He Breathes

Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored , and unsung.
-Sir Walter Scott

Well, the heart-burning is going on all right, but the actual turning homeward of footsteps is proving to be moderately dicey. Chicago O'Hare, my layover on the way from Amman to Minneapolis, is apparently 3 feet deep in snow or something, and my flight has now been delayed a total of about 18 hours with no end in sight. I have decided to just go to the airport and besiege it until somebody parks me on a plane home. This is partly related to an interesting story that happened today.

I got in a taxi to go from my home to the local office of Royal Jordanian Airlines 7th Circle. I did this in order to pre-check my bag and avoid that hassle at the actual airport. I make a trip to a nearby location (Whitman Academy is near 6th circle) approximately 5 days a week, and every time it costs me about JD1.75 to do. How much that is in dollars is not really important to the story. So I ride in the cab, I talk to the driver, I improve my Arabic, and then suddenly when the meter clicks to JD3.50 I realize that I have no idea where we are, unusual given that it's a route I take every day. I ask the driver where we are and he tells me we're in the University District.

I am shocked. Jordan University is so far on the far side of town it barely even counts as Amman any more. In fact, we have by this time traveled more than twice the necessary distance, and still not arrived at our actual destination. I remonstrate with the driver, stretching my pidgin Arabic to its uttermost limits, to tell him that I'm not just some dumb tourist that he can screw over at will, but that I've lived in Amman for half a year and know my way around well enough to know that this is the wrong way to go. His response is that he was "avoiding traffic."

I pull out my trusty blue notebook, repository of much informally acquired Arabic vocabulary, and begin to copy down his license number and name from the card on his dashboard, my intent being to call the company or the traffic police. This causes him to panic. He explains (rather belatedly, it seems to me) that he is new, and does not even live in Amman but in Zarqa, a smaller city about 45 minutes distant. He practically grovels, telling me that he'll get me where I want to go, and if I don't want to pay him anything, that's mazbuut (fine). I say no, I want to pay him a fair amount, but I know that a fair amount is 2 JD for the ride he was supposed to give me. After he stops to ask for directions, we arrive at Safeway, a large grocery store and well-known landmark, without further incident but approximately an hour and ten minutes after leaving home for a 15-minute ride. I pay him 2 JD, tear off the page of my notebook with his information on it and give it to him, and ignore the rude gesture he makes not quite far enough behind my back once I've left.

So now, having divested myself of the dishonest or incompetent cab driver, I find myself standing outside a bustling supermarket with my suitcase, my iPod, and no earthly idea where to find the office, which I only know is "near Safeway."

I approach a pleasant-looking man and, with a hint of desperation tinging my voice, ask him in Arabic if he speaks English. He does, and tells me where I want to go, and then gallantly offers to drive me there since he works right across the street. It's only a few blocks, but it means a lot.

When I arrive at the office, the providential nature of the whole thing becomes clear. While checking my bag, I eavesdrop on the conversation a young American man is having with the lady at the next counter. He wants to know when the last bus to the Airport is. The answer, given that at this point our flight has just been postponed until 3 AM, is functionally "not nearly late enough." I ask the young man, whose name turns out to be Jeff, if he would like a ride in my friend's car, since I have to pay for it anyway.

Jeff is grateful. It seems that his home is not Amman but Damascus, and he's stuck in Amman with nowhere to stay and not much knowledge of the city's layout or its transit arrangements. I take him to Whitman and introduce him to some folks before he opts to strike out on his own and explore downtown a bit.

So in an hour or so (at 11:30 PM), Sami (who cuts my hair and drives me places for a modest fee) and I will be picking him up at a prearranged location and proceeding to the airport together. If not for my long and arduous cab ride, the two of us would probably never have met.

My flight has now been postponed again to 6:15 AM. Will I ever get home?