Always Room For Jello At The Hatter's Tea Party

Its only been 2 1/2 weeks, and the days are starting to bleed together. Everything I relate to you in this post has no real chronological order since I cannot recall said order.

Babba Hassan took charge of ordering, assigning, and delivering the wedding invitations. Everything in Jordan, it seems, is done at the last minute. For instance, the wedding is in 5 days and invites are still being hand-delivered to homes. Apparently mail takes forever here. I will post a picture of the invites soon; Shadi's cell camera is all we have at the moment and it takes crappy pictures. There was a little tiff regarding the wording of the invites when I finally saw them: I, the Bride, am not mentioned AT ALL. As I come to understand it, the groom's family issues invites and the wording is similar to a US invite as such: "Mr. Hassan Mahmoud Khazaaleh invites you to the wedding of his son, Shadi, at this date and time blah blah to the daughter of bla bla Elena..." except, since no one knows my father here, my mention gets the boot. Maybe its petty, but I feel kind of like the anonymous or inconsequential bride (despite the fact that I KNOW everyone invited will come to this wedding especially; all the arabs I know love scandal or intrigue) Anyway, I don't know who is invited other than random family members I have met or, as was the case of last night, a girl I'd been running into at masjid every other night and her family. She remarks to me in her broken english that I am to be married in 7 days and that she is attending the wedding. She also inquires about my "foustan"/dress, and upon hearing its from the states and not from Jordan a worried look crosses her face. Understanding of course she believes, like all the rest here, that American apparel is all inappropriate and scandalous, I assure her that my dress is just fine.

We had to return to Irbid a few days ago to register my presence in Jordan and to begin the process of applying for citizenship. A nice taxi driver who worked in NY for 7 years was our chaperone across town for the first half of the day. The police station and registration office, it turns out, is all the way out in East Jesus. Thank Allah for an air-conditioned cab. Along the way we discover that the city morgue has the best view in town; perched atop a scaling hill it peers down into a large valley that when green I'm sure is beautiful. At the police station I am cheered to see at least 6 hijabi female cops busy at work, none looking like women you want to mess with. The registration/application process is long, drawn-out and complicated, making me feel right at home of course. Hello, Bureaucracy! As we wait we come across another Jordanian man registering his Ukrainian wife and she and I size each other up accordingly. This reminds me, of course, of a story Shadi had told me earlier this week about his family. Apparently 25 years ago, his cousin Sami married a Ukrainian woman and brought her here. Some years later however, he would die of some illness, leaving behind his wife and 2 children. As it turns out, his brother would marry the widow in turn. In Islam it is allowed and sometimes encouraged to marry the widows of your brothers or cousins, etc as a way to keep the women in the family. It also dates back to the time of the Prophet where many husbands were killed in battles for Islam, leaving behind many widows or orphans. A revelation n the Qur'an would take care of that. Anyway, they've been married now over 20 years. My hope is that they eventually fell in love, hopeless romantic that I am. Meanwhile, back at the Ranch, we go upstairs, downstairs, back to the cab, copy our Ids, back to the station, and off to where my entire hand, left and right, are printed with the stickiest ink ever. A german woman also seeking citizenship helps us locate a sink which is apparently located in the police station barbershop. No camera, but a barber shop. Oh, Jordan. Naturally everyone in the building follows my movements like paparazzi as my type of personality and behavior is clearly not something seen in this country. When finished, we are informed i have a 3-month temporary grant to return Nov 8 to complete more paperwork and pay more money. Lovely.

All we have left to do is make a payment to the فندق/ hotel and are once again forced to prove our marital status. With his minimal english a manager deigns to tell me its just country policy after I bristle at the request, and Shadi remarks that he thinks it should be that way. I won't get into the reasons I disagree. It is only 2pm by the time our normal errands are over, and since neither of us are eager to go home, we make a trip to the Safeway again to fetch more koolaid  (oh yea!). Once inside however we also end up with M&M's and Oreo Cookies, as well as tweezers and Colgate toothpaste (the last 2 my desire for western hygiene products). Firstly I note that soda can and soda bottle shapes are of course different here, as well as sizes. This cracks me up:

16-32oz representative in liters, respectively. Too lazy to convert.

And then it gets even better:

Hijabi flakes! Way to stay current.

And of course, the piece du resistance:

Introducing Hijabi Barbie!

Abaya included! ZOMG!

Of course as we leave I am in a fey fit of humor and that carries us, heat or no, all the way back home where Momma Aicha soundly reprimands Shadi for spending money he shouldn't have (me not knowing he was broke till payday) and kisses me for taking her side (as someone who is famously terrible with money management, I felt it necessary to avoid  happening here with my husband).



That night, on our nightly walk, I express a desire to hunt down the elusive Ferris Wheel we'd spotted at a distance. Once we arrived we found it functional in a mini carnival that took permanent residency here. We got tickets, and discovered that the man operating the rickety looking machine had actually shared a taxi with us back in April when he remarked to Shadi "now she will take lots of pictures like she did of you when you were sleeping" referring to the video I snuck of him while he snoozed in the cab last Spring. I guess its easy to remember such an event, both "white" people and tourist photos being an oddity in Ramtha. Its on the ride, a thing Shadi has never been on, that I once again lament he camera and only manage to get these shots:

The view of Southern Ramtha at the top of the wheel.

With the low buildings, can be spotted over a mile away.

On the way back we stop at his cousin Aia's house, one of the few relations who speak English. Its a beautiful house with an even more fabulous evening view than the Ferris Wheel. I am seated with the women and the young baby Zaid. Aia's mom serves me several snack courses starting with tea, water, candy, fruit, and qatayef. I can feel myself getting fatter and when I remark so I am greeted with uproarious laughter by the girls. This family, in stark contrast to Shadi's, is populated of 5 girls and 1 boy. The eldest girl, I am glad to learn, is a 29 year old OBGYN who only now has had her first child, little Zaid, and only recently married as opposed to Shadi's soon to marry 15 yr old cousin. The other girls are in Uni or have graduated, like Aia who will go on to be a nurse and cherishes a wish to work at KAUH (King Abdullah University Hospital) Most of them speak fair english. The baby is adorable, and keeps wandering on his knees outside to the patio where the men are chilling. At the end of the evening they serve us a jello mold remarkably similar to this:

I remark to Shadi the american idiom: There's always room for jello.

His Uncle offers to drive us home, and that night we rest, pray, rest some more, nearly miss fajr, and I get sick again from trouble digesting the food here. Almost everything is fried, and contrary to foreign belief, American dinners do not mostly consist of McDonalds or KFC.