Hashem's and Downtown

We decided that we could find Hashem’s from where we were, so we set out walking. Now, Rainbow Street is well known in Amman as an artsy type of street; there are numerous restaurants, cafes, and art shops – it is where, at any given moment, you can find 2/3 of Amman’s American population. It ends abruptly at an intersection: in front of you is a half built house – either completely built once or never finished, with the rebar sticking out of the concrete at the second level. Lounging out of the casement of what once was (or what once was going to be) a window was a large German shepherd, standing sentry like a stone lion. We edged our way past him, along a narrow winding road that looked down on similarly half finished and abandoned houses and out over the hills of the city rising around us. We finally found ourselves at Wild Jordan (an ecotourism/environmental rehabilitation nature centre, store, and coffee shop with great views of the city from its decks) to ask for directions.

We proceeded to ignore said directions, relying instead on our previous trip to the city during orientation. Going down a set of Byzantine-era (it seemed) stairs between houses, we were in the oldest part of the city. Stopping to ask for directions at every few shops, we found our way to Hashem’s after walking past it the first time.

The kitchens are located on either side of a grey alley; between them white plastic tables sprawl onto the sidewalk. One of the waiters pointed to a table, where the remains of the previous patron still sat. He placed them on a nearby wait-table and tore off three large piece of brown paper to use as place mats. We ordered falafel and hummus; within a moment a plate of mint, tomato and fennel and two large pieces of pita-bread were before us. Shortly, the waiter returned with bowls of hummus, fuul, and several large falafel balls that he dropped onto the brown paper. The bowl of salt still had the finger depressionos from the last customer. Unsanitary, yes, but the food was amazingly good and there was loads of it.

After finishing our delicious meal, we set off to walk along downtown. Downtown here does not mean the same thing that downtown in the States means: sophistication, pricey goods, and name-brands. Here it means small shops with their goods encroaching onto the sidewalk, tended by the men lounging by their wares. We passed dress-shop by dress shop, although I do not know who wears these traditional dresses. Hanging from models and folded on shelves reaching the ceiling, their bright colors contrast with the sober blacks that most women in traditional garb wear; I wonder if they are meant for the tourists – but then, I saw no other American people along the streets besides myself and friend. We went along the streets, pushing our way through the crowd of people going somewhere, anywhere. We passed shops selling perfume in large bottles that looked like a Victorian pharmacists’, all lined in glass windows and shelves catching and throwing the light from their amber hues. There were Arab sweet shops, and shops selling spices in large barrels and burlap bags bulging in our way on the sidewalk. Down alleys and across the way were electronic shops, pastry shops, butchers, bakers, and (probably) candle makers: baskets, blankets, keffiyas, and coats dangled from the awnings just above our heads. Reaching the main end of one street, we crossed to the other side, weaving through nearly cars that were nearly parked due to the traffic. Now we entered the produce section of downtown, passing cage after cage of rabbits, ducks, geese, chickens, and even turtles. Butcher-shops lined the way here, displaying whole carcasses of lamb in their windows, the bright red and white of muscle and ligament contrasting with the bright blue walls of the shop. Down a crowded alley, we found the heart of the market: barrels of dates, oranges, lettuce, pomegranate, cauliflower and eggplant tumbled from their confines in wooded barrels and carts. The grocers yelled their prices as people haggled and pawed over the food. Beneath the low tarps that formed the ceiling, there was barely enough room to push through the hordes of people in the cave-like atmosphere. Coming into the open, we passed another large mosque and my friend decided we had had enough of downtown.

We left to find our way back to Ranbow Street, where we could find a cab more easily and the ride would be cheaper than going through the jam-packed traffic of downtown. There were a few problems with this plan. First, we didn’t have a map. Second, even if we did have a map, it would do no good. Third, I am probably the person most likely to get lost. Fourth, there are no street names really in this area. Fifth, streets in the Mideast wend and turn haphazardly; they are not orderly like streets in the Midwest. Finally, we had come down the mountain (Jabal Amman): now, we were going back up.

Confidently, however, I set out, leading the way. “We need to go up and to our right,” I said, pretending to be sure of myself. “See, here’s the amphitheatre we saw from that direction.” This was easier said than done, given the tortuous nature of the lanes. We headed up, but no sooner than we started, the road turned in the wrong direction. (It was the road, I swear, not I.)

We passed home after home, tightly crammed against the sidewalk. We did not know if many of the homes were occupied or not, given their state of repair: the multiple shoes lying about and a satellite dish or two, however, suggested someone lived inside. Passing a group of guys lounging outside in front of their boombox, we kept our heads down and walked quickly. The only thing they yelled was, “Welcome! Welcome to Jordan, Americans!” We walked quickly nonetheless.

Up and up we took the street; spying a set of stairs, I suggested those. The stairs curved and turned as we ducked under poles used as a clothesline, past shut gates, and half opened doors that hinted at life within. Coming to the top, we found ourselves at the base of The Citadel, the Roman, Byzantine, and Ummayyed ruins that we had visited during orientation. Unfortunately, this was a good half-mile (at the very least) from Rainbow Street. I eschewed the road, instead suggesting walking along the grassy depression below the walls of the fortification in hopes of getting into the Citadel unnoticed (I commented on the lack of security earlier). However, finding our only way in blocked by a wooden gate in disrepair (I thought we could get through, but my friend said no and I wasn’t really in the mood for getting arrested as a trespasser since, in all honesty, one visit to the police station is quite enough for me), we turned back and took the road.

Finally getting a taxi, I told him our destination. “Oui, oui, mademoiselle,” he replied.

“Merci, monsieur.”

“Ah, you are from France?”

I was tempted to keep up the charade (I suppose I speak my little bit of Arabic with a French accent?), but the other girl told him, no, we were from America. The taxi took us down the mountain, through all the streets we had taken such pain in climbing, and then back through the snarl of cars that passed for traffic downtown. I kept my eyes away from the meter, not wanting to know the pain until the very last.

We returned at last. Back to watch Al-Jazeera while unraveling a sweater for yarn.

A long day indeed.