It may seem that living overseas is all rainbows and unicorns. (If you live in Pete's world, it is.) But the joys and wonders of living in another country also comes with the trials and tribulations of living in another culture.
It is Elise and I's nature to focus on the positives of living abroad. This is not easy for everyone, but we feel we gain much more by living in other cultures than we lose by not living in the States.
It goes without saying that things function differently in other countries. In some countries, things function as well--if not better--than they do in the States. But in most of the countries Elise and I have lived in, we have had to adjust our expectations as to how efficiently things can be done. In India, for example, grocery shopping was an all-day endeavor that required driving to five different markets, none of which had parking or air-conditioning. Of course, we miss India dearly, and wouldn't trade a minute of having lived there for the creature comforts of "home".
After living in Brazil, India, and now living in Jordan, we have gotten pretty good at being patient, being kind, and basically just going with the flow. These coping mechanisms sometimes break down, as it did the evening in India that found me standing in the middle of the road, fists clenched, screaming up to the heavens when the pizza delivery guy couldn't find our house after the guard outside our house gave him directions in Tamil no less than five times.
Things in Jordan run well. They have good burger joints, Uber, and Starbucks. Grocery stores are much like they are in the States, and you drive on the right-side of the road. That's why I didn't really think twice about signing up for a road race here.
The last time I had signed up for a half-marathon was in Chennai. I ran 11 miles before succumbing to the heat and humidity, but I called it a success at the time anyway.
The biggest problem with signing up for the half-marathon was I didn't have the mental bandwidth to properly prepare for the race. I hadn't trained, per se, but did find time to work up my mileage to a respectable distance (nine miles). No mean feat, in and of itself, if I do say so myself, considering how hilly Amman is. And all the miles were on concrete, a surface much less forgiving on the legs and knees than asphalt.
In short, as I was trying to figure out where to pick up my number, t-shirt, and timing chip--something I would have to do in the days leading up to the race--I was looking at the wrong website.
The entire week before the race, I was at an offsite class (Appropriations Law) at the Intercontinental Hotel at 4th Circle (most places in Amman are found in relation to one of eight traffic circles). The last day to pick-up packets was the Thursday before the race (the race was on a Friday. Weekends in Jordan are Friday and Saturday, instead of Saturday and Sunday) from 12:00-2:00 p.m. Fortunately, Thursday was the last day of class and we were done by 1:00 p.m.
I rushed out of the conference room where the class was being held and practically ran to the curb to hail an Uber on my phone. I had input my destination into the software: King Hussein Park.
The Uber driver picked me up five minutes later, and we were off.
We started driving....
And kept driving and driving and driving...
...until we were 20 minutes outside of Amman: minarets, camels, and men selling tea at the speed bumps where the traffic slows down out of giant metal kettles they wear on their backs that look like bagpipes.
When we finally arrived at King Hussein Park there was no race village to speak of. I checked the website again. Packet pick-up was at Al Hussein Park, not King Hussein Park. I told the Uber drive of my mistake and changed the destination in the app.
"This is King Hussein the First park. You want King Hussein the Second park."
Of course.
He was very accommodating, and soon we were on our way to Al Hussein Park (coincidentally where the Children's Museum is; I've been there twice now).
We pull up to the race village at 1:45 p.m. just as two men are loading placards and boxes into the back of a Toyota Corolla. I run up to them and ask them if they are still doing packet pick-up. They shake their heads. It has been moved to their office at 4th Circle....
Around the corner from the hotel I had just left an hour earlier.
Though I insist I have 15 more minutes, it's not going to make my race number magically materialize in my hand, so I slunk back to my waiting Uber defeated and just ask him to take me work. On the way there, I call the race office and state my case. They tell me I can pick up my race number at the starting line tomorrow morning. I won't get a packet or a race t-shirt, but I tell them fine. As long as I don't have to drive in rush hour back to 4th Circle, I'll take it.
The next morning, I get up early, make breakfast for the kids and slide on my sneaks. The race started at 7:30, so around 6:45, I summon an Uber to take me to the start line downtown. There's hardly ever any traffic on Friday mornings, the day of prayer, so figure I should have plenty of time to get to the race, find the start line, and pick up my number.
The Uber driver shows up in front of our house a few minutes later. He doesn't speak English. I don't speak (much) Arabic. But I've entered my destination into the Uber software, so we're on our way. About halfway there, we come to the race course, the roads closed to traffic. The driver looks at me forlorn, about to give up. Through a series of frenetic hand gestures, I try to suggest he go around. We take another route, only to come upon another road block. It's now 7:20. I ask the driver to take me home, "beitii".
Thoroughly disappointed and utterly defeated, I entered the house, out a race entry and a small fortune in Uber rides. Elise and the kids were playing Candyland. Alas, it was just not meant to be. Living life overseas.
It is Elise and I's nature to focus on the positives of living abroad. This is not easy for everyone, but we feel we gain much more by living in other cultures than we lose by not living in the States.
It goes without saying that things function differently in other countries. In some countries, things function as well--if not better--than they do in the States. But in most of the countries Elise and I have lived in, we have had to adjust our expectations as to how efficiently things can be done. In India, for example, grocery shopping was an all-day endeavor that required driving to five different markets, none of which had parking or air-conditioning. Of course, we miss India dearly, and wouldn't trade a minute of having lived there for the creature comforts of "home".
After living in Brazil, India, and now living in Jordan, we have gotten pretty good at being patient, being kind, and basically just going with the flow. These coping mechanisms sometimes break down, as it did the evening in India that found me standing in the middle of the road, fists clenched, screaming up to the heavens when the pizza delivery guy couldn't find our house after the guard outside our house gave him directions in Tamil no less than five times.
Things in Jordan run well. They have good burger joints, Uber, and Starbucks. Grocery stores are much like they are in the States, and you drive on the right-side of the road. That's why I didn't really think twice about signing up for a road race here.
The last time I had signed up for a half-marathon was in Chennai. I ran 11 miles before succumbing to the heat and humidity, but I called it a success at the time anyway.
The biggest problem with signing up for the half-marathon was I didn't have the mental bandwidth to properly prepare for the race. I hadn't trained, per se, but did find time to work up my mileage to a respectable distance (nine miles). No mean feat, in and of itself, if I do say so myself, considering how hilly Amman is. And all the miles were on concrete, a surface much less forgiving on the legs and knees than asphalt.
In short, as I was trying to figure out where to pick up my number, t-shirt, and timing chip--something I would have to do in the days leading up to the race--I was looking at the wrong website.
The entire week before the race, I was at an offsite class (Appropriations Law) at the Intercontinental Hotel at 4th Circle (most places in Amman are found in relation to one of eight traffic circles). The last day to pick-up packets was the Thursday before the race (the race was on a Friday. Weekends in Jordan are Friday and Saturday, instead of Saturday and Sunday) from 12:00-2:00 p.m. Fortunately, Thursday was the last day of class and we were done by 1:00 p.m.
I rushed out of the conference room where the class was being held and practically ran to the curb to hail an Uber on my phone. I had input my destination into the software: King Hussein Park.
The Uber driver picked me up five minutes later, and we were off.
We started driving....
And kept driving and driving and driving...
...until we were 20 minutes outside of Amman: minarets, camels, and men selling tea at the speed bumps where the traffic slows down out of giant metal kettles they wear on their backs that look like bagpipes.
When we finally arrived at King Hussein Park there was no race village to speak of. I checked the website again. Packet pick-up was at Al Hussein Park, not King Hussein Park. I told the Uber drive of my mistake and changed the destination in the app.
"This is King Hussein the First park. You want King Hussein the Second park."
Of course.
He was very accommodating, and soon we were on our way to Al Hussein Park (coincidentally where the Children's Museum is; I've been there twice now).
We pull up to the race village at 1:45 p.m. just as two men are loading placards and boxes into the back of a Toyota Corolla. I run up to them and ask them if they are still doing packet pick-up. They shake their heads. It has been moved to their office at 4th Circle....
Around the corner from the hotel I had just left an hour earlier.
Though I insist I have 15 more minutes, it's not going to make my race number magically materialize in my hand, so I slunk back to my waiting Uber defeated and just ask him to take me work. On the way there, I call the race office and state my case. They tell me I can pick up my race number at the starting line tomorrow morning. I won't get a packet or a race t-shirt, but I tell them fine. As long as I don't have to drive in rush hour back to 4th Circle, I'll take it.
The next morning, I get up early, make breakfast for the kids and slide on my sneaks. The race started at 7:30, so around 6:45, I summon an Uber to take me to the start line downtown. There's hardly ever any traffic on Friday mornings, the day of prayer, so figure I should have plenty of time to get to the race, find the start line, and pick up my number.
The Uber driver shows up in front of our house a few minutes later. He doesn't speak English. I don't speak (much) Arabic. But I've entered my destination into the Uber software, so we're on our way. About halfway there, we come to the race course, the roads closed to traffic. The driver looks at me forlorn, about to give up. Through a series of frenetic hand gestures, I try to suggest he go around. We take another route, only to come upon another road block. It's now 7:20. I ask the driver to take me home, "beitii".
Thoroughly disappointed and utterly defeated, I entered the house, out a race entry and a small fortune in Uber rides. Elise and the kids were playing Candyland. Alas, it was just not meant to be. Living life overseas.
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