Angels

Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they just pass through and other times they fade away. One day a little girl came up beside me. She could've been no more than 3. She took my hand and we walked. When she was done holding my hand she let go. I continued while she ran off to play in the dirt. She was an angel.

For the past four days I've been hiking around the ancient world. Everyday I wake up stiffer than the day before yet push myself harder than before. After four days of this I had little left to offer. Unfortunately, my day off didn't start out as I imagined. Less than fifteen minutes after an early rise I was sprinting 4 km up a steep hill. My mood at this point needs no explanation. I was soon confronted by a pack of growling dogs. Although all but one were mimicking puppies, it only takes that one. They followed me for a while barking. The mother growled and barked at me while the others just pranced around barking at nothing in particular. Eventually they got tired of barking and just followed me up the hill. The mother kept pace while the kids sort of meandered, occasionally losing ground and sometimes crashing into my heels. Once they figured I'd be alright, they disappeared down the side of the mountain.

Eventually I made it to the top where I was greeted by a man, squatting beside the road. He asked if I was going to Amman, which I was. He said this was the bus stop. We got on together and he helped me find a seat. About 50 meters down the road the bus stopped and he got off.

I had been told earlier that the folks in Amman don't meet the expectation of Jordanian hospitality. I tried to ignore such remarks until I came across a man shaking his fist at me and spitting at my feet. He provoked little response from me other than a smile. Although he didn't bother me, my rosy picture was fading. I tried to talk my way out. Perhaps I was just a dumb American, or a dumb tourist, or just another dumb person in the world. Perhaps it wasn't me at all. But still, there he was, and I was forced to exclude Amman from my rosy picture of Jordan.

Defeated, I retired to a nearby restaurant where at least my stomach would be satisfied. The waiter was very friendly and invited me to tea after I finished my meal. Funny thing about the arab world, all the signs are in Arabic. Perhaps if I could've understood the sign I may have known I was in an Iraqi restaurant. So I say down with my new friend, Osamah, the first Iraqi I had ever met. On his back is a large scar from bomb shrapnell. There is still a large piece of metal in his thing. Two of his fingers have a web of scars. There is another scar below his lip - bullet. Fortunately it had only enough momentum to knowck out his tooth and nothing else. We sipped tea, talked of Iraq, of America, of girls. His friend joined us. I forgot his name. He was strikingly handsome, the same age as me. He entered the army after the war. Now he studies math at the University of Jordan. On his right hand is a tattoo in Arabic. It says 'peace'. We finished our tea, enjoying each other's company.