how do i smell bacon? there’s no bacon in jordan.

I always love when cops follow me.  I am either a threat or something worth preserving, which in either case means I’m at the very least interesting.

“Peace and the grace of God and his blessings upon you,” I respond.  This is one of the possible responses to hello (“Peace be upon you”), and I choose this more formal one because I figure it might buy me some insurance.  I’m worth preserving, but my past encounters with cops usually weren’t for my own good.

He bumbles out a few words in English, and I say, “It’s okay, I speak Arabic.”  I speak too soon.  I’m already saying I don’t understand, but he just keeps repeating that same word, making no attempt to circumlocute.  My patience with cops being about twenty seconds, I quickly blurt, “Sorry, what do you want?”

Okay, but why do you want my ID?  Why are you with the servees driver that just dropped me off four minutes ago? Are you guys cousins about to offer me a ride to my house, only to rob me or force me into marriage with a sister for the sake of US residency?  How much is this going to cost me?

I pat my ass, sigh, and smile.  He was saying

محفظة

….

Wallet.  My wallet is in his hand.

I give him my passport, and he spends what felt like an unnecessary amount of time trying to find my names.  “Just wait a minute,” he tells me.  “These pictures…”  “This is when I was sixteen, this was  this year.”  I have black curly hair, all sorts of piercings, and a dirty, hippy shirt on in my California driver’s license, and I’m baby-cheeked and zitty in my passport.  In these pictures I’m smiling, but both is a far cry from the respectable form I wear here in Jordan.

“A thousand thank yous!” as he hands over my wallet.  I pull out 5JD ($7.07) and the cop immediately says, “No!  Welcome to our country.”  I look at the driver and he gives a “screw him, I’ll take it!” smirk, and I gladly hand it over.

I asked the guy on the bus next time how much he would have paid in this situation.  “Nothing!”  he said.  I hate making generalizations, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say almost every Arab I’ve met has been nothing but welcoming, hospitable, generous, and honest.  Even this guy on the bus insisted I come to his house to have tea and talk about our studies and life in America, where he just returned from a month-long trip.

My first two posts were about money.  This makes the third.  Sorry, I promise to try to write about more interesting things from hereon out.  And now, not two days after writing said posts, a divine intervention to remind me of what I strive to believe: sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t, but in the end, it’s still just fucking money.