Laura’s abroad in Amman, Jordan, until Dec. 19.

The past two nights couldn’t have been more different. One night I was drinking gin and tonics with my newfound American friends in a bar, and the next night I was drinking cup after cup of mint tea with about 25 members of my host family and their small children.

On Wednesday night, a big group of people from my study abroad program went out in Amman after dark. We smoked shisha (hookah to you) outside at a cafe in the Shemsani district of Amman for a few hours. We were the only Americans there, and I didn’t see very many other women at the café besides the ones in our group, and therefore I felt men conspicuously staring at me and the other girls I was with. Earlier that day I had realized how important it was to walk with a guy: a group of school boys threw small rocks at me and catcalled me when I was walking down a side street behind the rest of the group. It didn’t upset me, but I have to learn to just ignore it instead of turning around or hurrying my pace. I think all they really wanted was a reaction.

A group of us then decided to try out the nightlife in Amman at the suggestion of one girl who has been living in Amman for a few months already. We went to a swanky bar near the third circle with a dimly lit lounge and blasting 90s music, including Cher. The cover charge was steep for guys, but free for girls since it was “Ladies Night.” I felt completely undressed among the Jordanian women, who wore tank tops and flashy jewelry. I had not packed any party clothes, thinking instead that I wouldn’t be showing my elbows for the next four months. The bar wasn’t a bit like the Keg, but there was something comforting about having a few drinks with new friends. Later on, Jordanian women began dancing under a spotlight, but at that point a few of us decided to head back to the hotel.

The next morning I immediately regretted going out because we had our Arabic placement exam. The test was incredibly difficult, especially with just a few hours of sleep and a headache impeding my ability to concentrate. With every knowingly wrong answer, all I could think about was how much I would disappoint my Arabic teacher back at Northwestern. Oh well. I’ll pick it back up soon enough…. hopefully.

After the test, we waited for our host families to pick us up one by one. It was nerve-wracking just sitting on the couch for hours and wondering if each family that came to the door would be mine for the next four months. Out of the group of 22, I was one of the last to leave. My host mother arrived with her daughter, who is married and will be hosting an American in her own home. My host mother speaks little English, but tries very hard to communicate with me. Every other phrase was “Ahlan wa Sahlan,” which roughly translates to “You’re welcome, you’re family.” We drove back through the afternoon traffic to her home in Aljoun, near Sports City. We live in an apartment with her two daughters, two sons, her brother, and a young Sri Lankan maid.

I’ll be sharing a room and bed with my 26-year-old host sister. We made a deal that I would speak to her in Arabic, and she would speak to me in English, and that way hopefully we’ll both improve our language skills. My Arabic, unfortunately, is much worse than her English. I’m trying very hard to speak Arabic, but it’s frustrating when I realized that my vocabulary lists had included the words for “United Nations,” but nothing for “shower” or “laundry.” Even worse, when I can’t think of the Arabic word fast enough, I unconsciously replace it with the Spanish word, which confuses my family even more. I haven’t studied Spanish since high school, yet I seemed to have retained more of it than the Arabic I’ve taken at Northwestern. I hope the language learning curve is steep, or I can see myself becoming increasingly frustrated.

My family, like most in Jordan, is Palestinian. The husband of my host sister told me that he made sure to teach his four-year-old son that he is Palestinian. When I asked if he wanted more children, he said there were religious, cultural, and political factors to consider. When I asked him to elaborate on the political implications of having more children, he said a goal is to increase the Palestinian population and keep passing the Palestinian heritage on to the younger generations. The refugee “camps” in Amman, including Camp Hussein near my new home, are more like established neighborhoods than impermanent homes. I asked him how Jordanians view the influx of more recent refugees into Jordan. He said the official Hashemite policy of welcoming all refugee Arabs is embraced by those living in Jordan because “we are refugees too, you know.” He said when the invasion of Iraq happened, Iraqis arrived with car trunks full of cash. The Lebanese fleeing the Hizbollah and Israeli conflict also brought in money and rejuvenated the economy in Jordan. The result is an interesting mix of cultures in Amman. I wonder what it feels like to live in a country where most people still long to go “home.”

My first day with my host family was, in just one word, overwhelming. Since it was Thursday night, the start of the weekend in the Arab world, all the family came over to visit. That meant neighbors and cousins and uncles and aunts and children gathered outside on the patio. I think I must have met more than 30 people, but I’m not really sure. They argued and teased and laughed and gestured flamboyantly. The women put on their hijabs, and took them off, again and again, in a pattern I couldn’t really figure out. The children ran around in circles around us, swiping food off the table and vying for attention. Trays of nuts, fruit, sweets, cakes, and of course, coffee and tea, appeared in succession. And of course ,the shisha came out too. The amount of sugar consumed that evening clearly contributed to its length - the celebration lasted from about 5 p.m. until well after midnight, when I was about ready to pass out from the exhaustion of trying to understand the lightning-fast conversations in high-pitched Arabic. When excited, everyone’s voice raised about one octave and doubled in tempo, making it nearly impossible for me to understand a word of what was going on. I hope that by the end of my visit I’ll be able to understand half of what is discussed so exuberantly in these gatherings.

The guests finally left, and as I prepared to go to bed, I heard the sounds of the Flight of the Conchords coming from my host brothers’ room. Could it be? All the way in Jordan someone enjoys their inane singing as much as I do? I ended up joining them for a bit and watching a video clip of Dane Cook as well. I promised to later show them my favorite Flight of the Conchords song, “Business Time.”

I couldn’t help but compare my own family gatherings to the one I experienced last night. My family, in comparison, is tiny compared to this. A week before I left for Jordan, my family gathered for my cousin’s wedding in San Francisco. It was the first time I’d seen some of my cousins for years. After the wedding reception, we hung out at my uncle’s house, just chit-chatting and nibbling on cheese and crackers. We then said our goodbyes and were in bed by 10 p.m. It seems so tame compared to the chaos I witnessed last night. I don’t know if it’s just because my own extended family isn’t very close, or it’s just the cultural differences, but nothing about my own family celebrations could have prepared me for the complete chaos of last night.

Well, I’m now sitting in the living room, listening to the morning prayers being called out from the mosque. They’ve been going on for hours. We’ll see how I survive the next two days here before I head back to class. Bismillah!

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