I left the airport building to look for a taxi. I waited for a moment, holding back against the outer wall under the awning. It was dark and raining (finally!) in Amman. I found a large poster listing the rates…the details were in Arabic but the main cities were in English as well. (Interestingly, it only cost a little over 100JD to go from Queen Alia to the Iraqi border. I was not tempted.) I edged toward a group of people that looked like they were getting taxis. How do you hail taxis here? This was not covered in predeparture! I can do it in New York, but how do they do it in Amman?

“Taxi?” Two men were coming toward me, saying what I assumed was taxi.

“Yes,” I said.

“Geneva?”

“Zhaneeva?”

“Yes. Geneva.”

“Okay, Zhaneeva.” I thought we were talking about the same place. One of them took my luggage and stored it in the trunk. The other handed me a document in Arabic (although, fortunately, the numbers and the main city names were also in English): this was the official charge, since only specially licensed taxis can pick people up from the airport. (There were policemen around and the vehicle had an official looking insignia on it, so I wasn’t concerned).

The man who had helped with the luggage waited for the tip. I held out a 5JD. “I don’t have any change….”

“No small money?” The driver said.

“La, la.” I replied.

He sighed, pulled out a 1JD and handed it to me to hand to the man who had taken the baggage. I knew the ride would be between 20 and 23JD, so I knew I had the correct bills to take care of it all.

We headed off, driving from the outskirts of the city. “Going to Zhaneeva?”

“Yes.”

“Reservation?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay, good. Ahlan wa Sahlan! Welcome to Jordan.”

We took off. I was pleasantly surprised by the driving; although we definitely were going down the middle of the road, making three lanes where there were supposed to only be two, it wasn’t a bumper to bumper chaotic mass of honking horns and dodging motorbikes with families of five on board. Of course, that might have been because it was raining.

As we drove from the outskirts of town into the city proper (I think…I haven’t exactly examined a map yet), the scenery remained much of the same. The white houses in their distinctive style of squat corners and rounded windows did not look particularly inviting in the rain and drizzle, but they did look interesting and full of character. The driver listened to the radio as he smoked, constantly flicking his hand out the window to either get rid of ashes or gesture to other drivers. They were talking about, of course, the situation in Egypt; this was evident from the mention of the Egyptian leader(s) and common words like sharia and the names of the various political movements.

We pulled up to the curb of one hotel.

“Zhaneeva?” I looked up at the hotel as he suddenly pulled away. “No, no, this is not Zhaneeva.” He turned around and headed back the way we had come. I could tell we were in an upscale part of the neighborhood – not from the fancy houses or cars but from the upscale restaurants. How could I tell they were upscale restaurants? All their writing was in English: Popeye’s, KFC’s and a Wendy’s. I have never eaten in a fast-food restaurant that looked as nice as these did: fancy lighting, fashionable paint jobs, and wide glass fronts that beckoned you to experience the fatty taste sensations within.