And just like that, the journey is over. At least this leg of it.
Cruising down the Airport Road, I stare at the men lying on the side of the road, the fires in front of them shooting sparks into a warm pre-summer breeze. Some are drinking tea, others booze, some are grilling meat. At any rate, it's past midnight, the next day is a holiday, and many of the locals are staying out late.
A little envious of this picture, I smile. In the Foreign Service, we're afforded greater luxuries, even at the expense of missing out on local traditions. I realize that sitting by one of these fires was something I rarely got to do here.
I have only a few hours left in Jordan, my home for the past two years. I have mixed feelings about my departure. It's almost as if I'm leaving two countries behind, or a good friend with a split personality. One half I will miss while the other half will de deleted from the harddrive and hopefully soon forgotten.
At the airport, I stare at the outgoing passengers through the glass partition. For most of these people returning to Europe and the U.S., Jordan was an adventure, a quickie paperback novel to be discarded at their discretion. Here they floated in the Dead Sea and rode camels through the desert, drank tea and smoked shisha pipes.
For me, Jordan was a little more than that.
Jordan to me was a peaceful country nestled between the hells of the West Bank to the west and Iraq to the east. And yet, Jordan always seemed to be at war with itself. There are refugees from both sides, masses of them, yet people couldn't seem to make up their mind whether to accept them or not, whether to embrace them or the fleshpots of western culture. There are stores and shopping malls popping up everywhere, yet people still seem to rigidly battle progress with every fiber of their being, like the Bedouins in the desert. There are people who seem to like the new lifestyle but unable to put in the work for it.
Finally, I remember that Jordan gave me my son, my beautiful precious son, for whom life began here. I can't wait to take him back here one day.
As the plane takes off, I feel little emotion as I look down on the spider webs of lights crisscrossing each other, street lights that show just how far this town has come since the early days when so few roads were paved.
I say goodbye to Jordan and order a glass of red wine. Time to start forgetting, I suppose.
Cruising down the Airport Road, I stare at the men lying on the side of the road, the fires in front of them shooting sparks into a warm pre-summer breeze. Some are drinking tea, others booze, some are grilling meat. At any rate, it's past midnight, the next day is a holiday, and many of the locals are staying out late.
A little envious of this picture, I smile. In the Foreign Service, we're afforded greater luxuries, even at the expense of missing out on local traditions. I realize that sitting by one of these fires was something I rarely got to do here.
I have only a few hours left in Jordan, my home for the past two years. I have mixed feelings about my departure. It's almost as if I'm leaving two countries behind, or a good friend with a split personality. One half I will miss while the other half will de deleted from the harddrive and hopefully soon forgotten.
At the airport, I stare at the outgoing passengers through the glass partition. For most of these people returning to Europe and the U.S., Jordan was an adventure, a quickie paperback novel to be discarded at their discretion. Here they floated in the Dead Sea and rode camels through the desert, drank tea and smoked shisha pipes.
For me, Jordan was a little more than that.
Jordan to me was a peaceful country nestled between the hells of the West Bank to the west and Iraq to the east. And yet, Jordan always seemed to be at war with itself. There are refugees from both sides, masses of them, yet people couldn't seem to make up their mind whether to accept them or not, whether to embrace them or the fleshpots of western culture. There are stores and shopping malls popping up everywhere, yet people still seem to rigidly battle progress with every fiber of their being, like the Bedouins in the desert. There are people who seem to like the new lifestyle but unable to put in the work for it.
Finally, I remember that Jordan gave me my son, my beautiful precious son, for whom life began here. I can't wait to take him back here one day.
As the plane takes off, I feel little emotion as I look down on the spider webs of lights crisscrossing each other, street lights that show just how far this town has come since the early days when so few roads were paved.
I say goodbye to Jordan and order a glass of red wine. Time to start forgetting, I suppose.
