I spent the past couple of hours driving around the city. This was my attempt at home-grown therapy which also takes advantage of descending fuel prices. I am practical even in my therapy.
I woke up this morning and wondered if today will be any slower than yesterday. I read the final eight pages of an Arabic novel which was resting on the red sofa next to my bed; the eight pages I couldn’t finish hours before, at 3 AM, because I was suddenly lulled by the tolerable heat and the miraculous absence of mosquitoes. I even covered myself, contrary to tradition.
I resisted the temptation to continue my last night’s blues, an otherwise chronic depression, and I sailed through the last eight pages. When I was done, I felt an overwhelming desire to shout. The novel ended well but I wanted more, I wanted something tangible.
I picked another book to read. Edward Said’s memoirs, which had been resting on my bookcase since May, and which I grabbed many times only to put down for another choice, were almost starting to gather dust. I think I was scared of Said’s elaborate English. I returned to my bed, not opening the shutters and leaving the room soaking in the dark orange light and the sleepy hotness of this morning, and I started to read the preface.
My mother knocked on the door and entered. She asked me to drive her to my uncle’s place, so I left Said on my bed and got dressed. I did as I was told, stopping on the way at the curtain shop, where my mother slipped inside for a moment and came back without the big bag of textile that she previously had with her.
When I was done with my errand, and my mother was safely inside my uncle’s house, I realized I had nothing to do today. I took the left turn towards downtown Amman, instead of going straight ahead and returning home. Nobody’s going to miss me anyway, I thought.
I do not know how I did not cause an accident. I was incredibly absorbed in thought, completely absentminded, as I stared at the shop signs that I have seen before and tried to guess where to go next. Where was that Rolex store which my father always told stories about? I looked for familiar places where I had been with my mother when I was a little girl, where she would get buttons or textiles or bridal accessories for my sister, and I found only some. Even Al Sa7a Al Hashmiyyeh no longer existed as it used to. Now it is a changed place, it is somewhat clean, and there aren’t as many Iraqi men lurking around as there used to be in the past. How we avoided them on our way to the old bus station! — that, too, was moved nearer to Mahatta.
The brain erases things you no longer use, or it pushes them so far back in the caves of your head that you no longer realize they exist. I felt these memories crawling out of their caves, yawning, poking fun at me for thinking they died. I felt like a little girl again.
Souq Mango, Souq el Sokkar, Share3 el Salt, Ahmad Awad, Share3 el Ousat, Maktabt el 3olama, Souq el Balabseh, Souq el Bokhariyyeh, Bayazeed, Souq el Dahab… My mother holding my hand and hurrying from one shop to the other, knowing exactly where her goal is, and reminiscing about the old days when her mom used to take her to these places, bragging that she used to walk all these streets and even more from home to school, so I shouldn’t complain that I am tired.
I noticed a number of new bookshops and other stores during my cruise. Some trendy-ish places opening right around Tal3et Jabal Amman. I thought it was a crime against the place. Why do we always want to ruin what’s authentic with what’s contemporary solely because it is new?
I wanted to park the car somewhere and take a walk. I was already past the Shapsough parking, which for the record does not belong to my mother’s modest part of the family, and I couldn’t find anywhere to just leave Havana and take to the streets. I wanted to buy books from the new stores or from kiosks, and I was desperate for some hot, juicy, Sfee7a, and a Pepsi. I wanted to hold beauty still for a moment.
While I looked on from the window, I realized that nobody can discern what I think unless I articulate it. The people downtown all seemed busy being idle; walking, waiting to cross the street, pausing, moving around, but not doing anything in specific. They all seemed unreal because they didn’t talk to me, images I can shrug off because they are not personal.
I saw a couple of old apartments for rent, too, and wondered how much it costs to live downtown. It either costs a lot, or little. Is it difficult to live downtown? The many small hotels with brief names and narrow dark stairs mustn’t cost much. I have always fantasized about staying in one of these hotels, but this morning I imagined it would mean having to lock the door and taking a series of necessary safety precautions, because I am female, and then my fantasy seemed devoid of romance.
I cannot say if I feel better after my trip down memory lane, or rather after using this cliché. The freshness of my thoughts and feelings seems to wither very quickly and I can never rely on it. I think I need another therapeutic session, maybe a fight or two, to return to normal, whatever that is.
