Borderline Harassment

With the end of my first month in Jordan coming to an end, it came time last week to renew my visa and simultaneously to continue improving my understanding of life on the ground in this part of the world. Given my interest in refugee populations here in Jordan, it makes sense for me to better comprehend where many of them originally came from. And because of the large number of selfless, hospitable, and generally fantastic people I know from Seeds of Peace, it is pretty easy to make any trip around here happen.

So I packed my L.L. Bean hiking pack (only two pairs of shoes and no maple syrup this time) and embarked on my trip to Israel and Palestine. From Jordan, the closest border crossing into Israel is called the King Hussein Bridge, or the Allenby Bridge. I went through the same way three years ago on a trip with a program, so I felt pretty comfortable with the process. Taxi to the bridge, passport processed by Jordanian officials, bus to the Israeli side, passport processed and entry issued by Israeli officials. Gross bathrooms and lots of flies. A weird, dinky little snack window called “the cafeteria” in Arabic but oddly translated as “the buffet” in English. Take a bus to Jerusalem and meet up with friends. Pretty straightforward.

A friend in Amman told me before my trip that I should pay no more than 20 JDs for the taxi ride from the city to the bridge. Armed with this cool insider tip, I jauntily hailed a cab and told him “Allenby Bridge!” He peered back at me from the front seat.

“I don’t know,” he replied. I tried again.

“Allenby Bridge, King Hussein Bridge.” He shook his head and the car remained motionless. Crap, I thought. “Bridge” would have been a good word to remember before this trip. I shook my backpack off onto the seat next to me and lifted my hands up. “Israel,” I said in Arabic, waving one. “Jordan,” I said, waving the other. I pushed them together. “Here,” I said, gesturing with my head to my connected hands. His expression became even more confused. “The place where Jordan and Israel meet,” I said in Arabic.

An older man passing by saw what was going on. Through my open window he called into me. “Let me help. Where do you want to go?” I told him and also said to make sure the price would be 20 JDs. He turned to the driver and simply said, “Jisr al-malak Hussein.” NOW I remember. Of course. Jisr. They chatted for a moment and then the older man said to me, “He will do it for 25 JDs. I think this is a good deal for all of us.” I wasn’t sure how the price affected him unless he was expecting some sort of cut for his translation services, but I was anxious to get going so I agreed once more to be financially exploited by a taxi driver.

After about 45 minutes in the car, he dropped me off at the entrance to the Jordanian side of the crossing for foreigners (there is a separate entrance for Palestinians who wish to cross) and I instantly became painfully aware that I was the only female and only foreigner present. Instead of letting that shake me, I decided to do what one should always do in times of doubt: act like you know exactly what you’re doing. So I confidently started marching across the parking lot to the first door I spotted, all the while trying to sneak furtive glances at the signage to figure out where I should actually go. Nine or so male, uniformed maintenance workers stopped what they were doing and watched me as I strode purposefully by. I heard soft laughter and turned my head slightly. In one unified motion, they all pointed to the entrance on the opposite side of the lot. I forced a small giggle to defray the humiliation. “Haha, shukran!” (thank you!) I said, slowly dying inside.

I entered the correct building and proceeded to a counter where they took my passport and had me sit to wait for more people to arrive so they could fill the bus and head to the Israeli side of the border. I was the only one there so far and was aware once again that every official behind the two glassed-in counters was male. Once they heard me speak some Arabic to them, I became an amusing way to pass the time. The young, spindly guy who had taken my passport to be processed emerged from behind the counter and came to sit down. He was joined on my other side by two older and larger men. Feeling a little socially awkward, I did what anyone of my generation would do: I took out my iPhone and started texting people. In America, this is the ultimate “do not disturb” hint. Herein lies another cultural difference.

They started chatting with me in Arabic, oblivious to my usually impermeable texting barrier, and asked me where I was from, what I was doing in Jordan, and what my travel plans were. I responded to their questions, and then the oldest and roundest man inquired, “Where did you learn Arabic? From your mother?” I snorted. Didn’t see that one coming.

“Um, no, in university,” I said.

“Does your mother speak Arabic?” he pressed. Sorry, does it look like I would have a mother who speaks Arabic? Before the walls in here turned beige from all the dirt they were the same color as my skin.

I swatted a fly away from my right nostril for the fifth time. “No, she doesn’t.”

“You must teach her!” he instructed me. “And the music, too!” With that, he threw back his head and began warbling an Arabic song at the top of his lungs. “And with these!” he cried, sticking out his arms and miming little castanets with his hands.

“Ay! Ay! Ay! Ay!” the other men chanted. I continued to sit there with a grin firmly plastered to my face.

“You are very good,” I managed to say above the noise. “Ay, ay, ay…”

Finally, one of his colleagues got him to stop by poking him repeatedly in the stomach and saying “Fat!” over and over. They retreated to take care of some business and I was left with the young, lanky fellow and his impressive unibrow. I turned back to my phone in earnest, this time armed with descriptions of the bizarre past five minutes of my life to share with anyone who would listen. He cleared his throat.

“First visit?” he asked. I smiled and shook my head.

“No, my second.” He leaned forward and pointed to my phone.

“Whatsapp,” he said.

“Yes,” I responded. Pregnant pause. “Yes,” I said again. “Everyone in Jordan likes Whatsapp. No credit, like with texting. Lots of credit is necessary for that.”

He smiled. “You are married?” he asked. He held up his left hand and pointed to his ring finger. Dammit.

“Um, no, not married, no,” I replied. He smiled widely.

“Boyfriend?” he asked. Seriously? Do we really need to go over this?

“Nope,” I said. Then I remembered I was traveling alone across international borders controlled by men, and that he had my passport. “But I am engaged!” I practically shouted. “Yes, engaged!”

He looked confused. “What?”

“Engaged,” I said again. Yet another key word I have forgotten. Probably because, along with “bridge,” I doubted its relevancy to my life. Probably even less relevant than bridge, if we’re being honest. Still clutching my phone, I tried to explain. “It’s between, um, boyfriend and husband. Between. Married later.”

“Married when?” he asked. Who sent you here, my deceased grandmother?

“…Chr–Christmas,” I told him, my voice shaking slightly. “A…holiday celebration.” Trapped in a web of lies.

“So he’s like a friend?” he asked, to confirm.

“No, not a friend. More than a friend.”

“So…it’s a cousin.” he concluded. Good Lord.

“NO, no, not a cousin, a person who is more than a boyfriend but not a husband.”

“A cousin,” he told me. Why am I even trying.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I will marry my cousin at Christmas.”

“Where is he? Is he here?” he asked.

“He’s…um…he’s coming to visit next week,” I said pathetically. My thumbs began to spasm from texting my friend Kyle who was waiting for my arrival in Ramallah. If I never show up today, the guy with the furry forehead did it. He was silent for a few minutes, then he smiled at my phone again.

“Whatsapp,” he repeated. I nodded.

“Yes. Everyone in Jordan likes Whatsapp. No credit, like with texting. Lots of credit is necessary for that.” Dear God. He took out his phone and opened Whatsapp.

“Look,” he said, pointing. “I use Whatsapp.”

“Yup. It’s great.” No way are we about to be texting buddies. My cousin-husband would not approve. Thankfully, the large, singing man returned and told me I could now get on the bus. “OKAY BYE!” I said a little too excitedly to my unibrowed companion. I nearly skipped my way out the door and onto the bus. It’s fine. This just happens, it’s mostly harmless. Don’t get worked up.

I took a seat on the bus and waited for the others to get on. A man then stepped on to verify we all matched our passports one final time. He looked around and realized not everyone was on yet, then he walked over and sat himself down across from me.

“American, yes?” He held up my passport. I nodded and smiled. Then he leaned in. “I tell you something, American women, much better than Arab women. Now, I love Arab women, my wife, she is an Arab woman. But they YELL. All the time they are yelling about everything. American women, European women, you never hear them yell. I wish sometimes you were my wife instead.” You wanna bet we don’t yell? Lean a little closer, I dare you.

“Oh, haha, yeah, well, I yell too, sometimes, you know…ha.” Please just give me my passport. I continued texting Kyle. Not in the clear yet. Tell my parents I love them. Kyle responded with some advice involving a few choice words to tell the man. I reminded him I actually needed my passport from this man to get anywhere. The man looked at my phone.

“This is your husband?” he said, pointing to the messages. I learned my lesson last time. The truth may set you free, but not at Jordanian border crossings.

“Yup.” Didn’t miss a beat. He handed me my passport and turned to address the people who were just getting on the bus. Look on the bright side. Now two people in the world think you either are married or could be getting married in the future. That’s never happened before.

While waiting for several hours at the Israeli side of the border for them to approve my entrance into the country, I opened some mp3 files my Arabic tutor had given me before leaving so I could practice listening to colloquial Arabic. It’s hard for me to find ways to appear to be even more of a freak to strangers than I already do naturally, but sitting alone and muttering “No, I am not from Amman. I am from America. May God bless the heads of your children, dear brother” to myself probably did the trick. I made it through the first set of audio tracks and started the second. Two strangers in the voice recording introduced themselves and where they were from.

“Are you married?” one of them asked. WHY MUST YOU HAUNT ME. I clicked to the next track.

“Are you married?” those voices also asked. Click. “Are you married?” Click. “Do you have a husband?” Click.

The following week I returned from my trip and went to my tutoring session. Akram, my tutor, and I went through the tracks. Part of the way through, he stopped one of them. “You may notice a trend in the types of questions being asked,” he said. You could say that. “Here, family is so important, that many questions are about this. You’ll also notice that if they ask if you have children and you say yes, they will not ask if you’re married, because in the Arab world, well, if you have children, you are married.” He laughed and I smiled.

“No Kourtney and Scotts here, huh!” I contributed. He continued speaking.

“Anyways, these are normal questions, these personal ones, though they are sometimes very private and offensive to Westerners in particular. And they can be asked for reasons beyond just curiosity, which is sometimes uncomfortable. But don’t be surprised if you hear these in many examples or in your daily life here.”

I rolled my eyes slightly. “Oh, of course not! I had actually hardly even noticed.”

I Will Not be a Cat Lady (But I might be a B.R.A.T. Lady)

Let me preface this post by making sure everyone understands this is not some sort of self-affirmation in light of how frequently I reference the fact that I do not have a boyfriend named Jordan, or a Jordanian boyfriend, or any boyfriend at all, etc. “I will not be a Cat Lady” is not some weird vow I make in front of the mirror every morning in order to boost my confidence before starting the day — and this is not just because I often start my day after the morning is long over. I know I will not be a Cat Lady, because I am horribly allergic to cats. I would never add the suffering they inflict upon me to the misery of being alone. Cats, in my opinion, are best interacted with via the popular internet meme. So I might very well be alone, but this means TRULY alone. No cats. And here, in addition to allergies, are some more reasons why.

Raghad and Marah’s cats, Roscoe and Renée, are terrible creatures. Technically, Roscoe belongs to Raghad and Renée belongs to Marah, but I’m pretty sure they both actually belong to the devil. At first, I thought Roscoe and I were going to be friends. The family got a kick out of how he and I would meow at each other and have full conversations. Since I am focusing my efforts on Arabic, I never put in the time to figure out what he was saying, but judging by the way our relationship devolved I would have to guess in retrospect that it was primarily Satanic incantations. My third day in their house, he was suddenly everywhere. Watching me. Preventing me from going from one room to the next. He would sit in doorways and look at me, and when I got close he would reach out and expose his little claws with sadistic excitement.

Here he is watching me watch TV.

And watching me eat lunch.

And watching me about to get some milk out of the refrigerator.

And blocking me from getting out of my room.

Renée, on the other hand, seemed totally innocent. Her face is kind of squished and flat, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be any issues. Until I looked up from writing this blog one day.

When I have gone back to visit since moving to my own apartment, they just stare at me and occasionally hiss. I refuse to blow my nose in front of them because I don’t want them to have the satisfaction of knowing the pain they effortlessly inflict upon me. Hostile domestic cats are thus added to the list of reasons why this post has its particular title. But the reasons don’t end here.

Usually the issues people have with cats in Jordan revolve around the many feral and stray cats that roam the streets. I will never truly be able to grasp the sheer number of these cats, because they have full agency in deciding when and where they will be seen. They slink from shadow to shadow, camouflage themselves in piles of sand, rocks, stones, and trash, and spy on you from behind the corners of buildings. They are like the trees in the forests of Narnia under control of the White Witch; they see and hear everything and they cannot be trusted. As someone who startles easily, I find this extremely disconcerting. A walk to the store is quickly transformed into a harrowing death trap as I pass by rows of metal dumpsters and cats suddenly leap from one bin into the next or run in front of me and I let out a little shriek and the people on their terraces and balconies enjoying the afternoon share a hearty laugh with one another. When they see you coming, they freeze and stare at you with a mixture of aggression and fear in their glowing, manic eyes, so you never know if they are plotting their rapid escape from you or their vicious attack on you. They crouch down and arch their backs, ready to run away or pounce and rip you limb from limb — and you never know what it will be until the last second. Of course, I’ve only seen them run away, but I’m sure the risk of the other option is real. I have a pretty good read on animals.

Their favorite activity is to lie in wait — somehow invisible, of course — for you to bring out your trash and leave it on the side of the road to be picked up. They watch and listen for the turning of your doorknob and the crinkle of plastic, and suddenly at least nine pairs of eyes are fixed on you and your every move. Little mangy, furry heads peek from their strategic hiding spots as you place the bag down. They slowly start advancing, but they won’t touch the bag until your back is fully turned. This is not a huge problem, because they are fairly systematic in how they open the bags and your trash can still be collected without major issues. And yet, there are still some problems with this accepted practice.

In Amman, the plumbing and sewage system is of a very weak nature…such that you are not able to dispose of your toilet paper in the actual toilet. This means that next to your toilet there sits a wastebasket or trashcan of some kind into which you place your bathroom tissue after using it. Of course, this trashcan fills up, and so you must tie up the plastic bag and place it outside to be collected. I assumed that the street cats understood this and that they had developed some sort of protocol for discerning which trash bags might contain edible contents and which might contain lethal bodily poison. So this past week, during which I experienced very little agreement between my stomach and the food going into it (really in the very worst sense), my bathroom trashcan filled up pretty fast. I mustered up the strength to tie up the plastic yellow and black bag (fitting color scheme) and deliver it to the outside of my building, along with a clear plastic bag of our kitchen trash. Lo and behold, nine pairs of gleaming eyes attached to matted, furry little heads materialized. I bent down to place the bags on the ground, and the cats advanced directly toward the yellow bag. I was struck with the realization of what was about to happen. Even worse, only I could prevent it. The weight of the world was upon my shoulders, along with the weight in my stomach of all the bananas, rice, and toast I had just consumed.

I glanced quickly around to make sure no neighbors were watching or within earshot. I turned to the small army of cats lined up in front of me. “Okay guys, listen up. I’m just gonna level with you here. It’s been a rough week. You really, really — and I mean really — don’t want to do this. I get that you’re hungry, and you need to trust that I’m not just saying this because I find you frightening and slightly threatening and want to deprive you of your only means of survival. Any other day, that would be true. But this is for your own good. Do not — I repeat, DO NOT — go into that bag.” I pointed distinctly and passionately at the yellow bag. “You will regret this. You will get sick. I’m there now, and I don’t want you to be there too, okay? So don’t. No. This bag, no,” I said again, gesturing wildly. The cats slowly backed up, but one plucky little white cat remained, staring me down. I shrugged. “Listen, I wouldn’t trust me either. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” White Cat kept staring but looked a little less certain. I took a step back, and she stayed frozen. I turned my back and looked over my shoulder. “I can still see you!” I reminded them. I noticed my neighbor’s housekeeper opening the door to come outside. Giving the cats one last warning look, I walked to the end of the street and turned the corner to go buy more rice.

When I got home later on, the clear bag had been pawed through, but the yellow bag remained fully intact. I smiled to myself. They were much smarter than I thought, those little friends. Then I felt their eyes trained on me from some unseen nearby location and ran inside overcome with the disturbing thought that perhaps I couldn’t choose whether or not to be a Cat Lady. As of that moment, the Cat Lady life had chosen me.

Step in the Name of Love

Senior Spring in college is, for many reasons, a beautiful time for the soon-to-be graduate. At Harvard, most leadership positions and thus most responsibilities (since schoolwork falls last on the list of priorities for students at this institution — why study when you can instead run 3,000 organizations and then tell everyone how you are running 3,000 organizations?) have ended by the last semester of college, allowing for a smooth transition out of undergraduate life and into the next stage, not to mention some extra free time.

You might attend some networking and resume editing sessions if you are among the as yet unemployed crowd that has been shamed into thinking there is something wrong with you for not finding a job that would hire you last fall almost a year in advance. If you do have a job lined up, you might attend a financial planning workshop that will tell you how best to invest your new Goldman Sachs salary. You might then walk by a large population of homeless people on your way back from this workshop. You also may decide that you still care enough about your graduating class and Harvard to be involved in class gift fundraising or planning commencement events. If none of this is appealing, you might pick three shows you have been meaning to watch since you got to college and watch all of them in succession with your laptop propped up on the books you dropped several hundred dollars on for your classes this semester so you have the best view. The possibilities are endless.

Little did I know that my Senior Spring activities of choice were in fact preparing me in unforeseen ways for my year in Jordan exploring the involvement of women and refugee populations in various forms of art. Yeah, the class I took on the intersection of art and social/political change somewhat like kind of relates to what I’m doing here. That shaped some new passions for me I guess. But the biggest passion I developed during my Senior Spring is even more relevant in Jordan. That passion was obviously step class at the gym with my sorority sisters.

Step had always been a kind of elusive art form to me. On the rare occasion that I would find myself on the elliptical at the Harvard gym, usually lured there by a Kardashians or SVU marathon (bonus points if happening simultaneously — extra calories burned by quickly switching channels back and forth), I would spy on the people in the large glass-walled group exercise room across the way. By spying I of course mean very obviously staring during any and all commercial breaks.

The first time I saw a step class I could barely breathe. That’s because I hadn’t exercised in a really long time and I hadn’t taken my inhaler. I also was fairly intrigued and amazed by the spectacle in front of me, and I don’t mean Kourtney letting her sisters drink her breast milk — that’s pretty routine K-fam content.

The step class participants looked like Stairmaster ballerinas. In perfect unison they traveled up, down, over, and around their little personal stations, arms and legs flying with grace and ease. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t kill their husbands. THEY JUST DON’T!!!!! I thought to myself.*

So when Senior Spring rolled around and I had marginally more time on my hands, I worked up the courage to send out an email to my Kappa sisters to see who might be interested in going to a class with me. One of my sisters was prepping for a pageant, so she was happy to have someone enthusiastic about working out. I had to clarify that I was less enthusiastic about working out and more enthusiastic about the prospect of looking cool and athletic to the bored suckers in the elliptical room.

I had not given much thought to the fact that clearly you don’t just enter a step class and suddenly acquire full knowledge of all the moves by virtue of being present. As Boromir so famously said, “One does not simply walk into Step Class.”

There was also clearly a caste system in place: Step Experts at the top, who would alternate between feigned disinterest and overwhelming stamina throughout the class and often break into more complicated versions of the moves on the highest level of step possible; Step Enthusiasts, who knew basically all of the moves and made very few mistakes; and Step Beginners like me, who jumped around pathetically and desperately tried to make eye contact with anyone at all in order to laugh off tripping over the step or accidentally turning the wrong direction and coming face to face with the whole class, the mistake everyone sees and judges. And sometimes there would be a Stepford Wife here and there.

The first few times I had to surround myself with people who were clearly of the Step Enthusiast category, because they knew what they were doing but they were also far more charitable than the Experts with explaining moves if you needed extra help or laughing along with you as they looked down from their invigorating routine to where you lay on the floor grasping at self deprecation’s pant leg for humorous refuge. Aside from the time one step instructor, who also happened to be my hip hop teacher (yes I took a hip hop class), saw me walk through the door and instantly ran to remove all levels but one from my step apparatus with a look of horror on her face/stared pointedly at me every time she reminded the class they could do the routine on the flat ground with no step if that would be easier, I managed to learn the moves and combinations without too much embarrassment in a matter of a few weeks. It became my new obsession. I felt smart and powerful as I kicked in the correction direction with the correct rhythm and even threw my hands out in front of me as I had watched one Step Expert do from the back row in my very first class.

I was moving up the ladder, only to graduate and spend the summer at a peace camp where I was confident step would not be offered in conjunction with conflict-resolution dialogue.

What joy I felt, then, when my roommate Jordan informed me she had a joined a gym here in Amman and that it had a wide variety of classes. Could it be possible? I wondered. My heart raced as I scanned their class offerings at their front desk, because I was nervous to find out and because the walk to the gym was mostly uphill.

There it was, a shining light of cardiovascular hope in a gym that seemed to place more emphasis on its smoothie/coffee/snack bar and DVD rental library than its actual athletic programming. Don’t get me wrong — that’s my kind of gym. But I knew that the free hazelnut coffee in the Wifi-equipped lounge after my steam shower would be that much sweeter if preceded by step.

So I decided to give it a try this week. I excitedly dusted off my favorite (read: only) athletic spandex and barely even noticed all the inclines on the way to the gym as I walked with Jordan and our neighbor, Angela. We entered the Ladies Only group fitness room and retrieved our steps from a pile in the corner. Having grown fond of being in the back right corner during step class at Harvard, I was pleased to find that exact same spot free for this class, too. Just like old times, I smiled to myself. The only major difference here was a small basket off to my side of belly-dancing outfits.

The instructor greeted us with a mixture of English and Arabic. I became nervous for a moment, since following step instructions in English is challenging enough for me, but I remembered that I could just follow her movements and it would be fine. The music started and we began marching in place. Ah, I thought. The classic warm up. The music continued and we kept marching in place. Then we stepped slightly to the side, and then to the other side. And repeated. This is…great! I reassured myself.

“Okay, TEAM!” blasted the instructor, sans the customary microphone headset. “Watch me here!” She gestured with her fingers in an odd formation to her face. She stepped up onto her bench, then marched in place on top of it, then stepped down again. “Okay, TEAM! It’s your turn!” she informed us. We are not a team, I told her inside my head.

The music got more intense as we stepped up and down and side to side and occasionally did a hamstring curl. Suddenly, the instructor was yelling at us. “WORK HARD, PLAY HARD, WORK HARD, PLAY HARD, GO TEAM!” she cried, showing us how we could also add a challenge to the combination by pumping our arms. “360!” she shouted, and walked in a slow circle around her step. “WORK HARD, PLAY HARD, WORK HARD, PLAY HARD, WORK HARD, PLAY HARD,” she advised us, walking in a slow circle and chanting her patented life philosophy to the beat. She raises a good point, I thought as we strolled along. Does this classify as work or play? It’s not really either.

The woman to the front left of my spot began to seriously struggle. Every time we walked in a circle, she was going the opposite way. She tripped over and kicked her step every few counts of four. Step Beginner, I pompously observed. To her right, and in front of me, a woman cheerily went along with the instructions. Step Enthusiast. In the front, a skinny, tan blonde woman wearing diamonds and somehow not sweating marched along. Stepford Wife, really?? Gang’s all here, I remarked to myself as I was momentarily blinded by the perspiration pouring down my face. That’s another thing, how am I sweating this much. We’re barely moving. Wait a second. Did I say gang’s ALL here?? Does that make me…the STEP EXPERT?

Before I could confirm this, the instructor was shouting again. This time it wasn’t at us, but at her iPod, which had decided to stop working. We all spent five long minutes avoiding eye contact with each other as she blasted the first few seconds of the same three songs over and over again and shouted “KHALAS!” (enough!) at the sound system. Eventually, something started working. We started low kicks, an old friend of mine. Okay, now things will pick up.

With a fire in her eyes that I could feel from the back of the room, the instructor tightened her hair scrunchie with purpose and cried, “CATCH ME IF YOU CAAAAAAAAAAAN!” along with the track playing. “CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, TEAM!” she said again. This activity is stationary, I told her in my head. I could literally take four steps and catch you. 

“CATCH. ME. IF. YOU. CAN!” she caterwauled. DON’T TEMPT ME, I warned her.

Then we were onto a new song, and she informed us that in the middle of the song after every count of six there would be a pause, which we should acknowledge by pausing our movement, and then we would continue leaping side to side over the step. What she didn’t tell us was how she personally was planning on acknowledging the pause.

The song began, and we reached the halfway point. The first pause occurred. “Tribal DANCE!” she cried, striking an elaborate pose. Then leap, two, three, four, five, six — “Tribal DANCE!” she shrieked, this time with her hands on her hips and her head thrown back. I realized I was beginning to feel the burn. In my abs. From laughing silently to myself in the corner.

Our final routine had a nice little section in which we jumped up on our steps and clapped our hands in time to the music. I refuse to CLAP, I thought smugly. This is asinine. Where is my West Side Story and my Rocking Horse? We didn’t even do the Charleston or a decent OTT. Our instructor informed us we should really “push it” for the last combination. We started jumping up and down. Grudgingly, I clapped my hands together. I giggled a little. How fun!

Then came more encouragement. “TEAMWORK!” she howled. “COME ON, TEAM! TEAMWORK!” I stopped giggling. For the LAST time, we are NOT a team. Nothing about this is related to being a team. I am on my step, and you are on your step, and she is on her step, and I am here as an individual. “TEAMWORK!” she insisted, as everyone frantically clapped their hands at different times. The woman to my left crumpled to the floor. The Stepford Wife continued to not sweat and be tan. This is never happening again.

After stretching briefly in the exercise room to the gentle sound of the instructor singing “Try to tell you GO, but my body keeps on tellin’ you yes!” along with the Maroon 5 track she selected for cooling down, Jordan and I stretched again in the open gym area. The instructor approached us. “Was this your first time doing the step?” she asked us. We told her no, but our first time at this gym. “Yes, you were quite good! I hope you liked it!”

Well, I considered as I pretended to be flexible, I guess I WAS quite good. I wonder if this class is always at this time on Mondays.

*for the pop culturally unaware, this is a reference to the movie Legally Blonde. I am not actively seeking ways to prevent myself from killing my future husband, mostly because the mere existence of my future husband is somewhat doubtful.

Splinters vs Split Ends

It’s time to share an update on my relationship status!!! I’m happy to report that Jordan is now both my new home AND my new roommate. Still not my boyfriend, though. Still just no boyfriend. Marah and Raghad have taken to observing my behavior when we hang out now and informing me which of my characteristics or actions are possible reasons for why this is so. We went the mall last night to see a movie together. I tripped and fell getting off the escalator. “No wonder you’re single,” Marah said. I sneezed loudly and simultaneously spilled water all over myself. “This is why you are alone,” Raghad sighed. But I digress.

In typical Erwin family fashion, the name at the top of my “people to contact when I arrive in Jordan and inevitably have no idea what I’m doing” list when I first got here was that of a priest. A former Catholic school teacher in Maine, Father John also used to work at my parish at Harvard and now is living and working in Amman. Add this to the list of reasons why Maine is the greatest state.

A few days into my time here while I was still living with Raghad, Marah, and Abeer, I sent Father John an email introducing myself. On a whim (okay fine my mom told me to do this), I also added a line asking if he happened to know of anyone who might be looking for a roommate. He quickly responded with a forwarded message from someone else, advising me to “contact Jordan.” Okay, I thought, I guess there’s some kind of general contact information for the entire country. Scrolling down, I realized he meant a singular person named Jordan. Jordan Denari, to be exact. Since Jordanian currency is called dinars, this is basically like someone in the United States saying, “Hi, my name is America Dollar.” If anyone reading this is struggling with baby name ideas, you’re welcome.

Jordan, here doing research on Muslim-Christian relations through Fulbright, happened to be looking for a roommate too, so we met up, happily discovered that neither of us are secretly serial killers, and set out to look at apartments together. Jordan is also coincidentally close friends with one of my co-counselors from Seeds of Peace this summer, which will be a good thing until she slowly finds out through her friend (and through living with me) that just because I’m not a serial killer doesn’t mean I’m not psychotic.

We ended up choosing a beautiful, convenient, and furnished place in Shmeisani, a younger and growing part of Amman. Having previously studied abroad here, Jordan has a much better command of colloquial Arabic than I do, which came in handy as we negotiated a lease with our landlord, Issam, who speaks zero English. So my relationship with him is basically one of bright smiles and whiplash from nodding with extreme enthusiasm.

When we met to sign our leases, our landlord was fairly confused by the papers we put in front of him. “Agreements,” Jordan said, pointing to them. “Americans, you write everything down,” he chuckled. I sat in silence for most of the meeting and took in what I understood from their conversation. Occasionally, Issam would look over in my direction with a pitiful smile and say something in broken English along the lines of “My friend Sarah, she sits here” or “Sarah, my friend, hello to you.” So when it came time to sign the lease in Arabic, he was overjoyed and shocked to see that I could write my name in Arabic. As I began to form the siin, the first letter of my name in Arabic script, his eyes grew wide. “Sarah, my friend, she can write! Jordan, she can write! She is writing her name! Look, here, in Arabic! She’s writing it!” Yes, Issam, I thought. I did study this language for three years, so I hope to Allah I am able to write my name. Beaming, he took the paper from me and wrote in the terms of our lease with pure, unbridled joy. I don’t think anyone has ever before written the words “rent to be paid every two months on the eighth day of the month” with more passion.

Issam assured us that we were the first people to live in our apartment. Everything is new and unused, he said several times, gesturing to the furniture and the appliances. What luck, we thought. A day after signing our lease, we brought our luggage over to move in. I turned down the blankets on my bed and was met with the sight of clumps of dark, curly hair. Gross, but an easy fix. I added “new bedding” to my shopping list. Loose hair is one of my biggest pet peeves, so I was quite satisfied with myself for the logical way I handled the problem.

Returning later with my new sheets, I happily stripped down the bed and piled the hairy bedding on the floor. I looked at the mattress. More dark, curly hair. Literally everywhere. I cautiously picked at one piece, but it didn’t budge. Interesting how hair could be so embedded in a mattress in an apartment that had never been used before, I thought. I remembered proudly how I single-handedly moved my full bed — mattress, box spring and all — down two flights of stairs at the end of my last semester at college. Piece of cake. I reached as far as I could and forced the huge mattress over onto its other side. I heard the troubling sound of wood cracking and breaking.

Looking under the mattress, I realized my “box spring” was actually several slats of wood reminiscent of the beds I have slept on for the past few years at summer camp. Looking at the new top side of my mattress, I saw little chunks and splinters of wood stuck everywhere. I realized I had to choose. Would I spend my nights tossing and turning as I envisioned the millions of hair follicles directly beneath me plotting my demise with only a thin sheet that I couldn’t even wash before using because it wouldn’t dry in time protecting me from their plans to tie themselves together and slowly strangle me? Or would I pick out as many splintery pieces of wood as I could and sleep on that side, all the while knowing that it would be impossible for me to get rid of all of the miniature daggers that sought to stab me violently in the flesh every time I moved or inhaled or exhaled?

So as not to leave you with a devastatingly dramatic cliffhanger, I will tell you that ultimately I decided my fear of being covered in splinters (realistic) was not as severe as my fear of being asphyxiated by the repulsive, living hairs of a stranger (less realistic). I picked off as many wooden shards from the mattress as I could and have now survived almost a week of successful slumber.

We called Issam to come meet with us after this and other such discoveries. “Did people live here before us?” Jordan asked again. Issam firmly shook his head. “Here, there are many hairs everywhere,” I said in Arabic, pointing to my bed and sort of grabbing at my own hair to demonstrate. “Hairs from people here before us,” Jordan suggested once more. Issam nodded. “Yes, from the people before.” Jordan and I looked at each other. Okay. We pointed out a few more things, such as the assortment of personal items in the drawers of our furniture and cabinets. “Yes, from the people before,” Issam said.

Two days later, we sat authoritatively by as a locksmith crew came to fix our two existing locks and install one more plus a deadbolt. We also had them reinforce the door that had signs of being kicked in/broken into — presumably “from the people before” — with extra pieces of wood. With each new security measure, the locksmith and Issam shared a knowing look and a good laugh. “Americans, you need everything written down AND everything locked up!” he said.

As much as I would love a surprise visit “from the people before,” these are two American stereotypes I am more than happy to hold on to anywhere in the world.

On a Syrias Note: During our apartment hunt, Jordan and I were looking at a place in another part of Amman as well. The landlady there told us that she had a Syrian mother and son who were also interested, so we needed to decide quickly so she could give them an answer. As we stressed about location and amenities and two bathrooms or one bathroom and what kind of appliances each place had, we were reminded for a moment to be thankful for our situation.

There’s a chance this Syrian family has lived in Jordan for years — they could be established, comfortable, and simply looking to move. There is also a chance, probably a greater one, that this family is hoping to find an alternative to the two options they have been facing recently: live in a refugee camp in Jordan in the most crowded and disgusting of conditions, or return home to a violent, unstable, and unsafe way of life.

An incredibly selfless, kind man named Akram helped us navigate our apartment search by translating and facilitating meetings, all out of pure generosity and expecting no payment. He is Syrian, and though he came to Jordan years ago and the family he still has in Syria is safe for the moment, he is deeply troubled and affected by what has been happening. It was fairly embarrassing to end a conversation about the subpar water pressure in the apartment and enter into one about people literally waiting in line all day just to use the bathroom at the largest Syrian refugee camp in Jordan, called Za’atari, which is currently home to about 140,000 and counting people.

We chose not to take that apartment, hoping that the other family could move in, and we both took a moment to recognize how fortunate we are. I’m lucky and blessed (not #blessed, but actually blessed) that my biggest challenges recently have been deciding which side of a mattress to sleep on and figuring out how to turn on the hot water heater. I never thought I would be so grateful for the existence of clumps of loose hair that don’t belong to me.

Cab Me Maybe?

I have always had a bizarre insecurity about hailing taxis. Having grown up in a location in which the only public transportation I was aware of was my mom’s car, as far as I knew from movies you just decided you wanted a cab, casually and slightly raised your hand, and instantly one would stop. If your situation was particularly dramatic, you could shout “TAXI!” and chase the one you loved to the airport. You could even whistle to be very emphatic. Whatever method you used, it looked effortless and sophisticated. That should have been my first clue that I would never be cut out for public transportation, since I never give the impression of being either of those things.

Upon becoming a college student in Baltimore and then Boston, I became painfully aware of my fear that every single person was watching and judging whenever I hailed a cab. The stress would begin right before I left to find one. Public transportation demons would surround me, asking questions like: are you sure there will be cabs where you’re walking to? Did you pick a place congested enough to find a cab, but quiet enough that there won’t be a million critical eyes watching you? Do you have cash? Will they take a credit card? Are you going to be able to calculate the tip without using your iPhone calculator and looking even more stupid? Is Lamar really going to rehab, or all these all just crazy tabloid rumors? I hope Khloé’s okay…

It is quite a conundrum for me, because I also really enjoy chatting with whomever is driving the taxi and finding out about his thoughts on current events such as the economy, the conflicts in the Middle East, or the aforementioned Kardashian dilemma. Being in the cab, aside from tipping, is fine. My challenge has always been getting there in the first place — the climb, as Miley Cyrus would eloquently explain.

Amman is not Baltimore, Boston, or New York. My taxi insecurities have increased exponentially in the past week, for the following reasons:

1. People outright laugh at me here. I’ve always known that my idea that people are judging me is mostly in my head, and thus I can usually tell myself I am being irrational even in the most stressful times of taxi travel. Not so anymore. Hailing taxis here involves a gesture even more casual than raising a hand over your head. Here, you sort of nonchalantly stick out your arm at waist level with your palm facing the ground as if you are patting a large dog. I learned this quickly, but the first several times of awkwardly wiggling my arm in the air like a large al dente noodle did not spare me from the snickers and stares of bystanders. Cabs here also do not use lights to indicate if they are free or taken, so you can stand for minutes at a time thrusting your arm out in front of you at cabs that look empty until they pass directly by. The passengers smirk at your misfortune, and you shrivel into a ball of shame. Furthermore, I am not even safe from ridicule once in the cab. Between my limited understanding of colloquial Arabic, my embarrassing use of classical Arabic, my inability to give directions both due to language and general ignorance, and my unfamiliarity with Jordanian currency, I am a traveling basket case. Drivers end up with a fixed bemused expression on their face from the time I enter the cab to the time I exit the cab and say an enthusiastic “SHUKRAN KTEER!” (thank you very much!) as they quickly drive away.
2. I have no idea where I’m going most of the time, and no one uses addresses. Street names are basically irrelevant in Amman; landmarks are the name of the game. No one goes to “17 Shariah al-Razi” (17 al-Razi Street); they go to “you know the pharmacy in Shmeisani near the fountain next to the Marriott Hotel and the phone store with the blue sign? I’ll direct you from there when we arrive.” Therefore, if you don’t know any landmarks and can’t really give directions in Arabic, it becomes very difficult to get anywhere. This is why four days ago after I was dropped off down the road from my host family’s apartment, I still ended up walking back and forth literally in front of their entrance for 15 minutes trying to find their building. Actually, that might just be because I have no sense of direction in any language, but you get the idea.
3. I am obviously not Jordanian. My skin is translucent and if I’m not wearing sunglasses my blue eyes basically act like two neon American flags. So taxi drivers like to take advantage of this. Karim told me from day one to keep an eye on the meter in all cabs, because they “will see you are foreign and try to trick you into paying more.” What Karim didn’t realize is that even if I am keeping an eye on the meter, they might still trick me into paying more. Last week on my first cab ride without Raghad and Marah, I had already battled hailing the cab and stammering out some general directions. I was watching the meter, and it was flashing strange numbers, so I assumed maybe it was broken and he would just tell me how much to pay. I fancied myself pretty savvy for knowing that he would be trying to cheat me if it was more than 3 JDs; knowing this, I had only brought 6 JDs with me for the ride. When we reached our destination (which of course ended up being incorrect), the meter suddenly showed 9.45 JDs. Slightly confused, I silently handed him 5 JDs. He stared at me blankly and pointed to the meter. I acquiesced and handed him one more JD, and he pointed at the meter again. Mustering my best assertive, stern expression, I said in English, “Hmm. That seems like too much!” That’ll show him he can’t mess with me, I proudly thought to myself. He pointed once more to the meter and then said, in perfect English, “I take American money too.” At a loss, I surrendered and handed him 6 JDs and one US dollar and ultimately paid almost $10 for a ride that should have been no more than $4.5. I then exited the cab and watched him drive away smiling as I slowly realized he had not taken me where I wanted to go. Penniless and disoriented, I resolved that next time I would actually not be taken advantage of.

I have only overpaid in one other instance in which the taxi driver assured me he did not have any change to give me for the 5 JDs I paid him for a 2 JD ride. Otherwise, my cab adventures have not been financial ones.

Two nights ago, a taxi driver began reciting me some of his original poetry as we drove, and then I’m pretty sure he tried to make one up on the spot about the similarities between the moon and my eyes. Thankfully this happened close to my destination so I could laugh it off and retreat without needing to come up with a response. As I left the cab, he was saying something along the lines of, “the most beautiful song in life is the song of my love…you like this one?? You find me on Facebook and read more!”

Another one, a Palestinian originally from Jerusalem, had a full conversation in Arabic with me about our mutual desire for peace between Israel and Palestine. Yet another had no idea where we were going and stopped the cab to ask for directions three times. Finally, a driver I spoke with yesterday told me about his desire to learn English and asked me for advice. I made some awkward recommendations about practicing with friends and watching Full House, and then inspiration struck.

“Do you know Harry Potter?” I asked. He shook his head. “Harry Potter. Wizards, witches. Magic. J. K. Rowling. Movies?”

“Say it again, slowly,” he repeated.

“Harry Potter. They made movies if you didn’t read the books. Kutub — books? Haa-ree Baw-tur,” I said, hoping that pronouncing it the way it would be spelled in Arabic would help. He laughed.

“Yes yes, I know what you’re saying. Harry Potter. You don’t need to say it that way.”

I coughed uncomfortably. Embarrassing. “Oh, okay, well, there are CDs with audio — like someone reads the books out loud, and you can listen while you drive!” I said enthusiastically.

“You speak very fast,” he said. “I have many brothers. I am single. Are you married?”

Almost every cab driver has given me his telephone number and offered to help if I need anything during my time here. It’s very hospitable, but given that no man outside of Jordan has ever so willingly given me his phone number I don’t really know how to respond.

Philosophical Musings

The immortal Lindsay Lohan once said, “Yeah, I like math…because it’s the same in every country.”

The hyperaware-of-her-own-mortality Sarah Erwin recently said, “Yeah, I like Nutella…because it’s the same in every country.”

I can’t really talk the talk, but I can fastwalk the walk

I have managed to survive my first week in Jordan thanks to the guidance of my fabulous temporary host family, which consists of three sassy women and two hostile cats. Raghad, age 16, was my camper at Seeds of Peace (www.seedsofpeace.org) two summers ago in 2011, and when she discovered I was coming to Jordan she realized that based on what she observed of me when I was her counselor, she should probably have me live with her to give me the best chances of survival. So here I am in Khalda, a part of Amman, with Raghad, her older sister Marah, who is also a Seed, and their fantastic mother Abeer. Their father works in China and their older brother studies in Beirut, so aside from their moody male cat, Roscoe, it’s all girl power here.

Another one of my campers from Seeds, Karim, picked me up at the airport with his driver when I arrived and gave me a detailed itinerary of all the activities I should participate in, including his “fastwalk group.” You might ask what a “fastwalk group” is. As an official new member, I will tell you.

On the night of my first fastwalk, Raghad handed me a neon vest and a bottle of water. Marah and I got into a cab in our matching vests and ended up in the fifth circle in Amman where a large group of more neon people were gathered. Everyone stood around chatting and texting until someone cried, “Yalla ya shabab!” (let’s go, people!). “Stampede! In the Pride Lands! Simba’s down there!” I responded.

The neon herd slowly mobilized and began to move. Boys and girls in special colored vests waving red lightsabers and blowing whistles directed fastwalkers through traffic and stopped cars as we wove our way through side streets and up and down hills. I learned my first lesson about making assumptions in foreign countries that night: despite their red lightsabers, the youth in charge were not in fact on the Dark Side and definitely had my safety as their number one priority.

“Fastwalking” with this group was no different than “waiting to fastwalk” with this group except for slightly increased levels of mobilization. Other than a few intense people with headphones and swinging arms, everyone strolled along chatting and texting and occasionally listening to the instructions of those in charge. Obviously I still ended up at the back of the group; foreign locations do not affect my levels of motivation while exercising. Case in point: when we reached the beginning of a huge hill after two hours of walking and much of the route left to go, we hailed a taxi and drove home to eat.

I acquired a surprise skill from the fastwalk group: after watching a girl in charge shout frantic directions at me in Arabic with little understanding on my part as I continued to casually saunter into oncoming traffic, Marah taught me how to say “to the left” in Arabic. So now I can translate a Beyoncé song.

Syrup, Sweat, and Tears

Opening disclaimer: this is not a romantic backpacking trip in which I take only the bare essentials and rely on my resourcefulness and sharp instincts to survive. In my opinion, I did pack only the essentials, but my essentials take up three checked bags and two carry-ons. This is not to say that I DON’T have a really sweet hiking pack, because I do — it’s even from L. L. Bean!! It just happens to be filled with only my shoes.

Try as I may, it is basically impossible for me to appear the calm, confident and experienced world traveler I fancy myself to be. This was recently confirmed by almost every aspect of my trip from the United States to Amman, Jordan. Here are a few examples:

• I usually possess a fairly substantial amount of luggage, and I will pay any absurd price asked of me in order to just get it to disappear into the mysterious abyss that is the baggage converter belt at the airport. Even when directly asked — repeatedly — if I am absolutely sure I do not want to take a few minutes to redistribute my illogically packed belongings among my three checked bags so as to avoid a fee of $100 for my one overweight suitcase, I will smile brightly as if its no big deal and cheerily fork over my credit card. If you are my mother and you are next to me telling me this is a waste of money, I will make some haughty statement along the lines of “the stress I am avoiding is worth this price, Mother. Please, I’m an adult.” Meanwhile, my heart will be pounding and beads of stress sweat will be forming on my forehead as I continue to grin maniacally at the airline employee as if this is all no big deal while she gleefully depletes my checking account.
• Lots of luggage = luggage cart at the airport = more stress sweat
• Having received a hot tip from a very kind Verizon employee and several internationally experienced friends as to how I can set up my phone to use a non-Verizon SIM card abroad, I naturally somehow convinced myself that this was something I should leave for the last possible second — a sort of official induction into my new jet setting life. The result, of course, included me frantically pounding keys on my phone and giving stern voice commands to the automated Verizon customer service system while boarding the plane, placing my bulging backpack in the overhead bin, and continually collecting items spilling from my purse into the personal space of those sitting next to me. The combination of my flailing movements and my frequent shouts of “YES,” “ENGLISH,” “NO” and “UNLOCK PHONE” did little to indicate to those around me that I possess any competency whatsoever. The automated Verizon system picked up on this and was forced to patch my call over to actual humans. Ultimately, Ashley from Verizon and I had a nice chat while she made a separate call to my father at home in Maine to get our password account information (which I obviously had recorded incorrectly), Josh from Verizon and I had a somewhat awkward conversation about me skirting around the ridiculous expenses of Verizon’s global plan, and Michelle from Verizon left me a personal voicemail to make sure I had managed to find all the answers I needed. This all under the watchful eye of a flight attendant attempting to enforce the turning off of all electronic devices. Update: my phone is still not unlocked despite all of this. So, Michelle, I guess the answer to your question is a resounding no.
• I really inexplicably love airplane food. While my fellow travelers picked skeptically at the plastic containers full of nondescript dishes placed in front of us on both of my flights, I enthusiastically dug in and ate every bit of the generic pasta and wrinkled salad like I was at some 5-star French restaurant. This fantasy was only slightly marred when the person in front of me launched his seat into the reclining position and I nearly did a face plant into my strawberry jello.
• I cried while watching Bride Wars on my personal TV monitor and then cried more while listening to the new Blake Shelton album.

Nevertheless, I made it safely to Amman on Tuesday, September 3, with all of my luggage in tow and the only casualty the bottle of Maine maple syrup I brought to the lovely family I’m staying with at the moment that leaked all over the place. This was, of course, the singular non-shoe item in the L. L. Bean hiking pack.