only provoke a larger response from the fundamentalist Muslim community.  And just about every Muslim on this side of the Atlantic is pissed that he didn't get a proper burial as a Muslim.  I'd have to side with Obama on this one, creating a physical location where followers could visit the grave of this psycho would have been downright insane, and I don't see where there could have been a compromise, but to not expect some form of backlash would be ignorant.  Look at the response to the pastor burning the Qur'an--and thus the entire religion in effigy--in Florida.  My host-aunt asked me casually how my parents were doing and whether or not they are happy about Bin Laden's death.  Way to punch the elephant in the room.  I didn't quite know how to answer, so I beat around some proverbial bushes--which had Allah carved in them and of course were in the middle of the sidewalk.  And for once, I was glad those bushes were there.

On another note, a group of us went to a Turkish bath.  We had a Baath party.  Get it? Bahaha Middle East joke.  Long story short, by the end of the 8 distinctive turkish bath stages, I was entirely confused whether or not I was over-hydrated or dehydrated or clean or dirty.  In retrospect, it was the worst "best decision" I have ever  made.  Here are the steps
1) Get naked.  Alright I'm already out of my comfort zone, how bad can bra and underwear be in front of strangers?
2) Dampen oneself??  Not sure of the trajectory of this adventure, when the woman turned on a shower and prompted us to go in with some hand gestures, we were unsure of how wet we were supposed to be.  No matter.  Dignity was yet to be lost...
3) Walk into an active volcano.  It was more like I imagined a kiln to feel, or a rebellious sauna. This better have some holistic, rejuvenating aftereffects because I have never been so close to spontaneous human combustion than I came in this 10 minutes.  In fact, I better come out of here looking, or at least feeling like the little Mermaid when she finally became human. Or I want my 25 JD back.
4) Appreciate breathable oxygen, sip fruit juice, and liquify?  The rebellious hot tub.  This is very much girl day at the spa, let's take this time to objectify men, which, by the way, is way more entertaining and gratifying after you spend most time in public being blatantly objectified as a woman.
5) Close encounters with a loofa and unannounced buckets of warm water. I am a beached great orca whale and this Jordanian woman is my heard of innocent cleaner fish.  I didn't know I had that much dead skin on my skin, and my first reaction was to apologize, I honestly molted.
6) Massage. Priceless. Naked is good.  I found my skin, so now there's no reason I can't be comfortable in it.
7) Actual sauna.  Like winter in Mordor post-Sauron.  The calm after the perfect storm.  I think I might have found my dignity?
8) One last shower.  And then clothes.  Unsure if I am covered in oil, water, sweat or liquid self.  Also unsure why Eve wanted to be clothed so badly post-garden-of-eden incident.  Rebirth tastes like cranberry juice.

It rained again today.  I assumed it was a mirage because Jordan's already had its predicted amount of rainfall.  Don't deserts deal in mirages? Well, I was wrong, and now my socks are bin Sodden.

Gubble Bum

I can't speak arabic.  But I try shamelessly.  I think back on Ecuador and remember how afraid I was to speak, and I laugh.  I don't know how a conservative muslim state made me more outgoing and confident.  I think it's probably because you can't be a perfectionist here and retain sanity, so I gave up trying.  Arabic is to dense to swallow in sizable bites.  It's like trying to eat a stick (not that I ever have).  Eventually you can get through it with much perseverance, mouth pain, a few explanations to bystanders who wonder why you are eating a stick, and hella splinters.  The other day I proclaimed to a bag-boy at Safeway that "mish 3ndi shanta"  which literally translates to "not I have purse" when I meant "I don't want a bag."  Normally I would beat myself up about that but I just continued on my way.  Recently, I acquired the words "Debahbeh" which means "tank" and "hafartarieh" which means "vulgar".  These compliment the words that I remember from my time spent banging my head against "al Kitab" the arabic text book starring Maha, the depressed New York resident.  These words include "al aloom aseeyaseeya" political science, "hashashan" assassin, "izdeham" overcrowding, and "rootooba" humidity.

I can't speak english.  But I try shamelessly.  I speak a compination of english, spanish, arabic, and "meh" which is Anne for "Anne language".  This involves events where I declared "bidi Gubble bum." (I want bubble gum."  Luckily, SMiller speaks Anne by now.

...I'm turning 21 in a week.  I feel like I'm 16.  hmmm

Other fun Anne vocab words:
A "shwayker" is a shway quaker, which means a quaker that breaks the rules sometimes.
Okay enough procrastinating, 20 more pages to write before I'm freeeeee!

Allah yuwafee!  Good luck to me.

Triple Distilled, Hold the Rocks.

2nd edition of "A Piastre for your thoughts":
These are things I overheard while thinking to myself...

There are few public clocks in Jordan, does this contribute to the lateness that everyone seems to accept as culturally acceptable?

It's springtime but there are no lawn mowers.  That is most likely because there are no lawns.  I'd never thought I'd miss them.

That being said, there is a different sound that overtakes all other sounds: close-proximity HONKING.  I walk a minimum of 30 minutes along the side of the road each day and for some reason whenever a semi passes close to me, it honks. I nearly die of an MI each time. They must just love to watch people jump.

I've been here long enough to notice commonalities in the flaws of ESL speakers here:
"Since 2 years" or "Until 2 years" means "2 years ago"
"My brother is Canada" means "my brother is Canadian"
"She speak Germany" means "she speaks German"

On the classification of four-legged animals:
I also made a breakthrough regarding my understanding of Arabic.  I was always under the impression that Arabic was difficult because most words sound the same hence my spinach vs. full and bathroom vs. pigeon disasters.  However, I realized today that English-speakers learning Arabic is just as hard as Arabic-speakers learning English.  Shabana is different from Sabaneh in the way that poetical is different from political.  We have an equal amount of close words.  In my interview the other day, the woman kept saying what sounded like "owed" instead of "odd" and she had to write it down in order for me to capture her meaning.  I also recall my first breakthrough with Spanish and then Arabic where you begin to recognize the breaks between words in fast speech. That is a precursor to this understanding.  Once you begin to recognize root words such as "poem" with suffixes or verb endings or prefixes, the language becomes a beautiful web rather than a broken window.

I watched a documentary where a child was shown any four-legged animal and recognized it as a dog.  Then he was taught that four-legged animals do in fact differ from each other, and he was shown how to differentiate them.  This is what happened with me and the Arabic language over the last semester.  I am proud to say that after 3 months, I can tell one four-legged animal from another!  WOOOO.  Web of wisdom.

Did you know the capital of Slovenia is Ljubljana?

I'm beginning to think that the reason for much of the strife and conflict in the world is because it is way easier to see the differences between people and it often takes some effort to uncover the similarities.  Language, religion, ethnicity, culture all stand in the way.

It took me 3 months to accept the fact that this program does not allow me to travel.  Yet, Nolan and Lauren Lutz came to me!

JHU Abroad Students.  International Symbol of Peace in bortherly Mustache-hood.  Enough Said.

Arabic words learned as a result of my research:
heka-it was said
wakaeea- reality
al garb-the West
foreigner-ajnabee

Now for some #strugglesJO...

I still haven't mastered getting in and out of cabs gracefully.

I got incredibly lost on the way to two of my interviews.  The former was the fault of an address that can be misinterpreted as a location almost half an hour away from my destination.  The latter "lostness" was due to the simple fact that Amman and most Middle East cities only recently got house numbers and only recently paid attention to the names of streets (rather than operating by landmarks).  I got dropped of in front of a building numbered 10 in Marj al-Hamam.  I called my interviewee, a young mother with a Masters in Islamic Studies, and she reported that I was not in the front yard of her building.  hmmm...I proceeded to walk 40 minutes and I found 3 different buildings labeled with the number 10 in a 4 block radius before finding hers.  I also found a supermarket called "supermarket for you".  Priceless.  My last interview of the day was with Khulood Allozie, Professor in Islamic law at the University of Jordan and she took so much silent joy in tearing apart my questions with "what do you mean by that term??" bahhhh "western influence".  And those are my #ISPstruggles.

By the time this information gets to my word document of transcribed interviews, it has already passed through 3 minds and been reinterpreted twice .  In essence, it the thoughts are triple distilled, holding the rocks of course (because Jordan lacks ICE).

On the Validity of Vampires, Celine Dion and Russian Prostitutes

Happy Easter!

Easter was not eventful but it was not eventless either.  Sidenote:  I think I am getting jaded to the Mid-East abroad experience.  I am oddly used to...
-passing sheep on my way to school
-the call to prayer disturbing the silence
-Celine Dion
-loud noises and loud people
-cats replacing squirrels
-trees mid-sidewalk
-taking sparse showers
-not flushing toilet paper
-the absence of ice
-bathrooms with no toilet paper
-having to pay out the nose for a water bottle
-getting honked at for questionable reasons
-configuring European outlets to fit the 2-pronged Middle East plugs
-my host family
-taking an average of 4 taxi's a day
-TV blaring
-guttural wavering arab music
-modest clothing
-tea/coffee as a way of life
-seeing skinned lamb's bodies in shop windows

...being a stranger in a strange land has lost its strangeness

This jadedness is the prime cause of me not updating my  blog.  That and the looming research paper which constantly demands my attention like a small child (my paper's development stage is directly comparable to a 2 yr old right now).

Easter in Amman began with church and ended with Fuddruckers (as every Easter should?). Our Jordanian friend who we met at the gym, picked Smiller, Sidney, Ginny and I up at Safeway and drove us to his friend's Catholic church.  Because it was entirely in arabic with a couple broken "Ameeen's" and lot's of "halleelujah", I allowed my mind to wander.  I thought about why I was there-and concluded that I didn't have a concrete reason...

"Anyone who thinks sitting in church can make you a Christian must also think that sitting in a garage can make you a car." -Garrison Keillor

....this may be the reason except that it was a Catholic church...But it did make me feel at home in the weird way that eating cheddar cheese does here.  Here's the experience in short:

-stained-glass windows with squiggly Latin
-no programs, everyone had memorized the appropriate responses.
-so many people that we had to stand at the back like the strangers we were
-more bare knees in one place than I have seen since the marathon
-lots of crossing oneself and genuflecting which I did not participate in
-no sermon...as far as I could tell
-the "greet your neighbor" part was filled with "salaam"s.  

My concentration was broken by the presence of two out-of-place figures directly in my line of vision.  The two women in front of us had dyed bleach blond hair (one of them had extensions).  They both had high heels, smelled like a field of cherry blossoms, and were dressed like expensive prostitutes.  The shorter one on the left wore a short mink coat and leopard leggings culminating in suede black heels. The one on the left wore a leather jacket and a short skirt.  She had tatooed-on bracelets, one bearing a cross.  My first thought was "these are the Russian prostitutes that people confuse us for sometimes".  And so I got my dose of holy symbolism.  Temptation of immorality literally stood between me and the word of God, which the Priest man spouted from the pulpit. Hahaha if only I was both Catholic, and believed in such symbolism.  The service lasted 50 minutes, we filed out, bid goodbye to Hanna and filed back into our Jordanian friend's car with the intention of pursuing food.  Did I mention that he just passed his driving test the day before?  And he was driving his father's company car?  Well, it made things interesting, but he was an impressively good driver.  And this city made of traffic circles, and full of people who refuse to wait in lines, who love making loud noises, who deal with car accidents with handshakes and bribes, whose cars are only status symbols, and who don't respect pedestrians is not conducive to new drivers.  So when He asked me if I wanted to drive...I was naturally extremely excited for the challenge but nervous at the same time.

His father works in the Medical supply business.  His company car is a 1984 Mercedes, a status symbol back in its day when King Hussein drove the same car.

Considering I had not driven a sedan since my own driving test 4 years ago, I had not driven a car in nearly 4 months and I had never driven a car older than me, it was bound to be an adventure.
First of all, the car was in incredible shape, automatic transmission, functioning AC, lot's of leg room like Lauryn's Buick granny van in the old days, sun roof, quiet engine, hella dignity.  Let's just say that El Hob would be jealous.

It drove smoothly, and did not struggle on the hills of Amman.  I was conscious that what I was doing was technically illegal but with the wind in my hair, the sun on my head and with a car full of people I love, I was livin' me some serious life.  I remember declaring that I was blessed that there were no squirrels in Amman, I remember emitting a high pitched noise as we swirled around the traffic circles, and I remember doing a little behind-the-wheel dance of success.  My Jordanian friend taught me some bad words to yell at drivers who cut me off and I was all over that (but I wont repeat these things here). Something about asses and people covered in poop.  The joy ride ended but the joy did not.  At SIT, SMiller and I took a break, using "holiday" as a justification to sit on the couch and watch The Land Before Time and Hook.  Ironically both Speilburg movies with incredible soundtracks.  Finalmente, we departed to Fuddruckers on a whim where discussed the validity and entertainment value of vampires. 

 Later that night, I was vid chatting with my mother, wishing that I could smell the ham cooking in the kitchen at Home and watching my brother search for his easter basket when I got my own Easter surprise.  My host sister Reem brought me a brown hard-boiled egg painted like a bunny with taped-on paper ears!  It makes me smile.

I am so busy being "busy" lately.  Busy chilling, busy interviewing, busy sleeping, busy writing.  Insha'allah I will get to interview a Prince!!!  Prince Ghazi bin Mohammad!  He prompted the construction of the first Islamic University in Jordan.  He is also the personal envy and Special adviser to the King.  Bahhhh!

Today I am interviewing a popular Imam named Abu Musa.
Life is good.

Ization in this Nation

Peers, colleagues, dear friends and family,

I have been asked by many what my research topic is for the gigasmic paper due in May.  The answer is not short, and the thesis is not easily explainable, which has been the source of much strife, food stress, light homesickness, regular non-food-related stress, and several quasi-breakdowns.  Yes, I once again have broken off more than I can chew and swallow and digest (however that saying goes).

This is how I explained my topic in my proposal:

“Westoxification” is a word coined by Muslim zealots who view Western influence as a threat to Islam.  Westoxification includes influences from Western consumerism, economic and social globalization, the dominance of Western culture, and religious pluralism.  I hypothesize that the new generation of young Jordanians on a whole perceive that Western culture is not a threat to Islam, but rather a catalyst of positive change in the modern practice of Islam.

This is how I explained my topic to my peers:

My topic is about western influence on Generation Y's adherence to Islam as a way of life.

so basically I am answering the question "is the west westoxifying islam?"  I hypothesize that Islam can coexist with globalization/westernizaton/westoxificaiton/mcdonaldization/americanization and all IZATION IN THIS NATION.

Instead of beginning my ISP (independent study project), I chose to write Haikus in order to 1) warm up for a 40 page paper, 2) procrastinate said paper and 3) win a 25 dollar gift certificate to Barnes and Noble...

My car has turned white

Curse this absurd bird herd turd

Baltimore Ravens

You mean that char mar

Is not a legit display

of real food prices?

Lexington Market

A diverse microcosm

Of America

Hair salon, gun shop,

Fried chicken joint, Goodwill, church…

Mapquest loves North Ave.

 

Network untrusted

Would you still like to join it?

JHU Guestnet

The SIT Tribe all began to use twitter so the following were written in the full spirit of the program:

Ran into a tree

with “Allah” shaved into it

#JOstruggles

The dumpster meows

I contemplate feeding it

#OnlySadnessJO

I might have killed

One hundred Middle Schoolers

#MarathonStruggles

Is that arab man

Honestly smoking a cig?

#JOmarathonFail

Half a banana

For half of a marathon

#ShukranJazeelan

This week I will be conducting several interviews of professionals in the realm of Islam, and I am hosting 3 focus groups of my Jordanian peers to find out what they think.  It is exciting and intimidating, and I will survive.

On another note, I went to see the Professional Jordanian Women's national soccer team take on Germany's number one club team Munchen Bayern.  It was an enlightening and entertaining experience.  Apparently Munchen is doing a diversity "yay women's teams in the Middle East" tour.  I was glad to see that Germany didn't play down to Jordan's level.  It was a very respectful game. The white team (JO national team) had a woman (numbah 9) who played in a hijab and full spandex so that only her hands and face were showing.  I didn't think this was possible but she was a coordinated and speedy player.  Above the field, a handsome portrait of King Abdullah cheering overlooked the stadium.  He wore number 99, which Biff and I realized is the year he entered office and the year his father King Hussein died.

On a third and final note different from above notes...some of us went to Madaba for a day to celebrate two birthdays. We nom nom'd at a restaurant called Haret Jdoudna, literally the best food I have had in Amman.  Lentil soup, a white cheese salad, and stuffed mushrooms with MORE CHEESE on top.  I highly recommend it.

Ian and Biff's Bday- Madaba

Downtown Madaba

Time to procrastinate procrastinating by doing work.

Defaced and Displaced

 Went to my first TED event today.  Tedx Ramallah "Ideas worth spreading" Palestine edition.  Today at the Landmark Hotel.  I came with no expectations and left early, mostly because I was starving, and I realized that I was not the intended audience.  The intended audience was non-believers in the Palestinian cause and the Palestinians themselves.  Nevertheless, I was bound to learn something, and I was ultimately glad I went (though the HORS D’OEUVRES left much to be desired)...

"If you dig, you sink, but if you build, you rise."  An Arabic saying intended as a message of hope to Palestinians.

"Nothing scares the army more than non-violent action."- a speaker at Tedx Ramallah. 

WARNING: THE REST OF THE CONTENT OF THIS POST IS RATED "D" FOR DEPRESSING.  IF YOU WANT TO AVOID THINKING ABOUT THE DEFAULT EVILNESS OF THE WORLD, PLEASE CLICK THE STUMBLEUPON BUTTON AND RUN AND HIDE INTERNET-STYLE.

Alice Walker (which in arabic for some reason transliterated into Alise Woooker), the first African American woman to win the Pulitzer Prize spoke today at TEDx.  She did so later in the evening after I left, but I made a point to watch the live feed from Beirut. And I made the mistake of having expectations for this one.  She compared the struggles of the Palestinians against the Israelis to ethnic struggles in South Africa.  She believes they can eventually overcome the hatred that I think constitutes a greater barrier than the fences bordering camps in Palestine.  I cannot agree or disagree for lack of ever having felt such hatred.

Then, she referred to her own poor, deep-south, segregated upbringing multiple times as a source of credibility on the topic of suffering.  Yes, she pulled the race card, and the interesting part is that she was the first one to pull it.  Even the Palestinians who had witnessed first hand the death and destruction that was the topic of the hour didn't express bitterness but rather hope and an attempt at understanding a conflict that is undoubtedly a lose-lose situation with no happy ending in sight.

Rather than impress me, Walker's speech had the opposite effect for me.  It made me angry, I felt like it was an affront to anyone who had not suffered as "deeply" as she suffered when she was a child writing letters with a stick in the dirt day in and day out. By bringing up her suffering, it was as if she was saying "Palestinians, I too have suffered, perhaps more than you."

I didn't want to pity this woman and was angry that she was using this emotional appeal.  This is when I fully acknowledged that I was not the intended audience.  I was glad I had decided to leave early.

She made me feel that somehow, by eating 3 full meals every day and leaving some on the plate, I caused a child in a third world country to starve.  I felt like she was bitter about her life, and yet look at how far she had come.  Why was she bitter?  She overcame adversity and wrote a powerful and acclaimed story.  I got the impression that she thought the world still owed her something, and personally there is nothing that could make me more angry.

Responsibility for ones actions aka INTEGRITY is something I value more than anything else.  And perhaps this is one quality I share with the Arab people, because a tribal community of people dependent on one another leaves no room for deceit.  You do what you say you are going to do or you fall out of favor and lose your credibility.  INTEGRITY has gotten me into large amounts of trouble at JHU.  It is the part of JHU that I do not miss.  I expect my peers, my friends, my teammates, my coworkers to have integrity and this often leads to disappointment because the innate competitiveness of American society and a top Research University means that our generation has been taught that IT IS OKAY TO STEP ON PEOPLE IN ORDER TO WIN.  I hail from Illinois, one of the worst offenders (Chicago politics).  And this isn't to say that I have never been an offender myself--I've turned in papers late and sometimes my commitments conflict--but I always take responsibilities for my mistakes.

The people that hold to their commitments and take responsibility for their actions; the ones that don't focus on blame and excuses but rather honesty and mutual respect are the people I respect the most--they constitute genuine people.  And there are plenty out there. And luckily, the nature of a study abroad program (shared values of self-improvement, a healthy curiosity and integrity) is such that it is full of genuine people. 

I am so sorry to preach at you, that is not my intention.  Lately I have been stuck, and writing is the perfect outlet.  A smart man named Meneken once said I write in order to attain that feeling of tension relieved and function achieved which a cow enjoys on giving milk.
So here it goes ...
I need a vacation from my "vacation".  I don't quite want to be here, with this constant identity crisis, and I don't quite want to be at Hopkins where people are more dedicated to maintaining their reputations and securing their careers than they are to themselves.  And right now disillusionment with the world is at its peak. "It's a jungle out there"  to quote Monk.  One of my dear friends on the program was sexually assaulted in Petra and I was one of the first few to be entrusted with this knowledge.  In retrospect, I am thankful for the learning experience, though as I reflected in a previous post, it is not easy to look at these events as learning experiences and not setbacks and It has been the source of much reflection (which I will touch on here).

The perpetrator has been caught and publicly shamed.  Yet, discomfort lingers: there is not enough justice.  Not until every man in the world knows that it is not okay to objectify a woman.  Not until respect between human beings is MUTUAL and global.  But there will never be justice and now I know why someone said "You don't need to change the world - only your little corner of it" because evil, chaos, and darkness quite sadly constitute the default of the world and we are blessed with a choice to take it or leave it.  I have committed to fighting it.  Just me and my copy of the Desiderata.

But it's moments like these that eat at me.  And every time I start to re-believe in the innate goodness of people, it seems that I get slapped in the face (my stolen cell phone, the sexual assault...).  Yet, I cannot deny the goodness, because it is there (the Baltimoreans that made the effort to return my cell phone, Arab men helping me with directions) but there is certainly less goodness or at least goodness of a different nature over here in the Middle East.  Well, I hate to say it, but I have affirmed that I like my corner of the world better, and I am sick of not being able to control factors my environment.  I am quite sick of sharing a room with 2 others.  I am sick of the TV.  I am sick of all the yelling which is the default of communication around here.  The only components of Arab food that I can still stomach as a glutard post-food poisoning are fresh veggies and cheese.  I want my stuff to be exactly that-my stuff- once more.  I am sick of men staring a second--no, a minute--too long.  Lastly, I am tired of fighting the impulse to stereotype all Arab men as inconsiderate assholes.  Yes, there are bad people with no morals who are going to rob you in every country, but at least in America it is rude to stare with your mouth open, dirty thoughts, and insensitive words on a loose tongue.  Welcome to Jordan, my ass! And literally, you feel like the only part of your body that is welcome is your ass on a daily basis.  I wrote the following haiku to reiterate my current dilemma:

Dark thoughts will pass
But I am sick of feeling
like I am my ass.

"Our last freedom which can never be torn away and towards which it behoves us to take responsibility, is the freedom of our attitude to our suffering."- Victor Frankl, Holocaust Survivor.  This appeared in a book I am reading, and I found it applicable.

Whenever we (SIT Tribe) embarrass ourselves, we take to asking "Wayne dignity?" (where is the dignity?)  It's become somewhat of a life quest for dignity and identity in a part of the world where citizenship and religious identity are more important than morals and ethics.  One speaker today professed to have found it--in the faces of the Palestinians who chose to remain in their homeland despite being defaced and displaced.

khalus.

The Carrot and the Merit

Now for a quite literal recounting of a "there and back again scenario":  THE 18th ANNUAL DEAD SEA ULTRA MARATHON.

This past Friday I ran a half marathon to the lowest place on earth.  I had my own burden to bare--my golden ring consisted of the temptation to avoid the challenge and accept the verbal limitations that Dr. Hinton prescribed me nearly 1 year ago.  In fact, my ring was emblazoned with his words translated into the language of Mordor: "You will never be able to do knee-load-bearing activity for any significant length of time again. No running, and soccer no more than thrice a week."  Okay, I don't remember the exact death sentence, but the word "never" stuck with me.  Someone smart commented that "never" should be grouped in as one of the infamous four letter words--I have to agree.  To whom it may concern, I would  make a good case study subject for reverse psychology (after the benefits of the action in question are estimated to outweigh the costs).  For example, boarded up ruins and gated off stairwells generally imply prohibition to any efforts of entry, but lines are drawn for a few reasons, and are usually silently asking to be crossed.
Reason 1: Lines drawn by man to prove to others and to reassure himself of his own power to draw lines (The entire continent of Africa, Zoro, your signature)
Reason 2: Lines drawn by man to supposedly maintain order (DMZ, DMV, Berlin Wall)
Reason 3: Lines drawn for the express purpose of entertainment (the doodles in my arabic notes aka Salvador Dali)
Reason 4: Lines drawn to actually maintain order (Jaws, Jurassic Park, Pampalona Bulls, the Israeli border)
Reason 5: Lines drawn to measure (football field, Stephen Hawking)
Reason 6: Lines drawn to communicate (everyone but Helen  Keller)

...so most lines are worth crossing except for the ones implied in Reason 4.  When Dr. Hinton drew the proverbial line, I yearned to cross it, and so I found myself unassuming at the 21 km starting line of the 18th Annual Dead Sea Ultra Marathon.

Half Marathon Starting line 5 minutes before the race

I had awoken at 4:30am, grabbed some fruit, let myself out of the house and walked 15 minutes in the pre-dawn mist to meet SMiller.  We prayed for a cab silently as we approached 7th circle and sure enough caught one in front of Safeway.  We arrived at king Hussein Park at dawn (5:15am).  They separated the crowds into sporting enclosures (more lines) according to the length of the race. I saw a man with jeans in the 21 km soccer cage with us and I was comforted....then he put on short shorts.  Never a comforting site.

SIT Tribe (the 9 of us participating) huddled together. We watched the massive amount of 10km grow larger.  The Marathon staff screeched into the loudspeakers at them to stop climbing the fences--half in English and half in Arabic. The entire European contingent in Amman had come out to run the marathon--more gangly white people I have seen in all my time here.  The loud speakers announced that the marathoners get on the first two buses.  We bid Paul goodbye and awaited our verdict.  Not 10 minutes later we boarded buses.  We were soon driving through road blocks into a light orange sky.  The clueless bus driver first tried to drop us off at the untramarathon start line (51km).  One woman in the front scoffed "do we look like ultramarathoners?".  We didn't; the ultramarathoners looked like they had starved and then been recently fed, and were hungry for more (aka would eat a unsuspecting 10k'er).  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at our start line.  I had constructed a "marathon" playlist consisting of  Enrique Iglesias, Old Crow Medicine Show, and everything in between.  It also included "American Pie" (this will be the day that I die) and "I will survive" for comic relief pre-marathon. Ultimately, I was ready to not be ready.


At this point in time, I was actively trying not to experience thoughts because I knew doubt would comprise a good percentage of them: "what did I get myself into?"  "do I really think I can run this whole way?" "what if I screw up my knee again?".  Instead, I watched the rest of the half-marathoners warm up.  Several men were smoking cigarettes, Welcome to Jordan.  Some Asians were doing butt kicks along a stretch of road.  One man appeared to be following one of those TV cassette warm ups with the air punching and dynamic squatting.  Yet another European man was practicing his golf swing of all things (later my friend reported that he walked the whole thing, GO FIGURE).  Most people were standing around half-stretching and wondering if they should try to go to the portapottys one more time before the race.  I was one of the latter.  I was entirely surprised when the gun went off.  We had no warning--not even a yelling Arab man.  But I suppose it was better this way.  And so I started with a light jog and no idea what was about to transpire.

The logistics of the event were intriguing.  I never thought about how they would get your stuff to you at the end of the race--the answer was painted Arab cattle cars and bag tags.  Nor did I really understand the time-keeping mechanism that I had zip tied to my left shoe (still don't). At some point a man came around wielding a laptop and a long device on a cord which supposedly activated the chip when he waved it over my foot.  Every 3 kilometers, there was some sort of station on both sides of the road--first a hand-sized bottle of water station.  Sam and I took it, performed the uncoordinated dance of trying to drink it while running and then looked at each other in what can only be described as "utter confusion".  We had the same thought: "in a country where they throw their trash out their windows or drop it on the ground...is someone going to collect the bottle?"  We ran another minute contemplating our existential crisis before I decidedly placed it neatly on the side of the road.  Others lobbed theirs.  Oh Jordan.  By the end of the race, I must admit that I was taking a few drinks and pouring the rest on my head before participating the lobbing--which is quite fun.  1/3 into the race, they handed out half a banana.  I took it out of curiosity.  To my left, I saw a man who had been running our speed (and who had the most obnoxious British flag-emblazoned shorts), wolf down the entire banana and gracefully drop the peel to his left.  With visions of mario kart in my mind, I chose a different method... I split it into fours and took my time chewing before lobbing the peel at a tree.  The logistics were utterly amusing to me... "every turn a surprise" Mulan would say.  Various herds of sheep and goats were herded across the track by disgruntled Jordanians in traditional garb at different points in the race, and I passed a man on a camel.  I ran over a middle schooler at km 11 and nearly dropped my ipod.  It was a mine field (hhaha Middle East joke).  Due to the difficulties, I became completely discouraged around km 15 and hit somewhat of a wall.  I ran the speed of a power-walker for the next two km.  Then Paul passed me.  He must have been around the 7th marathoner who had passed me...the first one was accompanied by a motercar.  (I am so impressed by Paul; he worked so hard and did so well--first westerner and top ten in the marathon).  He said a full sentence "you're nearly done, keep it up" and all I could do was grunt and give a half-hearted thumbs up in response before he was gone on the fast track to glory. 6km to go.  I had the chills, but so far that was my only legitimate complaint.  I was so tired and oddly concentrated.  This is what "the zone" feels like...you are so physically unable to focus that you are utterly focused. There was some doubt from 6km to 4km but I was quite aware that if I stopped running, I was unlikely to be mentally able to start again.  After 4km I knew I was going to finish and it was just a matter of one foot in front of the other and occasionally imagining the finish line and my smiling friends.  I sped up for the last 100 yards.  The chute was lined by military men.  I was momentarily surprised they weren't at the protests; but later I learned that the protesters are coming out in full force this coming Friday and last Friday was a rest weekend for most of them. Ke$ha blasted from speaker and the 4 members of the SIT Tribe who finished before me were cheering.  I didn't hear it.  I had my music full blast out of a belief in the theory that one can distract oneself from pain by overstimulation of another sensation.  It worked.

Megan and Dropek crossing the finish line.

Someone handed me an apple and some water, a man snipped off the electronic chip on my shoe (my legs were shaking), and a woman placed a medal over my head.  Then I "walked it out" until I regained enough energy to think straight, self-reflect, smile a little bit, and find the rest of the group.  Life is Good.  IN THE TIME SPAN OF ONE YEAR SINCE MY SURGERY (APRIL 24th, 2010) I CLIMBED A MOUNTAIN TO THE TALLEST POINT I WILL EVER BE IN MY LIFE (19,000 ft summit of Cayambe in Ecaudor) AND RAN A HALF MARATHON TO THE LOWEST POINT I WILL EVER BE IN MY LIFE (Dead Sea -1,388 ft).  TAKE THAT MORTALITY.  now..."gracefulness" in these endeavors is another matter.  It got ugly on both journeys but there are no lasting physical or even emotional consequences save for a permanent dose of "self-satisfaction"  and hella bragging rights.

At some point I pondered how apropos it would be if I had put "life is a highway" on my music-athon mix because the entire course was along the dead sea highway.

Highway sign we passed

In climbing Mount Doom to rid myself of the human conception that I am "not good enough", I had many trusted friends (exactly 9, FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING) but ultimately the task was my own to complete.  The Middle Schoolers were the Orcs, the occasional male spectators who stared to long at our bare legs were the Nazgul, and the Amman buses were the Eagles that bore me forth from Mount Doom, where I left all my strength and energy.....that means that Amman is Rivendell then.  Hmmmm...there is no resemblance here:

Rivendell

Not Rivendell=Natural Resource Fail...and no elves

My LOTR Sam was literally named Sam.  Sam and I ran the first 13 km together before we settled on different paces, her's faster than mine.  Then I was alone with my own thoughts.......AND with the entire population of Amman's middle schools.  They pushed each other, they threw water, they walked abreast in columns of eight.  They personified everything frustrating in the world.  I am extremely surprised that there was no divider between them and any of the other marathoners (even the ultra had to run through these screaming 12 year old gangs).  Apparently other marathons have an age limit, I see why. 

"That's King Abdullah" is the explanation given by the Jordanians to every helicopter we see in Amman.

My program director brought up the analogy of a horse chasing a carrot on a stick in front of his face in the context of the current demonstrations in Jordan:
"The Government showed us the stick (the new cabinet) but WHERE IS THE CARROT (the goals and results??)  That's what the people demand to know."

The carrot represents a simple goal or a motivation...For many young male Jordanians, the carrot is "power to the people".  For many young Americans, the carrot is "a house in the suburbs, two kids and three cars".  For me in this race, the carrot was a carrot....dipped in ranch-flavored "self respect" "self improvement" and "general life satisfaction".  I did it for the carrot and the merit.  I am proud to say that I ran for myself.  I made the commitment two months ago and I stuck to it, and I couldn't have been more at peace with myself after the fact.  I walked the streets of Amman patiently, calmly, at peace with the way I am.  Even the line of 10k-ers at McDonalds in Abdoun couldn't disturb my new-found contentment.  Though one human desire did disturb my composure:  HUNGER.  I have never been so hungry in my life.  I had consumed half a banana, two peaches and a kiwi before crossing the finish line.  I could have eaten a live moose.
Instead my quest for food took the following path:
1) At the "LG sponsored Post-Marathon Party" at the Dead Sea Public Beach, I stood in line for 35 minutes to get a hot dog with everything on it for Sam and I.  I say stood in "line" but I really mean to say stood in "mob".  There was no line.  Arabs don't stand in lines.  Especially MIDDLE SCHOOLERS.   Eventually my American complexion, patient puppy eyes and sheer refusal to budge warrented notice and we got our food.  A hot dog has never tasted so good.  I recommend running a marathon if only to experience the new joy found in food shortly thereafter.
2) We caught a bus back to Amman and took a taxi to Matrix Gym to take a victory shower where the following incriminating photo was taken:

NBD, just ran a half marathon, WHAT YOU LOOKIN AT??

Then I purchased Mcdonald's soft serve ice cream in Abdoun circle.  Then SMiller dragged me up some stairs [I am back to hating the man who invented stairs, surely they are only meant to cause pain and suffering and not to get you anywhere important] to a Salon called "Pretty Nails" and made me be a girl and get a manicure. So I rebelled by getting a NEON ORANGE manicure only to have my host sister tell me later that "everyone gets the neon".  If only it glowed in the dark.  If only everything glowed in the dark.

3)  Marathon of food: We went to Noodasia, which is intended to imply "Noodle Asia" and has a selection of Chinese, Thai and Japanese dishes, but actually implies "come see naked Asians" in my mind= I was disappointed.  Either way, I wore my shorts an my medal the whole rest of the day. [Haram.com]  My live moose came in 3 parts: 1) strawberry smoothie 2) California Rolls 3) Tofu Pad Thai.  I did not make it to the finish line of the food marathon.  I half-passed out on the table in complete ecstasy.

I iced my knee with a bag of peas and carrots today because this country does not have ice.  And here is a poem about how I feel about this fact:

No ice
How the hell can I do R.I.C.E.?
Paying the price
At least I don't have Lice.

I also realized in a fit of cold reality that the marathon is a giant metaphor for life:  sometimes it hands you bananas, sometimes it hands you lemons....sometimes you are frustrated, sometimes you are distracted by sheep or children.  But the finish line puts everything else into perspective.

I crossed so many things off of the ol' bucket list this past week (riding camels, captaining boats, and running the half marathon) I was prompted to add another:
make a 10 cheese pizza from scratch.  10 cheeses.

The End

Welcome to Jordan

You know you consider yourself a resident of a foreign country when you start welcoming natives to their own country and in their own broken accent.  "Welcome to Jordan" has become part of our daily vocabulary alongside "Mabrook" (congratulations), "Mumkin" (possibly), "Inshallah" (God willing), and "khalus!"  (enough/done!).  Some of us have gone so far as to insert these words into our own renditions of our past, pre-Jordan.  For example, my fellow SIT Tribesman recounted an embarrassing childhood story in which her mother had shouted "leh leh leh leh!" (No, No, No, NO!).

You see a tree in the middle of the sidewalk...Welcome to Jordan!
Woman in a Nikab standing in the ocean up to her ankles...Welcome to Jordan!
A modest block of cheddar cheese, a 2 inch wheel of brie and 6 peaches cost 18 JD...Welcome to Jordan!
Young man simultaneously waving a machete and the Jordanian flag while hanging half outside his friend's Mercedes Kompressor driving around a traffic circle and honking...Welcome to Jordan!
See restaurant titled "Delicious Meal Restaurant" and then spelled out so that the arabic sounds out "deeleeceeus Meel Ristorant"...Welcome to Jordan!

House runs out of Water spontaneously on a Thursday...WELCOME TO JORDAN!

I've also got to a point where I am comfortable being myself despite taking certain liberties that some Jordanians would consider culturally insensitive such as leaving the gym with my hair wet.  I've made enough concessions and I am no longer bothered by the response elicited from male passerbys when I wear my Ortega, eat chedder cheese in block form, wear shorts in the gym, or walk down the street with my hiking backpack.

Things I discovered in the last 5 days:
1) I have many marketable skills including the ability to tie a cherry in a knot in my mouth.
2) The color of my bile is a electric "grellow" (green/yellow)
3) Discovered some ancient Petra pottery shards which I convinced myself were from the Nabatean period but were probably from an overexcited tourist juggling their replica purchase precariously 5 days ago.
5) Peaches and Brie are REALLY REALLY expensive in Jordan

Anne Hobson vs. Magloobah and strange meat patty...
Collective meat wins!

The last 5 days consisted of the best and the worst times I have had abroad.  1) Got to drive a boat to Saudi Arabia and Egypt while smoking a Dominican in utter Caribbean ecstasy. 2) Had the worst food poisoning of my life, could not function for a full 48 hours, rediscovered the color of my own bile and just plain left my innards in a hotel in Petra. I spent the night  befriending the Petra Palace Hotel toilet.  At one point, a thunderstorm rolled in.  Seeing as it was previously predicted that Jordan had already gotten its rainwater for the year given that March is the end of the rainy season, I assumed the thunderstorm was fake and I was hallucinating out of lack of stomach content.  The next morning, I told my roommate to get the program director, who proceeded to make a house call to the doctor, both of whom confirmed that the skies did in fact throw up with me all over Jordan the night before.  Not going insane, Mabrook. The day before, one of the SIT staff had gotten sick with the same situation and the same doctor, so I was not as scared.  The doctor confirmed my suspicion--Food Poisoning--and took out a needle "to fight nausea".  Good call given the 2 hour bus ride about to ensue.  Then he told me to stand up and turn around.  WHAT?
There was something about exposing my butt to this strange good-natured Arab doctor while my program director was in the room that just didn't sit well with me.  I'll take it in the arm-vein any day sir!  He gave me a prescription for some blue pills and some white pills.  I was out of it for the next 36 hours (all of Wadi Rumm until the Camel rides on the third day).  This surely was a sign from Allah or one of his home boys that I will have to return to Wadi Rum on my birthday to camp out under the stars and chase the sun up orange sand dunes.

Jemals in Wadi Rum

Classic Petra Picture

I love how in foreign countries they consider your life your own responsibility.  It's refreshing.  So is climbing ruins solo.

Man holds hawk.  No explanation offered.

This is Rayman, my Jemal in Wadi Rum.  He likes grass.

We slept in tents at Wadi Rum

Wild donkey?

Artsy pic in Dana Biosphere Reserve

Out of our five destinations (Karak, Dana Nature Reserve, Wadi Rum, Petra and Aqaba), I loved Aqaba the most. OCEAN!  I got to drive the boat out into international waters so that we were in between Saudi Arabia, Israel, Egypt and Jordan and could see all four countries at once.  Jeff and I proceeded to have a swan dive competition off of the second floor of the boat.  And then we snorkeled.  I stalked a school of trumpet fish from the reef into deeper water and had staring contests with some rainbow fish.  Lastly, everything was duty free.  There were Duty frarrots (duty free carrots)...duty freggs...duty fraffles (waffles),  and duty frinner (duty free dinner).  The world was generally free off duty and responsibility. 

Port of Aqaba

Favorite quote from trip: "I have a theory.  It's actually a stereotype.  Arabs look for an excuse to make noise. (protests, weddings, passing the high school exam, shouting at each other regularly but completely devoid of anger)."

I returned to the web world to discover that there was a bomb scare on a plane in Amman, and a man set himself on fire for attention this past demonstration-cycle; and yet, there were still more deaths in Baltimore this past weekend than in Jordan.  This inspired me to add some verses to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire..."

DICTATOR IN TUNISIA, QADDAFI VERSUS LIBYA...KINGS PERSPIRED, CABINETS FIRED...IRAN'S GOT AN N-BOMB? ...WE DIDN'T START THE FIRE!
DEMONSTRATING AFTER PRAYERS, SELF-INFLICTED HUMAN FLARES...DEMOCRACY, IRHALL HOSNI...MICHAEL JACKSON, DISNEYLAND...WE DIDN'T START THE FIRE!  IT WAS ALWAYS BURNING WHILE THE WORLD IS TURNING.

Tomorrow I am running a half marathon to the dead sea.  It will be a glorious demise and subsequent rebirth.  Oh the irony, I shalt soon be as dead as the dead sea.  Yalla!