The kind of dirty that you get in Amman is a special kind of dirty. It's not the kind I'm normally used to - mud, grass, stains that are wet, that smear, that don't come out. The dirty that you get in Amman is dusty, dry, gritty and doesn't make you feel you've ruined your pants. It's a kind of dirt that leaves sparkling clouds in the air after you've hit it with your hand. It's a dry dirt, a special dirt, and in my opinion, something to be proud of.
It's exactly the dirt that was left hanging in the air after I took off my clothes to take a shower tonight. And it stayed in the air, obscuring my vision until the electric fan (my sole air conditioning unit) turned to face me and blow the cloud away.
This is the kind of simple event that I notice when in a foreign land. And for some reason, simple little things like this make me glad to be here. It's the second-world nature of it all - no internet connection, no safe running water, and a shower head that occasionally delivers mild electric shocks - that make me truly believe that maybe I'm not worthless or spoiled after all. The fact that I actually kind of love this life makes me believe there's hope for me. When you tell the driver of a disintegrating taxi in broken Arabic how to get to your home from across the city, then shave by the light of a dim streetlight using an old razor, and wash yourself in a shallow basin before falling onto a low, firm mattress and going to sleep - and actually enjoy it - you know you've come across something special.
Maybe my opinion will change, but when I look over at the pair of shoes on the shelf - black when they left Atlanta, now white with Jordan's dust - I realize that while amenities are great, they don't make you better. I can't wait to see how this feels in a month.
It's exactly the dirt that was left hanging in the air after I took off my clothes to take a shower tonight. And it stayed in the air, obscuring my vision until the electric fan (my sole air conditioning unit) turned to face me and blow the cloud away.
This is the kind of simple event that I notice when in a foreign land. And for some reason, simple little things like this make me glad to be here. It's the second-world nature of it all - no internet connection, no safe running water, and a shower head that occasionally delivers mild electric shocks - that make me truly believe that maybe I'm not worthless or spoiled after all. The fact that I actually kind of love this life makes me believe there's hope for me. When you tell the driver of a disintegrating taxi in broken Arabic how to get to your home from across the city, then shave by the light of a dim streetlight using an old razor, and wash yourself in a shallow basin before falling onto a low, firm mattress and going to sleep - and actually enjoy it - you know you've come across something special.
Maybe my opinion will change, but when I look over at the pair of shoes on the shelf - black when they left Atlanta, now white with Jordan's dust - I realize that while amenities are great, they don't make you better. I can't wait to see how this feels in a month.
