Amman and a Two-Parent Home

September 25, 2009

Amman’s sepia-brown welcome was quickly warmed by Peter’s arrival. I was especially excited for him to be, finally, in an Arabic-speaking country, abundant with geological formations to fill his studied eyes. And Katie and I had plans up our sleeves.

The best thing for a new arrival coming east is to keep awake as long as possible as an investment in a solid night’s sleep. We’d prepared a stir-fry with rice for dinner and then set out for Abdoun Circle, to Gerard’s for pistachio ice cream. Fancy Katie and me showing off our city, our new suspension bridge connecting Fourth Circle to Abdoun, comfortably giving our destination to the taxi driver in Arabic, and pushing our way, like the locals, through to the counter to order our cones. Then sitting outdoors and milking the moment.

We gave Peter the morning off. Katie was at school by the time he woke. And yes, he heard the roosters. During the next few days Peter took himself on a walk into the “bird zoo,” the “ha-DEE-ka at-to-YOOR” and discovered that the offending creatures were none other than Rhode Island Reds. Imagine coming this far across the planet only to be annoyed by foul from your own birth state!

For the view we brought him to Wild Jordan for dinner; for enrichment we brought Dr. Younes to dinner, too. In one swoop we managed to bring a newcomer and an old timer to a place in Amman neither had been before. The frozen limon bi na’na’ was again exquisite. Dr. Younes’ family had lived in the Rainbow Street area when he was little and we were going to walk and find his old homestead after dinner. But as we looked up the hill from the restaurant entrance he said, “There it is!” Small town. A security person at Wild Jordan said he thought the Hariri family from Lebanon had bought up most of that cliffside and its homes. Small region.

Friday. Emad came with his car for us at 10am and off we went to Madaba, the ancient town famed for its mosaic floors (http://www.bibarch.com/ArchaeologicalSites/Madaba.htm). Roman (with columns and colonnades) then Byzantine (with some mosaics rumored to border on pornographic) then Christian (with the extraordinary 6^th century mosaic map of Jerusalem and its surroundings at St. George’s Church). Abandoned for centuries and then rediscovered by Christian pilgrims en route Mount Nebo and the monastery honoring Moses. They reestablished residency in Madaba and archaeological explorations have continued since. There’s much yet to uncover here as in so many parts of Jordan.

We noticed that although signs said, “TOUR GUIDES: Please Do Not Step Inside the Chains Guarding the Mosaic Map” in English, there were none in Arabic. And you can be sure plenty of people (there was a group of Egyptian Christian tourists there) climbed right over the ropes ringing the mosaic and stood right on the Holy Sepulcher and Damascus Gate to get their photos taken. Maybe the tour guides themselves did not transgress.

It was a clearer view from Mount Nebo than the one I saw in 1976. Then it was so foggy I had to wonder what Moses really might have seen from this vantage point; perhaps the Promised Land was only the eastern slope of the mountain, falling off to the Jordan Valley. But this time the view proved longer. Although we couldn’t see them, signs indicated Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and Ramallah lay before us.

Our big surprise for Peter was the Dead Sea this afternoon. I think he’d guessed it already: bring your bathing suit; we’ll pack a picnic. “Dead Sea” signs dotted the road. Amman Beach was as picturesque as we’d remembered. And this time we had saved three JDs each for the mud rub.

It was a dream to bring Peter, my geologist husband, to see these vistas. Driving down, down, down to the Dead Sea … the verticals of limestone, the fall-offs of sandstone. The look of giant muscular protrusions just like Sinai, just like the California coast.

This Friday the Dead Sea. Next Friday the hot tubs at Esalen. Last Friday the swimming pool overlooking Beirut. Who is leading my life? (Ponder the pun.)

And tender, unexpected awareness of self presents in baby steps. These are not the POW BANG transformational experiences of the est Training or the Six Day Course., but the kind that comes with years of practice. Practicing life, as in practicing the flute. You return to Bach’s Sonata in B Minor and find a nuance brand new after 30 years of study. As Peter slept next to me, I wrote in my journal: “What will it be like sharing authority again? Even a two-person committee can be complicated.” I’ve been in charge for nearly a month; now my partner is here and the consultative process is naturally reinstated – especially about Katie’s activities and making dinner. Such a simple process to date in Amman, now will involve spices and sautéing. Also sharing the space. I love the utterly clutter-free place I’ve maintained. But immediately his computer commandeered the dining room table. Well, where else was he to work? I showed him his own closet – in the guest room. We have separate closets at home, but both in our bedroom. “It is logical,” I wrote, “and yet strange. A little cold. But better for me and sensible.” I like my under filled closets. My age and for the first time I can remember having abundant closet space.

How blessed I am that closet space is something to think about. And to have someone to think about sharing it with. And authority.