A Meal of Biblical Proportions

Going out in style; this is how we roll. As if we hadn’t already spent enough money on this weekend trip, Seth and I decided we couldn’t miss the opportunity to dine at a restaurant known for its “Biblical Israeli Cuisine”. And the fact that it’s famous for its tasting menus of seven, 11, or 15 courses made it that much more enticing. Eucalyptus is located just outside of the Jaffa Gate on the western edge of the Old City with an outdoor patio that looks out over the Tower of David and the Ottoman era walls. http://www.the-eucalyptus.com/

Upon arrival we started out with a local Israeli beer as the waiter explained the tasting menu options. He described in great detail what the 11 course meal consisted of, and when Seth asked about the 15 course option his response was classic: “Oh, well actually it’s everything on the menu.” I could sense the trepidation in his voice and asked if he did not really recommend the 15 course monstrosity. “Oh, it’s very good, it’s just a LOT of food.” To which Seth replied, “Go hard or go home.”

I won’t bore anyone here with a course-by-course description (my foodie friends can ask when I return and I’ll explain in better detail), but what I will say though is that while it was called a 15 course meal, many of the courses actually had multiple dishes. It was literally everything that was on the menu. It was beyond over the top. It was gluttony at its finest. The food is based on ingredients and recipes common during biblical times, but has been ratcheted up in gourmet style. The world renown chef, Moshe Basson has won international critical acclaim, was knighted in Italy for his contribution to the resurrection of the biblical kitchen, and won the international couscous festival in San Vito Lo Capo, Italy for his fluffy, delicate, melt-in-your-mouth couscous preparation.

Okay, I can’t resist; some highlights: Carrots with sesame seeds; hand-picked olives from near the Sea of Galilee; red lentil soup; cabbage leaves stuffed with meat and rice; roasted eggplant with tahini and pomegranate sauce; figs stuffed with chicken in balsamic/pomegranate reduction; Mediterranean tuna ceviche; mutton stew baked in a clay pot; King Solomon couscous; and tahini and date honey, that somehow tasted like peanut butter, sitting between a wine poached pear with almond cream and vanilla bean gelato with hibiscus flower sauce.

Chef Basson came out to our table on a couple of occasions, obviously to see for himself the always excessive, voracious Americans attempting to eat every item on his menu. I don’t have to tell you that the food was fabulous. I’m definitely one for appreciating memorable meals and this one ranks up at the top of my all-time list simply because of the ‘memorability’ factor; biblical cuisine at its finest, in Jerusalem nonetheless.

Due to the fact that the border crossing at the Allenby Bridge closes at 1pm on Fridays and Saturdays we had decided to stay the night on Saturday and get up very early on Sunday morning to fly back to Amman and go to work. We had arraigned for a cab at 4:30am to take us to the airport just outside of Tel Aviv. When we met the driver outside of the Damascus Gate we realized that it was not a cab, but rather just a friend of the hotel owner, driving his own car. Before we got into the car the hotel owner who had walked us out to meet his friend told us not to ‘tell anyone about the driver.’ This seemed strange and suspicious but became clearer later that morning.

The Tel Aviv airport is about an hour from Jerusalem and the ride there was smooth enough. However, before entering the airport, right at the exit from the freeway, there is a toll booth station with multiple lanes. I’m watching all of the cars passing through but notice that no one is paying any money and there’s no EasyPass either. Then I realize that it’s a checkpoint and before I know it we’re being forced off the road at gunpoint by Israeli guards with machine guns. The driver calmly pulled over just after the ‘tolls’ and the soldiers forced us out of the car. The next 30 plus minutes were a bit nerve-racking as we were each detained in separate rooms, all of our bags were searched, and the driver’s car was literally taken apart. Sitting in a tiny room behind a metal table with a small light overhead was like something out of a movie. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong except let a Muslim drive me to the airport, but the uncertainty of it all and the risk of missing our flight had me a bit wound up and I was sweating pretty profusely. After checking our belongings they slapped stickers all over everything to show that we had been searched, scanned and humiliated. I figured this would make our security checks in the airport itself go that much more smoothly. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

They finally let us go and our driver dropped us off at the departures terminal. I felt bad for the guy as he had the look of a defeated man, but I suppose he’s probably used to that sort of treatment. We were at the airport now, two American guys with American passports, who had already undergone everything except a body cavity search, we’re all set, right? You just can’t imagine. Before we even entered the sliding glass doors of the Ben Gurion airport we were stopped and asked where we were going and forced to show our passports. We had to answer a list of questions about where we had been and how long we had stayed, if we knew anyone, etc. Then, once inside, before even reaching the first of many, many security screening points we were asked to go with some security personnel to answer some more questions. They didn’t like the fact that we had small day packs for luggage and we evidently looked like some pretty big trouble-making, badass Americans. After a game of 20 questions we sent our bags through another x-ray. As if that wasn’t enough, we then had to meet with a person who once again took everything out of our bags. ( I should mention at this point that 80% of the security screeners are under the age of 18. It's hard to take someone seriously when they look like someone staring in an episode of Glee.) Then even made us unpack the souvenirs that we had wrapped up in bubble wrap, Styrofoam, etc., completely destroying the packing. And they weren’t sorry about it at all. I guess the 17 stickers all over my stuff that had been screened twice before wasn’t enough. More stickers were slapped on things and my bag was beginning to look like a collage. At this point it was time to check in and get my ticket. That’s right; we had yet to even check in. Technically the security hadn’t even started!

There were two more screening points and more stickers. Typical of airport screening that I’m used to except you don’t’ have to take off your shoes (who thinks that’s the stupidest thing anyway?) and everything gets wiped down and tested for explosives. Once again, the bag is emptied and all items checked with all electronics (phones, chargers, cameras) put in a separate bin and screened separately. It’s quite a production and it’s a good thing that the airport’s size doesn’t allow for millions of people to travel through it each day because it just simply couldn’t happen. The recommended two hours before a flight that one must arrive at the airport was truly needed. Every last second was needed actually, as we barely made it to the gate just as the flight was boarding.

I’ve never been on such a short flight. The ‘shuttle’ from Boston to New York is an eternity compared to this. I’m pretty sure they didn’t even put the landing gear up. Back in Amman in about 20 minutes, we freshened up at the hotel and made it into the office almost before some of the local staff. As you can see from this 12 page dissertation I’ve written here, the trip to Jerusalem was quite an adventure and an experience. I’m glad I did it, but it’s a once in a lifetime thing. Fortunately I only have one lifetime.

Confrontation to the Core

The roosters and the “call” woke me again on Saturday morning, but the exhaustion was too much to overcome. I rolled over and we got a ‘late’ start on the day at 8am. With a goal to get inside the Dome of the Rock on our minds, we set out immediately to try our luck. On our first attempt at entry we were turned back by men in military uniforms and sizeable hand guns. “Closed for Muslim prayer,” we were told. A second try at another entry point proved useless as well, “boukra inshalla,” (tomorrow God willing) was the response. The third and final attempt, at the Temple Mount, a wooden bridge next to the Wailing Wall that leads to the top of the all important Jewish shrine adjacent to the Dome of the Rock, we were once again turned away by Muslim guards with weapons. Walking around the plaza in front of the Wailing Wall, dodging Jewish security forces hell bent on preventing any pictures from being taken, (we weren’t attempting to take pictures I should add) we, as ‘entitled Americans’ were really tired of being told “no”, that we weren’t allowed to do something, anything. To be honest, I felt very glad, even proud, that I was an American, with certain unalienable rights. This society of “no” is hard to take. But Seth, Seth was pissed; wicked pissed. He’s been everywhere, seen everything, and not being allowed on the Dome of the Rock, with its ornate tiling and historic architecture, to take some photos was killing him.

I came up with aPlan B, to ascend the tower at the Church of the Redemption in the Christian Quarter. Climbing the worn down steps in the spiral stairwell up to the bell tower of a German run church with views of the historic locale, and the wonderful photographic options it held (especially looking out over the Dome of the Rock), I thought would ease the pain. But it wasn’t enough. We both still felt a bit violated, singled out. We were denied entry to a beautiful shrine with thousands of years of historic importance simply because of our religious affiliation. This is the Middle East. Jordan isn’t like this at all, but now I know that this sentiment does not hold true throughout the rest of this part of the world.

This was further reinforced when some kids tried to keep us from walking through their neighborhood. “Where you going? This closed. Only for Muslims.” We didn’t believe it for a second. It was too much. Instead we kept on walking and then sat down on some steps and made sure all of the other tourists that passed by who were told the same, did not feel intimidated and would continue on, as we did, by shouting, “No, don’t listen to them, nothing’s closed.” Of which we heard replies of “merci”, “grazie”, “gracias”, “danke”, etc. Those little punks weren’t going to win this time. We made sure of it.

After haggling with a cabbie for a five minute ride to the Israeli Museum (he wanted $15, we settled for $11), we hopped in. Frustration was at an all time high and when the driver asked how our day was Seth replied that, “you didn’t let us into the Dome of the Rock.” The rest of the conversation went like this:

Driver (D): “oh yes, only for Muslims.”

Seth (S): “But we just want to see the beautiful architecture. It’s really quite a place. Why is it that we can’t go inside? All of the other religious sites are open to people of all faiths.” (This was very diplomatic and asked in the form of a question rather than a challenge).

D: “No, this is different.”

S: “No. I don't think it's different at all. You’re allowed to go into the Vatican.”

D: “oh yes, I’ve been to the Vatican. It’s very beautiful.”

S: “You see, you’re allowed in there. We allow you to see it. There’s no difference.”

D: “You don’t understand. There is a difference.”

S: “I find it interesting that there is a difference between the policies of some Muslim leaders and those of other religions .”

D: “You have to understand, people have done many bad things to the Muslim people.”

S: “Well, Muslims have done many bad things to us as well.”

D: “Oh, really, like what?”

S: “Well……what happened in New York City for starters.”

D: “Now you’re getting political mister.”

At this point, sitting in the back seat, I wonder whether this guy is going to decide to make himself a martyr and swerve into oncoming traffic to take out some infidels. I buckle my seat belt and shift, uncomfortably in my seat. Attempting to diffuse (bad choice of words) the situation I ask the driver how much it would be for a cab to the airport for the next morning as we were flying back to Amman instead of going through the border crossing. We had already booked and put a down payment on a cab, but information is power. He says 200 shekels and we find out that once again we were taken. This time by the hotel staff, on a 300 shekel quote ($83).

I should mention in defense of Seth, at risk that I may have offended him here, thatI completely agreed with my friend on this issue of which he was discussing with our driver. I just don’t find it useful to argue with brainwashed, closed-minded people. But he was frustrated, rightfully upset, and tired of being taken advantage of and discriminated against and it all boiled over. Enough said.

We made it to the Israeli museum unscathed, and spent the next three hours or so tooling around the place. It’s a fine museum with antiquities and artifacts from all the epochs, modern art (Warhol), paintings by some of the most famous artists in history (Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Millet, Cezanne, Dail), some of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and an impressive model of Jerusalem from the 1^st century AD, in its heyday, before it was destroyed by Hadrian. The most extraordinary pieces in the museum were two ossuaries, largely overlooked by basically everyone passing through. One was the ossuary of Caiaphas, the high priest who was the most vocal opponent of Jesus, and who organized the plot to kill him. Some pretty deep stuff. The second was another, rather simple ossuary, which I had actually seen a documentary on the Discovery Channel about. "The inscription on the side, in Aramaic, read, “Jesus, son of Joseph

The mathematical probability that there was another Jesus whose father was named Joseph (Jesus was a very common name, like Jim) is somewhere in the range of 600 to 1; however the implications of it could completely alter history. I think most people would rather leave well enough alone.

Another battle with cab drivers ensued upon leaving the museum and we had to settle on $20 for the five minute ride. Back in the Old City we spent the rest of the late afternoon shopping around the bazaars, looking for last minute gifts. We killed time by mocking the shop owners who were attempting to charge ten times or more than the final prices that we were eventually able to whittle them down to. My advice, if you’ve got patience, a little guts, no shame, and a general apathy for people who make a living ripping off well intentioned pilgrims, you can get some decent prices. For example, I bought something for $5 that started at $33. And I know the guy still made money.

Christians and Jews and Muslims, oh my!

After regrouping on the rooftop garden for a bit and trying to come to terms with everything that was going on, we set out to find the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Church of the Resurrection), the most important Christian site in Jerusalem. I’ll describe it in more detail later as this first visit proved to be only a primer. Even at 8:30pm the place was mobbed. I’m talking shoulder to shoulder, ass to groin, simply unmanageable. We were able to get partway inside, notice the classic ornate Christian decoration and then decided to bail out of sheer claustrophobia, and I’m not claustrophobic. Even the courtyard in front was so crowded that it was almost impossible to take a picture. I think most of the Spanish speaking population of the world was somewhere either inside or in the vicinity of the church. What we did find out though is that the church is open at 5am, ready for pilgrims. Arriving early seemed like a better idea.

At this point we both realized that waking at 5:30 that morning in order to make our 8:30am meeting in Tafilah, going through the four hour border crossing fiasco, and spending four more hours becoming acquainted with the city, we were hungry and tired and knew a long day was ahead of us. So we decided to find a restaurant and sit down. There are very few restaurants actually in the Old City. Mind you there are a plethora of falafel and pita filled with meat places, but proper sit down fare is hard to come by. In the end we settled for a place that spilled out into a small square, sat at plastic tables and chairs, and had a meal of a few pieces of cubed beef with onions, a small salad of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber, and a handful of soggy French fries. Somehow, this only set us back 80 shekels each (~$20). Are you kidding me? On our way back to the hotel we couldn’t help but stop and make fun of the renaissance fair-style minstrels that had taken over one of the streets to put on a show. How this fit in to the religious, or even epoch of this historic city is beyond me, and the Janis Joplin-esque recorder player (yes, I said recorder, like in elementary school) gave us some great material to laugh at. We were exhausted, punch-drunk, and ready for bed.

The next morning we were woken at 4:15 to the sound of the call to prayer. Our hotel window faced out over the Muslim quarter and there was a minaret strategically positioned right in front of the window. Once that stopped it seemed to have woken the roosters and they began their cock-a-doodle-do. I was having Medellin, Colombia flashbacks; there are roosters in the city? After lying around a bit more, but too excited to get back to sleep, we instead got up and headed back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

The church was constructed around 325 AD over what had originally been a Temple to Aphrodite. This was confusing to me as it is supposed to house the hill at the site where Jesus was crucified, Golgotha, as well as the cave where he was buried, the sepulchre, and rose from the dead. It turns out that just as in Bethleham at the Church of the Nativity where

Constantine commemorated the birthplace of Jesus; he declared that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre would commemorate his death and resurrection. Nevertheless, we went inside, climbed the staircase to the right that leads up to the “hill” that was Golgotha, and snapped some photos. I even pushed my way through the throngs of people (yes, it was already crowded at 7am) to kneel below the altar at the base of the cross. Seth got it on film, my Grandma would be so proud and excited, God rest her soul, and it made me think of her.

Back downstairs we got up close and personal to the Stone of the Annointment where Jesus was said to have been placed after his death. The unique lanterns hovering over the stone (which was a real stone by the way) really did it for me. The other deeply spiritual artifact in the church is the sepulcher itself. Even this early in the morning the line was eight

to ten people wide and wrapped around the giant metal structure which contains the tomb where he purportedly was buried. (The problem with this is that there is another site, located just outside of the Old City walls called the Garden Tomb, that some claim is the burial site and place of resurrection.) It would have taken hours to get inside and neither of us had the patience, especially after learning of the contradictory stories. But simply walking around the rest of the massive church was good enough. There are actually a handful separate churches which are housed inside the structure, each with a different altar and chapel. Beautiful mosaics cover some of the floors and shrines with burning candles are dotted all around.

Upon leaving the church it was time for breakfast, and of course I had done my food research to find some good eats. We were determined to find Bonkers Bagels, a Jewish bagel shop in the Jewish Quarter, something out of a neighborhood in Brooklyn, except not transplanted into the US., but rather from the source. A crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, New York style, everything bagel smothered in lox spread (chunks of smoke salmon mixed into wonderful cream cheese), topped with tomato, cucumber, and onions really hit the spot. I felt like this was actually the worth 25 ($7) shekels.

Our stomachs full and ready to tackle the rest of the day, we made our way to the Jaffa Gate and climbed up into the walls surrounding the city for the Ramparts Walk. The 16^th Century Ottoman city walls were a necessary defense since it seemed everyone was trying to take over this place. The walls were built on the foundations of walls that came before them, which were built on the foundations of walls before that, etc, etc. Ever since the time of King David in 1,000 BC, this city has been surrounded by walls. Walking around on the top of these walls gave a nice perspective of the city inside, as well as the modern city outside.

The walk ended at the Dung Gate which just so happened to be very close to the archeological site of the City of David. All this time, knowing that we were walking on history, knowing that a city had been built on this site 3,500 or more years ago, but not being able to see it was killing me. Well in Jerusalem, there’s a tour for that.

The City of David was settled by the Canaanites during the Copper Age, around 4,000 BC.

During the Bronze Age (2,800 BC) the Jebusites occupied the city until David conquered it and made it the capital of the United Kingdom of Israel in 1,100 BC. David’s son Solomon continued the reign and built the First Temple in 970 BC, which are mostly the ruins that can be seen today as part of the tour. The site itself was discovered at the end of the 19^th century and proved to be the ancient core of Jerusalem. Since that time archaeological expeditions from all over the world have flocked to the site which has now become the most excavated mound in the history of archaeology.

We did the self-guided tour as it was more than half the price and it took us down multiple stories, deep it to what was the ancient City of Jerusalem. You’ve probably seen ruins like this before; you can’t make out what anything is or was, but you know it’s old. Descriptions on plaques which paint the picture of an old house, bathroom, palace, city wall, etc. helped form a perspective. The tour concluded with a walk through a deep underground cave that was dug out to provide an emergency water supply for the people of Jerusalem in case of an attack, which we all know by now was a common occurrence. It was like spelunking but with a flashlight the size of my thumb nail. There was an option to wade through thigh deep water in a separate tunnel but we passed on that, for obvious reasons. I hope none of those tourists had any open wounds; imagine what lives in that cesspool.

We had not spent any time in the Armenian Quarter so did some exploring there next. It had already felt like a full day and it was still before noon. Seth had been looking for decorative plates to hang in his house and we stumbled onto an Armenian ceramics shop and poked around for a while. The nice gentlemen who owned the shop (the most honest shop owner we met the entire time) took us back into his workshop to show us how the pieces were made; all of the delicate handiwork that went into each pieces, the kiln, etc. On the way out of the workshop and back into the showroom I noticed a copy of ASCE’s Civil Engineering Magazine on his desk.I took this opportunity to make a connection (my aunt taught me, you always have to have a 'guy;) and it turns out he’s American educated, worked in the States for many years, and is a professional engineer. The three of us talked shop for a while and we described our job that we are working on here in Jordan. Tickled to death that he met some like-minded engineering nerds, he proceeded to give us a substantial discount on the manhole cover-sized (I had to throw an engineering reference in there) plate that Seth bought as well as the olive oil dipping bowl that I purchased.

We had both decided that having some Armenian food for lunch would be a can’t miss opportunity. So we headed to a place recommended by our new friend. The restaurant was decked out in antiques from all over the Middle East and its floors were covered by old, well worn Persian rugs (This is a good thing I learned; Seth happens to be one of the world’s foremost appraisers of vintage rugs). For lunch I had an interesting casserole of beef, layered with onions, tomatoes, peppers, and thinly sliced potatoes, smothered in a mild garlic cream sauce and baked in the oven so that that top was browned. It was fabulous. We also both had giant sized mugs of local Goldstar beer which was dark like a porter, but tasted light and crisp like a pale ale. Great stuff, but $30 each for lunch.

Reenergized once again, we made our way towards the Lion’s Gate at the far east end of

the city for the most anticipated attraction of the day: The pilgrimage people take on the Via Dolorosa to each of the Stations of the Cross. The Franciscans organize a walk here every day starting at 3pm. For a fee (of course) you can carry a wooden cross yourself and replicate the walk that Jesus took from where he was condemned to death to where he died and rose again at the aforementioned Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was quite a scene upon arrival at the courtyard of Omariye College where a Roman fortress once stood. The courtyard was filled with Italians and, once again, most of the Spanish speaking population on the planet, along with very old American tourists (all the Americans we saw were

in their 60s and 70s) and Franciscan monks in their brown robes. Some of the monks carried portable speakers with amplifiers and we thought that some sort of dance party might break out. Instead a few monks took turns telling the story, first in Italian (I guess the Spanish speakers had to manage), then in German, and finally in Latin. The First Station at the Ecco Homo Convent commemorates the site where Jesus was condemned to death under order from Pontius Pilate and a mob of angry Jews, and then whipped with a scourge (a Cat of Nine Tails embedded with shards of metal; again I ask, “Have you seen the Passion of the Christ?”). After the first part of the story is told, the guy who sprung for the cross walks in front and the mob of people follow behind while the Franciscans with boom boxes scatter throughout the crowd so that everyone can hear. It was done rather well I should say. At each Station we would stop, prayers would be said, and more of the story told. Then we would walk along while the crowd prayed in Latin (who knows prayers in Latin? – seriously devout people, that’s who). We followed the “Way of Sorrow” until the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but with experience under our belts, decided not to enter with the huge crowd into a place that was already packed like sardines in a crushed tin box.

During the walk on the Via Dolorosa we noticed a few antiquities dealers along the route. Israel is one of the few places in the world where antiques from Roman times all the way back to the Bronze Age can be purchased and taken out of the country, with an official certificate. You see, there’s so much archeological activity going on in and around this place that thousands and thousands of coins, pottery, oil lamps, perfume bottles, etc. are excavated. Once a museum has picked out a nice, mint condition Roman era vase there’s no need to have another one. And with the glut of antiques discovered, the government instead sells them to officially licensed antique dealers (of which there are only a handful) for resale to the public. Everyone’s always trying to make a buck, or a shekel, I should say.

Seth had already decided that he wanted to look for an ossuary to use as a coffee table. This is a stone box used to keep bones of the deceased. This was only done for a few hundred years (around the time of Christ) and they typically have Aramaic (a dead language spoken at that time) inscriptions on them. All of this fascinated me and I wandered through the shops amazed that I was holding Roman coins, 4,000 year old pottery, and the like. Stuff you see in museums, literally. But it was all big money, unless you had the patience to haggle with the dealer. Everything is negotiate-able in this town, except for food. After a little while I couldn’t help myself and fell in love with a Roman era (37 BC – 70 AD) jar. It’s quite possibly the coolest thing I’ve ever purchased. It’s all wrapped up safe and sound (I forgot to take a picture before that), so you’ll have to come over someday to check it out.

How can you tell if it’s real you ask? It’s actually quite simple. There are replicas for sale all over the city, and some authorized dealers have some as well for people who decide they can’t or don’t’ want to spend the money. When a drop or two of water is placed on both pieces, it’s the smell that tells the tale. The fake piece smells like wet ceramic while the antique smells like the oldest, mustiest cellar you’ve ever set foot into. I mean it smells from a distance. The reason is that after thousands of years buried in the earth the natural clays that it is made from absorb all these odors; like an old cellar.

Incidentally, ossuaries are hard to come by so there are none for sale in any of the shops. Seth was interested however, in a small tablet with Aramaic inscriptions on it. But you have to really want to haggle in order to make anything remotely affordable and I don’t think he had the energy. That walk with the Pilgrims had been grueling.

On our way back to the hotel to drop off my celebrated piece, I had a “pocket full of shekels” (Rally round the Rabbi), and I wanted to stop off to buy some brightly colored candies from one of the countless stalls.

My favorites were the ones that looked like sunny side up eggs! (I'm an egg slut, even fake candy eggs I can't resist). It was Friday evening, nearing 5pm (the Sabbath begins at sundown) and the parade of Jews through the streets on their way to Temple was a site to see. It seemed like a mad rush to get there in time. We stopped for a while to watch this “parade” but eventually returned to the hotel much in the same way as the night before, to relax in the rooftop garden.

We were beat, destroyed. I had laid waste to my feet. We had literally been walking around for 11 straight hours. Trying to save a little cash and hoping to not go to bed on a full stomach, we ventured out of the Old City walls and played Russian roulette with street food vendors. For only a few USD I had a pita shell filled with lamb livers and onions that had been grilled on a skewer over a hot bed of coals, from a pushcart. A few dollops of homemade hot chili sauce from a bowl of marinating bacteria completed the ‘let’s see who’ll puke first game’, and we sat on the steps facing the Damascus Gate contemplating our next day’s adventures. Would we get into the Dome of the Rock? We hadn’t seen any Islamic sites yet.

Jerusalem/Yerushalayim/al-Quds

Arrival by cab to the Damascus Gate on the northern side of the walled Old City was easy enough. The driver dropped us off and told us it would be no problem to find our hotel. Cars are not allowed to drive in the Old City you see, but you’d think for $100 he would have taken us inside to help us locate it in the maze of streets. Not so much. Entering through the gate and into the madness, the first thing one notice is the crush of humanity. That, combined with the sights, sounds, and most importantly the smells makes it an assault on the senses, in a good way. Fruit and vegetable stands, kitschy souvenirs and trinkets, fabrics, herbs, spices, religious items, candies, home goods, you name it, someone’s selling it. Yelling from their store fronts and stalls, it’s truly overwhelming; but as I said, in a good way. I like that sort of thing.

Good thing we packed light (we both only had a backpack or messenger bag - I couldn’t imagine walking around with wheeled luggage), because wandering around a bit in order to locate the hotel was no picnic. We miraculously found it and dumped our stuff in our shoebox of a room at the Hashimi Hotel & Hostel, located on the main street that divides the Christian Quarter from the Muslim Quarter. Excited like schoolgirls at a Justin Bieber concert, we hit the streets to take it all in. I thought immediately that this was like Venice; pedestrian only streets, millions of tourists, and a Kodak moment around every corner. We had actually arrived earlier than we expected so this extra time was a bonus in our minds. So we used the time to wander the maze of streets and get a feel for the size, scale and layout of it all.

The Old City of Jerusalem is actually rather tiny, about 0.35 mi², but the maze of streets and crush of people make it hard to navigate and easy to get lost. The Old City is

divided into four quarters: The Christian, Armenian, Jewish, and Muslim Quarters. Each area has a distinct feel and different food options.

We were starving, as it was late afternoon and we hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and as we made our way through the Jewish Quarter, stumbled on an interesting take on calzone. Instead of pizza dough, the outer shell was phyllo dough with a nice crispy, delicate feel. The only issue I had with it was the fact that it cost almost 30 shekels (~$8)!

Since we were already so close, we found our way to the Western Wall (or Wailing Wall), the holiest site in the holiest city in Judaism. This wall is one of the original walls of the Second Temple, built by Herod the Great in 19 BC. Jews make a pilgrimage to this place, write a prayer on a little piece of paper, fold it into a tiny square, and stuff it into cracks in the wall. The site is

mobbed by tourists, Israeli soldiers and Jews of all sects. The Orthodox or Hasidic Jews with their long, curly sideburns (payot), all black outfits with white shirts, and black top hats (or the furry shtreimel hats), seemed to be the most prominent. Everyone who walked up to the Wall donned a yamaka (even me), which was available in a bin located nearby. Fortunately we were there on a Thursday because when we found ourselves there on Saturday afternoon a couple of days later, Israeli guards were preventing anyone from taking pictures out of respect for the Sabbath.

The Dome of the Rock is the third holiest site (after Mecca and Medina) for the Islamic faith, and is adjacent to the Wailing Wall. It is a shrine, built in 687 AD, topped with a huge golden dome, which sits atop a large rock (the foundation stone) that is the site where the Prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven. It is also the site of the Holy of Holies (the inner sanctuary of the First and Second Temple and last known location of the Ark of the Covenant; important for the Jewish people), as well as the site where Christians believe Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son Isaac. It’s a very sensitive issue between the Jews and the Muslims, the fact that they built a shrine and mosque right on top of the holiest spot in Judaism. Seems like a big slap in the face to me. To exasperate the problem, Muslims do not allow non-Muslims to enter this historic place. We had been told that we would be allow to enter (just not on Friday, the most important day in Islamic faith; understandable), but were turned away on Thursday and told to come back on Saturday. This will get much more interesting later.

After wandering around a bit more, we returned to our hotel to take in the views and relax on the rooftop garden overlooking the Old City (including the Dome of the Rock). Sitting there, reflecting on the day, it was still hard to imagine that we were actually sitting in Jerusalem, a city with a history that goes back more than 4,000 years, is one of the oldest cities in the world with continuous habitation since 2,800 BC, and has a history of war and conflict that has seen it be destroyed twice, besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, and captured and recaptured 44 times. The soup of people and empires (Canaanite, Jebusite, Persian, Hasmonean, Roman, Byzantine, Ymayyad, Ottoman, British, and Israeli; just to name a few) and religions that have occupied this place over the years is truly staggering. And it was patiently awaiting our own assault, which was epic in and of itself, over the next few days.

Aelia Capitolina

There’s a big misconception I’ve learned; the pilgrimage that so many religious believers make to Jerusalem, to follow in the footsteps of Christ, to walk around the City of David where King Solomon built the First Temple, or to see the Dome of the Rock, is really more of a mythical rather than a physical one. The city where Jesus walked, where the Israelites claimed the Promised Land, and where Mohammed made his Night Journey, was completely destroyed by the Roman Emperor Hadrian in 137 BC. It was recorded that the city was so thoroughly razed that “nothing was left that could ever persuade visitors that it had once been a place of habitation.” After this, the city was rebuilt as the Roman city of Aelia Capitolina, which now serves as merely the foundation of the city that exists today.

Nevertheless, this site, this geographic location on planet earth, is an enormously important place for the three Abrahamic religions – Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. The pedestrian only streets of the Old City are worn slippery from approximately 1,400 years of bustling action; it’s old, there’s history and it’s very palpable. However, when a devout Christian, for example, walks along the Via Dolorosa praying at the Stations of The Cross, they should remember that Emperor Constantine came to this city in the 4^th century AD (when he decided that Christianity should become the religion of the Roman Empire) and declared these Stations (where Jesus was condemned to death, where he fell with the cross, where his mother Mary met him on the way to his crucifixion), to be where we see them today, based solely on texts written 300 years prior, in a city that had been completely destroyed with a new city rebuilt upon it. I’m sounding cynical here, and quite possibly sac-religious. And while historical records indicate where this brutal walk that Jesus made took place, (have you seen the Passion of the Christ?) and can be roughly mapped out using streets that exist today, it just goes to show that “a Holy Place is not actually the place where Jesus walked, but rather where the Church venerates a mystery of Christ’s life and is sanctified by the prayers of the Faithful”. Incidentally, this quote was taken directly from the Guide for Pilgrims that I bought to follow this “Way of Sorrow”.

My weekend trip to Jerusalem is full of so much that I’ll have to write it up in pieces. In spite of my reality check (filled with negativity), as described above, it truly was a worthwhile experience filled with history lessons, harrowing border crossings, rip-offs and scams, unique streetscapes, antiquing, wonder, awe, hysterical laughter, political confrontation, religious stereotypes, disappointment, anger, frustration, borderline offensive references and song, unique friendships, hostile treatment, being forced out of a car at gunpoint, and a meal of Biblical proportions.

My friend and colleague, Seth and I choose the most violently contested border crossing in the world as the starting point for our weekend adventure to Jerusalem.

As we drove up the Kings Highway, through the Jordan Valley, along the banks of the Dead Sea, we realized that this was indeed the one and only time that we could safely say, “We’re on our way to the Promised Land” and actually mean it! After a morning meeting in the southern Jordanian town of Tafilah, another colleague of ours dropped us at the Allenby Bridge border crossing between Jordan and the West Bank, which is Israeli occupied territory. All that stuff you see on the news about the Palestinians and the Jews fighting over who can live where, who owns what, what area God promised to whom; yea, this is it. Rules are strict, the situation uncertain, automatic machine guns and tanks with machine guns are everywhere. This was a great idea.

After paying a departure tax to leave the Hashemite Kingdom we boarded a bus to travel a short distance across the aforementioned Allenby Bridge (or King Hussein Bridge if you’re Islamic), over the River Jordan, and into Israel, or is it the West Bank?, or should we call it Palestine? Once there, we get off the bus one at a time (tourists of all nationalities and ages, Palestinian women with children, some families), and a guard in a little booth looks at each passport. Once everyone has been checked (and thoroughly screened with the multiple video cameras that I notice looking down from overhead) we all board the bus again, move ahead a few yards to a gate, and then sit there idling for around 30 minutes. Israeli guards walk around the bus with mirrors checking for bombs underneath. We finally pass through the gate and pull up to the terminal where nothing short of chaos is taking place. Machine gun toting guards abound, Palestinian guys unload baggage from busses and take bribes to get their people through the lines faster, everyone is sweating, pushing, yelling, trying to cut the lines; it’s a zoo.

I do my best to fend off line cutters, but women with children in their arms are hard to deny. Though I threw my share of elbows at other people who thought that simply being Palestinian meant they didn’t have to wait in line. After a solid 30 minutes in line (NFL sideline fan misters keeping us cool), I reached the window where the Israeli woman asked me questions like, ‘why are you visiting Israel’ (wrong time to point out I was in Palestine), ‘how long will you stay’; things of that nature. Nothing too exciting coming from me so she allows me into the main building where I go through an airport like screening process. Belt, watch, and coins in a bin; bag on the conveyor; walk through the metal detector; easy. Then came the bevy of lines. In the end I stood in four. Sometimes I was asked questions and/or searched, sometimes I was told to go to a different line; completely unorganized. There’s better communication at a school for deaf mutes.

In the end my passport is stamped (I'll never be able to go to Lebanon or Syria now) and I’m free to begin my little jaunt to the Holy Land. We exit the terminal and are greeted by a host of sharks ready to rip us off from every angle. The shared taxi (really it’s a mini bus) is much, much cheaper than a cab but will only leave when it is full. There are two people on it at the moment, “It will be a loooong time." says the con artist. "Private taxi, you’ll be there 35 minutes. Come, I show you. This man will take you, come, come.” $100 later we’re in car passing a sign for Jericho on our way to Jerusalem. Seth thought we were just “splurging this one time” for the cab. Little did we know it was only the beginning…..

City of Rock

In 1812, a Swiss born adventurer/explorer from London named Jean Louis Burckhardt journeyed to the Middle East, a place where few Europeans, or any other non-Muslims for that matter, ever ventured. During his travels he kept a journal detailing everything he saw and experienced. In the Jordanian city of Karak where the Crusaders built beautiful castles, he heard tales of an ancient city hidden away in an impenetrable mountain with only one route in and out. His curiosity peaked, and he set out to find this hidden city. With the help of a suspicious guide he hiked down a steep hill into the Siq (a shaft or narrow gorge) and arrived at the Treasury. In his journal he made sketches of the amazing edifice and continued on into the canyon, sketching the details of the façades sculpted into the rock face. Ten years later his journals were published and the lost city of Petra was once again known to Western civilization after being forgotten for more than 500 years.

The first mention of Petra is from the Old Testament, when after 40 years in the desert, Moses was ordered by God to produce water for the Israelites. He struck a rock and a spring gushed

forth (Ain Musa– the Spring of Moses) which provided water for the inhabitants of the area at the time. In the 7^th century BC (~ 647) the Nabateans settled in the central bowl of the valley floor of this mountainous region and began to develop the city into an important stop on the trading route along the Silk Road. In the 1^st centuries BC and AD the Romans took over Petra, along with the rest of Europe and the Middle East, and turned it into the capital of their Provincia Arabia. Massive ornate façades were carved directly into the sheer, red rock faces of the canyon and a fledging city thrived, supported by a well engineered water conveyance system that brought the Ain Musa down the Siq and into the heart of the city. After the fall of the Roman Empire and the Islamic invasion in the 7^th century AD, Petra became deserted and eventually abandoned (with the exception of local Bedouin tribes) around 1270 AD.

After it’s rediscovery in the 1800’s Petra became a wonder for tourists and movie makers. The city now is a mob scene of tourist groups and local Bedouins selling everything from postcards to camel rides. In the movie industry, the city is most famously known as the location for the filming of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. During my visit there a Bollywood movie production was being filmed with Indians in cowboy hats and plaid shirts – classic.

Walking through the Siq, one is not quite prepared for what lies before them. The Siq itself is amazing in that it was created by the shifting of tectonic plates which spit the mountain to create a sometimes wide, sometimes narrow gorge. The ground is mostly sandy dirt and/or rock, but in some places large Roman stone slabs, polished smooth by 2,000 years of foot and carriage traffic, pave the way. It was easy to see why this city thrived and was easy to defend since the only way in and out is through this narrow gorge.

As the Siq narrowed down to only a few feet across I was taken aback by the massive façade that peaked out from the narrow slit before me. Stepping out of the Siq and into the plaza in front of the Treasury, my neck craning backwards, I was truly shocked and overwhelmed. The next six hours was spent walking through the canyon in the hot desert sun, admiring the beauty and shaking

off utter disbelief in the creation of the city itself. In addition we meandered around elderly tour groups and fought off Bedouin kids, who although they cannot read or write, can speak five or six languages (limited phrases though I’m sure) due to the constant influx of tourists from all over the world.

My favorite part (though getting there was exhausting), was climbing up the 900+ steps as they wound up, over, and around a rock mountain, to the top which looked down deep into the valley below. At the top was the most impressive façade of the Monastery, carved deep into the rock with a large plaza in front, perfect for stepping back and really getting a feel of just how grandiose this all really is. A climb up another summit brought me to the highest point in Petra (1,450m above sea level – 4,750ft) such that I could look down into the valley in one direction, and out over Saudi Arabia in the other.

On the way back I couldn’t resist the urge to ride a camel through the heart of the city and back to the Treasury. In addition, my feet hurt so much from a full day of walking that assaulting my groin actually sounded like a better idea than hiking back on foot. Camels are big animals. Tall like a moose such that when you ride on one the perspective you gain by being up so high is really incredible. Staying on, and not crushing important reproductive parts as the camel stands up, is not easy however. The ungulate first raises its backside and you are thrown violently forward. Seconds later the front legs extend up halfway and you are heaved backwards just as violently, except that the momentum of the quick reversal of body weight makes it that much more brutal. Finally the front legs are extended up fully and you even out, albeit with pain shooting through where the sun don’t shine – the next day was far worse. Quite an experience though; riding through the ancient city of Petra on a Camel, people staring at you like the idiot tourist you are; but I could tell they were jealous.

Lawrence Would Be Proud

Trekking through the Jordanian desert sounded exciting. Sleeping under a canopy of countless stars and the Milky Way peaked my interest. And the the thought of camel spiders as big as my hand and scorpions of all sizes (the smaller the more poisonous) terrified me to no end. With all this in mind I set out with two friends/colleagues to the Wadi Rum desert in southern Jordan.

Cruising down the Desert Highway out of Amman in a French Citroën at 5am is quite a feeling. The road was generally empty, except for errant speed bumps (who the hell puts speed bumps on a highway?!), and as the sun started to rise out of the driver’s side window to my left, an eerie, hazy-white glow began to give me a sense of the landscape around us. The ride down to Wadi Rum takes about four hours. To get there you essentially drive south on the major thoroughfare through Jordan and turn left into the desert before you reach the port city of Aqaba on the Red Sea.

Wadi Rum is a desert valley cut into sandstone and granite rock that is most famously known as the place where British office T.E. Lawrence (i.e. Lawrence of Arabia) based his operations during the Arab Revolt of 1917. The area is now inhabited by Bedouin tribes who have developed eco-adventure tourism of the beautiful

esert; which some say is the most beautiful desert in the world. I should note here that it’s not really a desert in the way that I imagined; such that there are no vast expanses of flat, emptiness covered with sand, stretching as far as the eye can see. Instead, the landscape is dotted with massive rock outcroppings…..surrounded by sand, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Our day in the desert began at 9am when we hopped into a beat-up, 1970’s 4-wheel drive Land Cruiser with our guide Zidane and off-roaded 10 clicks (kilometers; about 6 miles) into the desert. We were joined in a separate vehicle by a couple from northern Spain and two Parisian women. Throughout the morning we would drive to a spot and Zidane would turn us loose. We would get out and he would explain what sort of activity we should be doing in this particular area. Sometimes it would be climbing up a gradual, natural rock incline or a brick-red sand dune to check out a view. Other times we would

hike through a canyon carved into one of the massive sandstone outcroppings; the walls of which were covered with Petroglyphs depicting humans and animals that date back to the Thamud Period and Nabataeans in the 1^st Century BCE.

By lunch time when the temperature soared into the mid to high 90’s, we found a shady spot between two sandstone monoliths, spread out a

large blanket, and had a picnic lunch of cheese, cucumber, tomato, pita bread, and tuna. After a short nap in the shade, and a brief smoke of the argileh, a 2 v 2 football (soccer) match broke out with the Spanish/Bedouin side faring much better than the all USA squad.

After the lunch break we continued on much in the same way, exploring more canyons, “scrambling” up natural rock bridges, and viewing Gaudi-like rock formations. I was amazed by how it seemed that some of the rocks appeared to be melting. For the grand finale we climbed up a sandstone monolith and watched the sun set over the Arabian Desert. As I watched the quick flash of green light explode from the top of the sun as it passed below the distant rock formation, I realized that I had actually seen the sun rise and set in the same day.

As nightfall descended on the desert we made our way to a traditional Bedouin camp to sleep for the night. The camp was situated adjacent to yet another outcropping, for protection I suppose,

and the sleeping quarters consisted of rectangular, canvas tents equipped with 2” thick pads and thick Bedouin sheep’s wool blankets to keep us warm during the chilly desert night. I was amazed by how the temperature continued to drop all night such that by 4am or so it was actually very cold. Such a contrast to the heat of the day.

Prior to turning in for the night though, we sat around a small campfire on traditional Bedouin rugs, drank sweet tea, and had a dinner of grilled chicken, lamb balls, and salad. Then the guides played traditional

music with a guitar-like instrument and drum, complete with singing. Singer-songwriter open mic, Bedouin Style. As the music wafted through the air I wandered around outside the camp, my neck craning backwards, staring up at the myriad stars, with the light, smoky brushstroke of the Milky Way a backdrop to constellations, planets, and shooting stars.

The next morning I woke to realize that we were truly in the middle of nowhere, sleeping in the desert. Yes, “that just happened.” Arriving at the camp under cover of darkness prevented me from really understanding just how remote an area we were in. In the end I survived it all. No massive camel spiders (but plenty of camels), no scorpions, and no rabid coyotes; A night camping in the Jordanian desert. Lawrence of Arabia would be proud of me.

Amman Again

It’s a strange feeling, arriving in a foreign place which no longer seems so foreign, but instead now seems so familiar. The smell of cardamom spiced coffee and grilled lamb in the air is different, but it’s the same. The site of cars equipped with “state-of-the-art” cassette players is different, but it’s the same. The maddening traffic and smell of exhaust is different, but it’s the same. The hotel is different, but…well actually it is different. For my second trip over USAid has put me up in the five-star Sheraton hotel, down the road from my old home at the Bristol. The difference is unimaginable. Fresh fruit brought to the room upon arrival; a free 15 minute massage to work out those kinks from the long plane ride (12.5 hours direct from JFK); lavish lounge areas; and the breakfast buffet this morning was OTT with eggs made to order, fresh squeezed orange juice and too many pastries to count.

So I’ve returned to Amman, this time with completely different expectations and knowledge of the language, culture, and food. This is quite helpful, and already, after less than 24 hours, I feel as if I really never left. I’m hoping to experience many new things this time around and write an interesting blog to keep you entertained while I am away. First though I’d like to share a post that I wrote during the last few days of my first trip. I didn’t get the chance to post it before I left, and it somehow didn’t feel right posting it after I returned. So although this was penned almost two months ago, it’s still great insight into the holy month of Ramadan.

Ramadan – The Mood Changes

Everything changes really; the food, the tempers, the work schedules, the eating schedules, the traffic patterns. It seems as if nothing is left untouched. The holy month of Ramadan is upon us and I must say, with hopefully no offense to my Muslim friends, that while I’m glad I get to experience it here in the Middle East for a few days, I am also glad that I don’t have to endure a full months cycle of it.

Ramadan begins when three people claim to have seen the moon being born (the thinnest crescent moon visible). It is obviously based on the lunar calendar and moves back 10 days every year. It’s hardest now, and for the next 10 years or so as the days are much longer during the summer. We’ve all heard about this holiest of Muslim holidays as it’s the one that requires believers to fast. No eating during daylight hours. Doable, and not the end of the world, right? Well it turns out that fasting means that you can’t drink either, which I didn’t know. No coffee, no tea….so no caffeine. It also means no smoking…so no nicotine. Do you see where I’m going with this? People are PISSED OFF, and the first few days are the worst. I saw two fights on the street downtown today in a matter of two hours. Mind you, I’ve seen no fights in the past month. The Jordanian people are not a violent lot, but when a migraine headache sets in that feels like a tiny mouse is eating away at your brain, one tends to get a little chippy. Fasting means no lip balm, no eye drops, no water. I’m watching construction workers labor in 96⁰F heat and wonder how safe and healthy this can be.

I’m not Muslim so how does this affect me you ask. In the States we non-Muslims continue with our daily lives during Ramadan with people fasting all around us. We eat, drink, and carry on. But it doesn’t work that way here. It’s considered very rude to eat or drink in front of people. The hotels are little sanctuaries, but once you leave the oasis that is the Bristol or the Sheraton that all changes. No coffee at the office. No drinking water at your desk. No lunch unless you bring it yourself and go hideaway someplace. No restaurants are open and I mean NO restaurants. It was eerie walking around downtown today shopping for my spices. Most stores are open, the fruit and veg market was hopping, but people were just buying goods to take home in preparation for iftar (the breaking of the fast after sundown) tonight. But all of the restaurants, food stands, drink vendors, etc. were closed or missing. It’s a strange thing.

I had a very funny moment with a colleague of mine that best symbolizes what it’s like to be in a Muslim country during Ramadan: We were wandering around a mall in the middle of the afternoon and wanted to drink some water, as it’s still a thousand degrees outside. I had a giant bottle in my bag so we went around a corner, out of view of anyone else, and took turns chugging a 1.5 liter bottle. I felt like I was 16 again, slipping behind a car with a friend to pound a 40 of Bud Light or Colt 45. Ahh, the memories.

The upside to all of this is that there are special food items for Ramadan; most of them sweets. By the time you get through a full day of no eating or drinking the body craves food, craves it bad, and the sweeter the better. Last night I broke the fast with a Lebanese-Muslim friend of mine who’s working on the project. We went to a restaurant called Mais El Reem, a fantastic Lebanese restaurant we had visited earlier. I had had wonderful quail there that was to die for, we both did actually, and we were looking forward to eating it again. Unfortunately most restaurants serve buffets during Ramadan and the quail was not on the line. After your stomach has shrunk to the size of a grape it’s only natural to belly up to a buffet with two plates in hand and go to town. You should have witnessed the scene my friends. People staring down blankly at a third or fourth heaping plate of food, mouth agape, stunned, trying to fathom eating more. Overdoing it is an understatement.

I learned a more calculated and healthy approach: Drink some water and then some amar al-deen (apricot drink). Start with a little soup; cracked barley cooked with minced chicken in a broth-based soup spiked with cumin. Then nibble on some stuffed grape leaves and maybe some fattoush (salad) so that your stomach is well aware that food is now on its way. We ate lamb with rice (mensaf), roasted chicken with bulgur wheat , meat pies, spinach pies, olive salad, hummus, roasted stuffed eggplant, but not too much of anything. Then came the sweets; tiny dough balls deep fried and soaked in syrup, a butterscotch flan –type thing, more kunaffe, and the most famous of Ramadan desserts, atayef. It’s essentially a silver dollar pancake rolled in half and filled with cream cheese, nuts coated in syrup, chocolate, etc. Good stuff and fun to eat as you simply pop them into your mouth.

A Pinch of Salt

Salt, or Es-Salt, is a town 20km (15 miles) northwest of Amman that was a regional capital under the Ottomans. It might have become the capital of Transjordan had the railway from Damascus reached it instead of nearby Amman in the 1920’s. However because of this, Salt did not experience the modernization (i.e. destruction) that has affected the capital. Instead much of the Ottoman architecture, built with limestone in the Nabulsi style (Turkish and Italian influences), remains intact and makes for a wonderful half day trip out of Amman.

Salt is actually not named for the condiment that the title of this entry suggests, but stems rather from the ancient Greek work ‘saltos’, meaning ‘thick forest’. Thetown is not frequented by tourists and we were as much of an attraction to the locals as their beautiful town was to us. I had to remind myself a few times that I was not actually walking through a small

town in Italy, as beautiful pinkish-honey colored limestone buildings with ornate doors and brightly painted shutters wound their way up small alleys and steep staircases. Grape vines draped over balconies and attached themselves to buildings, while the pedestrian only Hammam Street, beautifully tiled and lined with shops and fruit and veg vendors, beckoned us to wander aimlessly.

As the heat was once again a problem we spent some time in the Abu Jaber mansion. Located right in the center of town, this former residence is now the home of a local history museum that highlights the heyday of Salt

when it was a major player in the trading network of the Middle East. In addition, most of the rooms are laid out as they were in the early 1900’s with ornately painted murals on the walls and ceilings, allowing us a glimpse of how it might have been to live in this lavish residence in this quaint, did I already say beautiful?, town.

Arabic Hospitality

Thursday night was the final night for our good friend Stan “The Man” Plante. As a special going away gesture our new friend and colleague, Reham, invited us ex-pats to her home for a traditional dinner. When we arrived we were greeted by much of her immediate family; her two brothers, one of their wives and their two little boys; her two sisters, one of their husbands, and her mother. We began what would be a memorable evening with a small cup of Arabic coffee as we sat in the living room getting to know one another. Shortly thereafter the parade of food started and it became obvious that this was the focus of the evening. My first thought as I watched the massive platters of food being brought into the dining room was that her mother must have been cooking all day long. We sat down at the table to a spread of the most traditional of all Jordanian dishes; mensaf, as well as homemade stuffed grape leaves, stuffed eggplant and zucchini, and kibbeh. To drink they had a made a special fruit juice beverage with apricots called amar al-deen. The drink is made with dried apricot sheets (just like fruit rollups) that are soaked in hot water overnight and then chilled.

I’ve discussed mensaf in this blog previously but this was the real deal. In fact I’ve had it a few times before this night, but nowhere close to this tasty. I find out that they had purchased an entire lamb for this feast and everything but the head (traditionally the head is also placed on the platter to show the guests that the bounty was legit, but they were afraid to scare the foreigners) was laid out on the three foot diameter platter, topped with slivered almonds and toasted pine nuts, over a bead of rice and a special paper thin bread used exclusively for mensaf. On the side was a giant bowl of “soup” which is really a sauce that binds the whole thing together. The sauce is made with a dehydrated yogurt ball (Jameed; hard as a rock initially) that is softened in water and then mixed with the water that was used to stew the lamb all day. The result is a succulent sauce that soaks into the rice when ladled over the dish.

The stuffed grape leaves were delicate, about the size of my pinky finger,

and stuffed with minced lamb, rice and tomatoes. The stuffed zucchini and eggplant were also smaller versions of the vegetables than what we find in the States, hollowed out from the top and stuffed with a similar mixture of minced lamb, rice and spices, then baked. Delicious. The kibbeh was an added treat. I’d had these before at a cafeteria style place which did not at all do them justice. The outside of this oblong sphere is made with bulgur wheat and minced beef which acts as a shell for a filling of spiced minced meat. Perfect little appetizers that I could eat all day. Initially I thought that the presentation and quantity of food was the most startling thing, but I soon realized that it was their Jordanian hospitality and pride in their food that was the most special part. Before I was even a third of the way through what had been spooned onto my plate, one of the family members would get up from their chair and insist on putting more food and/or “soup” in my dish. By the time Reham was unloading a fifth or sixth piece of lamb onto my plate, along with more heaping scoops of rice and “soup”, I was so full that I had to literally undo my belt buckle. The family said that the goal was for us to finish the entire platter, but as you can see from the pictures, even with more than a dozen people eating, we were not able to do so.

After we all pleaded with them to stop dishing out more food (“Halles!”) they reluctantly agreed and I struggled to hoist myself out of the chair. We retired back to the living room where we were given more Arabic coffee to help us digest. Oh, but we weren’t done. Next came desert; kunaffe which is the amazing cheese desert with syrup and crispy pastry that I mentioned having downtown earlier during my trip. I felt bad, but I couldn’t eat more than a third of it. I was starting to feel light-headed as the blood rushed from my brain to try and help my under matched, almost bursting stomach, but managed to try a fresh date that had me very intrigued. I’d never eaten a fresh date before (only dried) and found it to be very good. We sat around and talked for a while and I had no problem sucking down a nice cup of Turkish coffee as I munched on some mixed nuts later in the evening.

In all it reminded me of an Italian dinner; multiple courses, coffee, and nuts at the end, all taking place over the course of four hours when plenty of talking and laughing. As the time approached 11:00pm we realized that Stan still needed to finish packing before heading to the airport for his 3am flight. We thanked our hosts profusely and commented on how truly special it was to have been invited into someone’s home and treated with such hospitality. A unique and exceptional evening provided to us by our new and most gracious Jordanian friends.

Good Thing It’s Not Hot

This has been my mantra over the past few days as the temperature has soared to 115⁰F here in Amman. I learned that you can tell when the outside temperature is over body temperature (~99⁰F) when the breeze feels warm as it passes over your skin. But when it’s 115⁰F it literally feels as if someone has pointed a hairdryer at you as you sit inside a sauna. It saps your energy, all but eliminates your appetite, and at least in my case, makes you wicked irritable and ill-mannered.

Friday was the first day of this heat wave and before I knew what I was getting into I ventured out to do some exploring. I started at the 1^st Circle where trendy Rainbow Street (lined with coffee shops and eclectic boutiques) heads down Jebel Amman (Jebel is Arabic for ‘hill’) into the old downtown. I came across an artisan market with stalls lined up one after another selling handmade beaded jewelry, funny and interesting t-shirts (I ♥ Amman, and the like), and antiques. I decided to buy a 100-year old hand crank coffee grinder from Turkey. The guy told me that it grinds nicely; I just hope he wasn’t lying. If not it’s still an interesting find, but it would be great if I could actually use it to make Arabic coffee when I return home. I wander around a little more, head into downtown to compare prices of argileh’s at different shops and find out it’s going to be best to find a shop where I can create my own, and then buy a sweet fedora (grey with a pinkish-red band around it) for 1JD at the used clothes/junk market that I had visited the week before. This comes in handy later in the day.

I realize at this point that it’s got to be 1,000 degrees and things are starting to move in slow motion. I’ve done the right thing, drunk plenty of water and replenished salts and sugars but it’s just not cutting it. It’s around 1:00pm at this point so I take an air-conditioned taxi to the district of Shmeisani to find some lunch. I walk into a place called Tarweea, tucked in behind a traditional café, in a neighborhood full of American fast food joints (KFC, Popeye’s, Burger King, Subway, Chili House, Boston Chicken) and discover quite a gem. I walk in with my newly purchased, second-hand fedora and am greeted by a man, who turns out to be the owner, wearing a snazzy suit. In fact, all of the waiters are wearing suits and I’m worried this lunch will set me back more than my per diem allows.

I must have looked like I might pass out at any moment as they hand me a bottle of water before I even sit down. Once seated I peruse the menu and realize that it won’t be too expensive, but also not the 1-4JD meals I’m used to for lunch. I start with a platter of tomato, cucumber and green and black olives. Ajloun (a town north of Amman) olives to be exact, the best I’ve ever eaten. Seriously. Sorry Italy, no offense, but wow, these were amazing. Then I order stuffed grape leaves (nothing overly special here), a thin bread spread with za’atar, and layered, and then baked in a wood-fired, brick oven, and a ‘sandwich’ (a wrap really) with minced lamb mixed with scrambled eggs. It really is a fantastic and different kind of meal (I’ve been getting tired of all of the falafel, shwerma, hummus, kebobs, etc.) and I take a few photos.

I guess the fedora made me look like a writer or journalist or something that combined with the photos) and the owner came over to ask me what company I was writing for. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity so I simply said that I was writing for a food and travel blog in Amman. He thanked me graciously and offered me a refreshingly cold, lemonade with mint drink to cool me down further. I ask him how it’s made and get the recipe.

After lunch I headed across the street and down a block to the famous el-Farouki coffee shop where they roast the finest coffee beans from Brazil in their in-house roasters. I go against my instinct and ask for an Arabic coffee made with beans that are literally black. Good, dark coffee does not necessarily need super dark roasted beans. In fact, usually beans roasted this dark are bitter and terrible, but these were not. I’d been told and also read that the guy here is a magician when it comes to roasting coffee beans and it turns out all that I’ve heard is true. An amazing cup of Arabic coffee, with freshly ground cardamom of course, to finish off my afternoon.

The next day was just as hot but I had learned my lesson and planned to finish my adventures outside by noontime. I first went to the Roman amphitheater with my friend James. We tried out the ancient acoustics by squatting along either side of the stage (80 feet wide), next to the parabolic wall that separates the stage from the first row of seats, and easily had a conversation, even with people talking around us. Amazing engineering for a structure built in 130 AD with the ability to hold a crowd of 6,000. The climb to the top afforded views of the Citadel up on the hill and the old city downtown. Since this is the largest Roman amphitheater in the world it goes to show the importance and distinction of Philadelphia (the original name of Amman during Roman times) in the Roman Empire during the 2^nd century.

I helped James do some shopping as I know the downtown quite well at this point, and he returned the favor by helping me design my own argileh. I’m going to use it as decoration in my condo so had a color scheme in mind. I went to a store where I could mix and match different pieces to create my own design. You are able to pick out a glass base, body, ash plate, tobacco holder, and tubing/mouthpiece to suit your taste. It was a fun experience and I ended up with something quite striking. I also purchased the sticky and wet tobacco (peach flavored) to bring home. I must

try it out and show it to friends first before retiring it to decoration-only status. You must believe me when I say that it’s not like smoking actual tobacco. Every one of the ex-pats has tried it at some point on this trip and even people who have never smoked anything in their lives have no trouble with it at all. Since the tobacco is so wet in the first place; it burns not by being stoked with actual fire, but rather by hot coals that sit on top of aluminum foil over the tobacco holder; and furthermore since the smoke passes through a bowl of water, the resulting smoke is flavorful and soothing. If you’re reading this blog and want to give it a shot, let me know when I return and I’ll hook it up.

It’s so hot that we have to get out of the heat, but feel bad that we’d be wasting the entire afternoon on our day off, so we get a hold of two other colleagues and attempt to go to the art museum. Although the guide book says it’s open and the sign on the outside of the building says it’s open, it’s definitely not. Standing there in the skin-boiling sun we look up and see the King Abdullah Mosque towering over us not far away. It’s the largest mosque in the city, with a beautiful teal and green dome (I used it as a photo for my blog about religion earlier in this diary, see below), and the minarets have just started screaming the call to prayer. None of us have been brave enough to venture into a mosque, but there’s strength in numbers.

We head over to the mosque and it’s a tourist friendly place. We are asked to wait in the cultural center downstairs and not even directly connected to the mosque, while the afternoon prayers are taking place. They give Catherine a full-length, hooded black nylon robe to wear as women must be covered up when entering a mosque so as to not distract the men from the importance of prayer. We hang down there for 15 minutes or so, making sure to stay in the shade, until they tell us it’s okay to enter. They hand each of us a pamphlet that describes the construction process of the mosque and a very fascinating book that talks about the Islamic faith and the challenges that it faces today with extremism being associated with and dominating the minds of people all over the world.

I take off my shoes, leave them on a shelf outside, and walk in. It’s not like a Christian church. The main room is a giant circle, carpeted, with no furniture of any kind. There are no religious symbols on the walls (i.e. churches have The Cross everywhere, and candles) either; just a clock on the southeast facing wall (towards Mecca), with a digital board below it showing the date in both the Christian (2010) and Islamic (1431 A.H.) calendars, and the upcoming times for the next five calls to prayer. These times change daily based the rising and setting of the sun. To give you an idea, the times now are approximately 4:30pm, 9:30pm, 12:30am, 4:45am, and 12:55pm.

Sitting down on the carpeted floor towards the middle of this enormous circle I read the literature that was provided. The fascinating ‘Amman Message’ talks about the values of Islam with reinforcement through passages from the Quran. As I read this I realize that it’s very similar to passages in the Bible and I’m convinced now that all of these religions are basically the same. Be kind to one another, respect life, help the poor, etc, etc. Why there’s so much fighting about it all I don’t think I’ll ever understand; especially now.