Spontaneity!

Spontaneity

I like the new and adventurous (which is good, considering I’m thousands of miles from home in a country where I don’t speak the primary language or belong to the predominant religious or ethnic group). That, of course, does not prevent me for wanting the old and familiar. However, wanting a taste of home can lead to new adventures in a foreign country – which is how I came to my most recent taxi sampling at night in Amman.

I got back from school around 6 and checked my email for the first time. One of the interns has emailed us a poster for events in the area: there was a classical soprano and piano duet scheduled for that evening at 8. I vacillated. It was 6:15; did I really want to leave my cosy room and venture into the dark night? I wavered. Home or classical music? I bit my lip. Well, I thought, I might as well call about tickets.

The poster, however, was in French since the event was put on by the French cultural embassy. The bottom of the poster listed 6 or so cafes or stores under a heading for “Outlet stores.” Slightly confused that the French cultural embassy would be selling tickets through stores such as a telephone megastore, I tried calling the numbers. Some of them didn’t respond; one of them spoke French; one of them spoke English with a very French accent. I tried explaining my plight to this person; he said, “I am sorry, zere aire no teekets available from now.”

“Okay, thank you.” I assumed that they were sold out. Now that I had major roadblocks in my way, I was determined to attend the concert. I found it strange that the embassy would be selling tickets through the aforementioned avenues and suspected that the man had meant “here” and not “now.” At any rate, I told myself, what would I lose? 5JD or so on a taxi drive to a sold out concert would not be the end of the world.

So I donned my scarf, nice clothes, and half-destroyed shoes and set out to hail a cab. The first driver I met spoke no English. This is when I realized my problem: most places in Amman have Arabic names. I can use these Arabic names and the drivers can understand me. I arrive at said places and everyone is happy and our social contract has been fulfilled. Now, this concert was at the “Al Hussein Royal Cultural Centre.” How on earth do you say, “Royal Cultural Centre” in Arabic? This was not on any of my vocabulary lists. This was not even referred to anywhere that I had ever read or heard of in any language other than English or French. Foolishly, I had set out without my map so I couldn’t even show my taxi driver the area in which I wanted to go.

“Wayn?” he asked as we began to drive.

“Al Hussein Royal Cultural Centre,” I repeated several times.

“Wayn?”

I repeated the location. I mentioned the names of several nearby stores. I tried to orient him: North of Abdoun but south and east of the University.

“Ah, Jabal Amman! Al Hussein Mosque!”

No, I told him. Al Hussein Royal Cultural Centre. I don’t know why he would think that I, a very American girl, would want to go to the mosque at seven on a Monday evening. But then, there really is no accounting for Americans (see my previous post).

“Ah, Al Hussein Cancer Centre!”

No, I told him. Al Hussein Cultural Centre.

“Ah, downtown! You want Beit al-Ras!”

No, I told him. I did not want Beit al-Ras. I wanted the Royal Cultural Center. Finally convinced that I could not, in any way, pronounce the location with a sufficiently Arabic accent that might let him recognize it, I asked to be let off. Disappointed he didn’t get a nice fat fare for driving the crazy American lady around downtown Amman, he let me out and drove off shaking his head at me.

Still determined to make it to the concert (I was on a *mission* now, folks! Forty five minutes until it started!), I hailed another taxi. The driver spoke a smidgen more English; when we came to a stoplight, I remembered I had a pen and paper and drew him a map of the general area I wanted to go. I got across to him, and he got across to me, that he knew one of the nearby landmarks I was trying to use; he could take me there, at least. I agreed.

And so it was that I was dropped off in a shopping district in the middle of Amman around 7:35. I looked around for an English speaking or map-carrying shop; my best bet, I assumed, was a Western Union. Entering shyly, I mustered my courage to ask the teller, “Do you speak English?” He did, fortunately. I explained that I knew where I wanted to go and I knew where it was located but I didn’t know how to say its name in Arabic. The teller very kindly wrote it down on a paper for me, and I went to cross eight lanes of raging traffic to get to the correct side of the road. The taxi driver read the paper and took me right to the location with five minutes to spare. Walking quickly inside, I found a ticket window and bought my ticket.

I enjoyed the show: the soprano, of course, did not compare favorably with my sister and Diana Damrau (take that, Callas!), but she did nicely. The pianist, her son, was amazing. Although he did not appear as comfortable with the accompaniment for the arias (it reminded me of the level of playing one would get at a college concert where the performers perhaps weren’t being graded on their performance), he really shone during the two interludes he played, both of which he had composed/improvised himself. They sounded very French, in the tradition of Debussy – indeed the first one he called “Love Story between the Rain and the Window” and it sounded reminiscent of Jardin sur la pluie. The soprano ended with the often used crowd-pleasers of “O Mio Babbino Caro” and “Habanera” from Carmen; not the most inspired performance I have heard, but good singing and a small reminder of home. It was a lovely evening well worth the adventure attending it.