The Importance of Honoring Customs while Abroad

My journey back to Amman was rather uneventful which is not necessarily a bad thing. I listened to an audiobook, glanced over my Italian flashcards, and occasionally took in snippets of the conversation of the couple sitting across from me.

As I peeked out the window I couldn’t help but take in the barrenness of most of the Jordanian countryside. On the upside, it made me feel less guilty that I dosed off.

I thought back on my four journeys across the United States with my best friends en route to Syracuse when I was still in college. Driving for hours on end could sometimes be monotonous but at least we had each other.

Occasionally though we’d zip past signs for the “30-foot cow” and “5-legged horse,” which intrigued us but didn’t pique our interest enough to stop.

I wondered what it’d be like to take the same trip today; how the tone of our thoughts would be different and our feelings about what lie ahead hued with the life experience gained from the path already trekked.

Dog Days of Summer

I returned to a much “cooler” Amman. “Cooler” is relative in this case, but I was grateful for the relief. It was like bartering an Egyptian summer for the lazy months of D.C., or Philly. It may not sound like much but I was grateful for 95 degree heat over say, 105 degree heat.

I walked the streets the same way I had a week before trying to remind myself of my good fortune to be in such a place. It’s a greater challenge than one may think at first. The more you live the greater the likelihood to take things, even wonderful things, in passing.

The trick I’ve discovered is to stay in the pocket of hope, of possibility, of curiosity. Each day I tried to act as if I’d just arrived before nearly wondering out loud why I couldn’t do the same at home.

I walked past an art gallery I’d noticed when I first arrived but this time it was open. I strolled in and was greeted by a young and pretty Jordanian woman in her mid to late 20’s.

She asked if she could help me find anything to which I told her I was just looking. I inquired if any of the photographs or acrylic works were hers.

“No,” she said. “I’m a law student.”

Much better idea, I nearly said to her.

No Eating on the Street

I slowly moseyed on back to my hotel before stopping off at one of the few restaurants open. I’d been trying my best to eat healthy during my stay, but found it a challenge.

I figured the fresh squeezed carrot juice and lack of eating in general left me at about even. I ordered two sandwiches and made my way back to the Bonita Inn.

When I got to within 100 yards of my hotel I was stopped by two police officers.

“Do you speak Arabic?” they asked.

That’s a first, I thought.

“No,” I said.

They then asked for my ID making some grumblings about my New York City address.

“You can’t eat on the street. It is Ramadan,” one told me.

The other then proceeded to get out of the car and stand beside me. He made a point to brush my shoulder, which gave way to a small shove.

“Hide it in your bag,” he said before letting me go.

I waived him off conveying I understood. I could now add Jordan to the list of countries where I’d piqued the interest of the authorities along with Italy, Israel, and New Zealand.

Perhaps I just thought they could have handled the situation with a bit more grace though I’m not sure how exactly.

Learning and Honoring Customs Abroad

On the way back to my hotel I reminded myself of the importance of respecting the customs and culture of every country I visit and how that reverence should extend to every foreign place, whether it be a mosque, a colleague’s home, or new job.

I was, whether I liked it or not, a sort of ambassador — a representative of my country. It was my responsibility to act with a heightened sense of respect and, equally important, a desire to know how to properly honor the time honored ways of a part of the world I was less versed in.

Another Life

The following day, I hopped in a cab at 6:00 am. Mahmoud was the name of the gentlemen who drove me. He was probably about 70 years old and was kind when he insisted I sit in the front.

We didn’t say much during the 25-minute drive but I felt comfortable in his presence. The impeccably clean Toyota Camry with leather seats and remnants of cigarette smoke took me back to sitting in the back of my uncle’s car during summer visits to Korea.

Mahmoud too might have been an uncle from another life.

We passed security after I was asked where I was from.

“New York,” I said.

“Oh!” he beamed. And waved me through.

I’d knew I’d miss that proclamation when I returned to my native California. Something told me it wouldn’t inspire the same reverence, or open as many doors for that matter.

Moments later, Mahmoud dropped me off and wished me good luck on my journey.

I waved goodbye and made my way hoping I was somehow a better, if not, slightly wiser man for my time in this country.

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