As savvy web-users will immediately note, this site is still looking a little rough.  I hope to have it looking snazzier, with a few more bells and whistles, in the next few days.  For now, though, it gets the job done—I can write posts and you can leave comments.

I'm jet-lagged in Amman, still wide-awake at 3:40 Tuesday morning.  I flew out from JFK at 11 Sunday night, after spending the weekend in New York with my girlfriend, Mandy.  It was nice to hang out in Manhattan before leaving the country, even if I spent a good chunk of the weekend running last-minute errands and worrying about my trip.  We had a great dinner in Tribeca on Friday, and I met up with some of the Medill New York contingent for a tour of bars in Greenwich Village and SoHo.

We stayed in a beautiful loft in Tribeca, thanks to the generosity of Mandy's high school friend Laura and her husband.  Mandy was a guest there briefly in 2001, when she moved to New York and was planning to find her own apartment.  The view through the kitchen skylight used to be the Twin Towers; Mandy watched September 11 from the roof before heading north with most of the rest of the downtown population.

By Monday afternoon I was in another city that has recent experience with terrorism, albeit on a smaller scale.  My flight over was uneventful.  I've usually flown Delta/Air France to and from Amman, so the passengers were a mix of French, Americans and Arabs.  On Royal Jordanian I was one of the only non-Arabs in the departure terminal.  I quickly got used to hearing nothing but Arabic again.

When I landed I was greeted by a guy from International Traders, the company in Amman that helps me through customs, books flights and hotels, and generally makes life easy while I'm passing through Jordan.  It's an extravagance, given that I'm not exactly made of money right now, but I'd rather spend a little extra now than deal with any unexpected hassles.  Along with the usual airport staffers and passport bureaucrats there were a fair number of Jordanian soldiers milling around with pistols on their hips.

After clearing customs I was handed off to a driver who took me into town.  He was a friendly guy, wearing a light beard and a pair of Diesel sunglasses.  When I mentioned I was traveling on to Beirut he enthusiastically asked if I'd been to Rue Minot, the heart of the club scene.  We chatted about Chicago (he's only been to the airport, on his way to Toledo, Ohio to visit his many relatives there).

I mentioned that I was flying direct from Beirut to Baghdad, which he didn't know was an option.  He mentioned that he'd heard there would soon be direct flights from London and Cairo.

"Wow, that will be great."

"It will be good for us—not so many Iraqis here."

"Are there too many Iraqis in Amman?"

"We don't like them," he said, the lightness gone from his voice, "after what they did."

Abu Masab al Zarqawi is a Jordanian from Amman's suburbs, but he is now the face of the jihadist wing of the Iraqi insurgency.  The al Qaeda in Iraq suicide bombers who killed scores of people here last fall at the Radisson, Grand Hyatt and Days Inn were all Iraqis.

I've never spent much time in Jordan; I've only used it as a transit point on my way to and from Iraq.  The first time I passed through I didn't even stay at a hotel; I spent most of a 16 hour lay-over camped out at the airport.  But the second time I left Iraq I had a little money and decided to stay at the Four Seasons (on the advice of many, many, of my satisfied colleagues).  After a summer in Iraq it was like a dream world; I was stunned to be swarmed, as I was swept into the hotel lobby, by THREE people who were offering, in various ways, to make my life easier.  It's the kind of place where, five minutes after you silently note that your ice bucket is empty, someone knocks on your door and offers to fill it.

The hotel hasn't changed in that regard, but it's no longer quite the same fantasyland, isolated from the violence of Iraq.  Last time I was here the driver drove up the street and into a circular driveway and dropped me off in front of the main lobby's glass front wall.  This time we slowly approached a set of security barriers and the driver exchanged words with a couple of policemen before driving on.  The circular driveway is closed; now drop-off is out on the street.  I was asked how many bags I had and got a receipt for them.  I'm not sure if that's a new policy to ward off claims of stolen luggage or a way of making sure suspicious or unaccompanied luggage stays out of the building.  After entering the lobby I passed through a metal detector, but was waved on even after it beeped.  I'm guessing American travelers aren't the ones being scrutinized at that checkpoint.

I have nothing bad to say about the hotel; everything is as great as ever, and given the risks the security seems tight enough but also very low-key.  But passing through security to reach the hotel is a taste of Baghdad I was hoping would stay in Baghdad.

I'm hearing the morning call to prayer now, which means I should try and get some sleep.  If things go smoothly I'll be in Beirut by tomorrow afternoon.

 

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