27 December, 2005

Opt to shit in the Jordanian airport. One never knows what future situations may present that may or may not flush. Greta comes out: "I couldn't find the flush." So I reach my fingers into a hole in the wall and press down on the exposed end of a PVC pipe immersed in water, but it flushes, which is excellent.

There is a Cinnabon and a Starbucks; also a Pizza Hut and a Popeye's Chicken.

The display on the airplane had periodically shown our progress to Amman and a compass indicating the direction of Mecca. [Except for the nine of us white kids, everyone else seemed to be heading to Hajj].

The kid across the aisle from me works for British Air but is flying home to visit his mother on the West Bank. He is excited to get home, says driving those mountain roads at night is so quiet. From his accent he seems to be from South Jersey. You can smoke in the terminal, he says. I love it, I smoke right under the now smoking sign. We're sitting on the tarmact and he's got the pack of cigarettes out and is fidgeting in his seat.

The topography was breathtaking from the air; like an ocean of boulders worn smooth, villages like splats dropped from the sky and scattered across the landscape.


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