Taxi to Jerash

After a mosquito bite and leaky bathroom filled night in my tour-recommended (AWFUL) budget hotel in Amman, I found myself with an entire day to explore. My group wouldn't meet for it's orientation until 6pm, so at breakfast I met up with two couples, one French and one from the UK (they would be on my tour), who were interested in hopping in a cab with me and heading up the highway 45 minutes to the ancient Greek/Roman city of Jerash. (This is why I love travel so much - you meet great people everywhere!) Anyhoo... Jerash is one of the largest and best preserved ancient sites around and I was itching to see it!

The drive to the site was an interesting expedition in and of itself. All along the freeway we passed "Camel stands" where you could buy fresh Camel Milk... Every so often you would see people with refreshment or snack carts. There were even spice sellers just sitting on the edge of the freeway. If you wanted something, you just pulled over, parked and got out of your car! ON THE FREEWAY! Imagine trying that in the states.

This drive was my first real taste of middle-eastern driving. And at first glance, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to the Middle-Eastern style of driving. At all.

It's a smidge terrifying to anyone accustomed to the Western style of driving. You know. The style where the driver stays within the confines of the lane he's supposed to be driving in.

Californians pride themselves on being good, defensive drivers. I've driven in California, I've driven in Boston, I've driven in New York City (two of the worst reputed driving places in the States). I do not EVER wish to drive in a Middle Eastern country. Ever. Thank-you-very-much.

In the Middle East, the painted lines on the roads that would tell Westerners "Hi, I'm a lane, I'm what you should be driving in" are more like suggestions for where one could plausibly go if one happens to come across someone else driving along the same road. (Keep in mind, this was a freeway!)

Absolute chaos and utter madness. 
Except, really, it's not.
Because everyone there drives that way and expects it.
So it's normal.
For everyone except visitors, who end up cowering in the passenger seats of theirs taxis hoping to not die!

Readers, meet Mohammed (My first Mohammed of the trip... apparently everyone and their second aunt name their child Mohammed in the middle east)

And next, we have the four other passengers along for the taxi ride to Jerash:

And finally, me, wearing a headscarf - my first venture at wearing a headscarf (It was actually pretty great for keeping my hair out of the wind):

For some reason we lived through the drive and made it to Jerash. Which was gorgeous and SO cool. It's got ancient Greek and Roman origins and you can see the difference in the various styles of building throughout the city.

A group of schoolkids on a field trip. So cute!

A ways into the city I ran into two gentlemen. One late thirties and one in his sixties. They were traveling together and we were traveling the same route through the city. After nearly bumping into each other while taking photos a couple of times, the younger said to me "Well, lets just wander around together so we can take pictures for eachother." Deal. This arrangement of convenience is something that really ought to happen amongst travelers more often. Except you never know if you can actually trust anyone. But in this instance, I felt comfortable with it, so heck, I went with it.

My new friends, Fadi:

(Yah... its a long shot)

And Mufi:

Fadi and Mufi are from Beirut. That's in Lebanon. They're Pharmacists who were guest lecturing in Amman on combating illegal drugs. Pretty interesting. They had a spare day and decided to come to Jerash and meet me.

Well, we had a blast tooling around the city, and it was really nice for me to have a couple of translators that spoke Arabic with the locals and got more back story for us on the place from the locals.

More City photos:

Camel Milk for sale!

Pests

The Middle East is full of voracious, blood-sucking, Christy-targeting Mosquitoes.

They love me. And I mean LOVE. Way more than anyone else on my tour. Times ten.
I hate them.

I woke up a couple hours into my first night's sleep in Jordan, not due to the uncomfortable bed or mildewy shower, but to the mosquitoes buzzing around my room and biting me repeatedly. I did the unthinkable. I sprayed mosquito spray on my face and went back to sleep wondering how on earth a hotel could be in business without screens on it's windows. But then again, my shower was disgusting and there was a huge leak in my bathroom floor that puddled anytime I turned on the sink, shower or flushed the toilet... (EWW!)

Hotel Caravan, Amman Jordan

Not the worst hotel I've ever stayed in, but I definitely wouldn't recommend it either.

The next morning I had bites on my face, back, front, legs and arms. No less than 26 bites. In ONE night. Bad. This was going to be very, very bad. And it was. I'm not gonna lie. Every day brought more bites. Scabs from old bites accumulated. And eventually I stopped feeling the bites because my entire body became one giant itch-fest.

But.

I was to learn over the course of the next few days that even though the Mosquitoes are WRETCHED in the Middle East, the food-poisoning causing bacterium in food that is prepared badly or stored incorrectly is WAY WORSE.

That's right.

Food poisoning. Or, "The Curse of the Egyptians." (And yes, while I did indeed take with me a prescription for such an ailment, when I read the fine print, the prescription was an antibiotic which requires one to stay out of the sun. Hellllllloooooo!! I was in the freaking sunny desert! Not gonna happen!)

At which point I realized that despite the mozzies and constant viral stomach feeling and having to run to the bathroom all the time (which is always an adventure in the Middle East - word to the wise, carry your own Toilet Paper!) I was having the time of my life climbing mountains, making new friends, visiting ancient sites and trying new foods.

So here's to letting go and going with what life throws at you. Or maybe what you throw back (up) at it.

Cheers.

SF Photography Expedition

Last weekend a friend and co-worker of mine asked me to meet up with herself and her fiance in San Francisco and take engagement photos for them.

They contacted me when I was in the Middle East and in my happy travel reverie I agreed to take the gig. I'm not sure I normally would have. After all, photography is fun for me, and I'm not exactly thrilled about turning it into a money-making venture. I want to continue LIKING photography. You know what I mean, right? I make videos and motion graphics for a living. When I started doing this type of stuff, I really enjoyed it, I made my own documentaries, etc... Now I still enjoy it, in a 9-5 kind of way. When I get home the last thing I want to do is make another video.

So. For some reason I agreed. And I met Natalie and Josh in San Francisco. And they showed me their city. And it was fabulous! I saw places in SF that I'd never seen and got to spend the day with a lovely couple.

Here are some of my favorite images from the day:

The Holiday-Making Italians

I love Italians. You may have gathered as much.

They are festive.

They are loud.

They are passionate.

They are HOT.

'Nuf said.

When I boarded EgyptAir flight 792 to Cairo I had no clue what was in store for me. But that's normal for a flight isn't it? As I wandered down the aisle of the plane, heading back to row 33, I passed numerous Arabs, Africans - what I assumed would be the bulk of passengers to Cairo. When I reached aisle 30, the landscape began to change to something a bit more local to Rome... Italians! Specifically a group of Italian men aged 25-40.

Um, yes please.

When I reached my seat, 33K, I found that it was already occupied, much to my brief confusion.  A small, older African man was sitting in it, cuddled up against the window, a bit uncomfortable amdist his boisterous Italian neighbors. We made eye contact and figured out he was supposed to be sitting across the aisle. He started to get up, and the two Italians to his side started to get up when I said that I'd just slip into other man's seat across the aisle. Immediately the Italian on the end looked at me, shook his head and said firmly "no." He and his neighbor finished moving into the aisle, and then the man in my seat gave me a grateful look as he moved into a row empty of Italians. I allowed my neighbors to stow my backpack in the overhead for me and then I snuggled into my seat.

I was excited for this flight. Boy oh boy. I chatted a while with my cute neighbors about our destinations. They were headed on a diving holiday to Sharm El Sheik. When I heard that I nearly laughed out loud.

Lemme 'splain why.

The night before I had a lovely dinner at a restaurant called La Gallina Bianca. It translates to "The White Rooster." One of my waiters (I had two for some reason) chatted with me for a while before I left. When he found I was headed to Cairo the next day, he said "Oh, I'm so glad you go to Cairo. Many Italians go to Sharm El Sheikh. It's just like Italy now. The food. The people. They just move everything to Sharm El Sheikh for holiday. This is not Egypt."

Fast forward back to the plane and me holding in my laugh.
*Hee*

About 30 minutes before landing, the Italians, the whole group of them - about 15 in total, strewn throughout my area of the plane began to sound Italian. Loud. Fun. Laughing. Shouting. In Italian. And when we landed, there was some delay in our disembarkation. Up ahead of us I could see most everyone else voicing or showing their annoyance at having to wait. They sighed and grunted. They moved in short, jerky, irritated ways.

But not the Italians.

As everyone else grew more annoyed, the Italians settled in, got louder, threw a party. Loud cries of Eh! And lots of laughter ensued. And as I was sitting in the window spot, all I could do was sit back, watch and enjoy. I was a prisoner at a hot Italian man party. When is that EVER a bad thing?

Okay, so this wasn't exactly what my flight was like... but a girl can dream.

A few minutes into our delayed disembarkation, someone noticed the luggage handlers arrive and start unloading our luggage onto a truck outside of my window. One Italian pointed out the window and started speaking very rapidly at several bags that was large and marked very clearly "Fragile." Everyone turned to look just as the handler reached to pick up the bag, swing it hard and send it flying onto the cart, in time with the Italian commenting "Boom!" "Boom! Boom!" It repeated several times, interspersed with laughter and more rapid Italian.

Party!

I was, understandably, a bit disappointed when it was time to leave. But I had to get to Amman, and they had to continue to their Italian diving colony in Sharm El Sheikh.

I was sorely tempted to ditch my current plans and go with them. Seriously. But curiosity is one of my biggest drivers, and I was dying to see all of the things I'd planned on my trip. So on I went to meet my tour in Jordan.

Like an Amusement Park Ride

Sometimes in life things just work out.

This trip was one of those times for me. And I mean the entire trip. Sure, I got (as one of my Aussie co-travelers so eloquently phrased it) "the shits" from a cup of Jordanian yogurt and had a queasy stomach for four days after, but really, it wasn't major, and when you offset all of the things that worked out harmoniously, gorgeously, fantastically, bad yogurt (or Yog-hurt as my Brit friends say) amounts to nihil.

So.

I knew the Middle East was going to be drastically different the minute I stepped into the cabin of my first EgyptAir flight. I mean, everyone always says that the Middle East is a different world, but it's one thing to talk about it and it's quite another to experience it. So when I stepped onto the blue and gold carpet of the aircraft and was greeted by smiling captain and flight attendant, who were both gorgeous in that dark, exotic, middle-eastern way, whilst overwhelmed by the loud sounds of a woman singing in Arabic to tribal beats, I found my world on pause for just a moment as I took it all in. Picture the same kind of moment you see in movies - the film completely freezes whilst the narrator explains some detail. My world froze as my eyeballs and eardrums took in the onslaught of foreign-ness offered on the aircraft. My eyes came to rest on a small book, ornate and leather-bound, hung on the wall of the craft opposite the doorway. As it's text was in Arabic, I had no way of telling what it was, so I asked the attendant, who said: "It is the holy qu-ran."

That's different.

Don't you think?

Let's pause for a second and construct a situation. What would it be like to walk onto an aircraft, let's say in Texas, we'll call it "Tex-air." You walk in and the carpet is a pattern of cattle. The music is loud, twangy old country and the captain greets you with a drawling "How-dee!" whilst wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat (just how he fits into the cockpit wearing it is a mystery to all!) And on the wall hangs a gilded copy of the Bible and a Farmer's Almanac.

I mean, in modern-day America, could that even happen? I'm pretty sure someone would sue for something that just happened on that theoretical airline.

But, I'd like to fly that airline, I think. It would more resemble an amusement-park ride than a flight perhaps, and that's what I'm getting at with this EgyptAir flight. It was so foreign, so different, so unfathomable and unbelievable as a commercial flight that I simply had to sit down and watch it all happen. Which, I think is the point of visiting foreign places. Except I was still at the airport in Rome. (Which, you say is also foreign for this American, but European foreign is a different animal than Eastern foreign. Normal almost, especially considering that I'm fairly used to it at this point.)

I could tell this was going to be an interesting trip. Can't you?

Oddly enough, I sat smack in the center of a group of holiday-making Italians bound for the red-sea destination, Sharm-el-Sheikh. The Italians deserve their own blog entry. One in which I will explain why it was odd that I was sitting in the middle of the group of them. So that will be my next blog. Get excited. But for now, suffice it to say that they were hilarious, and every bit as baffled by the flight ambiance as I was. So I felt a bit better about feeling so alien.

As the plane crew began it's pre-flight preparations, I expected the normal "fasten your seatbelts" and "secure your mask before securing anyone else's" lecture. I was prepared to hear it first in Egyptian Arabic and then in English. Instead, we were served a full-blown movie production of what I still must assume was a prayer from the qu-ran complete with cinematic views of mosques, Arabic music, prayer recital and accompanying text overlaying the pictures. No attempt at translation to English (or Italian, as we were in Italy) was made and no explanation given.

Okay then.

Then came the safety instruction. In Egyptian Arabic and English. But not in Italian. Sorry Italians.

We were served a full middle eastern meal for lunch, complete with some kind of grain, hummus, bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, dolmas and a frosted brownie (not sure the brownie counts as middle eastern...?). Interesting, but I figured there was no time like the present to jump into the swing of things. So I ate the whole she-bang. Fairly tasty. The brownie was my favorite though. I have to say, I'm a BIG fan of middle-eastern airline brownies. Who knew?

The flight was uneventful. (Which is ALWAYS a great thing for flights!)

I was completely taken by surprise by the Cairo airport. In my mind's eye I somewhat expected a disorderly, dusty airport full of people wearing burquas and turbans and ushering goats, chickens and donkeys down the hallways.
More like this:

Don't ask me why that's what I expected, but I did. Instead, I found a beautiful, new air terminal to shame most American terminals. Directions were clearly marked to various destinations in Arabic and English (again, sorry Italians!) and I found myself striding easily down the corridors to connect to my next flight (which wouldn't be for another five hours or so... ugh!).

Eventually I reached what I must assume was some kind of main hub or check-in desk. This area was extremely confusing. People were lined up in all sorts of lines and directions and other people were shouting in Rapid Arabic. I was just about to haphazardly jump into a line that looked like it went through security to get to my next gate when I heard a man at the counter in front of me shout "Amman! Anyone else going to Amman?" and I raised my hand in a bit of confusion.

He looked at me and thrust his hand out expectantly. I hesitated momentarily and then placed my passport and ticket in his hand (I had them out and ready in case I was stopped by a machine-gun-wielding soldier-type). He took them and then began issuing what I must assume were orders at two fellows behind the desk. One of them reviewed information that was popping up on his computer screen and then took off practically running down the hall and the other typed busily and then handed the first man a new ticket and my passport.

He thrust them back at me and said "G-10. You go now."

So I got in the long line of people headed to the security checkpoint.

A minute later he looked up and saw me in line and came over and said "Go, your flight leaves in five minutes, you must run!" So I looked at the long line of burqua-clad people and started to say "Excuse me" as I tried to push past them and they gave me dirty looks and insulting glances until the attendant jumped in to finally help me out. He began, once again shouting in rapid Arabic and the crowd parted, this time, dirty-glance-free. When we got to the security check, a disgruntled soldier with a very large gun became the recipient of the shouted Arabic from my attendant and he glanced at me and nodded disinterestedly. I shoved my bag through the X-ray, walked through the beeping metal detector and just kept going. When I saw that armed special agents weren't in fact going to stop or tackle me for setting off the detector, I broke into a run and made for gate G-10.

When I got to the gate I was asked to wait.

Of course.

So I waited for all of the passengers to finish boarding and then I asked if my bag had made it to the flight, which it had (I think thanks to the guy at the desk who took off running down the hall), at which point I was also allowed to board.

Brilliant.

Except I was still confused as to why the heck I was on a plane to Amman five hours early. I mean, was this how things were done in the middle east? Show up to the airport and hope you get on a flight that is scheduled to leave at some point in the day? I did happen to see the flight board on my way through the Cairo terminal and noticed two things:
1. There weren't very many flights in and out of Cairo.
2. Half of them were cancelled.

Whatever the case was, I really didn't mind because I was now set to arrive in Amman at 7pm instead of 2am. Sweet!

Once the prayer and pre-flight announcements ended, I found out what had really happened. The early afternoon flight had been delayed by about four hours because of an aircraft malfunction. They'd had to switch planes. This worked out brilliantly in my favor. Except for my new seat assignment. Strike that, I mean my seat neighbor.

She was a heavy-set forty-something woman, dressed in a burqua and headscarf, and wearing a perma-scowl that was directed at ME, the blond non-headscarf white woman sitting in the seat she'd previously been using as an armrest. Sooooo. Eh-hem.
She also happened to be the smelliest woman on the PLANET. I'm not even kidding. Once the engines fired up, I turned my AC vent on full crank and pointed it at my face to push fresh air my way. It was surprisingly effective.
I was just happy it was going to be a short flight.

A few minutes into the flight I pulled out my journal and begin writing and something happened. The woman stopped scowling. She now instead stared at me and then my journal in utter fascination. I could tell she wanted to say something, but she knew no English and I no Arabic. So we said nothing and I continued to write until the meal was served. Another similar to the meal on the prior EgyptAir flight. I wasn't hungry so I just ate the brownie. And then my neighbor pushed her tray back and shook her head at me. Then she motioned at my writing hand, then to her tray, wrinkled up her nose, shook her head and motioned towards the cabin steward. She wanted me to write to the airline people and tell them the food sucked.

How awesome is that? After that we tried to chat a bit. I found out her name (can't remember it for the life of me!) and that she was from Syria. I told her my name and that I was from California. After that we settled into the hopeful and disappointed silence that exists between two people who wish to communicate but are simply unable to. It must be what a baby feels like while looking at it's parents... I couldn't help but wonder at the Woman's life and what it must have been like for her to be so fascinated by the act of a woman writing.

When I arrived in Jordan so gloriously early, I was a bit worried about finding a cab and negotiating a price. The middle east is notorious for haggling, and I HATE it. I knew I was going to be completely ripped off. Until I walked out to the customs area and who should I find but a man holding a sign for Intrepid travelers? I knew I'd hit the jackpot. So I said to him I was with Intrepid, I hadn't arranged a transfer but could I please ride with whoever he was waiting for? He was pleased as punch. The reason being that picking up an extra, unaccounted-for passenger gives the driver an opportunity to make some off-the-books cash. I offered to split the cost of the transfer and the man told me "No, No, it is paid for, you must only tip your driver." Deal.

So I arrived at my hotel, a shabby little dive of a place, unscathed and un-taken-advantage-of and with about 20 JOD more in my pocket than I'd expected. Not too shabby.

So far traveling in the Middle East was shaping up to be quite a lot easier than I'd expected.

Departure Diaries #8 - Post Departum Depression

Beware!

There is a phenomena that happens to travelers who have just returned home and are settling back into "real life."

I call it Post-Departum Depression. It's when you come to the crashing realization that every minute of every day isn't full of a new, exciting discovery in a foreign land. That you don't have an endless supply of funds and must therefore work for a living. That work is not as exciting as travel, but one must make the best of it.

In other words, I've got the working-woman blues right now.

The best cure for these blues? Why, take another vacation, of course.

Let's Start at the Very Beginning

Because it's a very good place to start, you know.

Notwithstanding the very crazy volcano that saw fit to disrupt flight (and my sleep) patterns for nearly a week over the UK/Europe, my flight left SFO and arrived at LHR on schedule. When I boarded the plane, I found out that in fact, the UK-based crew had been stranded (quite happily) in San Francisco for the past ten days during the ash-cloud mayhem and were very excited to be heading home. I was excited for them. I was excited to finally also be headed out on my adventure.

SO.

After arriving London Heathrow, passing through security (once again) and through the duty-free shopping mall extravaganza that is any European airport (after stopping off for a Galaxy chocolate bar - my favorite- and not available in the states)

I headed off to Rome to eat some Pasta and spend a jet-lagged night. After a long train ride and what seemed like a longer trudge with my heavy (I was tired!) backpack down the darkened streets of Rome, I arrived at the Hotel Saturnia, which was small, somewhat comfortable and had a bathroom that smelled of mold.

 I would say that the shower was the world's smallest, but I've showered in the world's smallest shower - it was in my crew cabin on the MS Zuiderdam. That one is practically spacious comparatively and I couldn't even turn around in it.

  That's a twin bed. Have you ever seen a hotel in the US with a twin bed? They're pretty common in Europe.

But, I was in Rome, had been traveling for nearly a day, was hungry, exhausted and didn't care very much. So after a gorgeous lasagna dinner at La Galina Bianca (a favorite for locals) with fabulously adorable Roman waiters who brought me a complimentary glass of Limoncello (That, being a non-drinker, I had to politely refuse) I showered, ate my yummy chocolate bar and passed out on my tiny bed.

A bit of exploration in the morning took me to the Colosseum, one of my favorite buildings in Rome. I went inside briefly to garner my free ticket to the Colosseum and Forum (both included in the same ticket) - free because it was Heritage/Open doors week in Rome! How cool is that? Because I only had a couple of hours to spare and I hadn't had the chance yet to visit the Forum, I chose to spend my time in the Forum rather than the Colosseum. It was a gorgeous, gray, drizzly morning in the heart of ancient Roman political life.

Ancient Roman Ruins thrill me. Can I begin to even explain why? Do I know? Probably not. But I love them. So as I stood at the columns that mark the entry to the Vestal Virgins' temple, as I walked beneath the intricately carved stones of Hadrian's arch, I couldn't help but lose myself for a few moments in the magic of the whisperings of that place's history.

On my way back to my mildewy shower-smelling hotel room to collect my bags and head to the airport, I noticed a certain man. I noticed him and grinned because he was the same man I noticed a last year, standing in the same spot. A handsome, thirty-something Roman, dressed out like a Gladiator. Full-grown man. Toga. Plastic sword.

Why is that so HOT?

Seriously?

 Yeah, that's the picture I took of Luca... LAST YEAR.

So as I grinned and made to cross the street, he beelined for me and asked me to drinks that night. When he found out I was leaving but I'd be returning in a couple of weeks, he gave me his phone number and told me to call him when I got back so we could go out. His name was Luca. And he was an Italian man-whore. But I totally didn't care. I mean, really, would you? I flirted shamelessly, took the phone number and exchanged the affectionate three-cheek kiss with Luca and then lost his number in my frame pack and headed to the airport on the Leonardo DaVinci Express airport train.

Off to Amman!