I’m Back

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I’m back.

I took a wee hiatus from the blog for …oh, about 8 months. Not that you were counting. But you missed me. Tell me you did.  I missed me. I missed writing.

A lot has happened since my last post in September. In short, Bret and I quit our jobs at RSICA, left Amman, and we’re now living in Alpine, Texas. WTF, you ask?

In short, the film school in Jordan where Bret and I were both teaching, RSICA, was in dire financial shape. It was a precarious situation for us. So, after many hours of careful (often tearful) deliberation, Bret and I decided to cut our losses and quit. It was a painful decision, but ultimately the right one. We gave our two weeks notice, packed up our shit, and moved home to the states. That was in mid-February.

And the end of our Jordan adventure. Poof!

It was surreal coming home for good. Looking back on it now, our time in Jordan feels like a distant dream. I had always compared traveling there to tumbling through the wardrobe and finding ourselves in Narnia. When we would return to the US for vacation, nothing much had changed stateside. We would reappear as if we’d never been gone. Although, we felt different, even if only in perspective.  And then vacation would end and we’d sift our way through the layers of the wardrobe and find ourselves back in Narnia.

This time, we were leaving Narnia for good.

In late February, Abby and I moved into my mom’s garage in Grass Valley while Bret went to Los Angeles in search of a temp gig.

There are few things in life more humbling than living in your mom’s garage. Abby and I slept on what was essentially a beach ball even though it was technically an “inflatable bed.” My mom did everything she could to make us comfortable. She gussied up the garage with shelving units, a rolling clothes rack, and a quaint turquoise trash can from Ikea.

But it was still a garage and I was still 36 and living in it. I had hit a low point.

But in many ways, my time in Grass Valley was an important interlude. A time to reflect and deal with my feelings about what had transpired in Jordan. It took me several weeks to process my feelings about our premature repatriation. When I finally did allow myself to feel, what I experienced was a mixture of sadness and relief.

Relief because we were finally coming home to the US! Land of the free, home of the brave. I could wear a tank top in public without being ogled and possibly groped. The drivers, more or less, follow the rules of the road here. Whole Foods! Trader Joe’s! In ‘N Out! Abundance! Equality for women! No more call to prayer waking me up at 5:30 every morning!

But sadness because I was leaving the people I’d met and grown to adore. My producing colleague with whom I’d developed a deep friendship and my wonderful students! The RSICA students and my Aqaba International students will forever hold a place in my heart. I’m so grateful for Skype and Facebook because if I never get the chance to see my students again in the flesh, at least I get to see them online.

And sadness that I had left behind this amazing adventure, this life of an expat; an identity to which I had grown attached. There was an intrigue to my life, a sexiness. I was the American woman living in the middle east. My friends and family and even strangers remarked on how brave I was to live and work in a muslim country surrounded by warn-torn Syria and Iraq and the instability of Egypt and Libya. How positively brave!

I knew the truth. Jordan was reasonably stable and living there was actually no riskier than living in Los Angeles. But the middle east was far away, exotic, unusual. And as a result, I felt special. I felt like people thought I was interesting. It’s taken me a few months to realize that I was no more interesting in Aqaba or Amman than I was in Pasadena. I’m still me. I had some cool experiences and certainly learned many things about the other side of the world. But wherever I go, there I am.

And here I am. In Alpine, Texas!

WTF?

Yeah, it’s weird. Much like our move to Jordan, totally unexpected and yet singularly awesome. Bret got an assistant professorship at Sul Ross State University and so now we’re living in a different foreign country known as Texas. The Lone Star state. A state in which I never thought I’d live. A state that Louise from Thelma & Louise refused to even drive through while she was on the run from the law.

Alpine is a tiny (population < 7,000) West Texas town three and a half hours east of El Paso and six hours west of Austin. There is no Starbucks, no Target, and the nearest Wal-Mart is 45 minutes away. We do have a drive-thru liquor store though.

You may have seen the recent 60 Minutes piece on Marfa, Texas. It’s the artsy enclave 26 miles west of Alpine, and I kid you not when I say it puts Silverlake to shame in the hipster department. Marfa is so deeply hip that it has a state-of-the-art drive-in movie theater and a boot company that makes only one style of unisex vintage boot. These boots cost $500 a pair and are backordered 10 months due to popular demand. Here’s a link in case you want to up your hipster ante: www.cobrarock.com/

Marfa is also the place where No Country for Old Men, Giant, and There Will Be Blood were filmed. Very hip.

Alpine is less hipster-ish, although we do have a food truck. It’s called Cow Dog and it’s awesome. www.cowdogdog.com

Here’s the thing. I grew up in Northern California and then spent my entire adult life living in Los Angeles. Aside from our year and a half in Jordan I’ve only ever lived in the Golden State. I’ve traveled fairly extensively to Europe and around the continental U.S. but never actually lived anywhere else.

I’m being terribly blunt when I say that I’ve always believed California was the greatest state in the union. It’s beautiful, it has culture, and fabulous weather. It has Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, and the PCH! San Francisco and LA. And if you get tired of those places, you could always go to San Diego or Mendocino or Santa Barbara or Santa Cruz. California is beauty and more beauty. The Beach Boys wrote a song about its women and Jim Morrison too, although he was partial to the chicks in LA. My point is, California is amazing. Why would I ever leave?

Because it’s fucking expensive.

And if you don’t have a job, then it’s impossible to survive there. Unless you’re a trust fund baby. And while my parents have been more than generous with me throughout the years, trust fund baby I am not.

So, Bret and I were forced out of LA. Squeezed out like pus from a zit. Crass. Sorry. But it’s how I felt when we first left LA. I felt awful, pathetic, lame. I couldn’t hack it. I had tried and failed and was being kicked out of the club. A part of my brain still resides in the halls of junior high where I was the gawky new girl who didn’t belong.

But here’s what I’ve discovered since we moved here in April. I like Texas. At least, I like Alpine. It’s charming and interesting. It has yoga and pilates studios, some decent restaurants (albeit not many of them), a natural food store, and a park within walking distance from my house. There’s an ice cream and shaved ice shop called Murphy Street Raspa Company that my daughter adores and it’s housed in an old historical building made of wood and owned by a young woman with a dog named Rodeo. www.raspaland.com

Here are some photos of Murphy Street Raspa Co.

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And here’s a picture of Rodeo in his “cave:”

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There are train tracks that run through town, a volunteer fire department, and a tiny farmer’s market every Saturday morning. And I’m on a first-name basis with my local postmaster. She even stopped by our house to apologize in person when a package didn’t get delivered to us on time. This place has character. It’s unique and, while small, it has most of what one needs to get through the day. And then some.

As for the people, there are some rednecks. Like the owner of this truck (zoom in on the photo below to get a good view of those bumper stickers): Image

There are also big-haired anchors on the local Odessa news channel. And bugs the size of my arm. But there are also intelligent, kind, generous people here who come from all walks of life. One of Bret’s colleagues is from Ireland, and a fellow mom I met at the toddler library group hails from India. I’ve also met people from California and other states in the US.

And the people actually born and raised in Texas aren’t all closed-minded redneck bigots. I’m going to tell you straight up that that was my prejudice before we moved here. I had a deep-seated fear of Texas. I thought most Texans wore cowboy hats and shit-kickers and chewed tobacco and beat their wives. I knew that Austin had a cool music scene and prided itself on being a liberal-ish town. But Alpine? What was I to find here? Would my free-spirited daughter turn into a big-haired debutante who believes in creationism? And what about me? What on earth would I do in Alpine? Who would my friends be? Big-haired former debutantes who believe in creationism?

As a matter of fact, no. Not at all.

I’ve met liberal artists, writers, teachers, lawyers, and small business owners. I’ve also met and befriended some conservative folks and they have invited me into their home for dinner and made me feel welcome. And none of them have big hair.

See, Alpine is a college town. And while it’s not Harvard Square it has a student body of 2,000 and a faculty count just shy of 200. And where there are universities there are liberals. Incidentally, Alpine is in Brewster County and Brewster County is one of six (or so) blue counties in Texas.

Alpine is also starkly beautiful. It sits at an altitude of 4800 feet and is surrounded by mountains. Huge white clouds billow in a blue sky that goes on for miles. We have electric thunderstorms and the wind is not shy about making her presence known. I’m listening to the wind right now as she rustles through the trees outside my bedroom window. It sounds like ocean waves.

One downside is that it’s really dry and dusty here. I drink gallons of water and apply face cream a million times a day. But April and May are apparently the driest months. I welcome the humidity of summer.

And admittedly, I’m a city mouse so living in Alpine is taking some adjustment. I’m used to more noise, more places to shop, more people, more options. Life moves faster in the city. But these days, I find a little less of all of that quite appealing. Sure, I miss Trader Joe’s and the Hollywood Bowl but I like that I can get to the grocery store in literally 3 minutes. And I don’t hear helicopters flying overhead every night. Sure, the train that runs through Alpine a few times a day (and night!) isn’t exactly quiet but it’s a beautiful sound. Haunting. Like something from a bygone era. And the starkness of the landscape here is a constant reminder that the world is big and I am small. And that’s a good thing.

So, I’m back.

The evolution of a blog. First Aqaba, then Amman, now Alpine. Each place unique, each its own little world.

I will keep you posted.

And here is Abby. My girl. She’s almost three. Image

Jetlag

Happy New Year! I realize it’s almost February, but as this is my first post of 2012, I thought it appropriate to start off with a little well-wishing.

By the way, at which point is it ridiculous to wish someone a happy new year? After the first week of January? Once February rolls around? Is it always ridiculous? When does a new year cease to be new?

But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. No, I’m here to talk about one of my least favorite things: jetlag. It sucks balls. And I’ve got a mean case of it right now. So does Abby and so does Bret.

We went back to the States for a month over the holidays and now we’re back in Aqaba. It was a nice trip, full of friends and family and bacon.

We celebrated Christmas. At least, our version of it. At my mom’s place in Grass Valley, we all trekked out in the freezing cold to select a Christmas tree. After about 20 minutes of tromping around and debating which one was the most appropriate height and pedigree, we decided on a handsome Doug Fir with long, full branches. Bret had the distinctive honor of cutting it down. By himself. Sorry, babe. Mom and I hightailed it back to the house where it was warm and cozy and coffee and cookies awaited. My stepdad, Gary, videotaped Bret hacking away at the poor Doug Fir.

Once the tree was properly mounted (thanks again, Bret) Mom decorated it with about 100 glass ornaments while Bret scraped the sap from his body. I tried to keep Abby from ripping the ornaments off the tree and biting into them.

In the end, Christmas was very festive and the tree looked lovely but the branches kept poking Bret in the face during dinner. He was so gracious about it. He would gently brush them away and keep eating.

But, again, I digress.

Jetlag. We have it. It sucks.

If you’ve never experienced jetlag, here’s what it’s like:

1) You wake up at midnight, ready to start the day.

2) You’re not sure if you brushed your teeth today. Or was that yesterday? Is today yesterday?

3) You accidentally lock your keys in your car while the engine’s still running and your toddler is strapped in her car seat.

4) You find yourself eating a steak dinner at 3 a.m. and it feels right.

5) It’s 10 a.m. and you’re ready to hit the sack.

6) You catch yourself humming “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley with no memory of how it got stuck in your head in the first place. I RickRolled myself. Without a computer.

7) You find yourself sitting in the dark eating an entire bag of Bugles and a tub of cream cheese. And it tastes amazing.

8) You pass out at two in the afternoon and sleep for 8 hours. Maybe 10.

If you’ve just traveled into a different time zone and you’re experiencing any of the above scenarios, you probably have jetlag. If you have not traveled anywhere at all and you’re experiencing any of the above, you probably have a drinking problem.

It usually takes me a full week to recover from the acute symptoms of jetlag, plus one additional week to feel totally normal again. Abby seems to fully recover in about 10 days. She’s a great little traveler, our girl. I’m so proud of her. She slept 9 of the 11.5 hour flight from Chicago to Amman. But then she was up all night in the hotel room in Amman. Bret and I ordered room service and took showers while Abby watched hours of Egyptian soap operas. She finally passed out at 3 a.m., one hour before our scheduled wake-up call.

I would have taken melatonin if I could. Apparently, it’s amazing. Bret took it when we went home to the States in December and he said it worked like a charm. It’s basically a “natural” sleeping pill that makes you pass out for eight hours whenever you need to sleep. Brilliant!

I decided I would try it on the return trip to Jordan. But first, I did my due diligence. I read the label on the bottle to see if I could take it while breastfeeding. Turns out, no. In fact, my health profile matches every contraindication on the back of the bottle.  Basically, the label should have read: “If your name is Marjie Scott, you’ll die if you take this stuff.” So, I’m just sweating out the jetlag naturally.

Aside from that, it’s actually nice to be back here in Aqaba. Although, I cried on the flight from Chicago to Amman because I was already exhausted and sad to be leaving ready access to Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods.

More than anything, I was sad to be leaving my friends and family. It was so nice to see everybody face to face, person to person, in the flesh. I’m grateful for Skype but there’s nothing like being able to sit across from someone and look into her eyes or give him a hug. It was truly uplifting to be home. We didn’t get to see all of our friends because there just wasn’t enough time. We’ll be back in the summer. That’s what I keep reminding myself.

Being in the States was interesting after living in Jordan for almost five months. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. We are so lucky in the United States! We have access to so much variety.

I went into a Starbucks the day after we arrived in Tucson and as I waited for my cappuccino, I heard the guy behind the counter holler, “I have two artisan ham sandwiches for Paula!”

Artisan. Ham. Sandwiches.

Paula, dressed in head-to-toe Coldwater Creek snagged her artisan ham sandwiches and skinny vanilla latte and off she went, her frosty highlights glinting in the sun.

Does Paula know how lucky she is that she can walk into any Starbucks and order not one but TWO artisan ham sandwiches, made to order? Paula, wherever you are, I hope you savored those sandwiches, or at least said a little thank you to the heavens (or your capitalist, democratic country) for them. Because, here’s the thing. Even if you don’t eat ham, or sandwiches, you must appreciate the level of choice we have in the United States of America.

Even if you live in a small town where there is nothing but a windmill and an inbred family next door, you can have just about anything you want shipped to your house!

And the freedom! I felt free to speak my mind without worrying who might be listening. I could wear what I wanted without worrying that I might be offending anyone or sending the wrong message. I only saw an occasional headscarf in the States and it was always worn by an older Muslim woman chewing on pistachios while her younger, westernized family members texted on their smart phones.

The women in the States wear what they want. They go out in public with wet hair. They feel free to  wear sweatpants and tank tops, or fitted dresses and heels. The variety of dress in the States is only restricted by the individual woman’s taste and imagination. This has its own set of disadvantages too, by the way. A sense of decorum is always appreciated.

But the very fact that we are free to have good taste, or not, is so gratifying. Anything less is, quite frankly, soul-crushing. As a woman, as a person, I want to choose the clothes, job, husband, friends, the life that’s right for me. It was nice to be in a place, at least for a little while, that recognizes that.

It was nice to be home.

Strange and Wonderful Aqaba

It’s been over a month since I’ve posted anything and I apologize for my delinquency. I’ll try not to let that happen again.

We’ve been in Aqaba a little over two months now. Some days, it feels like we’ve been here forever. Other days, it’s as if no time has passed.

For the most part, we’ve settled into a nice routine. I’m even acclimating to the heat. Or, so I thought. Bret just informed me the weather has actually cooled down since we first arrived. For the record, “autumn” here in Aqaba means instead of 120 degrees F, it’s only 90. Whatever. At least I no longer feel like a strip of beef jerky every time I step outside. A few weeks ago, we had a few white clouds in the sky and you’d have thought they were made of gold the way everyone was oohing and ahhing at them.

I’ve made friends here too, both Jordanians and expats. Mostly other moms with young children. We have to stick together, we moms. You’ve seen us. We’re the ones with dark circles under our eyes and random stains on our clothes . We’re also the ones who desperately crave adult conversation and act a little feral when we suddenly find ourselves among other grown-ups. Moms are the same all over the world.

In other news, I got a job. I teach drama at the local International school. My students are 6th, 7th and 8th graders. It’s fun but some days the kids drive me nuts (to put it diplomatically). I have a much greater respect for my own middle school teachers from way back when. I went to public school in Oakland so you can imagine the hell we put those poor teachers through. Several of them actually had heart attacks and now I understand why. Kids are the same all over the world.

So, between my job, Bret’s job, Abby’s…well, just Abby, we’re a busy family. And it all feels very normal.

Bret works five days a week at RSICA and his hours vary, depending on the day; such is life for a college professor.  I work three mornings a week from 10:30 to 12:00 p.m. at the International school (part-time indeed).

But I do have a full time job, too. Her name is Abby.

Every morning, she wakes up around 6:00.  Thankfully, Bret gets up with her to change her diaper and feed her. At 6:00 a.m., I can barely open my eyes so I usually pull the blanket over my head and fall back to sleep. This is Bret’s gift to me each day. I get 30 minutes of “me” time in the morning while he takes care of the girl. I use this “me” time to sleep, so it always goes by in a flash. I’m in a blissful slumber and then suddenly, there she is. The bub. Hovering over me chanting, “Mama! Mama!” She’s usually still in her pajamas, a blob of banana stuck in her hair. I open one eye. “Good morning, Abby,” I croak.

At that point, Bret usually gets really dramatic, racing around, reminding me he has to get in the shower or he’s going to be late. I open my other eye and haul my tired bones out of bed, grumbling that he needs to relax. I’m up. He can get in the goddam shower.

At this point, Abby usually pulls my shirt down and latches onto a boob. I lay back down and we nurse. I close my eyes. Ah…more sleep. “Mama!” She’s up again. So much for that. She slides her little body off the bed and runs down the hall. I force myself upright and limp after her.

Is it just me, or do all moms feel like a giant lump of pain when they crawl out of bed in the morning? I look like Gollum when I first get up, my gnarled body hobbling around in tank top and boxers as I search for something to eat. And everything hurts! My knees, my neck, my back, even my elbows. What’s the deal? Am I still recovering from the train wreck that was childbirth? Am I just old? Is it because I lug around a 30 pound toddler all day? The answer is probably yes. To all of the above.

So, after Abby gets me out of bed, I brush my teeth and take a Synthroid pill. And then I have to wait for an hour before I can eat (the Synthroid needs time to work its magic). I’m usually pretty hungry when I first wake up, so that hour feels like an eternity.

While Bret showers, I bring in the laundry from the clothesline on our back porch. Nobody has a dryer here. We just hang our clothes outside and they’re dry in under an hour. Unfortunately, they’re also sort of crispy. For the first time in my life, I understand why fabric softener was invented.

After the Synthroid waiting period, I make coffee using my french press and scarf down a bowl of oatmeal with flax and butter. It tastes better than it sounds. I’m usually able to convince Abby to pause and eat a couple of bites of oatmeal too. Mornings are a busy time for her. She has to inventory her toys and push her potty chair around the living room. She has a life, okay?

It’s a pretty normal routine we have. I’m guessing most people, especially those with spouses and/or children, perform some variation of this routine every morning.

So, this got me thinking. Our life isn’t so different from what it was back in Pasadena. Some things are very different. The biggest one being that we live in Jordan, not the United States.

I realize I’m stating the obvious, but it’s actually quite significant. Even as foreigners, we’re subject to the laws here in Jordan. The personal freedoms we enjoyed in the States don’t necessarily apply to us here. It’s nothing to fret about, just something to be aware of.

Besides, any place you live is going to have its pros and cons. Even if you live in paradise, I bet you can find something to complain about. “These chocolates are too chocolatey. This massage is too awesome. Ugh! I am so sick of these amazing sunsets!” You get the picture.

That’s my amateur version of paradise, by the way. What is paradise, really? I  imagine a very zen-like spa in a lush jungle (but with no dangerous or poisonous animals, only nice monkeys). Also, I don’t actually walk in my paradise, rather I float. And I’m wearing a plush robe. Basically, my paradise looks like Burke Williams with howler monkeys.

Well, Aqaba isn’t exactly paradise. Or Burke Williams. But it’s home, for now. And like anywhere else, it’s a town that has some things I like, and some I don’t. It was the same in Pasadena. Plenty of things I loved and plenty of things I found annoying.

Since I’m in a positive sort of mood today, I’ve compiled a list for myself (and for you!) of some things about Aqaba that I find odd, funny, charming, beautiful.

For the record, these are only my opinions. The views expressed here do not represent those of…well, anyone other than me. If I had a studio backing me, or some sort of endorsement deal, not only would that be awesome, it would also be important that I give a disclaimer at the start of something like this. I thought I would practice, just in case an endorsement deal comes along.

1. Call to Prayer. This happens in town five times a day and it’s basically the Muslim equivalent of church bells. You’ve heard call to prayer, most likely in such films as Blackhawk Down and Hurt Locker. It’s some dude chanting in this eerie minor key, reminding everyone it’s time to face east and pray. Even though I’m not particularly religious, I think call to prayer is beautiful. It’s a haunting sound. We can’t really hear call to prayer out in Tala Bay so I only hear it when I’m in town. The only time call to prayer sounds creepy is when one of the speakers is on the fritz and the voice distorts. Then, it sounds like the lead singer of Pantera communing with satan.

2. The Camels. I love them. Such odd animals, aren’t they? Knobby knees, long, skinny necks, droopy eyes and lips. They hang out under the palm trees in this huge dirt lot in town. Occasionally, they go out for a stroll. Below is a picture Bret took while he waited to pick me up outside of the International school. Camels on walkabout.

3. German Kitchen Appliances. Say what you will about Germans, but they really understand efficiency. We have the most amazing oven. I never knew what an oven was capable of until I met our oven here. It comes with a thick manual explaining which setting is appropriate for any kind of baked good you can imagine. And our washing machine is badass –a little small, but badass. And we have a Braun hand mixer that just makes me giddy. I mix smoothies, milkshakes, soups, sauces, whipped cauliflower (sounds nasty, tastes awesome). Bret points out that it’s actually an “Immersion blender,” not a hand mixer. Whatever it is, it’s a thing of beauty. The day we brought it home I spent a few hours just immersion-blending various concoctions in the kitchen.

Our dishwasher is the only appliance I’m not crazy about. I’m glad we have a dishwasher, don’t get me wrong. Washing dishes by hand SUCKS, especially because I cook almost every meal. But our dishwasher has an especially sensitive flood sensor and it goes off sometimes in mid-cycle. It beeps and beeps and won’t shut up until one of us (usually Bret) gets up and manually turns it off. And then the whole cycle is ruined because when that sensor goes off, the dishwasher, in typical German fashion, is like, “Nien! Nacht! Nicht!” Something like that. Basically, it refuses to finish the cycle, or let us start a new one, until at least 45 minutes has passed. So we have to turn the machine off and let it take a nap or whatever the hell it does for 45 minutes and then try again. Two words: LITTLE NAZI.

4. Maktoob-Yahoo! The first time I logged onto Yahoo in Jordan, the homepage was in Arabic with pictures of celebrities I’d never heard of. In my jetlagged state, I kind of freaked out. But Bret fiddled with my computer and was able to switch it back to English. But he wasn’t able to switch it back to the United States version of Yahoo! Because of our IP address, we get the Middle Eastern version of Yahoo. It’s called Maktoob Yahoo. I don’t mind. In fact, I’ve grown quite fond of Maktoob. I’m now up-to-date on the weather in Amman, the daily prayer schedule, and the gossip in Bollywood.

5. Halal. This is an Arabic wording meaning, “permissible,” or “allowed.” It refers to food, cosmetics, pharmaceuticals, etc. that are suitable for use/consumption by Muslims according to Islamic (or, Sharia) Law. Meat and poultry must be slaughtered by hand with a sharp knife for it to be halal. This is what comes printed on our packages of frozen chicken purchased at the local Safeway. You don’t often see this in the States.

6. Umm Abby. That’s my Arabic name (unofficially). It translates into Mom of Abby. Some people go by Umm “insert firstborn child’s name here” as their name. For the dads, it’s Abu. So, Bret is Abu Abby. The one part I don’t like about this cute naming custom is that the name defers to the firstborn child OR a son. So if Abby has a younger brother one day, and we named him Mahmoud (for example), then Bret and I would be known as Abu Mahmoud and Umm Mahmoud, even though Abby is our firstborn. But if our second child is a girl, then we would remain Abu Abby and Umm Abby because Abby would be our eldest and apparently her younger sister would be chopped liver. Sexist and lame. I’ll be Umm Abby forever no matter how many sons I have. By the way, Umm rhymes with “womb.”

7. The Red Sea. It’s gorgeous. It sparkles like diamonds. I’m not trying to be poetic. That’s exactly what it does. Sparkles like diamonds. It’s warm and clear and very salty (so you’re extremely buoyant when you swim in it). The Red Sea is truly a fantastic body of water. In LA, we lived close-ish to the beach. Not close enough though because we rarely went there. In Aqaba, I go to the beach almost every day. Abby and I sit in the sand and look at rocks and shells. Abby likes the rocks. She picks them up and carries them around as she toddles on the beach.

8. The Food. Labaneh, hummus, lentil soup, tabbouleh, falafel, fuul, shawerma, eggplant salad, lemon-mint drink. I love it all. It’s delicious and healthy and very fresh. Middle Eastern food is one of my favorite cuisines. It’s a good thing too because there’s plenty of it here.

9. Our Apartment. It’s bigger than our house back in Pasadena and has very high ceilings. We also have air-conditioning in every room, which is both lovely and necessary. The entire place has tile floors and we have two large bedrooms and two bathrooms. It’s also nice that nothing needs fixing. Back in Pasadena, Bret had a list of about 800 things around the house that needed some sort of repair. Here, not only is there nothing to fix, even if there were, it’s not our responsibility. We’re renters! There’s something delicious about renting. It’s liberating after five years of constant remodeling and repair efforts. I say this like I did any of the repairs myself. Bret did all of the actual work. But I don’t know how to do any of that manual labor stuff. I feel proud of myself when I change a lightbulb.

10. The People. For the most part, every person I’ve met and befriended here is lovely. Jordanians and the expats alike have been welcoming and kind. I’ve been invited into people’s homes for tea, coffee, breakfast, lunch. And the people who invited me were virtual strangers. They showed us true hospitality and I’m immensely grateful.

11. Everything is Smaller. In the U.S., things are so big. The cars, the people, the portions. In Jordan, everything is much smaller. Even the bugs. The flies are smaller, the cats are smaller, the people are smaller. The grocery stores are smaller and the grocery carts are about half the size of the carts in the United States. I guess in NY, things are a bit more compact but in California, everything is so vast, so spread out, so LARGE. Being here has been good for us as it’s inspired us to be more judicious with our space. When you don’t have a lot of something, it becomes more difficult to waste it. Not that we had a rolling estate in Pasadena, but we had two big cars, two big dogs, a big garage, wide freeways, big grocery stores, big malls, Big Gulps, the list goes on. Here, we have no garage and one small rental car (a Peugot!) that we share with one other professor at RSICA. We have no animals to look after here, just one small child; although, we do like to give her a wide berth. And in terms of physical possessions, we’re living on a pretty bare-bones household here. And yet, we have plenty. More than enough. I’m telling you, if you got rid of half your stuff, you’d still have a lot and you’d probably feel much lighter.

12. Affection Between Men. It’s a tender thing to see two grown men hugging and pecking on the cheeks. In the States, one might wonder if perhaps the men were lovers. But in Jordan, the hetero men are very affectionate with each other and it’s just part of guys being guys. It’s not widely acceptable to be gay here unfortunately, but it’s totally fine (and even expected) for two manly men to link arms and go for a moonlit stroll on the beach. I wish there was more tolerance for gay people here, but at least men can cuddle with one another without shame.

13. I Can See Africa From my House. This is true. Not only can I see Israel (the lights of Eilat shine brightly), I can also see Egypt. And Egypt is in Africa, for all of you who are geographically challenged. It’s an amazing thing to see another continent from your backyard. Eat that, Sarah Palin!

14. Men Like Kids. In Jordanian culture, children and family are the center of life. People work and have hobbies, but family is the most important thing for most Jordians. And what I find especially interesting is that the men are just as sweet to Abby as the women. Grown men come up to Abby and play with her or give her toys and candy. Many ask if they can hold her or kiss her cheek. Abby isn’t used to so much physical interaction with men (aside from Bret), so she usually rejects it, clinging tightly to me and occasionally bursting into tears. When she cries, the men apologize profusely and back away politely. I assure them it’s okay. She’s just uncomfortable with strangers sometimes. Personally, I think it’s a healthy fear. After a few minutes, Abby usually relaxes and starts to warm up to them. She might even offer a smile or blow them a kiss. And when she does, the men just melt. People really do like children here. In the States, women would often approach Abby or smile at her, but the men usually stayed away. I’m not referring to our friends or family, mind you. Just strangers. Jordanians have a true soft spot for the kids and, as a mom, I greatly appreciate it. I just wish they would stop smoking around children and started using child car seats. I often see kids riding on the laps of their parents in the front seat — no seat belt, no car seat. Some people think this is no big deal. I disagree.

So, that’s my list, thus far. I’ll keep updating it as time goes on. I’m sure I will discover many more wacky, cool, wonderful things about this place. One of these days, I’ll probably make a list of all the things I don’t like, too. I can already think of a few things, but I’ll save them for another day.

In the meantime, this is Umm Abby, signing off.

EILAT Part Two

There we were, at the entrance to Israel. And there they were.

More guards.

One of them was a woman: sturdy, attractive, no-nonsense with dark sunglasses and hair pulled back into an efficient ponytail. I once read that it’s mandatory for all Israeli citizens to serve in the IDF for three years (women for 2 years, or 3 if they serve in a combat position). I wondered, as I watched this female guard flip through our passports, if she got to choose her position, or if she was just issued an assignment, like a Mormon on a mission. I’d rather be a paper-pusher than on the front lines. I’m too much of a pacifist to shoot at people. Besides, I look fat in cargo pants.

So, after the female guard gave our passports a thorough inspection, she waved us on our way. I offered her cohort a quick smile as I passed through the security gate. He was a tall, fit guy wearing a polo shirt and shorts. He actually looked more like a tennis instructor than a border guard. Well, except for the machine gun.

We shuffled along to….another gate.

There were two male guards there, waiting, machine guns poised. One of them had pale blue eyes and couldn’t have been more than 5′ 4″. The other guard was tall and looked like a low-rent Daniel Craig. I wondered if the guards took their machine guns home at night. Or did they leave them at the border, in little cubbies with their names on them? David — Sarah — Schlomo.

The short guard inspected our passports. When he got to Abby’s, he chuckled and held up her photo to Low-Rent Daniel Craig. Low-Rent started laughing and the short guard pointed to Abby’s picture and said, “So cute.” I nodded. “Yeah, she’s pretty cute.” I eyed their machine guns which were at the same level as my daughter’s cute head.

We were then directed to a low, stucco building to pay an entrance tax (hopefully we’d get our goodie bag at this one) and pass through the metal detectors. There was an x-ray machine for our bags too. Israel doesn’t fuck around.

As we entered the building, I felt a blast of cold air and I started weeping. Hallelujah! Air conditioning! Thank you, Israel! And then, through my tears, I spotted a vending machine just beyond the metal detector. COKE! For those of you who don’t know about Bret’s addiction to coca-cola, he drinks several cans a day and has since he was 15 years old. And at this point in our journey, it had been a whole twenty minutes since he’d had a coke, so he was due.

I was feeling better. We were almost to Eilat, Abby’s cheeks were no longer bright red, rather a pleasant shade of peach, and Bret was about to enjoy a cold can of coke. Things were looking up for the Scott family.

I plopped the diaper bag on the x-ray machine and pulled Abby out of the stroller. Bret folded up the stroller and laid it on the conveyor belt. I watched him for a moment.

Poor guy. He was soaked with sweat.

Bret’s body temperature is naturally about 5 degrees hotter than the average person’s. So, when it’s just really hot to you or me, it’s like an inferno to Bret. He sweats a LOT and his skin turns a deep shade of pink. He takes it all in stride though. Cool as a cucumber. That’s one of the reasons I love him. He never panics. He could be caught in a hurricane while dangling from a trapeze above a pit of angry crocodiles and he would still maintain a calm, practical outlook. “Let’s just wait them out, babe,” he’d suggest matter-of-factly, tossing a handful of pumpkin seeds into his mouth (he also loves pumpkin seeds).

Sometimes, his level-headedness drives me nuts. But sometimes, I find it very soothing, and this was one of those times.

I kissed Abby’s forehead. The air-conditioning had cooled her skin. “Baby,” she said, pointing to the young girl ahead of us, passing through the metal detector with her family. “She’s a little girl,” I corrected her. I didn’t want the girl to get offended being labeled a baby by an actual baby. Abby looked at me, “Baby,” she corrected me. The little girl didn’t seem to hear. Or maybe she didn’t speak English? So, I nodded, “Yup, she’s a baby.”

We made it through the metal detectors without incident. I did wonder why they didn’t have bomb-sniffing dogs at the checkpoint. It would have been nice to see a dog. We have two labrador retrievers back in the states (some of you know them) and we miss them terribly. There are virtually no dogs in Aqaba. People here (and Jordan in general) don’t really keep dogs. Apparently, in Jordan, dogs are one step up from pigs.

After getting through the metal detectors, we paid some mysterious number of shekels ($3 shekels to the dollar, right? Something like that) for the entrance tax (alas, no goodie bag), flashed our passports to about 800 more people, one of whom asked what we were doing in Israel. “Um…to get a baby gate,” Bret said sheepishly. I smiled and bounced Abby in my arms. Why was I trying to appear innocent? I had nothing to hide. We needed baby gates and some frozen yogurt. What’s weird about that?

And finally, we were in Israel. We were standing in a desolate parking lot and it was 110 degrees but we were in Israel! We scanned the area for the bus that was supposed to take us into town. All we saw were two taxis waiting nearby.

One of the cabbies got out and walked towards us. “Eilat?” he asked in a heavy accent. Bret politely declined and informed the cabbie that we were waiting for the bus. The cabbie shook his head, “No bus. No bus.”

Bret and I looked at each other. No bus? “No bus,” the cabbie said again. Could he read our minds?

My heart sank. “How are we going to get into town?” I asked, looking down at Abby in her stroller. Her cheeks were bright red again and her forehead was dripping with sweat. She pursed her lips and said “Boo-boo.” Boo-boo is what she calls my breasts. Sometimes it means she’s hungry, but usually she just wants to inform everyone that the lopsided lumps on my chest are called Boo-boo.

The cabbie started ushering us into his car. “We don’t have the car seat, babe,” I reminded Bret. We’d left it in our car which was still parked on the Jordanian side. We assumed we’d be taking the bus into Eilat, so we left the car seat behind. Bret paused.” What do you want to do?” he asked. What could we do? Go back to Aqaba? We really needed those baby gates to help keep Abby safe in the apartment.

We also needed a baby bathtub, by the way, as our apartment is only equipped with showers. We do have two bidets though in case anyone’s interested. Is it gross that we never use them? I’m not even sure HOW to use a bidet. Bret watched an online bidet tutorial (of course he did) and apparently, you’re supposed to sit on the edge of the bidet and wash your butt et al using the little spout. You’re supposed to lather up with soap and everything. I think this sounds like a lot of trouble. Why not just hop in the shower? Also, I’m unclear if you’re supposed to wash after you go number one and number two, or just after number two? I guess it’s sort of a “to each his own” kind of thing. I just leave the bidets alone.

So, back to the cabbie.

He didn’t seem concerned that we didn’t have a car seat. He popped his trunk for our stroller and lit a cigarette.

But I was really concerned. Panicked, actually.

I stood there for a moment. What should we do? Should we forget the whole thing and just go back to Jordan? What if I sat Abby on my lap and put the seatbelt across both of us? Am I nuts? She’s never ridden in a car without being in her car seat. Bret and I even took a course in car seat safety and then spent $270 on a state-of-the-art car seat with side-impact cushioning, a five-point harness and built-in stereo system. How could we even consider letting her ride without it? Jesus Christ, how could anyone think straight in this heat?

Finally, after much waffling, we decided to risk it and have Abby ride on my lap. Don’t judge me. I still feel shitty about it. I was anxious the entire ride into Eilat, which was all of 3 minutes and topped out at 34 miles per hour. The cabbie drove carefully, not too fast or erratic like most cab drivers you encounter. Didn’t matter. I felt like a terrible mother. How could I deliberately put my child in harm’s way? She survived the experience, but what if she hadn’t?

As soon as we pulled safely into Eilat, I promised myself I’d never let her ride without a car seat again. But then I remembered we would need to take a cab back to the border on the way home. Crap.

The cabbie dropped us off in front of the baby store. Well, it was actually one of three baby stores in Eilat, but it’s the one the cabbie said was the best of the three. I thought it was interesting that this grizzled taxi driver had an opinion at all about the baby stores.

Bret asked what currency the cabbie preferred.”I have American dollars or Jordanian dinars,” Bret offered. The cabbie shrugged and said “What good are dinars to me? I take dollars.” Fair enough.

We got out of the car and Bret got the stroller out of the trunk. I kissed Abby’s head, relieved that the 3-minute drive didn’t end in disaster.

We stood on the sidewalk for a moment looking around.

I was struck by how different Eilat was from Aqaba. Women were dressed in shorts and tank tops. There were nice cafes, nail salons, cute little restaurants. The sidewalks were clean, the people seemed sophisticated even though they were dressed in beach clothes. There were no headscarves or chadors. No strange smells, no dirt parking lots filled with cigarette butts and broken glass. I didn’t see any men in long tunics and sandals. No dead goats.

I did see a dog though! He was an adorable little pitbull-dachshund mix (imagine that for a second). He ran up to us, wagging his tail. He was small and brown with a pitbull face and long, dachshund body. I think someone said his name was Coco. “Doggie!” Abby exclaimed.

At that moment, I felt a strange mixture of relief and sadness. Relief because it was so nice to be in a place that felt familiar. Everyone was speaking Hebrew (which sounds an awful lot like Arabic, by the way) but the look of the place, the style, the people. The feel. It felt like home.

I like western culture. I like being free to wear what I want and drive my own car. I like being well-educated and allowed to speak my mind. I like clean streets and nice baby stores and dogs. The sadness was because I wanted to stay.

We walked into the baby store. It was well-stocked with fancy baby furniture and children’s clothing. The sales clerk, a curvy brunette, greeted us with a smile.”Shalom,” she said. We asked her about baby gates and an infant bath tub and she produced several options.

We decided on a purple plastic tub and two wooden baby gates from a reputable brand. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a gate wide enough to accommodate the entrance to our kitchen, which is unusually wide. But at least we would be able to cordon off the hallway which led to the bathrooms and bedrooms. It’s important to contain a toddler as much as possible.

While Bret converted the cost of our purchases from shekels to US dollars (thank you, iPhone), I browsed the selection of toys. The saleswoman asked me where we were from. I told her California and she smiled, “Oh, very nice.”

I then told her we were living in Aqaba for a year though, so we would probably see her again. Her eyes got very big. “Aqaba? You live Aqaba?” I nodded, “Yes, my husband is teaching at the film school there.” She put a hand to her chest. “You’re not scared in Jordan?” she asked me. I thought this was an odd question coming from someone living in Israel. “No,” I told her. “Even at night? Walking around?” she asked. “No. I feel pretty safe in Aqaba,” I said. She gave me a sort of vague nod and I got the impression that she thought I was either crazy, or lying.

Weird. I might be a touch of crazy but I wasn’t lying. Also, it was weird how I was worried about traveling to Israel and this Israeli woman was afraid of traveling to Jordan. I thought of the movie, THE OTHERS with Nicole Kidman. No matter what we are, we’re afraid of the “other.” Danger is based on perception.

I mean certainly, there are things that are truly dangerous. Being a Navy SEAL on a secret mission in Afghanistan is probably pretty dangerous. So is driving drunk or poking a lion in the face with a stick while wearing Lady Gaga’s meat dress. But is living in Israel dangerous? According to the saleswoman at the best baby store in Eilat, no. She felt perfectly safe there. But she was afraid of traveling to Jordan. So is living in Jordan dangerous? According to me, an American expatriate who’s been there for one month, no. I feel pretty safe there.

Perceived fear versus actual danger. Shark bites, lightning strikes, plane crashes, these are all pretty rare. They do happen, but not that often. If that saleswoman from Eilat went to Aqaba and walked down the street, the odds of her getting attacked are about the same as me getting blown to bits by a suicide bomber in Eilat. I studied the display of baby bottles. People are born in Israel every day. They grow up and live there for years and nothing all that bad happens to them. The same is true in Jordan. So what, exactly, is each side telling itself about the other?

“It’s going to be about $130, babe,” Bret announced, looking up from his iPhone. “Plus tax.” Sold. We asked the saleswoman if we could come back for our stuff after we got some food. We didn’t want to lug a plastic baby tub all over town. She nodded, “Of course!”

Once outside, we decided to go to the mall as it was within walking distance of the baby shop. Plus, we were hoping to buy a parasol. The sun was brutal that day and Eilat was easily 10 degrees hotter than Aqaba. How was that even possible?

The mall was busy and bright. It looked like a mall you’d find in the States, complete with a GAP, Nine West and a food court.

There were several frozen yogurt places but I opted instead for a smoothie. I know. After all that and I didn’t even get fro yo. Well, the smoothie had frozen yogurt in it. It also had dates, kiwi, fresh apples, lychee fruit and about nine other kinds of fruits. It was the biggest smoothie I’d ever had. It was delicious but I could only drink about two thirds of it before I started burping up kiwi seeds.

We looked through every single shop and there was not a single parasol or umbrella anywhere in that mall. I did find a bag of Craisins in the pharmacy though. It was the fanciest pharmacy I’d ever seen. It had everything: Ray-Ban sunglasses, hair products you only find in nice salons in the States, and Craisins! I was stoked. I always took Craisins for granted back home and I will never take them for granted again. You simply can’t get them in Aqaba.

After my monstrous smoothie and our failed attempt to find a parasol, Bret and I grabbed some lunch in the food court. I got a slice of mushroom pizza and a salad. It was good but I swear the pizza crust was made out of matzo. Like a giant pizza cracker. It was surprisingly good. Bret opted for traditional middle eastern fare (kebobs, etc.). He gave me his hummus though. Hummus is too healthy for Mr. Bret.

After we had sufficiently stuffed ourselves, we browsed around a bit more and then decided to get our baby stuff and head home. Home. Was Aqaba home?

We made it back across the border without incident, although it took FOREVER! I was glad I had bought a can of peach Nestea in Eilat because it literally saved my life. I thought I was going to die of heatstroke while we waited nearly an hour for the Israelis from Haifa (the ones with the gold crosses and Vanilla Ice haircuts, remember?) to make it through the security post. I don’t know what the hold up was but I was nearing the end of my rope. But then I downed that iced tea in one gulp and, like a wilted plant, I sprang back to life.

At least the Israeli rappers were nice. They fawned over Abby, pinching her cheeks and cooing to her in Hebrew. And Abby was perfectly happy to engage them. She giggled and smiled and called them “Baby.” It made waiting in the heat a little less painful.

So, that was our journey. We got what we needed, enjoyed ourselves, and definitely plan to return to Eilat at some point. Perhaps when the weather cools down.

About a week after our trip, a group of terrorists shot up a civilian bus just 12 miles outside of Eilat. It was actually a bus from Tel Aviv that was on its way to Eilat. Several people were killed and many others injured. The terrorists, who were apparently from Gaza, also detonated a bomb that injured several Israeli soldiers responding to the bus shooting. When I read about this tragedy in the news, I thought of the saleswoman at the baby store. I wondered if she still felt safe.

Welcome to Jordan!

So here we are in Aqaba. We arrived about a week ago; Bret, Abby, and me. Our little family. We’re holding up okay, considering what a HUGE transition this has been. If you’re like, “What do you mean by huge transition, Marj? What’s so huge about it?” Well, for starters, Aqaba’s in Jordan. And Jordan is in the middle east. The middle east. You know, that strange, warring place you hear about on the nightly news. The place for which every rapper used to wish peace back in the 90’s.

Luckily for us, Aqaba (and Jordan) is pretty peaceful. But there’s a 10-hour time difference between Aqaba and L.A. so jetlag was inevitable. We’re only just now getting on a relatively normal sleep schedule.

It’s been a tough week for Bret and me–lots of testy exchanges and general disorientation.  For the first few days, we were going to bed (or more accurately, face-planting) at 4 in the afternoon and awakening at 2 in the morning, ready to start the day. It was a bummer for those first few days, especially since Aqaba doesn’t really get going until 10 am, which makes finding an early bird breakfast damn near impossible. Even finding a cup of coffee before 9 am is tricky. Adding to the weirdness is the fact that it’s Ramadan this month, which means that everyone is fasting (no food or drink) from sun-up until sundown for an entire month. Plus, it’s illegal (ILLEGAL, I say!) to eat or drink anything on a public street until after sundown.

For the record, I’m not fasting and neither is Bret.

Luckily, we also live in a gated community called Tala Bay (8 miles from the town center) filled with German tourists where the same Islamic rules don’t apply.  But to that end, a whole other level of weirdness DOES apply. For example, Bret could rollerskate through the streets of Tala Bay wearing nothing but a purple Speedo and munching on a stollen and no one would look twice. More on that later.

A little perspective: For the past five years, we’ve been living a pretty uneventful life in sleepy Pasadena (California, not Texas). Sure, our little house was sort of falling apart and we constantly stressed over finances but it was an easy life. It was familiar. I knew where the grocery store was, I had a favorite Chevron and we had our daily routines down pat. It was home. Now, we’re seven thousand miles away in a resort town in a developing nation. It’s different.

A few months ago, Bret interviewed for a job as a professor at the only film school in Jordan: the Red Sea Institute of Cinematic Arts (or, RSICA). It’s an MFA program not unlike the production program at USC in Los Angeles. The program here in Aqaba is actually modeled after the USC program but the student body is made up entirely of young adults from the MENA (Middle East North African) region instead of kids from the Mid-west (Iowa, Nebraska, Ohio).

When Bret first mentioned the gig to me, we were in the middle of the worst period of financial hardship we’d experienced since undergrad and I didn’t care if he got a job on Mars, as long as it PAID. And didn’t land him in prison. I wouldn’t want him becoming a pot farmer, for example. I have scruples. Besides, we have a baby now. But things were getting desperate, so if he were offered a job as a mule, I may not have objected.

So, when he got hired at RSICA, it sounded like a dream. The school offered a decent salary and benefits package and the best part (or at least a huge bonus) is that Bret would likely ENJOY the work. It’s easy to lose sight of personal fulfillment when mortgage and gas bills keep knocking you down like little monthly tsunamis. Bret spent three years at USC earning his Master’s in film directing and now he would get the opportunity to teach directing and maybe even have time to direct some of his own projects. After spending the last few years doing editing gigs for mediocre television and internet shows, he would finally get to exercise his intellect, creativity AND Arabic language skills all at once.

After a brief discussion that consisted of: Bret: “So what do you think?” Me: “I think you should take it.” Bret: “Okay,” we decided to pack up our little family, rent out our crumbling house and move to Jordan. Our families and friends were thrilled for us albeit sad to see us moving so far away. We were sad too. Or at least, I was. We reminded ourselves and our friends/fam: it’s only for a year. It’s like going abroad in college. Everyone did that, right?

The most provocative question I got was: “Is it safe?” At first, I had the same question. Would I have to wear a head scarf? Or worse, a full chador? Would I be allowed to drive? Would I be treated like a second-class citizen? Would I get groped by Arabic men on a regular basis? Important questions.

So naturally, I consulted the internet.What I discovered is that Jordan is a pretty relaxed country as far as the middle east goes. Women are not required to cover their hair and they’re allowed to drive. I don’t get groped but I do get stared at a lot. I think that’s just because I’m an obvious tourist.

Also, I’m traveling with an insanely cute baby who says “Hiya!” and waves at everyone. For those of you who’ve met Abby know what I’m talking about. She’s a little cherub with the charisma of Johnny Carson. People naturally gravitate toward her.

After touching down in Aqaba at around 9 p.m. August 4th, one of Bret’s collegues, a lovely Jordanian man, picked us up at the tiny airport. He immediately made us feel welcome and assured us that the two bags the airline had “misplaced” would turn up the following day. I had my doubts as I imagined all of the new clothes I had recently bought from Anthropolgie and Nordstrom and how I would never be able to find suitable replacements in a town where the women wear black robes and rubber sandals.

I felt a rising panic in my chest but decided to trust Bret’s colleague. If you’re wondering why I’m not telling you this colleague’s name, it’s because Bret asked me not to. So, in the interest of convenience and protecting said colleague’s privacy, said colleague will henceforth be referred to as “Marty” (not his real name. Not even close).  So, Marty told me our bags were likely still in Amman and just missed the connecting flight to Aqaba and we’d surely get them in the morning. All we had to do was fill out a claim form and the airline would contact us when the bags arrived. Like I said, I decided to trust Marty. He seemed like he was telling the truth. Besides, Bret assured me over and over that airlines don’t like losing people’s luggage and that we would definitely get our bags within a few days. I couldn’t help but wonder if “a few days” in Jordan was the equivalent of six weeks in America. I took several slow deep breaths.

Thankfully, I had packed a smaller, carry-on suitcase with a few outfits for me and some for Abby. Her giant suitcase was the other one that had gone missing. It was filled with her Funzi Bunz cloth diapers and adorable little dresses from Tea Collection and Baby Gap. I imagined some greasy man with bad teeth peddling our expensive American clothes on the street somewhere in dowtown Amman and I immediately felt like an asshole.

I decided not to worry about our bags and instead focused on the incredibly hot desert air that was choking the breath right out of me. I thought of Brooke Shields in the movie “Sahara.” She wore that awesome khaki jumpsuit and her hair was feathered to perfection. I was wearing black jeans stained with cream cheese and a sweater that smelled like b.o. and secondhand smoke (welcome to Jordan!) and my hair was in a greasy ponytail. Brooke Shields I was not.

After filling out claim forms for our “lost” luggage, Marty took us to our new apartment by way of a small grocery store in town called Mohannad (not be confused with the ever-popular Mohammad). Mohannad was awesome! We picked up some Quaker oatmeal, a block of feta cheese, some chocolate ice cream, apples, bananas and I grabbed a can of kidney beans for some reason. Marty had stocked our apartment’s fridge and cupboards before we arrived, which was incrediby sweet. He got us 3 cartons of milk, orange juice, apricot nectar, plain yogurt, labaneh cheese (a cross between sour cream and Greek-style yogurt), cream cheese, tea, coffee, sugar, toilet paper, garbage bags and a giant box of these cookies called Snack Maamoul. They’re basically the middle eastern version of fig newtons, only they’re filled with dates instead of figs. And they’re totally rad.

After Marty dropped us off at our apartment and we hauled in all of our bags (minus the two most important ones), Bret and I stood in the middle of the living room and stared at each other with bloodshot eyes. Then we polished off about sixteen Snack Maamoul cookies apiece. Exhausted and bloated, we flopped onto our new (king size) bed and fell asleep…for about 5 hours.

Then we sat bolt upright.

It was still very dark outside but our bodies were like, “C’mon kiddos! Up and at ’em!” By the way, our daughter, Abby, was an amazing sport about all of this. She slept for 9 hours of the 11 hour flight from NY to Amman and she was pleasant and happy for almost the entire journey. She’s a far better traveler than either Bret or I.  She turned 14 months on August 9th. I wonder if we’ll get hit with the dreaded “Terrible Twos” next June when her birthday rolls around. I wonder if the so-called Terrible Twos isn’t a myth. If any of you reading this are parents who either have a two-year old or lived through a two-year old, thank you for taking the time to read my blog. And you’re also probably grumbling and laughing at me right now, “Bitch doesn’t know what she’s in for.” Maybe I don’t.

But maybe my girl will skate through the Terrible Twos like she always seems to skate through everything else: smiling, laughing, curious and sweet.

Or maybe she’ll turn into a screaming, demanding little lunatic and it’ll be pure hell for her father and me.

Either way, we’ll get through it. Just like we’re getting through the adventure of moving to Jordan. We’ll get really cranky, apologize and then stuff ourselves with Snack Maamoul.