"All these songs are about the king."

29 August 2008 (evening)
“All these songs are about the king”
As Khatm swerved in and out of traffic on the way to Dunia’s house, pumping the brakes and lurching us passengers back and forth, I regretted every single fig I had eaten that afternoon. That awful wave of panic swept over me again as I realized she, Muna and Mohammad simultaneously were explaining to me how to get from their home to Abdoun and back – all in Arabic. No GPS, Google maps, Mapquest, what-have-you; Jordanians don’t use street names but vague names of districts, then landmarks (mostly buildings), and finally building numbers. If you ask about a location that’s far, they may point and say “Go right,” which you discover is only the first of many turns and streets.
Dunia’s home is a first floor flat, more luxurious than her mother’s. Of particular pride was the spacious living room; ushering me into the parlor, Aunt Muna looked at me for approval, saying “Ve-ry Amrican, no?” Surveying the “oriental” throws, pillows, couches and sheesha (Arab water pipe) in the corner as juxtaposed with the large plasma screen television and “antique” copies of Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Dicken’s Hard Times (?), I hesitated. “Uh, na’am….”. Muna nodded in agreement. The parallel cultures were a bit overwhelming.
I’ve never watched so much television in my life, as I had little choice but to sit with the family for several hours in front of the plasma; I thought we Americans exclusively had problems with excessive television use. For a few minutes we watched a music video of the Jordanian military training with an Arabic pop soundtrack; because of the mention of Palestine, for the first few minutes I was hoping we weren’t watching the Hamas or Fateh channel. It was like one of those “Army: be all you can be” recruiting commercials, only longer and more ridiculous. “All these songs are about the king,” Dunia’s husband complained as her changed the channel. Only after enduring parts of The Terminator 3, Ace Ventura, and NCIS with Arabic subtitles (were they really enjoying all this or expected me to?), was I able to escape outside to the back patio and garden. Seated on a cool stone bench, breathing in the cool, evening breeze, and munching on fresh figs and almonds from Dunia’s meager garden and a view of the city, I was back at Mercedes’ house in San Fernando, Spain (from three summers ago).