Jordan is a new country on the map here in the Middle East, it’s been built mostly since 1921. The buildings are new white stone, in modern Bauhaus style, with added Doric columns. It is attractive for the desert. Security is quietly evident, especially in the up-scale neighborhoods. A three-pat body search is unobtrusive but standard at the mall and at international hotels. For the Middle East, this is a country that has no natural wealth, indicating that Jordan should have a secure future. The city, built on seven hills, has only two or three notable historic monuments. There is little excitement, according to my host, Usama, who prefers Beirut, which turned out to be a let-down.
For the rest of our vacation, I try to get Usama and Maile to fly to the newer Gulf States like Dubai and Abu Dabi, where it is exciting and things are happening. “It’s already June,” he says, “too hot,” and drags us to Beirut, Lebanon, the place of his youth. The city depresses me. There is so much lost hope here. Buildings are abandoned, many not occupied since the recent civil war and the invasion of 2006. It’s a time to move on, the crest has fallen. Israel, its neighbor, which periodically erupts in growing pains, will have to come into its own, settle down and not spew its military might like a volcano across the border. My sense is this will take another 30 to 40 years, a good generation and a half.
We sit in cafes. I dream of dancing, sexual trysts, and imagine lascivious physical engagements with a beautiful crippled Arab man sitting near me. I imagine how long it would take for him to crawl up my legs, have full pleasure, then back again . . a long time. We are having tea and pastries. It comes time for him to leave and he manages to life himself enough to slide into a custom designed Audi. Another time, an Arab man with a gorgeous, craggy face catches my eye. He looks straight at me, a forbidden act for a man and woman who are strangers in this part of the world. His look takes me to my knees. I literally cannot recover from the sight of him in his dusty djellabah. On sandaled feet he continues his glide away from me. He is possibly 33 years old. His life will not change, nor his class, nor place in the world. What haunts me was that purest moment of male/female connection. Then alas, he disappears and I am left with nothing but the power of this virile image.
I cannot get into Gaza. The news is that the Israelis are about to invade. It would take two weeks to get permission from their embassy. This is not to be, they will not allow me to cross the border. Moreover, I could not bring anything and would have to walk on soft sand for a long, long way. As of June 17, I am no longer walking much.
12:15 AM, Beirut—there’s chaos in the streets, honking horns, drivers gone amok! Barricades in zigzag patterns are set up next door at the Intercontinental Hotel. Is Secretary Rice leaving at this hour? She had arrived this morning. Diplomats talk, pedestrians squawk. Have they no manners out there? Don’t laws exist here in Albuquerque—I mean Lebanon? Damn, New York cab drivers have more patience. By this time I am audibly groaning from my growing misery, frazzled by the disrespect of those unconscionable brutes out in the street. I stomp to the balcony in my pink nightie and finally the drama unfolds. “It’s the Italians,” laughs Usama, leaning over the stone carapace. “They’ve won the soccer match.” Young people are pouring out of the Hard Rock Café on the second floor of our hotel and piling into cars, blasting their horns, streaming up and down, up and down along the famous Mediterranean promenade boulevard of this once fair city.
The next day, Adnan, 77, Usama’s poorer, disinherited cousin, picks us up and gives us a tour of the city. He is knowledgeable about politics and, in particular, Palestinian matters. Usama visits his alma mater, the American University. We drive through the Christian section, north of Beirut, and have a most wonderful lunch at a sea shore restaurant. No war has come to this part of the city, Usama proudly points out, yet it is still depressing. The economy is down. I am down. I am frustrated, I can’t even access my e-mail on the Internet.
I had intuited, somehow predicted, that this trip would intrigue, but less than satisfy, me. Nonetheless, the experience did bear fruit in the kindness of my traveling companion Maile. Because of the outlay of her heart, nothing fell apart. She is quite simply a flawlessly kind person who always knows what you need. In my case, it was a shoulder for my unsteady gait and a pillar to acquit my more sufferable outrages. She is a blessed being, the one who tolerates the worst and the best of us. That is Maile.
