Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Amman Two: 8 September 2009

Today, a moment in time that I'd like to think was a good omen. I walked out of my fourth floor door and heard what could only be the flapping of wings against a window. A bird trapped in the stairwell? I took a few steps up the last flight and saw nothing but our old stove that they'd left on the landing to the roof instead of taking it away. (The new stove is spanking clean and wonderful!) So I began my descent. Then again whoooosh whooh tap bang tap. I went up again and looked more carefully. There, between the stove and the window, was a dove. It must have been a dove, a grey dove, a smaller version of a pigeon but delicate, with wide wings compared to its body, pointed beak under wide eyes, flapping then resting, flapping then resting, so close to a desire impossible to attain. I set my backpack and purse on the stove and reached for it.

At first it resisted me; I only added to its fright. Then it allowed me to take it, gently, one hand on either side, cupping its wings. The bird's heart was beating furiously. I didn't hold it long, although, in hindsight I wish I had just a moment longer, to connect. Then I lifted it to the open window. It clung to my fingers with its little talons for a moment, getting its bearings I suppose. I waited. Then it took off, lightly, smoothly, perfectly, and flew to a branch of the tree across the street in the Hadikat at Toyuur (the Bird Garden), and lighted there, above the roosters, which, it turns out, are quiet in the afternoon. I watched my dove for a moment then headed back downstairs to walk to the Fulbright House.

I don't know what this omen may point to, a feeling of warmth infused me -- maybe it infuses you, too, when you lend a hand. I felt purpose and belonging.

Yesterday morning I leaned out our fourth floor window to watch Katie wait for the school bus. There, in her uniform: navy blazer, white button down shirt, khaki pants and a tie with the school emblem on it, her perfectly tied Windsor knot. Her hair, all curls, is pulled back in a ponytail. To me she's a picture worth millions. She checked her watch. Was the bus late? Our landlord, Mr. Jalil, strolled out to say "good morning." He was enjoying what I was enjoying too: seeing our little ones off to school. Parents worldwide savor this sight and savor even more seeing that bus bring them back. I used to watch for Katie to walk down Quentin Court in Maplewood, on her way home from elementary school. That was the best view from my third floor office.

On Saturday Mr. Jalil took me to Noor Home -- Amman's almost "Target." "You choose what you want. Call me in one or two hours when you are done. I will pay for the things you put on your list. You can buy other things you want and pay for them yourself." What a deal! At first I wandered this over-stocked, under-sized, two-story store somewhat myopic. (Second floor is in the basement.) I couldn't distinguish stuff from stuff. But then the towels emerged and the electric tea kettles; the shower curtains and silverware. When I came across a wall of slotted spoons I knew I'd found Nirvana. An hour and a half later we carried bags and bags and bags of stuff to his car. Katie was already home. She'd spent the afternoon at Fulbright House with Alain McNamara (the director), researching an assignment on line and printing out an essay for school. When we have our own Internet hook up she'll be able to do this at our place but it's good for her to meet Alain and feel part of the Fulbright family.

We hauled our take upstairs and discovered so much was missing: the fabulous new frying pan, the cutting board, the toilet paper roll holder, more. Fortunately while I was at Noor Home I'd begun chatting with the manager, who is a king of multi-tasking. He handled check out, one person after another, talk on the phone in Arabic, talk to me in English, give change, charge VISAS, put a customer's order on hold and take the next, all with the nicest demeanor. And of course he remembered me and set about to find out which other customer might have walked out with my other bags. But a few minutes later I got a call from Jalil that our other purchases were in the trunk of his car.

One of the tall glasses (in a box showing the glasses filled with beer) was cracked so on Sunday (Sunday = Monday in America -- first day of the business week) I brought back the set for replacement; also to exchange the bath mat from pink to blue. And to get a floor mat to brighten the kitchen. Fully half the staff remembered me from yesterday (how many American women come through there every day, anyway!) and I ticked those things off my list. If only I'd remembered to put "cutting board" back on the list"! It was still missing.

Then I walked through an empty lot to another shop. Whoever worked on our apartment left it a mess with drips and clumps of caulking and paint and little by little I'm scraping it off. The paint scraper will make the job easier than using my finger nails. I can't imagine what the men in the Sweifiyeh shop thought when this lady in business attire showed up and described in a multiplicity of languages, mostly gestures, what she wanted. I stopped at this store because there were paint cans on display in the window. Scraper secure, I moved on up the street. Initially I was looking for plugs for my bathroom sinks and tub. A man at Noor Home had told me that to find plugs go down the street and left and left again and then up and right and about 100 meters up would be Abu Ghazali where plugs are sold. The language I used in the plumbing shop was to hold up my old plug. Sadly I hadn't checked the existing ones and once I got home I found the replacements were also too big. But fortunately one fits perfectly the kitchen sink so I installed it there. At yet another shop I bought a watermelon and hailed a cab home.

Busy day, eh? But just one thing at a time. I've almost mastered saying "I live next to Shmeisani Hospital, across from the Prince Hashem Bird Garden" in Arabic. The colors of the dinar notes are familiar now. It's one dinar to get anywhere (approx $1.41) and I am loathe to make the Excel spread sheet that will reveal how much I'm spending every day. On the other hand it might be a happy revelation. After all, there's only one meal to buy -- that's supper. Our suhoor is usually a combination of leftovers and fruit. No coffee to go during the day. Just dollar and a half cab fares two to four times a day.

During these days of settling in I find myself not rushed, frantic, overloaded, multi-tasking. (Remember these days, Anisa. They won't be here forever!) There seems just a single thing to do at any given moment. Shop for supper. Buy necessities for the apartment. Go to the Fulbright House to send my emails. Attend the orientation. Break fast. It's not that there aren't things on my TO DO list: studying up on the Royal Film Commission, formulating a film narrative for the Abraham Path Initiative; editing the short feature I shot in Maine in 2005 about flute players in the woods; reading the piles of materials provided by Fulbright on medical insurance, health care, and security here, setting up on-line banking, getting a local bank account, and so on. But no killer deadlines. Like arranging and packing for our trip to Jordan!

So I can stand at the window in my jammys in the morning and watch Katie wait for the bus. If there's time, I take up my new favorite tool: the paint scraper. It cost three JD. The plugs were a dinar apiece. The three-foot-high flowering vine/bush and nine smaller potted flowers Katie and I bought today were a total of seven JD -- a far greater value than the plugs! The color printer/copier/scanner was 53 JD. Bread, pita, about 10 6" pocket loaves cost .025 JD. And a liter bottle of water the equivalent of $.45. Strange, that, in a land with few water resources. It will take some time to figure out what things cost and how they are valued.

Cleaner and cleaner, now with flowering plants and covers on the ceiling bulbs the apartment feels more and more like home. The breeze is fabulous. I've even taken to writing haiku about the roosters, trying to find ways to forgive them and embrace their song into my daily experience. At 4:40 this morning I wrote:

First, the rooster crows

Waking his friend, the muethen

God gives each his role

Saturday night we had a wonderful evening at the home of my client, Hala Zureikat, director of Jordan Television. I'm calling the organizations I'm serving here as a Fulbrighter "clients" because I'm not affiliated with a university, they are not my students, and I am not their employee. I am here to empower them in achieving the goals they are setting for themselves in broadcasting, production, forward-thinking, etc. I met Hala almost two years ago at a meeting with her and the Embassy PAO (Public Affairs Officer). In 2008 Whetstone Productions provided JTV a documentary film training program. Hala and I really liked each other then and it's even more, now. To have a woman colleague in TV is fun, too.

Hala picked Katie and me up and had her two daughters in the car. They were coming home from Sunday school at the Baptist church not far from our apartment. The girls are 17 and 19 and the three of them didn't stop chattering for the next four hours. They might as well have been in the cages with the roosters! Hala's husband Naif is a two-time Fulbrighter and now is chairman of the biochemistry department at the University of Jordan. You can imagine conversation was stimulating. Food was good, too. I especially liked the fetush salad -- made with a green somewhat a combination of spinach and arugula, tomato, cucumber and lots of lemon juice. She also made kibbee with spices that reminded me of how my father made it. Fasting expands my sense of smell and those spices brought me right back to the kitchen at the house I grew up in on Delaware Avenue in Flushing, New York, with dad pulling a tray of fresh baked kibbee out of the oven. Pine nuts in the center layer.

One of the Fulbright students' dads' knew the late Dr. Mohammad T. Mehdi and today he emailed her a photo of my father at his engineering graduation at Farleigh Dickenson University. My father’s friend and right-hand-man Rebhie Rabia is in that photo, too. I asked Sarah to ask her dad if he knew where Rebhie might be these days. It’s years since we heard from him and we suspect he returned to family in Amman.

At the Food City the guys at check out are beginning to recognize us on our daily visit. Today we came away with only one extra plastic bag. The rest of our groceries made it into the bags we brought to reuse. Soon we’ll remember to bring along our Esalen tote bags and pretend we’re going to Whole Foods.

We're really enjoying the pickles and olives. We try a different white cheese (versions of feta) every time we run out. Dinner’s been simple: cooking rice and beans, spinach and eggs, bread and cheese, tea, juice and baklawa. Hala suggests buying mezza (hommos, baba ghannouge, tabouli, etc.) pre-made from any number of shops in the city. One of the best pastry shops in town she says is on the dewar, the circle, on our corner. It’ll make fresh spinach pies if you ask in the morning. She and Naif have been going there for 20 years.

We've made an excellent choice for living arrangements and now, going on our week anniversary in our new home, I am far more satisfied than in my first letter. Things will go up and down, there's no doubt. Katie and I are a solid team and will be pulling one another through.

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