After a long Ramadan month, everyone was ready for a little break from Jordan. When planning a vacation or trip, I always check with Elise before making any major moves, but when I saw the price of the tickets from Amman to Paphos, Cyprus on Ryanair, I literally bought them before asking Elise if she wanted to go to the beaches of Cyprus; I kind of figured I already knew the answer.
I was able to fly all five of us to Cyprus for the week for $300, the cost of one airline ticket to either Cairo or Beirut! We rented a villa in the southern beachside village of Pissouri, about halfway between Paphos and Limassol on Cyprus' southern coast.
The airlines in Jordan always tell you to arrive three hours before your flight, especially if it is an international flight, to give you enough time to get through customs and security. The airport in Amman isn't Heathrow or O'Hare. We usually make it through both customs and security in about fifteen minutes, much less than the suggested three hours. But the time, I hit up currency exchange for a few euros and Starbucks for late afternoon few, we may have burned a half hour.
We learned this lesson the hard way at first. The kids will always remember their father as making sure we have plenty of time to get to our plane on time. We will never miss a flight. But three hours seemed excessive, even to me. We've whittled that down to leaving the house about two hours before our flight (to include the 45 minutes drive out to Queen Alia International Airport, literally out in the middle of nowhere in the desert).
We've moved and traveled a lot. The kids are no strangers to airports. Elise told me once about the concept of a "third place", a place is a social setting separate and apart from the two usual spaces in ones life, work and home. Social psychologists stress third places as the spaces in which an individual's social infrastructure and communities are formed and they can be churches, coffee shops, parks, and, yes, even pubs and bars. When I was cycling, I think the peloton acted as a moving third space for me, 50 cyclists careening down A-1-A at 30 mph within a few inches of one another, bonds were formed quickly because the structural integrity of the bones in your arms, legs, and face depended on it.
In our many moves and travels, one space has been the same: airport waiting lounges. In a sense, if not a third space, then airports are one of the few physical spaces that has remained constant over the years. Starbucks are another. The stained carpets and plastic furniture are as familiar as the living room set in your own home and more constant. In airport waiting lounges, we feel comfortable and safe in their familiarity. The stressors of making sure you are going to get to the airport and through security on time have been removed and all there is left to do is wait. There are few other distractions there.
When boarding began one hour before our scheduled flight time to Paphos, I was glad we were early. But soon discovered we were to be herded into a holding pen for the next hour. The flight hadn't even arrived yet, and it soon became evident to me, the airline had no intent to even clean the cabin. We waited with forty others on the jetway, the hot sun soon turning the small space into a greenhouse of sorts. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could, camping out on the floor with our fellow passengers, sprawled out on carry-ons and backpacks. This was our first experience on a real discount airline. At this point, I was just hoping they were going to stay on the ground long enough to fuel the plane.
When we boarded the plane, the stewardess encouraged us to quickly find our seats and buckle ourselves in. As I sat down, she pointed to the seat next to mine and told me that seat was not available. Crusted with an off-white crust, it looked as though a baby on the previous flight had spit up its bottle all over the seat. The floor, too, was littered with M&M's or Spree chewy tarts candy. The air over Amman was rough. Very rough. But we were soon sailing over the Mediterranean. When Cyprus could be seen out the cabin window, Peter shouted, "Land HO!" as though he were in the crow's nest of a whaling vessel.
Upon landing, we were soon in our rental car and on our way to the villa, making sure to drive on the left side of the road (!!). It was starting to get late, so we dropped our bags at the villa and immediately headed into the small beachside village of Pissouri for dinner.
We parked the down and walked to the sea.
The airlines in Jordan always tell you to arrive three hours before your flight, especially if it is an international flight, to give you enough time to get through customs and security. The airport in Amman isn't Heathrow or O'Hare. We usually make it through both customs and security in about fifteen minutes, much less than the suggested three hours. But the time, I hit up currency exchange for a few euros and Starbucks for late afternoon few, we may have burned a half hour.
We learned this lesson the hard way at first. The kids will always remember their father as making sure we have plenty of time to get to our plane on time. We will never miss a flight. But three hours seemed excessive, even to me. We've whittled that down to leaving the house about two hours before our flight (to include the 45 minutes drive out to Queen Alia International Airport, literally out in the middle of nowhere in the desert).
We've moved and traveled a lot. The kids are no strangers to airports. Elise told me once about the concept of a "third place", a place is a social setting separate and apart from the two usual spaces in ones life, work and home. Social psychologists stress third places as the spaces in which an individual's social infrastructure and communities are formed and they can be churches, coffee shops, parks, and, yes, even pubs and bars. When I was cycling, I think the peloton acted as a moving third space for me, 50 cyclists careening down A-1-A at 30 mph within a few inches of one another, bonds were formed quickly because the structural integrity of the bones in your arms, legs, and face depended on it.
In our many moves and travels, one space has been the same: airport waiting lounges. In a sense, if not a third space, then airports are one of the few physical spaces that has remained constant over the years. Starbucks are another. The stained carpets and plastic furniture are as familiar as the living room set in your own home and more constant. In airport waiting lounges, we feel comfortable and safe in their familiarity. The stressors of making sure you are going to get to the airport and through security on time have been removed and all there is left to do is wait. There are few other distractions there.
When boarding began one hour before our scheduled flight time to Paphos, I was glad we were early. But soon discovered we were to be herded into a holding pen for the next hour. The flight hadn't even arrived yet, and it soon became evident to me, the airline had no intent to even clean the cabin. We waited with forty others on the jetway, the hot sun soon turning the small space into a greenhouse of sorts. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could, camping out on the floor with our fellow passengers, sprawled out on carry-ons and backpacks. This was our first experience on a real discount airline. At this point, I was just hoping they were going to stay on the ground long enough to fuel the plane.
When we boarded the plane, the stewardess encouraged us to quickly find our seats and buckle ourselves in. As I sat down, she pointed to the seat next to mine and told me that seat was not available. Crusted with an off-white crust, it looked as though a baby on the previous flight had spit up its bottle all over the seat. The floor, too, was littered with M&M's or Spree chewy tarts candy. The air over Amman was rough. Very rough. But we were soon sailing over the Mediterranean. When Cyprus could be seen out the cabin window, Peter shouted, "Land HO!" as though he were in the crow's nest of a whaling vessel.
Upon landing, we were soon in our rental car and on our way to the villa, making sure to drive on the left side of the road (!!). It was starting to get late, so we dropped our bags at the villa and immediately headed into the small beachside village of Pissouri for dinner.
We parked the down and walked to the sea.
We found a table at aptly-named Captain's, directly beside the beach and immediately ordered beer, wine, and fried calamari.
First thing the next morning, we headed back to the beach in Pissouri and spent the morning in the sun and the waves. The beach was covered with smooth, oval pebbles, perfect for skipping across the waves. The water was cold, but after a few hours in the hot Mediterranean sun, refreshing. It was the first time any of us swam in the Mediterranean, only the kids did it several decades before Elise or I.
Peter spent most of the first morning begging us to rent a jet-ski, as improbable as that sounds. He really wanted us to rent a paddle boat with a plastic slide on it (pictured above). At fifty euro an hour, I didn't see that happening either. He sulked and brooded most of the morning, but we ignored him long enough to work himself out of his funk and finally find it within himself to appreciate his surroundings and just have fun.
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