Blitzed in Petra

Darius wanted to go to Damascus.
“A Syrian visa, Dar,” I explained, “costs $185 for each person. We could fly to Jordan for less.”

“But Syria is supposed to be..”
“And you can’t get the visa beforehand, you have to go to the border and wait.”
“I know, but my friends say it could be done in a few hours.”
“The internet says 10 hours.”
Darius wanted to test-run a trip to Syria because he planned to take that route on the way to a hiking expedition in Kurdistan and Iraq. [Opinions about this idea were (and remain) polarized.] In the end, we decided that a flight to Amman was the best choice. Our experience in Tripoli, touted as ‘better than Syria’, confirmed the appropriateness of this decision.
Darius found a good deal on a MEA (Middle East Airlines) flight and I was given the task of locating an “appropriate” hotel.
“Appropriate?” I asked.
“A nice hotel,” Nazy replied.
“Nice?”
“Very nice.”
An extensive perusal of the internet bookable hotel options ensued. Five star, luxury hotels were very expensive, but I found a really good deal [Apparently ‘really good’]. on rooms at Le Vendome, a facility that was ‘centrally located’ and ‘just renovated’.
“Are you sure about this place?” Nazy asked.
“You sound, eh, rather skeptical, my dear.” I replied.
“Yeah, Mom,” Darius interjected. “A four star hotel in the Middle East will be great.”
Aside: It would have been nice if Darius, when push came to shove, had remembered this specific comment.
The flight from Beirut to Amman was smooth and fast. There was no problem getting a clean and modern airport taxi. The highway from the airport to the city was not congested and, even when we entered the city, drivers actually looked at the traffic lights. In fact, they even stopped when the light turned red: an unheard of response in Beirut.
En route to our hotel, we passed the five star Le Meridian and Kempinski facilities before arriving at Le Vendome. I couldn’t help but notice Nazy’s shoulders slump as we walked into the lobby.
Head high, smile firmly attached, I moved to the check-in counter while Nazy and Darius walked around the lobby. I discovered that taxes and fees had doubled the price of my ‘great deal’. Nazy and Darius attempted to explore the gift shop. [Not only was the gift shop closed, it featured a thick layer of dust and a handful of souvenir items from Jerusalem.] We were given a chance to view the room options before making our selection.
“Let’s check out the rooms,” I called to Nazy and Darius.
“Can we just check out of this hotel?” Nazy replied – clearly unimpressed by the décor.
“This is a newly renovated hotel,” I whispered. “Let’s look at the room.”
“Newly renovated,” Nazy retorted. “By who? Ptolemy?”
We were offered a large suite, but had trouble turning on the lights. Renovation activity had not included replacement of the light bulbs (or the furniture).
“19th century Howard Johnson,” I thought to myself as I looked around.
“You chose this, Dan.” Nazy noted – pointedly.
“Yeah, Dad,” Darius interjected.
“This grand suite, Nazy, has two bathrooms.” I replied.
“But neither of them have toilet paper,” Nazy retorted.
“I am sure that they can rectify that shortcoming.”
“Your choice, Dad.” Darius mumbled.
In spite of family grumbling, we checked in and had the luggage delivered to our rooms. Although Darius’ room was somewhat pedestrian, ours really wasn’t too bad. (Except for the fact, discovered later that evening, that it was located over the kitchen: Middle Eastern food (especially fish) exudes a pungency that permeates, well, everything. [I was reminded of this fact by both Nazy and Darius several times. ]
It was clear that an excursion into the city (i.e. out of the hotel) was advisable. We located Mohammad, an ‘English-speaking’ guide whose favorite English sayings were Inshallah (“God willing”) and fish moshgaleh (“No problem”). Luckily, Darius spoke a bit of Arabic.
Our first stop was a Roman-era Amphitheatre. (Romans liked amphitheatres.)
While I tried, unsuccessfully, to find Coke Zero (or even Diet Coke), Nazy and Darius bargained with a local selling old silver coins and jewelry as well as a collection of foreign currency.
Lebanon was unusual and fun, but Darius wanted to go to Damascus.
“A Syrian visa, Dar,” I explained, “costs $185 for each person. We could fly to Jordan for less.”
“But Syria is supposed to be..”
“And you can’t get the visa beforehand, you have to go to the border and wait.”
“I know, but my friends say it could be done in a few hours.”
“The internet says 10 hours.”
Darius wanted to test-run a trip to Syria because he planned to take that route on the way to a hiking expedition in Kurdistan and Iraq. In the end, we decided that a flight to Amman was the best choice. Our experience in Tripoli, touted as ‘better than Syria’, confirmed the appropriateness of this decision.
Darius found a good deal on a MEA (Middle East Airlines) flight and I was given the task of locating an “appropriate” hotel.
“Appropriate?” I asked.
“A nice hotel,” Nazy replied.
“Nice?”
“Very nice.”
An extensive perusal of the internet bookable hotel options ensued. Five star, luxury hotels were very expensive, but I found a (really) good deal on rooms at Le Vendome, a facility that was ‘centrally located’ and ‘just renovated’.
“Are you sure about this place?” Nazy asked.
“You sound, eh, rather skeptical, my dear.” I replied.
“Yeah, Mom,” Darius interjected. “A four star hotel in the Middle East will be great.”
Aside: It would have been nice if Darius, when push came to shove, had remembered this specific comment.
The flight from Beirut to Amman was smooth and fast. There was no problem getting a clean and modern airport taxi. The highway from the airport to the city was not congested and, even when we entered the city, drivers actually looked at the traffic lights. In fact, they even stopped when the light turned red: an unheard of response in Beirut.
En route to our hotel, we passed the five star Le Meridian and Kempinski facilities before arriving at Le Vendome. I couldn’t help but notice Nazy’s shoulders slump as we walked into the lobby.
Head high, smile firmly attached, I moved to the check-in counter while Nazy and Darius walked around the lobby. I discovered that taxes and fees had doubled the price of my ‘great deal’. Nazy and Darius attempted to explore the gift shop. We were given a chance to view the room options before making our selection.
“Let’s check out the rooms,” I called to Nazy and Darius.
“Can we just check out of this hotel?” Nazy replied – clearly unimpressed by the décor.
“This is a newly renovated hotel,” I whispered. “Let’s look at the room.”
“Newly renovated,” Nazy retorted. “By who? Ptolemy?”
We were offered a large suite, but had trouble turning on the lights. Renovation activity had not included replacement of the light bulbs (or the furniture).
“19th century Howard Johnson,” I thought to myself as I looked around.
“You chose this, Dan.” Nazy noted – pointedly.
“Yeah, Dad,” Darius interjected.
“This grand suite, Nazy, has two bathrooms.” I replied.
“But neither of them have toilet paper,” Nazy retorted.
“I am sure that they can rectify that shortcoming.”
“Your choice, Dad.” Darius mumbled.
In spite of family grumbling, we checked in and had the luggage delivered to our rooms. Although Darius’ room was somewhat pedestrian, ours really wasn’t too bad. (Except for the fact, discovered later that evening, that it was located over the kitchen: Middle Eastern food (especially fish) exudes a pungency that permeates, well, everything.
It was clear that an excursion into the city (i.e. out of the hotel) was advisable. We located Mohammad, an ‘English-speaking’ guide whose favorite English sayings were Inshallah (“God willing”) and fish moshgaleh (“No problem”). Luckily, Darius spoke a bit of Arabic.
Our first stop was a Roman-era Amphitheater. (Romans liked amphitheaters.)
While I tried, unsuccessfully, to find Coke Zero (or even Diet Coke), Nazy and Darius bargained with a local selling old silver coins and jewelry as well as a collection of foreign currency.

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