Where is your mother?

Leaving my souterrain flat with a bag of trash in one hand and my dirty washing in the other, trying to force the reluctant front door key into the lock, I noticed that my new neighbours were just moving in. A painter called Mohammad (how else?!) had been there a few times in the last week and created the setting for what was already clear to become a kitsch paradise, as seems to be the highest fashion in this country - baby-blue and banana-yellow for the child's room, "sugar"-pink in the bedroom, spring-meadow green in the kitchen and a more tolerable mauve-yellow for the hallway and guest room. Through the open door I could see straight into the child's room on the right of the entrance and noticed two little legs coming out from inbetween several cushions, mattresses and foam-pieces that were probably going to form part of the farsha - the Arabic sitting arrangement.
I walked in and greeted my new neighbour Mohammad (not the painter...) who was assembling a cupboard in the bedroom. I offered my help, which he politely refused. I withdrew to say hi to the little boy who had come out from his sofa-cave, curiously glancing down the hallway. I smiled at him and he smiled back at me. We were now friends, I think. And as a way to seal this, he picked up a big piece of foam and - with a broad smile across his little round face - hit me over the head with it. I promptly responded by throwing one of the cushions in his vague direction. After this ritual we introduced ourselves. "Ayman" he said was his name. "My name is Selim" I told him and without another thought he asked: "and where is your mother?"
A few minutes later, as I was walking through my new, quiet neighbourhood of recently run-up 5-6 storey buildings, I was still thinking about his question, which caught me strangely off guard. I obviously hadn't spoken to children in a while... and that the location of my mother should have anything to do with my own identity was a thought so abstract to me at that moment, that all I could utter as a response was "very far away".

It is amazing how independent from a concept of 'home' I have become in recent years. Or maybe I've always been that way. I've never really missed anyone or anything very much or felt homesick or things like that.

So once again - a new place, a completely new start.

I have finally had the guts to live by myself and how glad I am now for that decision. My flat was literally as bare as a dirty sheet of white paper when I moved in, with nothing but a cheap 75x180cm foam mattress in it. But I liked it that way and asked the Egyptian builder who was assembling a giant steel bedframe in the centre of the big living/sleeping room when I first moved in, to stop what he was doing, unwind the screws again and take it all out. I preferred to sleep on my camping mattress in a corner of the bare room and have all the space for my imagination. That was eleven days and ten nights ago. Slowly, square meter by square meter I have since conquered the flat, whenever I had time inbetween attending the first classes of my new university carreer and combing the town for curious items I desired for my flat. This conquest followed a systematic process of 1) designating the next area of importance, 2) meticulous cleaning every square inch of it, whether floor, wall or ceiling and 3) claiming the purified space as mine by placing a stack of my books, clothes or a newly acquired fancy such as beduin-cushions or a carpet on it.

Although still far from its goal of being a simple and spartanic flat, it is now liveable and I am spending increasing amounts of time in it, enjoying just to have my own space, my peace and myself. I have no close friends here in Amman yet and find that so very refreshing that I intend to keep it that way for a while. There's only Marc, my German colleague and fellow student, who has embarked on one of the more curious adventures in life about a week ago, which provides for sporadic but very welcome entertainment every now and then: he has decided to begin a 'relationship' of sorts with a very cute, extremely outspoken and hip, but instinctively religious Jordanian girl, who is having trouble to decide whether stroking each other's neck is already crossing the line to being 'haram' or not yet... Bless him!

Other news: I have a post box.
This might not seem exciting for you, but for me the fact that for the first time in my life my address contains the two magical letters P.O. and altogether is no more than P.O. Box 13722, Amman 11942, Jordan, is a matter of great excitement and... yes, almost celebration. Located in the University of Jordan Post Office, I go there whenever I have time inbetween classes, take out my little flashy new key from my wallet and crouch down to open number 13722, at the very bottom right corner of a large yellow metal case containing several dozen post boxes with numbers written on it by black brush. I find the idea that a letter might travel across half the world to finally rest in this dark but safe little space at the bottom of the case, designated for only two hands - that of the postman and mine - I find that quite romantic or... I don't know, special somehow. Thank you Edi, Amber, Eloise, Iman, Sophia and Nur for making me very happy by sending me something.

And lastly: I am fasting.
Well, my own version of Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting, which started about two weeks ago. Muslims don't eat or drink - and ideally don't smoke either - between the morning and the evening prayer, corresponding roughly with sunrise and sunset, at currently about 5:04am and 6:37pm respectively. I'm doing it less for religious than for spiritual and health reasons, thus I decided that about a litre of water during the course of the day would be permitted, but on the other hand, I am also completely refraining from meat, any kind of pre-fabricated or artificial foods (never been too much of a fan of them anyway, especially not fizzy drinks) and any sources of caffeine (including chocolate!), alcohol or nicotine (except a very occasional Shisha-pipe).
Though it's a very interesting experience and I am at least feeling very healthy, I am not quite convinced of its real health effects. You end up eating lots at night, and feeling bloated before going to bed, especially if you were invited to have Iftar (the meal to break the fast, which always begins with three dates) at a family's home... it's so delicous and plentiful that one's eyes have far more appetite than one's shrunk stomach can actually accomodate.

So much for now and more soon, in shah allah.

P.S.: sorry for being such a bad and infrequent blogger lately. Life has taken a few unexpected turns lately and put me in various new frames of mind, which I am very thankful for.