*this first part is a mere regurgitation of the end of my previous blog… because I had added it in last minute… and found Sue’s comment to me to be so amusing, it just couldn’t be missed.
• • • • • • • • •
I WAS FREE.
Free!
Free!
Free!
Free!
PS- As she walked out the door with her luggage, she made another spiteful and unkind comment about Persnickety… and as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she admitted that Marilyn was in fact, her friend.
She followed it up with, “I just don’t like how nasty she can get when discussing other people.”
The irony was almost laughable.
Then she paused, looked me dead in the eye, and added, “Although Marilyn was never nearly as mean about the Geisha as you were!”
F$&K!!!!!
… to the moon. Straight to the moon.
I swear to God.
POW! Right in the kisser…
• • • • • • • • •
But… Sue was GONE. I couldn’t ask for much more. Except she wasn’t really gone at all.
She was still, very much, around.
Sometimes I have a serious issue with spending money. Usually it’s money I don’t necessarily have. Actually… to be honest, it’s “always” money I don’t have. I use the term “sometimes” loosely… because at times, I really can be tight fisted… if I try. But often… and unfortunately more often than not… I like to spend.
Shopping is my favourite past time… especially in other countries. Especially in traditional markets. Or malls. Or anywhere… come to think of it.
I knew I was heading into colder climates leaving Jordan… and I was not properly prepared. My plan was to head to the local Decathlon (outdoor gear shop) in Jordan and load up on a jacket, a pair of runners, some long sleeve shirts and a couple pairs of pants.
That was it.
That was my plan.
Judy agreed to come along, which was fabulous. Much to my delight… and my wallet’s dismay… Decathlon was located inside a massive mall.
Uh oh…
It was trouble.
By the end of the day, I was toting more bags around than Pretty Women.
“Big mistake! Huge!”
And it was a big mistake. I spent way too much. Granted… not everything was a bad buy. I scored some pretty decent deals, including a gorgeous jacket that’ll be perfect for sashaying my way through the streets of Paris… if, indeed… I planned to sashay my way through the streets of Paris.
But then I made the dumbest purchase of the trip… I dropped over $200 on a pair of shoes.
Why?
Sketchers, of all things. Do you know how many pairs of sketchers I can get for over $200 back home?
To top it off… they’re cream coloured. Cream.
Not the best choice for me.
Not the best choice for anyone.
Why did I buy them?
I do not know.
They pinch my toes, cramp my feet and constrict my heels… OMG.
Why????
I wouldn’t even spend this much money on shoes at home, let alone thousands of kilometers away. It was a ridiculous, impulsive purchase… and honestly… I have no idea what I was thinking.
There’s always a moment when most people are traveling… when we make the dumbest decision imaginable. For most people, it’s one isolated instance.
For me?
Travel is a never-ending series of financial blunders. These “blunderous” moments are relentless. I shell out an absurd amount of money on something completely ridiculous, only to realize later I could’ve gotten it for a fraction of the cost.
I tend to replay the spending scenario over and over in my head, obsessing over where I went wrong and desperately trying to justify it. Well… no matter how hard I try, I can’t. The regret festers, gnawing at my sanity… and keeping me awake at night.
That’s usually when I solemnly swear, with great conviction… that I’ll never, ever waste money again.
Until the next time, of course.
It’s a vicious cycle.
My penance was lugging around Rosanna’s thick camping mat all day.
Why?
Good question.
It was the mattress Martin had purchased Rosanna for her birthday… when we were in Doha, Qatar. Apparently it didn’t inflate… and he asked if I would mind replacing it or refunding it while I was at Decathalon. I did not mind. Well… I minded slightly. It was quite cumbersome… and irritating to lug around.
Turns out they would not refund it, so I stuck hauling it around for the remainder of the day.
Why wouldn’t they?
One ~ It was purchased in a different country.
Two ~ They didn’t have the same product on site.
And three… my personal favourite… which I should have noticed before setting off from the hotel, yet didn’t actually realize until I was standing directly in front of the store manager… Rosanna had written her name ALL over it.
So there went any chance of refund or replacement… I was stuck with this mattress for the rest of the day.
I justified the hassle of it all by referring to it as Martin’s “tip.”
I didn’t say goodbye to anyone when I left the hotel. I just walked out, assuming I’d be back. It never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be back. After all, everyone I knew was there, whether I liked them or not. I’d even loosely planned to meet a couple of people for drinks that night. Plus… I still needed to tip both Rosanna and Martin, whether I wanted to or not.
I called an Uber and dragged all my luggage, dirty laundry, camping gear excessive shopping bags across Amman to my new hotel.
Sue had messaged me earlier to let me know that she and Rebekah had been “upgraded” to a sister hotel… one conveniently located just around the corner from the one I’d booked. The word “upgrade” irked me slightly, but when it all came down to it, I was thrilled. This was true freedom and I wouldn’t have to risk bumping into them at my hotel.
Freedom… finally.
Temporarily… anyway.
Halfway to my new hotel, I got a ding on my phone. It was a message from my hotel. Turns out, I’d been “upgraded” as well… to the same hotel Sue and Rebekah. So much for my brief freedom.
My hotel was a solid forty-minute drive from where we’d been staying with Madventures. The “upgrade” wasn’t ideal, especially considering explaining a change of plans to a non-English-speaking Uber driver is no small feat.
But eventually… we managed to get there. Well… almost. He dropped me across a rather large street, leaving me to haul everything myself, in one awkward, finger-breaking, backbreaking trip. By the time I reached the front desk of my “upgraded” hotel, my hands were red and numb… barely functioning.
Not exactly the smooth transition I’d imagined.
You might be wondering why I keep putting the word “upgrade” in quotation marks, as if I’m mocking this supposedly wonderful travel perk. It might seem like I’m not fully appreciating this complimentary extravagance.
Perhaps I should have been more euphoric… more grateful…
No…
When the man at the front desk announced that I’d been “specially chosen” to be upgraded to their “luxury” hotel, my facial expression must have betrayed my absolute delight / pure disgust.
There was absolutely nothing “luxury” about this hotel… at all.
Something had to give…
He knew I wasn’t picking up what he was putting down. He had to come clean.
The upgrade was merely a strategic merging move to get everyone from two hotels into one… to save money on staff, water, electricity… etc etc.
Although he stopped using “luxury,” he kept throwing around the word, “upgrade.”
Well… if indeed, it was an upgrade, it was the worst upgrade I’d ever been graded up to.
The walls in my room were completely bare… without a single piece of art to be found anywhere. There was no iron, no shampoo, no coffee… and the towels? Don’t even get me started on the towels. They were those awful crispy ones that have been used a few hundred times too many. The carpets throughout were ripped and stained… the walls were too thin, the stairs were uneven and the Wi-Fi barely worked.
My hotel room view? A pile of garbage and a lot of pigeon poo.
Fantastic.
It was hardly an upgrade. I was considering suggesting to them that it might be in their best interest to settle on an alternative word… or perhaps just tell travellers the truth.
But…
Ooohhh… that would be rich coming from me… who couldn’t even gather the courage to tell Sue the truth about sharing a hotel room with her.
That’s what I should’ve done.
“Upgraded” her.
Speaking of the devil, as I was settling into my “upgrade,” I got a message from Sue. She invited me to join her and Rebeka on a trip to Jerash the following day.
Jerash is known as one of the best-preserved Greco-Roman cities in the world and offers a unique glimpse into ancient history.
As of right then, I didn’t have any significant plans… and visiting Jerash had been high on my Jordan bucket list… so I said yes. I was 100% tired of their company at this point, but I wasn’t really prepared to turn down the chance to visit a sacred historical site, especially considering how difficult it is to book day trips as a solo traveller. Sue said they were meeting the driver at 9am in the lobby… and that she’d see me at breakfast.
Perfect.
I dropped all of my camping gear off at the front desk for the guy from Facebook who was coming to pick it up. He was eager to meet in person, but with my lingering cough, I decided to stay in my room and call it an early night.
At least I managed to offload all of that. High five to me.
Goodbye, camping.
Forever.
I was really eager to explore downtown Amman.
Downtown Amman is the historic and cultural heart of Jordan’s capital city. It’s a bustling hub filled with narrow streets, vibrant markets and a mix of ancient and modern architecture. The area is known for its chaotic energy, with cars, pedestrians and vendors competing for space.
The streets are lined with shops selling everything from spices and sweets to textiles, handicrafts and souvenirs.
I knew I was going to be in big trouble here. The shopping opportunities were crazy.
The next morning, I rose early and headed to the “luxury” cafeteria just after 8am to meet the girls. I saw Rebeka as soon as I walked in and although I said, “Hi, Rebeka,” she barely acknowledged me. Keeping her head down, she mumbled a quick “hi” back to me without a smile.
Odd.
Very odd.
This was not like Rebekah at all.
Sue was waving at me, so I quickly grabbed some breakfast off the buffet and walked over to join their table. Rebeka was sitting there, yet avoided eye contact with me the entire time. Finally, I asked if she was angry with me.
What had I done to her? I was pulling up blanks.
Without looking up from her spoonful of soup, she murmured, “Why would I be angry?”
The tension was thick… and awkward. I had no idea what was going on until she finally grumbled something about me sitting at their table while I was sick.
Then it hit me.
She didn’t want to be around me because I was sick. She didn’t want me there at all.
Ok… Hint taken.
I stood up, moved to another table across from them… and sat there alone, eating my breakfast… and very attentive to their entire conversation. From what I could gather, Sue had invited me without checking with Rebeka, who clearly wasn’t happy. I listened as Sue apologized, saying she should’ve asked Rebeka first.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I got up… pretended to browse the buffet once more… and then walked straight out of the cafeteria… back down to the second floor, into my room and back into my bed.
I was not going where I was not welcome. Sick or not.
Only a little while later, Rebeka sent me this sickly sweet message, saying she noticed I didn’t eat much breakfast and hoped I was feeling ok. Then she asked if I was interested in joining them to go to Jerash for the day.
What the…?
I was definitely being punked.
I erased the message, put my phone down… and went back to sleep for a couple hours.
When I awoke… for the second time… I decided to spend the day exploring Downtown Amman on my own. When I say, “on my own,” I fully realize that I was undeniably “on my own”… and there was no one else to join me, even had I desired company.
My safety net of companionship was gone.
So… that’s exactly what I did. I got up, got ready and wandered the lively downtown streets of Amman for hours. I explored narrow alleyways, climbed up and down intriguing staircases and discovered new corners of the city’s core at my own pace. It was a calm, casual day, and it felt amazing to have no agenda.
No time limits.
No wheels rolling.
Many, many times along the way, I came across jackets and shoes being sold for a fraction of what I’d paid the day before… but I had to divert my eyes to something else, block it from my mind… and just kept walking.
During my entire time spent in Amman, I never made it to Jerash. Oh well… next time. That’s what I always tell myself. I did harbour a little bit of resentment towards Rebekah for missing it… but I knew that this sacrifice for being “sick” was far less than what I’d have to go through, sharing a room with Sue, had I not been “sick.”
I’m sure that I’ll come back to Amman. I just feel it.
My cough continued… but I wasn’t concerned that it was tied too much in the way of being “sick.” Even a Jordanian pharmacist told me that it sounded like an allergic cough.
I think I was allergic to Sue and Rebekah…
For the next few days, I just strolled. I explored the ancient 2nd-century Roman Theatre and Citadel. I meandered up and down the lovely Rainbow Street. I even did a paid downtown walking tour. I was going to do a food tour or a Jordan wine tasting tour, but the pricing for each were astronomical.
The walking tour I signed up for?
Well… it was… interesting. For lack of a better word, I will just say… it was interesting. I feel like I’ve got it out for organized tours at the moment… and it would probably do me some good to at least try to put a positive spin on one of them.
It was interesting.
I’ll leave it at that.
…
…….
………..
No, I won’t!
The guide was terrible. Horrible. From the moment I met him on the street, he was awful. I mentioned that I was also a tour guide… and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, he spent the entire two and a half hours trying to one-up me.
It was bizarre.
He dominated the entire conversation, never letting me get a word in. Instead of creating an engaging dialogue or answering questions, he just rambled… almost speed talking… and half the time, I couldn’t even follow anything he was saying. To make matters worse, he must have mentioned that he expected a tip at least twenty times. If not more…
A lot of the beginning of the tour was spent wandering through the downtown fruit and vegetable market, where he pointed out produce as if I’d never seen it before:
“Banana… carrot… corn… mushroom… apple…”
I stopped nodding after a while because it felt like I was attending a kindergarten lesson.
Every time we arrived at a new location, he’d turn to me and ask, “Have you been here before?”
Most of the time, I’d say “no” because I genuinely hadn’t… but on the rare occasion I said “yes” (having explored the area a bit on my own for the past few days), he’d become visibly agitated. It was like I’d ruined his script or was wasting his time. Then he couldn’t help but throw in a passive-aggressive remark like, “I guess you already know everything about the history too!”
Ok.
I guess so.
I pointed out a small café that I’d been frequenting for coffee and a vending booth where I’d had a delicious falafel pita… and he almost fell over laughing because he knew 100 places that were WAY better and WHY didn’t I go to one of those places instead?
I just stood there.
Expressionless.
It felt surreal… like I’d stepped into a bad comedy. He seemed desperate for validation, as though I needed to beg him to share his knowledge with him. I seriously deking out l, but I gritted my teeth and stuck it out until the bitter end.
Seems to be a common theme with me lately, eh?
Eventually, I just stopped asking questions or even reacting at all. I turned myself into a broken record of bland responses: “Great. Wow. Fantastic. Thank you.”
To top it all off, a couple of men and kids stopped to greet me along the way, and that sent him into a rage. Twice, he yelled at random people in Arabic. When I asked him what was going on, his response was, “I don’t like to be interrupted.”
Creepy.
By the end of the tour, I handed him 5 Jordanian dinars just to get rid of him. He followed me for a couple blocks reminding me of how important it was for me to write him a great review.
Absolute disaster.
1 star, buddy.
Work on your bedside manner!
I spent my days browsing charming boutiques, sipping lattes in cozy corner cafes and watching the world of downtown Amman go by. I even treated myself to a few falafel wraps at my new favourite spot… which was definitely not “walking-tour-guide-approved,” but it tasted all the better for it.
There were a few quirky things that stood out. For one, the propane truck that rolled through the city blared an instrumental diddy that was more than eerily similar to that of an ice cream truck. I heard it long before I saw it and found myself scanning the streets for tasty, frozen desserts.
On a less charming note, the plastic waste here is hard to ignore. Plastic is used for everything… everything. Items are wrapped for display, then rewrapped upon purchase, and finally placed in a plastic bag. Sometimes even double-bagged. The amount of unnecessary waste is staggering… and it’s clear that Jordan still has a long way to go before it even gets close to being green-friendly.
Everyone smokes here too, which is not overly appealing. Navigating the busy streets, while staying mindful of my new (expensive) jacket felt like a constant battle. Avoiding getting burned or even ashed on was an ongoing and genuine concern.
Amid the chaos, Downtown Amman really was bewitching though. I loved it.
I know I’ll be back.
My shopping spree eventually came to an end. I ran out of money… AND I ran out of strength. It takes a lot of muscle to haul my pack around… and when it’s over capacity, it can be backbreaking.
Shopping in markets and traditional souks can get draining. At some point during most trips, I hit my limit with the endless effort to avoid being ripped off… though, let’s face it, it still happens at every turn. At least to me, anyway. The constant haggling and relentless harassment wear you down to the point of pure frustration. You can’t even step into a store without being pestered. If you’re lucky, someone might put out their cigarette before trailing you through the entire shop… but I’m not usually that lucky.
My plan had been to return to the Madventures hotel to tip Rosanna and Martin. I didn’t make it though. Wheels were rolling quite early and staying in my comfy bed was a much more appealing option. I did write to say goodbye to Vic, Tania, Judy and Mr. Meat.
The hotel was just so far away.
I did get Rosanna and Martin’s banking details and I plan on transferring money when I’m back in the UK. I’m still so torn on what to tip them.
I’m thinking $100 for Martin and $400 for Rosanna. Canadian currency for conversion.
Thoughts?
I have to admit… it’s a little strange knowing I’ll never again hear Mr. Meat yelling about how Trump is the greatest man he’s ever known. I’ll never again be shoved aside so Stormin’ can take the lead. I’ll never again have to witness Lutz’s tongue making an exploratory tour across his mouth and face. I’ll never have to see Persnickety’s impossibly long facial whiskers or her perfectly poker-straight fringe again. And I’ll never have to endure Mickey barking orders… though I’ll always wonder what exactly she got up to in Dubai.
Its killin’ me, not knowing…
… and I’ll always wonder if she ever became a tour guide.
I’ll never join in on another “mad adventure” with Madventures again… so I’ll probably never know.
To anyone who’s read “The Beach”… you must know the part near the end of the book when they each go their separate ways… each one of them emotionally scared from their time on the beach?
Ya.
That was me.
Scared for life.
It was treacherous… yes.
A lot it was.
But how many people can say they camped their way through the sand and rocks of the Middle East? Or can say that they got hopelessly stuck in the Saudi coastal muck? Or can brag they even made our tour TikTok-famous in Saudi Arabia?
Let’s not forget stuffing myself with dates…
Those weren’t just snacks, they were memories in the making.
I discovered just how warm and hospitable Arabs can be. I learned that Muslim culture is deeply rooted in love, kindness and acceptance. I also came to see the immense beauty these countries hold… both in their landscapes and their traditions. While the region is often overshadowed by conflict or stereotypes, traveling here revealed the rich humanity of its people in ways I never could have imagined.
And I also learned NEVER to refer to the Arabian gulf as the Persian gulf ever again.
And did I run into Sue and Rebekah again?
Yes… briefly.
There wasn’t much to say. It just felt like an unspoken agreement between us that the tour had come to an end, and it was time for me to go my own separate way.
I never heard from them or saw them again.
And now… I’m at Queen Alia airport. Funny that I’m ending my trip here. This is the exact location of that where Google Maps has been “mis”placing me since I crossed the border from Saudi into Jordan.
No idea why.
It happened to Vic as well and we concluded it must have something to do with the war and the scrambling of technology. I read that when things go astray, Google Maps will automatically default to a major landmark or hub.
And guess what?
It was over.
I did it.
I was leaving the Middle East…
… but first I had to take my $200+ shoes off due to excruciating pain.
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