Amman Travel Review: What I Lost in Egypt, I Found in Jordan

I spent my early childhood draped on couches in Heliopolis, spitting sunflower seed shells into ashtrays, curling up with cousins under the glow of Pixar movies. My fingers were perpetually sticky with mango. I sat on everybody’s lap, kissed everybody’s cheek. I slept in intergenerational apartments – blood relations on each story. I once knew Cairo by heart. I traced its corners, memorized its streets from balconies and car windows. But my great grandmother’s death marked a definitive shift in the Egypt that I had grown up with. Her passing preceded several more uprooting family losses. Without our Cairo-based matriarch, remaining relatives began to leave downtown for satellite cities. With the ascendance of Al-Sisi, bridges and highways diced up the metropolis, defacing its once recognizable figure. My relations scattered. Cairo lost all its unity, diminished to a blur of billboards and bustle, on my way from the airport to Sheikh Zayed. I wondered if the Egypt of my girlhood was gone forever. But, what I lost in Egypt, I found in Jordan.

Jordan does not look like Egypt. Amman, the capital, is a sprawling city– boxy, and entirely limestone according to the Kingdom’s strict building code. Amman is uniform and retains very little of Cairo’s chaos. Jordan does not sound like Egypt. Shamy Arabic is sweeter– less guttural than its Egyptian counterpart. Fewer car horns are heard in the streets. The muezzin is more inconspicuous. Jordan does not smell like Egypt. The molokhia is spiced differently, the pollution hangs lighter in the air. But the sense of community, family, liveliness, that had vanished from my Egypt, it lives on in Jordan.

When I landed in Amman this spring break, I was brimming with anticipation. My conception of the SWANA region was limited to my childhood experiences. I wondered how Jordan would stack up. My excitement was timidly matched by my traveling companion/tour guide, English Track 1A, Sami Omaish. Much like me, Omaish grew up between the Middle East and states. His Jordanian family magnanimously agreed to open their home to us for the vacation. Omaish’s palpable nervousness in Queen Alia Airport was familiar to me. Every time I return to Egypt, I too have airport crises– panicking about whether I will spontaneously lose the ability to interact with my relatives or, worse, forget how many bises are required for standard greetings (two). I suspected that his anxiety, just like mine always is, would soon be quelled by the open arms of family.

When we arrived at the Omaish household, my hunch was confirmed. We were welcomed with guffaws, embraces, and a piping hot lunch in the dining room. Omaish’s grandparents are the epitome of Arab elders. His grandfather, Sami Omaish Sr., bellows on the phone and is acquainted with everyone in the neighborhood. His grandmother dotes on every guest and knits her eyebrows when there isn’t enough khobs on the table. His family was the veritable backbone of our trip: uncle Ziad organized our transportation from Petra, to Wadi Rum, to the Dead Sea; great aunt Samira, a downstairs neighbor to Omaish’s grandparents, gave me and English Track 1A Basak Üstün a bed to sleep in; cousin Laith led us to one of the best meals of the trip, Jordanian mezze – hummus, falafel, pita bread, pickled carrots, and baked cheese. Amman felt like a homecoming to me – the bevy of children, the animated conversation, the unwavering warmth – was reminiscent of my early years in Egypt.

But there was an unknown face of SWANA, one that I never witnessed in Egypt, that I delighted in during my stay in Jordan. The youth scene in Amman is positively effervescent. Although spending bountiful time with young adults in Cairo, I never truly strayed from the sphere of domesticity. But, in the capital’s trendy locales, I experienced SWANA for the first time without familial restraint.

It was in the Jabal Amman and Weibdeh neighborhoods where I was exposed to a cafe culture rivaling both Paris’ and Vienna’s. Rumi Cafe operates to a soundtrack of English and Arabic. They do cafe favorites with an Arab twist – saffron hot chocolates and cardamom cakes grace the tables of patrons. Down the street, Wild Jordan offers an array of coffees and smoothies that would make Starbucks quake in its boots. Snacks like apple pie and lentil soup were fan favorites among my travel partners. And if the menu was not enticing enough, the windows offer panoramic views of the Amman – the ancient citadel in direct eyeshot.

But, Books@Cafe was my favorite establishment. Although boasting the title of “the Middle East’s first ever internet cafe”, it had the most unreliable wifi of all the ones we visited. This, however, could be overlooked. Books@Cafe is the type of business that, I believe, should be in every SWANA city. On the ground floor, local art is sold, creating a vibrant market for young Jordanian artists. Stacked up against kaleidoscopic wallpaper are shelves upon shelves of books in both Arabic and English. Stooped over laptops and books are school age people – the 50% off student discount presenting reason enough to frequent the coffee house. A hub for the Jordanian artistic, literary, and youth scenes, Books@Cafe also doubles as a haven for Amman’s queer community. This cafe represents joy. It is accessible and tolerant – a space where people of all backgrounds are encouraged to create, to learn, to share some delicious food and drink.

And joy is not only relegated to Books@Cafe. It is evident everywhere. It is woven into the fabric of the robust youth culture. It is painted into the murals that decorate almost every street. It mingles with the smoke in the jam packed shisha bar.

Jordan is the renewal of my Cairene glory days, but it is also unlike anywhere else I’ve been before.