In Jordan
Yesterday, Amanda (a truly fine writer, check her out at amandacastleman.com) and I were emailing back and forth, trying to figure out if we had been in one of the hotels in Jordan that got blown up. Finally--and this is kind of a sad comment about how forgettable so many things on press trips are--we figured out we'd had dinner at the Hyatt. We sat together that night, as we did at most meals on that trip, and when we came back from the buffet table--we were really, really sick and tired of buffets at that point in the trip--she had a nicely arranged plate of vegetables and such, while I had bread and chicken.
Jordan, I have to say, was one of my favorite places I've ever been. From the first morning when we woke up next to the Dead Sea, to the trip down to the shining red stone of Petra--where Amanda saved us from having to listen to the guide tell us facts that were mostly wrong--to Wadi Rum, which is just one of the glory spots on earth, it was a trip full of kindness and surprises and endless beauty.
Sometimes it feels very hard to justify spending endless hours on a plane--and as I said the other day, the flight to Jordan was the single worst plane ride I've ever had, as there was a Smurf ass in my face for fourteen hours, the flight attendants were actually screaming at passengers, and by the time we got off, the plane looked like a tornado had swept through it--just to spend a week somewhere.
Okay, that sounds bad, most people work all year for a week of vacation, and here I tend to think leaving home for less than a month just seems like a lot of hassle.
But, no matter, Jordan was worth the pain of getting there, and would have been for a single day. It's that good.
The first morning, we went to the Jordan River. There are the ruins of a church there, about the only Christian church you'll ever find that faces west, because it led to where the river used to be. And that, they say, is where Jesus was baptized. Across the three feet of water that flows in the river, the Israelis have a different idea, apparently thinking that, over the course of 2,000 years, a river that floods regularly would not have moved at all, so where they claim the baptism site was is still quite wet (and conveniently close to parking), whereas on the Jordan side, the river is quite a ways away. Guess whose version I believe?
We went to the place where Moses saw the promised land, but could not go across--in Dante's version of hell, remember, one of the worst torments is to see what you want and know you'll never reach it. And on the last day of the trip, we went to Jerash, where they made bread on an open fire, and once it was adorned with a bit of the local honey, was one of the most wonderful things I've ever tasted.
Jordan, it seemed, was the Canada of the Middle East. Before I went, everybody said, aren't you afraid? And I'd always say the biggest risk was being drowned in tea while people were trying to be nice to us. And that's exactly how it turned out.
They're marching in the white streets of Amman today, protesting the pointless violence. And, as for me, I'm mourning the abrupt and utterly senseless destruction of beauty--nothing is more beautiful than those rare places that feel right because they are very much themselves.
Amanda's going to be here in Scottsdale next week. I think she and I owe it to that trip to raise a glass in salute. And then I think we both need to find a way to go back.
Jordan, I have to say, was one of my favorite places I've ever been. From the first morning when we woke up next to the Dead Sea, to the trip down to the shining red stone of Petra--where Amanda saved us from having to listen to the guide tell us facts that were mostly wrong--to Wadi Rum, which is just one of the glory spots on earth, it was a trip full of kindness and surprises and endless beauty.
Sometimes it feels very hard to justify spending endless hours on a plane--and as I said the other day, the flight to Jordan was the single worst plane ride I've ever had, as there was a Smurf ass in my face for fourteen hours, the flight attendants were actually screaming at passengers, and by the time we got off, the plane looked like a tornado had swept through it--just to spend a week somewhere.
Okay, that sounds bad, most people work all year for a week of vacation, and here I tend to think leaving home for less than a month just seems like a lot of hassle.
But, no matter, Jordan was worth the pain of getting there, and would have been for a single day. It's that good.
The first morning, we went to the Jordan River. There are the ruins of a church there, about the only Christian church you'll ever find that faces west, because it led to where the river used to be. And that, they say, is where Jesus was baptized. Across the three feet of water that flows in the river, the Israelis have a different idea, apparently thinking that, over the course of 2,000 years, a river that floods regularly would not have moved at all, so where they claim the baptism site was is still quite wet (and conveniently close to parking), whereas on the Jordan side, the river is quite a ways away. Guess whose version I believe?
We went to the place where Moses saw the promised land, but could not go across--in Dante's version of hell, remember, one of the worst torments is to see what you want and know you'll never reach it. And on the last day of the trip, we went to Jerash, where they made bread on an open fire, and once it was adorned with a bit of the local honey, was one of the most wonderful things I've ever tasted.
Jordan, it seemed, was the Canada of the Middle East. Before I went, everybody said, aren't you afraid? And I'd always say the biggest risk was being drowned in tea while people were trying to be nice to us. And that's exactly how it turned out.
They're marching in the white streets of Amman today, protesting the pointless violence. And, as for me, I'm mourning the abrupt and utterly senseless destruction of beauty--nothing is more beautiful than those rare places that feel right because they are very much themselves.
Amanda's going to be here in Scottsdale next week. I think she and I owe it to that trip to raise a glass in salute. And then I think we both need to find a way to go back.
posted by e. Readicker-Henderson at 1:07 PM
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