I have to feel a little bit sorry for the smartly dressed Japanese guy who was sitting next to me during the flight. By the time the food was brought around, he had decided to settle down for a nap, resting his head on the the tray table, his suit jacket neatly folded across his legs. I’m sure he was having the sweetest of dreams, nice and snug in his freshly pressed white shirt.
Trying to eat in close quarters is not easy for me. I need space for my elbows to levitate, so when it came to unwrapping and consuming my flight meal, I was a little overwhelmed. Already parched, either in anticipation of being cooked when the plane landed in a desert, or because planes are deliberately designed to dehydrate everyone on board in an effort to sell more overpriced booze, I thought I’d start off with the vacuum sealed orange juice pot. When I picked up the pot I thought it would be an easy task to pull off the thin plastic lid, but discovered it had been attached with industrial strength glue, so had to use all my might to get it off. When it eventually gave way, I was so frustrated that I had tightened my grip on the pot to the point that I crushed it and squirted almost the entire contents over the back of Japan Man’s shirt which then soaked it up like an ink blotter. I briefly considered dabbing up the juice with my napkin, but decided it was probably best to save it in case I needed to wipe down myself, should things get any messier. This was a wise move.
The main meal was some sort of weird stew, with chicken that had been heated to such a high temperature that when I cut into it it released a pocket of nuclear gas which exploded outwards, splattering tomato juice all over his back and into my face. I sustained minor burns which has left me with tiny red marks and blisters that look like a mild case of chickenpox. There will be no pictures of me going on Jean’s social media few the next few days. Somehow, with the scalding hot tomato sauce seeping into his shirt, he still remained asleep. I’d even have expected him to stir when I let out a yelp at the pain of my scalded face. He didn’t, so I guiltily consumed my rancid over cooked main course.
After our empty trays had been cleared away, and with Japan Man still asleep, desert was brought around. I believe it was supposed to be ice cream, but they'd forgotten the cream bit and it was instead just chocolate flavoured ice. Using the tiny plastic shovel to dig through it was probably my biggest challenge of the day and of course led me to catapult a lump of it onto that now technicoloured shirt. As it was frozen to minus fifty degrees celsius, it melted very slowly, leaving an almost perfect vertical brown line down the centre of his back. Thankfully for him, the flight wasn’t long enough for me to be given anymore food. Otherwise he’d have ended up with a shirt worthy of being hung up next to crappy paintings in the Tate. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when he discovers the state of it and for his sake hope he’s got the address for a good laundrette wherever he’s staying.
It was after dark when we landed in what I’m told is a city called Amman. With it being night, it could be a village with an airport next door for all I know, and considering I’m not going to see it in daylight until we return, I’ll reserve my judgement on whether it’s a city or not until then.
As the plane ground to a halt after touch down a small group of people behind us clapped and whooped, like it was an amazing achievement. This finally woke my artistic masterpiece up. I don’t get people that show adulation towards others for doing what they’re paid to do. Like why thank the bus driver? They haven’t done you a favour. If they didn’t take you from point A to point B, they wouldn’t be fulfilling their role and would likely be fired.
Jean was keen to head straight down to Petra, rather than getting to bed at a reasonable time in Amman, so had pre-booked a taxi. The drive south, lasted almost as long as the flight from London, was twice as uncomfortable and seventeen times more terrifying, with no streetlights for a large proportion of the journey and at times there was no road either, which vibrated the car like driving over miles of rumble strips and made sure there was absolutely no chance of me getting any desperately needed shut-eye. When we eventually arrived at the hotel just past 3am, I was so tired I got the porter to wheel me up to the room on a trolley. I doubt that was something in his job description, but being delirious was not in my life description.
We woke this morning at 10am, which would be mildly acceptable if we had got to sleep more than four hours earlier. Ten hours would have been perfect. Amazingly Jean did something I have never witnessed before. She was showered, dressed and ready to leave in under fifteen minutes. I was still in my boxers, picking some fluff out of my navel. Another fifteen minutes later I was ready and looking forward to getting some breakfast, but was met with disappointment when we got down to the restaurant, we were greeted by a sign that said ‘Closed’. In what world is it acceptable for breakfast to end before lunchtime starts? Can you imagine how much money fast food chains would lose if they adopted this ethos?
We then set about our quest to find some food. Within ten minutes of leaving the hotel I had a Coldplay song on loop in my head. Everything from the buildings to the land and the parched vegetation, they were all yellow. I now hate that colour and don’t want to see it again for the rest of my life.
Jean, being a vegetarian had stricter requirements than me in choosing somewhere to eat, so the search took longer than it would have for normal people. I think she’ll be in for a shock when she realises that nowhere outside of England has heard of vegetarianism. Eventually we settled for somewhere that I think was just someone's house. The beaded door curtain and lack of a real door lead Jean to assume we could just enter. Inside there was what I believe was a large family sitting around eating. They all looked at us the same way people look at me in my dreams when I’m naked. I was just beginning my cowardice exit when Jean piped up and asked if they did vegetarian breakfasts. “Yes, of course” said the tribe chief, rather than “Get out of my house you foreign freaks!”. Perhaps his English was so poor that is what he really meant to say. He then gestured for us to sit and commanded one of his maidens to the kitchen.
Whilst we waited for the food to arrive, we had to politely engage in conversation with him prattling on about the local culture and history. I’m wouldn’t consider it as culture though. As I listened I tried to remind myself how I stayed looking engaged during boring history lectures, which was to try and see through Ms Rossi’s dress. Although our host was pretty much wearing a dress, the thought of seeing through it made me pull a strange cringing face and I had to quickly readjust my thought process to what I do when Jean is boring me, which I smile nod and give an occasional grunt. Before I responded to anything that was directed at me, I had to remember the two most important words in today's age ‘politically correct’ to avoid causing offence, which is something I seem to be pretty good at. Thankfully Jean did most of the hard work in the conversation because she seemed truly engaged and interested in what he was saying. I think this confused the house chief as he can’t be used to hearing more than three words from a woman. Sometimes I wish it was like that for me.
I think they had to catch and kill the animal used in my kebab as the food took an unreasonably long time, or perhaps they were waiting for the vegetables to grow for Jean’s boring assortment. The last time I had a kebab for breakfast was because I’d fallen asleep with it and was too poorly to get out of bed in the morning. It was disgusting. Thankfully this one was much better probably because it was actually called a Shawarma.
After eating, we embarked on what Jean described as an ‘exploratory walk’ to familiarise ourselves with the weirdly named town Wadi Musa that looks like it was just thrown together to cater for tourists. As the day set in, the outside air temperature became as hot as a foundry. How is this place habitable? I imagine living on Mercury to be similar to this, though here it has a somewhat Martian landscape. That was the extent of what we got up to. Hardly exciting if you ask me, but unsurprisingly Jean has a different take on today than me.
It’s amazing that in such a small amount of time you can travel to amazing places that are so different to home, and almost otherworldly.
I was bored after reading that first sentence, but she continued with even more dross.
Getting off the plane the temperature was markedly warmer than the city we’d left behind, even though it was the middle of the night. I consider myself to be a bit like a reptile that functions a lot better in the heat. I smiled as I could feel my body unwind. Looking over at Simon you’d assume he’d contracted something on the flight, but his blotchy face was only down to his inability to eat like a human.
Well, you know the rest of that story. I’m really feeling the love at the moment. Hopefully her blog will be as popular as used toilet paper for sale on eBay.