Toto... We're Not in Kuwait Any More

It's typical following any move to find yourself comparing one life/home/neighborhood with another. Even in our situation, I cannot help but compare our new life in Jordan, with our lives in Kuwait or even Cairo. And so far, allowing for the possibility that I may completely negate myself in the future, I would say that Jordan seems to be the perfect melding of Cairo and Kuwait. How so? Well, Amman is definitely a modern city like Kuwait. It has well-maintained roads, malls, coffee shops, movie theaters, sports clubs, etc. But it still has a touch of Cairo's wackiness with quaint back alleys and kitchy shops, road-side sellers and camels grazing by the highway.

As usual, however, their similarities are far less interesting than their differences. And as we continue to settle in, I find that I'm discovering more and more examples of how different Jordan and Kuwait are.  Here are the most obvious differences I've noted so far:

1.  Seasons!  Jordan has four seasons and I can't tell you how utterly thrilled that makes me. Autumn is my favorite time of year, and not only do we get cool temps here, but we also see leaves changing (just a few, as most trees are palms or firs, but I'll take it)!  Who needs Vermont, right? (Okay, it's not nearly that colorful, but I've been so deprived of seasonal changes for years that I'm reveling in this.)

2.  Women's hair; it's everywhere.  This is closely tied with numbers 3 and 4, and it's all in relation to Jordan being less conservative than Kuwait or Saudi.  Yes, it's still predominantly Muslim, but I've seen only a fraction of women in full black coverage (niqab, abaya, hijab, etc.), whereas in Kuwait that was the norm. And in almost two years in Kuwait, I don't recall seeing one bobbing ponytail.  Some women still wear hijabs in Jordan to cover their hair, but they're often colorful like in Egypt.  But I'm still seeing more women's hair flowing than I've seen in years.  It's like a never-ending Pantene commercial.

3.  Crosses worn openly.  I was honestly shocked at the number of women I've seen wearing crosses on necklaces and bracelets.  Which, in and of itself, told me that it had been an uncommon sight in my life that I hadn't really even noticed.  It's a little odd to notice an absence, isn't it?

4.  Martini Mondays.  Kuwait was a dry country, meaning no alcohol, even in Italian restaurants (which drove my husband crazy).  However, in Egypt, restaurants would serve alcohol, and there were even shops called Drinkies that not only sold beer and wine, but would also deliver it to your door.  But even still, coming to Jordan where there are actual liquor stores and popular restaurants advertise "Martini Mondays" and "Tequila Tuesdays" is a bit of an adjustment, even for me.

5.  Bookstores selling books.  In Kuwait, I spent a few months searching for bookstores.  I was able to find about three, and they were tiny.  The Virgin Megastore that had been touted as Kuwait's largest bookstore was closing within months of our arrival.  I overheard a clerk telling someone, "We can't sell anything here. The censorship is too strong."  Maybe he was making it up, maybe he wasn't.  Regardless, the one book we bought in Kuwait was a child's Arabic vocabulary book, and we bought it at the grocery store.

6.  Sidewalks (sort of).  Don't get me wrong, Jordan is not lined with suburban American sidewalks, perfectly maintained, bedecked with hopscotch outlines, a haven for jogging strollers and dog walkers.  However, they do exist, and there are times you can actually walk on them.  Granted, there are also times when trees are planted in the middle, or cars are parked on them, or the hills of Amman have caused the curbs to be almost 48" tall (completely blowing away Cairo's "buns of steel curbs" which I had thought were the highest), but as a mom with a stroller who loves to walk, I can say that they're sort of walkable.

7.  No red onions.  Maybe not earth-shattering, but strange, no?  We've looked in all grocery stores, from large chains to smaller shops, we've checked out the road-side veg sellers and the fruit and veg bodegas, and not a red onion to be found.  So sad.

8.  Prius, yes; Maserati, no.  This is such an amusing change from Kuwait, I can't tell you!  Not only have I seen one Prius, but I've seen several.  And while BMWs and Audis and all are seen, I've not seen one Bentley, Lamborghini, or Maserati.  Not passing judgement, just making an observation.

9.  Traffic and right-of-way.  Okay, this is still similar to Kuwait.  For whatever reason, and I don't know who started it, but Jordan, like Kuwait, has a bias against left turns.  Conversely, they love medians, the longer the better, u-turns and traffic circles.  Unfortunately, also like Kuwait, the concept of right-of-way, and priority given to already turning vehicles, remains foreign and untranslatable.  Hence, driving here is almost as frustrating as in Kuwait (though they don't reach the speeds of the yahoos in Kuwait, and seem to have a lower crash rate; interesting parallel).

20.  Western seepage.  I truly do wonder just how many places in the world there are left that remain untouched by greasy hands?  Jordan, like Kuwait, Dubai, Cairo, etc., is thoroughly doused in KFC, McDs, BK, Popeyes, Pizza Hut, Papa Johns, Starbucks, Caribou, etc.  And not to be outdone by fast food, there's also Ace Hardware, True Value, Bath & Body Works, and there's even an Ikea coming.  Progress or regress, you decide (though I do love a good Ikea).

So, for good or bad, this is not Kuwait and it's not Cairo, but it is home.  And home is what you make of it.  And as long as we plan accordingly, we should be able to survive three more years without making one left turn.

All Things Olive, part 2

Following our introduction to the olive wood creations, our "all things olive" tour continued with a 90-minute drive north, past the forests of Ajloun, near the Greco-Roman ruins of Jerash. We had signed up with a local tour group (www.engagingcultures.com), but had opted to drive our own car and follow their van, so the baby could have her carseat. This was not only the first time we were driving out of Amman, but it was also the first time we were driving any distance and blowing the dust off our new (2006) Mitsubishi Pajero. It was slightly harrowing, as the van driver drove faster than I was typically used to, especially in a new larger vehicle. But I managed to keep up with the help of tight abs, constantly tense shoulders and never-blinking eyes.

We drove north out of Amman, through smaller towns and cities, past farms and road-side fruit stands, past little kiosks with blinking blue lights indicating "coffee here", past multiple sellers of ceramic jugs, pillars and the occasional lion.

We passed by the sign for Ajloun Forest Reserve, as well as the 2,000+ year-old ruins of Jerash, noting to return on another date for proper explorations of each.

After driving through two towns and their windy hilly roads, we came upon Ajloun Castle, high on the hill overlooking practically everything (yes, it's also on the "visit here" list). Here is where we met our host for the day, Abu Anas. From here, Abu Anas led us to his olive farm, which consisted of true off-roading over rutted dirt "roads" and up and over some rather breath-holding angled hills. The van couldn't make it up the last ascent, so they pulled off to the side but we were told to drive on up, so with my foot to the floor and being ever so thankful there was no ice present, we bumped up the last hill to park at the top.

The tour group had arranged for us to come out and spend a few hours picking olives, have lunch, and get to know our hosts. Abu Anas quickly gathered us all around, and explained quite simply that our job was to either, a) remove the olives from the tree branches by hand, or b) pick up the olives from the tarps laid under the trees. Every single olive was to be gathered and collected in the buckets, regardless of size or condition (squashed ones, too). Abu Anas' family, including his sons, nephews, wife and her sisters, were also there picking and plucking and bucketing far faster than any of us.

There were ladders for those willing to reach out and up for the top olives, and the rest of us gathered around a few trees and started picking or gathering. Even the kids got involved, including Bean. Though we did have to repeatedly explain to her to put the olives in the bucket, not take them out.

Abu Anas' farm is located on approximately 5,000 square meters of very hilly land. It was beautiful scenery, but very rocky and muddy, though luckily it hadn't rained recently so we weren't caked in it. I couldn't begin to imagine the number of olive trees he has, but this is harvesting season, so every olive must be gathered. Some are taken to a factory where they're squeezed into oil, but others are packaged up for regular olive consumption. We were all given two jars of fresh olives to take home, as well as the recipe to make them edible (apparently olives don't just fall off the tree ready for the closest martini or vegan tapenade).

We picked and gathered olives for an hour or so, and I say that loosely as I spent more time taking pictures and watching Bean toddle around, than I did gathering olives. But then Abu Anas kindly said we were done and gathered us around for a home-cooked meal. As vegetarians there was nothing Bean and I could eat, but I'd packed her lunch so we munched on carrots and cucumbers and pasta while the others partook of the meal. We did enjoy some very sweet tea that was constantly brewing over a lit fire (boy, it's not surprising that it can be difficult to find a "small" bag of sugar in the stores here considering the vats they go through daily just in tea).

Abu Anas also showed us how we should prep our fresh olives for curing by smashing them open with a rock. He'd set up two stations, with boards covered in plastic wrap, and nice flat rocks at the ready, but I opted to just take our jars home and smash the olives there (I also opted for the side of a knife instead of a rock, so ours might not taste as authentic). The recipe then requires you to fill the jars of squished olives with fresh water and leave them for three days. Then you change the fresh water and let them sit another three days. At this point you take them out, toss them with salt, lemon slices, and optional olive oil or green chili, then reseal with fresh water and let them sit for a month. Then enjoy! (We'll let you know in a month how they turned out and whether I wished I'd used the rock.)

The ride home was far less tense, as we felt we could dawdle a little once we were through the small towns and back on the main road that would lead us directly into Amman.

The roads led us from the bottom of the valleys to the tops of the hills gazing across for miles. It's such beautiful scenery I couldn't stop commenting on, or photographing, it; though I did take breaks to capture the road-side fun as well, including some now-appreciated olive stands.

So, in the span of just two weeks, we had been thoroughly educated in all things olive (yes, for those type-As out there, I know we didn't actually see the olive oil process, but hey, it's also on the "visit here" list). So, if you just happen to be in the neighborhood in a month, swing by for a taste of some genuine Abu Anas olives and come admire our beautiful salad servers and we promise to tell you all about "all things olive."

All Things Olive, part 1

Jordan's relationship with the olive is one that cannot be overstated. History shows that for 6,000 years (nope, not a typo) olive trees have dotted these rolling hills. And over a two-week period recently, we got to pick them, cure them, and even witness their prunings being turned into beautiful figurines. It really is amazing to see all that the little unassuming olive has to offer. Our first "all things olive" adventure, took us to a modest little workshop in western Amman. It was wedged in the back alley of an industrial neighborhood amongst dusty marble and wood workshops. (It actually brought back fond memories of Cairo's alley explorations with shopping guru, Francine.)

Glad Tidings Holy Land Designs (www.holylanddesigns.net) specializes in olive wood products. They have a small display shop in their workshop, but rely mostly on craft fairs and bazaars and Internet sales for their business. They've been in operation over twelve years and primarily make ornamental figurines, such as camels, angels, nativity sets, etc., as well as some jewelry, and household items like salad servers and small bowls.

They use only the trimmings from olive trees, and with the end of the harvesting season approaching, they will soon fill up their warehouse entirely with cuttings from the post-harvest prunings. They make everything right there in their workshop, where they have specialized machines and saws and some employees who've been working with olive wood for over thirty years. They have over twenty employees currently and the pieces start with the men carving out the basic shape of the camel, angel, spoon, or whatever, using electric saws and machines.

Then the women (who are the majority of the employees), take on the task of sanding down each item by hand revealing details and the intricate wood patterns each piece holds. The random patterns in the wood are what give olive wood pieces their stunning beauty and distinction. The pieces are all sanded five times, ensuring a smooth, almost satin-like, surface. Then they're allowed to rest, letting the wood settle and finish drying out. If any cracks appear, they are filled carefully with an epoxy before one final sanding. The final step is the veneer coating which helps bring out the wood grain designs. For most pieces, the process takes at least a month for completion.

On our tour, we were shown all the steps. From seeing the piles of olive wood cuttings stacked up to the ceiling, to watching a gentleman effortlessly carve a spiral spoon out of a block of wood, to watching a man use a jigsaw to cut out pieces of a 3-D nativity ornament, to seeing how the women sand and sand and sand the pieces until they're completely smooth.

It was an impressive set-up, but even more impressive were the final products. There's something about seeing exactly how something is made, and what goes into it, that gives you a whole new appreciation. My husband was so taken with the man who carved the salad spoon that he said he thought we could use a set. Personally, I was eyeing the camels, but I'll always say yes to a beautiful set of salad servers, so we added it to our basket.

By the end, we had a nice little assortment of their products, and not one gift among them. I figured we'd be back before the holiday rush, and by then I'd have my complete list of camel receivers versus angel receivers versus salad server recipients.

(See "All Things Olive, part 2" next)

Death By a Thousand Boxes... and a Toddler

This was our fifth move overseas, so if anyone should be getting the hang of it, it should be me, right? However, there was one new factor for this latest move that raised the frustration, complication and tear-enducing levels to staggering new heights and it had nothing to do with my husband's astounding procrastination abilities; it was simply, the toddler factor.

When we did our pack-out from Kuwait, I wisely hired our housekeeper to take Bean out of the house for the majority of the chaos. And that made a huge difference in my ability to scurry around and oversee the packing. Fast forward four months and we are happily seeing all those carefully wrapped boxes being unloaded into our garden in Jordan like long-lost friends (yeah, you get a little over-emotional at the prospect of seeing your sheets and dish drainer when you've been living out of suitcases for four months). As the 130 boxes were coming through the front door, I'd quickly glance at the label on the box and direct it's placement - master bedroom, nursery, kitchen, dining-dump-room, etc. - and in doing so I caught a few amusing notations; "lady kits," "flash's light," "baby drops" and "rattan decor". (Upon unpacking, I discovered "lady kits" was toiletries and our "rattan decor" were two straw seat things from Ikea. I never did discover what the "baby drops" were, but the box was big.)

One of the benefits of having to wait for your stuff, in theory, is that you have a few weeks or months in your new home to decide how you want things set up. So once all the filling arrives, you would think it would be relatively easy to unpack and put things where they were going to live for the next three years. And in the past this process was arduous and exhausting, but I never felt like I was losing my mind; until this time.

Unpacking with the "aid" of an eager toddler presented a whole new level of challenges I had not anticipated (though I probably should have). Being fully enmeshed in the "helpful" stage, meant Bean would follow me around and unpack, or re-pack, depending on her whim, whatever box was open and in front of her. Often she'd toddle off with whatever gem she'd discovered and I'd have to go searching throughout the rooms of chaos to find my other boot or camera bag or shower gel bottle (unearthed from the "lady kits" box). If she came upon a box that was still sealed, she'd quickly switch modes and slap on her crampons, grab her carabiners and start climbing, causing lots of Mommy exclamations like "Oh, be careful!" and "Oh, no, let's not do that," and other such insightful statements. Never-ending fun abounded, but the unpacking progress was painfully stagnant and my needs for a tidy nest were going unheeded.

So by day eight of this frivolity I was crankier than a toddler with an unfulfilled demand and felt like it was never going to end. There wasn't one room where I could happily sit and gaze at my little organized oasis. I couldn't even hide in the bathroom because there were "lady kits" that needed organizing that I was constantly telling Bean to "put it back, put it back", wishing I'd get around to just putting it away.

On top of all the fun-with-toddlers I was having, I was also faced with the realization that we own a huge amount of breakable, non-toddler-friendly items, lovingly collected from all our worldly travels. We have piles of glassware and surprisingly sharp metal lamps from Egypt, ceramics from Italy, Portugal and Turkey, framed photos and wooden masks from Tanzania. Why did it never occur to us to just collect pillows from around the world, or country-inspired teaspoons?

The winds finally started to shift the day I got my closet organized. I found myself returning to it repeatedly just to remind myself that it was possible; there was an organizational light at the end of the closet.

So by day ten we were about 90% unpacked and organized and my breathing was far more regular and hardly cried at all. However, now each room had a little pile of what I refer to as the niggly bits; those weird little items that don't really fit anywhere that just end up end up cluttering drawers or baskets. Part of me felt like they should be properly sorted and put away and not just stashed, but that part of me was quickly quashed as my energy, interest and decision-making capabilities had been thoroughly drained dry, and frankly I couldn't give a damn where the candlewick scissors went or my high school calculus calculator, that should never have come overseas, should go.

So in the end, Bean and I survived the unpacking-with-toddlers process, and we now have a house full of lovingly stashed hard-to-reach breakables. And with her helpful packing, unpacking and stashing abilities, we only managed to lose one remote control that we thought has been accidentally "packed" back into a box that went out to trash. Of course, we found it nestled safely in her toy bin the day after the replacement arrived in the mail, but it's probably best to have two, anyway; I have a feeling "fun with toddlers" won't end with just the final moving box.

Intrigue, Cabinetry, and Cat Poop; Just Another Day as an Expat

Life as an expat can be full of adventure and intrigue. You can find yourself watching the sun rise over the Serengeti or set over the Sahara; yacht racing off Gibraltar or sidewall skiing in Riyadh; hiking Machu Picchu or riding a dhow through the Strait of Hormuz. Then again, there are also the days that are chock full of more intrigue than one girl can bear, especially when they start off with the discovery that you have no water. In spite of living in yet another desert country, you were assured when you did the "welcome to your new home" walk-through with the building manager last week, that the two cisterns in the basement allegedly held two cubic meters of water each and that there were multiple top-off deliveries weekly. Of course, then you remembered that you also discovered that the gauge on the water tank was broken but you'd forgotten to follow up with that. So, with "water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink," running through your head, you make the emergency water calls, stack the dirty breakfast dishes off to the side and mentally calculate a rotation schedule for the five toilets in the house.

A few hours later, after a brisk two-mile walk with fellow ex-pat moms and strollers, and an hour on the playground tiring out the toddlers, you put the baby down for her nap and you happily collapse for your blessed two-hour mid-day break. But 45 minutes into the two-hour nap, the doorbell clangs and there's a guy delivering hangers and a TV that your husband had requested to borrow. You're grateful for the hangers and the TV, since you're still awaiting the arrival of all your household stuff, however now the baby's awake and there's no convincing her to return to sleep.

An hour later the kitchen contractors arrive, as scheduled, and for the next hour-and-a-half you spin between the front door and the garden door letting men in and out as they gather and retrieve tools and supplies and all things needed to install cabinet doors, drawer fronts, shelves and hardware that hadn't been completed before your arrival two weeks prior.

During all this fun, you add to the mix another gentleman who arrives to install a doorbell at the garden gate. You had no idea this was needed, but sure, go ahead, the more clanging bells to wake up the baby the better. Then you get to shove the furniture around with him looking for an empty plug that the remote bell can use. You try all four in the front two rooms, but as soon as he walks outside, the sensor goes dead. He blames it on the battery, though you point out the thick cement walls may be a factor as well. Failing at his intended mission, he then joins the men in the kitchen because you just can't have too many men named Khalid with electric screwdrivers and hinges.

However, despite the never-ending amusement of trying to pick up Arabic contracting terms and watching men with screwdrivers and flying sawdust, the effects of the baby's mini-nap start to set in with the crankies and the eye-rubbing, so you opt to give another nap a try, even though your instincts tell you she's not going to sleep for nothing.

You put her down and before you've taken ten steps the bellowing begins. And as a parent, you know the different cries. This is not the "I'm going to fuss a bit, but then I'll calm down and go to sleep" cry, this is the "I'm going to cry until I'm purple or blowing chunks" cry. But still you tell yourself you're going to give it five minutes. Sixty seconds later, you hear coughing and by the time you've raced back to the bedroom, your darling little cherub is a volcano spewing partially digested tofu and broccoli everywhere.

So you leave the Khalids to their business, hoping they don't let the cat out during their forays in and out, and you address the dripping child, the dripping sheet, blanket, stuffed owl, and even the slats of the crib. Amazing talents this child has given a mere sixty seconds.

After the cleanup, you return to the kitchen (verifying the cat hasn't left the recliner, but why would he?) to find that the cabinet doors, shelves and drawer fronts are installed, but only half have handles. Apparently there was a miscalculation during a previous assessment as to just how many handles were needed. No worries, we have three years.

So, with Ahmad, Mohammed, and the two Khalids gone, you finally escape to the garden and begin to count down the minutes until Daddy gets home to relieve you (94, 93, 92...). Under the blue skies and gentle breeze, with the baby toddling around picking up sticks and rocks, you breathe a deep sigh of contentment and give yourself a little pat on the back for surviving yet another intrigue-filled day as an expat. Then your daughter runs up with a big smile and hands you the latest rock she's found. As you bend over to proclaim the requisite admirations, you see that it's not actually a new rock in your hand, it's desiccated cat poop. Yup, definitely more intrigue than one girl can handle. I think it's time to drain out those cisterns with a good scalding four-hour shower. Oh Calgon, do you come with anti-bacterial?