Pack-Out Day

And just like that....two years have gone...and it’s time to pack our things and move on. 

I did not intend to schedule our pack-out on the same day as the kids’ last day of school, but when the moving company called and asked me if I minded moving my pack-out day up a couple of days. Without consulting the calendar, I agreed. 

The ends of school years are emotional. When I was a kid, the end of the school year was met with celebration. Think throwing open the school doors wide and a flash flood of children, squealing with glee, pouring forth into the warm embrace of summer boredom. Though I have to admit to not always looking forward to summer in South Florida. They were incredibly muggy, filled with mosquitoes, other insects, and wild creatures, interminable stretches of boredom, and even more of the usual shuffling back and forth between parents, both of whom were working, so we would be left alone in the house all day long when we were old enough or left with a babysitter in the house alll day when we weren’t. 

But the end of the school year now often means transition, kids going to new schools on new countries far from their old friends. 

Part of my job is supervising my work place’s motor pool, 28 drivers, 54 cars, three dispatchers, and a supervisor. They invited me to an iftar dinner the night before our pack out. The timing was less than ideal, but I couldn’t say no. Plus, they were serving zarb, lamb cooked in a earthen oven buried in the ground, a dish originating amongst the Bedouins in the Jordanian deserts. I definitely wasn’t going to miss this. 

I arrived just before adhan, the call to prayer, which signals the end of the day’s fast. As Ramadan progresses, and the days get a little longer as they inevitably march toward the summer solstice, the adhan comes a little later every day. The drivers had turned the TV on to Roya Arabic station which featured the countdown to adhan and a seemingly slow-motion video of the setting sun. Many of them had apps on their smartphones which would tell them when the fast ended. There were five tables, each with an enormous platter of zarb and rice, plus pita bread, mutabal, hummus, salad, soup, and, of course, dates, and the drivers circled the tables, hovering, waiting for the adhan and the end of the fast. They were meticulous in their intent not to start a moment before the fast was officially over. 

The second the call to prayer began and the fast ended, they dug in. Most started with water (the fast also includes no smoking or drinking), but were soon ladeling large spoonfuls of rice into their mouths with their fingers. They ripped the lamb meat from the bones with their bare hands. It was a little like hyenas at a carcass, but I couldn’t blame them. I was right there beside them. It was delicious. They kept putting more and more meat on my plate no matter how many times I told them I was full. “Khalas!” I finally had to exclaim. 

Eventually, the feast slowed then stopped, and the room emptied as everyone went to smoke or pray. When they returned, we sat in a circle, drinking Arabic coffee and eating sweets, pancake turnovers filled with walnuts or cheese drizzled with simple syrup. Most everyone was in a sort of tryptophan shock, kind of like what happens after Thanksgiving dinner, and few talked at that point. Doubtlessly, they would liven up later, but I had to get home. 

But me going to iftar with the motor pool drivers meant Elise was home alone with our theee kids the night before the last day of school. Peter had his end of school year party earlier in the day and admitted to Elise he had spent most of the day crying. That sent him, Elise, and the other two into a new torrent of tears. She was finally able to get them all back in bed. They — and she — were spent. By the time I got home, she was scrolling through Facebook and eating a bowl of leftover fried rice, emotionally spent, done. 

We woke up early after a horrible nights’ sleep on welcome kit sheets. We simultaneously got the kids ready for school and hurriedly continued to organize. The movers were coming at 9:00. Time was short. I often feel no matter how much time we have to prepare for pack-out, I can find something to do, one more thing that can be organized, one more thing that can be moved or put in a different place. There is no stopping point. You are never finished until the movers arrived, then — no matter how much you have prepared, or organized, or pre-packed — it stops at that moment and all you can do is hang in for the ride. It seems surreal before it starts. Like you can’t really believe this moment is already here. Then it starts, and chaos erupts around you. Boxes open. Wrapping paper unravels. And packing tape begins it’s familiar screech. The roller coaster begins. And there is no way to get the cart back to the station. 

Yesterday, for really no reason at all except for that it sounded really good, we ordered a whole funfetti, rainbow sprinkles birthday cake from Hala’s Treats. It was no one’s birthday, but likely the end of the school year and pack-out were reasons enough to have a cake on hand. About halfway through the day found Elise and I hiding in the bathroom eating cake, because we didn’t want to eat cake in front of the fasting movers. 

Because it’s Ramadan, the packers only work until 2:00, but since they are fasting, they work nonstop and almost finish the whole house. When the kids get home from school, we allow them to abscond themselves in the one room we cleared completely and marked “Do Not Pack” with a yellow Post-It note and play video games on the iPad, something we call iPad time which is an extremely rare treat. But the iPad wasn’t fully charged and soon died, sending the two boys into an emotional tailspin. They became surly and unpleasant and neither Elise nor I knew if they were hungry, were emotionally burnt out from the last few days of school and preparing to leave Jordan, or suffering some sort of withdrawal from the iPad. The screen sometimes has the same effect as crack cocaine on their developing brains. What Elise and I did agree on was it would have been more unusual had they not been surly and unpleasant given all that was going on around them. 

And then — in the middle of it all — we got our housing assignment in Colombo! 

Elise and Clementine escaped for some pool time and green apple slushies. I couldn’t convince Peter and Sam to go. They stayed home to watch nature shows. There is something equally grounding in hearing a Brit narrate a documentary on caterpillars and toucans. 

Fifth Grade Moving-Up

Last week, Elise and I attended Sam’s fifth grade moving-up ceremony, marking his completion of elementary school and entrance to middle school. It would have been an emotional day even if Sam wasn’t leaving his elementary school friends behind in Amman and starting middle school in Sri Lanka.

Elise recalled growing up with few rites of passage. When we were kids, we seemingly moved without fanfare from elementary to middle then high school, eventually setting off for college being the first true milestone in a young person’s life. There are many reasons this may have been. Perhaps schools or towns were smaller, and a child could attend all three schools without leaving the same building. Because it is an international school with kids from all over the world, many move at the end of a school year, and it is only fitting this is recognized through ceremony. 

Each of the students in Sam’s class had the opportunity to say what they were most looking forward to in sixth grade. 

This was followed by a song the class had been working on most of the semester.

We are all very proud of Sam. He is growing into a responsible and kind young man. 

Despite the fact he wouldn’t be moving up to sixth grade with this group of friends, he never seemed said or disappointed. I was most impressed by how happy he seemed. I wasn’t necessarily sad in fifth grade, but it was when I was in fifth grade my parents got divorced and my mom moved us from Florida to a small town outside of Houston, Texas in the middle of the school year. So it is natural for me to compare Sam now to how I felt then, and I was no where near as happy as Sam is. To see him this happy in the face of so much impending change, makes me proud of his resilience and maybe a little proud of Elise and I, as well, for creating a home environment allowing him to be this happy. 

An American in Jordan during Ramadan

Ramadan, coincidentally enough, started on my birthday. This will be our second — and, sadly, last — Ramadan in Jordan, and we will leave Jordan before Eid. There are few restaurants, bars, or cafes open before Iftar — the breaking of the fast — at around 7:30. Even Starbucks is closed. Essentially, nothing is open. Especially on Fridays, the holy day. I remember last Ramadan going to see a movie in theater only to discover the refreshments counter closed. We couldn’t buy movie theater popcorn, the main reason I go to the movies at all.

I enjoy the quiet. The roads, especially on the weekend, are nearly deserted. The office is quieter, too, as Jordanian staff are given two extra hours off a day. I don’t know all the practices associated with Ramadan, but I’m learning. 

As I mentioned, Ramadan began on my birthday. That evening, we had a small party for me at home with, of course, my favorite, carrot cake, homemade by Elise. 

I don’t exactly recall what Peter’s problem was but it wouldn’t be a day in the Hanna household without someone throwing a wrench into the plans. 

The first few weekends of Ramadan were too cold to go the pool, so we had to come up with our own indoor fun. 

In what must have been a moment of true desperation, Elise froze tiny figurines of mythological creatures in an ice cube tray, challenging the kids to chip them out with screwdrivers. I think she said she saw it on Pinterest. In any case, it was by all measures successful, because the kids spent hours chiseling away. 

We’ve tried to spend time in some of our favorite spaces knowing our time in Jordan is quickly coming to close. One day after work, while Elise and I enjoyed a happy hour beer on the patio, Peter curled up in the chair swing with a book, enjoying the breeze and fresh air. 

There are signals, too, our pack-out is approaching. Not that the drawing below by Clementine is indicative of goings-on in the home.

We’ve been making sure to indulge the kids as much as possible when they want to hang out with their friends, knowing they will have to say goodbye soon. 

Though few restaurants serve dinner before iftar, the breaking of the fast, we have found one or two that are open earlier. Fortunately, our favorite sushi spot (I know what’re you’re thinking...sushi in the Middle East. Yeah, right....but it does exist and is really, really good) is one of them. We had to hit it one last time before we said sayonara for good!

One of our pre-departure traditions is the making of a paper chain. Each loop represents a day before we leave, and each kids gets to cut one link in the chain off each day. The colors of the chain are usually representative of our destination. In this case, red, white, and blue. Except we didn’t have any blue construction paper, so red, white, and dark purple it is. 

The last couple of days, the weather has turned from reasonable and cool to ninth circle of hell hot. It has forced even those of us not fasting to become lugubrious and churlish. The last two days, the mercury touched 100 Fahrenheit, the streets were deserted. No cars moved. No doors opened. The entire city slept, hid from the heat, waiting for the day to pass, waiting for iftar and the night and cooler air. It is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but a little like night of the living dead in its reminiscence of the apocryphal. We find ourselves hibernating on these days, too, air conditioning on full blast, watching cartoons on tv with the shades drawn. 

It has perhaps somewhat hastened our readiness to say goodbye to Jordan, if for no other reason than when there is nothing to do you want to get somewhere where there is a lot to do. The end of the school year marks a natural transition point, but complicates and makes a mess of the kids’ emotional state. Again, I have taken for granted the fact that in our two short years, Amman, our apartment, their school, has very much become home. I am certain I will have many fond memories of our time here, I just don’t know what they are yet. I don’t want to stay in Amman, but, at the same time, there is also no place I would rather be. The feeling of being stuck between places must be natural for many who move often and live overseas, stretched between destinations. I don’t want to stay in Amman, but I also don’t want to leave our routine, the ease of doing things. I guess that is what is called ‘home’.

But in this lifestyle the only constant is change. The necessity of forging a new routine, a new way of doings, and, hence, a new home. I am looking forward to getting to Sri Lanka and establishing a new sense of normalcy, getting back into a routine. Our time in the States will be short and I will need to remind myself not to wish it away. Rather, to take advantage of our short time there. 

We pack-out in two days. I only have four more days in the office. We have started saying our goodbyes. We will be leaving soon. If there are no new blog posts foI awhile, you will know why. For me, I feel I will be leaving a lot behind. Coming to the Middle East was an awakening of sorts. I wanted to learn Arabic and I learned a little. I am half Lebanese, but grew up never understanding what that meant outside of a few forced conventions I grew to resent: weekend visits to the Syrian-Lebanese club off of Forest Hill Blvd in south West Palm Beach, pinches on the cheek of uncles and aunties I never knew I had, Sunday dinners at Sitti’s house eating food I didn’t like at the time but that I ate here again and was instantly transported back to my childhood. 

But at the same time, I am anxious to go. This has been by far the hardest job I have had in this career. (Another reason it has been hard to keep uo with the blog.)  I have had challenging positions before. Most notably, shift work in D.C., but I don’t think there is anything quite like the tenor of the work in the Middle East. Everything becomes more urgent and everything becomes more important just because it happens in the Middle East. 

Today was Memorial Day. After spending the morning preparing for our pack-out, Elise and I had lunch at Cinco de Mayo, a Mexican restaurant at the Intercontinental mostly because it was the only place open, but also because Mexican food and margaritas sounded really, really good. We ended up there last year, too, during Ramadan. Possibly on Memorial Day, as well. 

Went-short shopped on Rainbow Street before arriving at home right around the same time the kids were getting off the bus. Exhausted, I crashed for an hour while the kids watched Ritchie Rich. Later, after picking up Peter from his after-school play date, rolling through Amman with the windows down, listening to Lord Huron, Clementine trying to talk over the music only to ask me to turn it back up when I turn it down to hear what she’s saying. 

After dinner, Sam and I walked to Hala’s Treats in hopes of buying a whole funfetti cake but, sadly, they had already closed. We talked about cars and how he was handling the move as we walked home. The jacaranda trees are in bloom, the same trees I remember admiring in Cairo. Just as we walked up to our building, we heard the call to prayer, the one signaling iftar and the end of the day’s fast. The guards in front of our building drank water and ate their dates, three. Elise has told me only to eat dates in odd numbers. I don’t understand the logic behind what could be a superstition, but it strangely makes sense, like many things that happen during Ramadan, so that eating an even number of dates just doesn’t feel right.

The Week After

Originally posted November 15, 2016.

A week ago Tuesday, we sat outside Clementine's ballet school in the dark. I try to drive Clem to ballet when I can, though I work most nights. When I am on opening shift, I get off early enough to take her, so Elise doesn't have to drag Peter and Sam along and worry about what they are all going to do for dinner. But last week, no one felt like cooking and we decided we'd grab a quick bite out on the way home from ballet.

The boys sat at a picnic table in the dark, playing Pokemon by the light of Elise's iPhone. I hadn't brought a book, so while Elise read headlines on her phone, I paced nervously, my hands plunged deep into the pockets of my jacket. I was uncommonly tired or uncommonly distressed. Probably both. I was uncommonly cold and uncommonly hungry. Cold in a way I am not when I get up and go running in 30 degree weather. Hungry because I hadn't eaten anything all day, a practice that is becoming disturbingly too common. But I remember feeling an uneasiness I do not often feel. I felt like there was so much I could be doing. I needed to be washing dishes, cleaning the house, or folding laundry. I found myself wishing I had stayed home, rather than standing in the cold in the dark.

During her hour-long practice, Clementine would occasionally peek down at us from the second story studio window and wave. The windows were high. From our vantage point, all we could see were the banks of track lighting on the ceiling and the held-high arms of little girls pirouetting across padded wrestling mats.

We stopped at Ledo's Pizza on the way home, a favorite from previous stays in Northern Virginia, but a place we had yet to visit this time around. The parlor had the hallmarks of older, less modern places: laminated, plastic menus, wooden wainscoting, a drab olive wallpaper with flowers on it, neon beer signs in the front windows, framed vintage photos of famous sports icons: Mohammed Ali, Vince Lombardi, Joe Namath. Drinks came in dimpled maroon plastic cups. The big screen TVs were tuned to ESPN. Though it was mostly commercials for razor blades and AXE body spray, it was a welcome reprieve from the constant spew of Breaking News on bright red banners.

Just after we ordered a group of four older white men came into the relatively deserted restaurant and sat down in the booth behind us. They asked the waitress to turn one of the TVs to Fox News.

This is not a post about politics.

It is a post about dealing with disappointment and loss. It doesn't matter what the source of the disappointment is. I could have been passed over for promotion, backed over a mailbox and scratched the bumper of the car, lost a dog, or a bet. The point is there is pervasive anxiety and woe in our house and I don't know how to vanquish it.

I am beginning to fear there may be no other blog posts about school or kids or soccer or fall.

It doesn't help that the days are getting shorter and the weather is turning colder. Fall is ending, and winter is coming.

We ate in silence and went home, The kids immediately crawled beneath their covers exhausted. In our own bed, Elise and I tried to follow the election results on our iPhones. We don't have cable, and while Netflix is good for watching House Hunters and cartoons, it doesn't fare as well in catching up on current events. We thought for certain some social media platform must be live-streaming results, but just when we thought we had found a live feed, we realized it was an hours-old video playing the same Wolf Blitzer sound bite over and over. We watched Florida swing back and forth and back and forth too many times to be believable, only to find out in the morning this was close to what was going on in the real world.

I had to get up at 4:15 in the morning to catch the 5:00 train to be at my office by 6:00 to open. Both Elise and I turned the lights off a little after nine and went to sleep, not having any idea which way the election was swinging. We had watched two of the debates in similar fashion, waiting until the morning to read the fall-out.

Most mornings, I don't need an alarm clock to wake up. The following Wednesday morning was no exception. I propped myself up on an elbow and extricated myself from the mattress has quietly as I could. Invariably, the springs squeak beneath me. If that doesn't give me away, every floorboard between our room and the kitchen conspires against me, and I creak and moan my way to the kitchen. I unplug my phone from the bedside outlet and sneak downstairs to take a shower.

In the bathroom, I turn on the light and close the door. Before turning the shower on, I quickly check Facebook on my phone. I see the result. It feels like someone sucker punched me in the stomach.

I worry about Elise. I know she is awake. No matter how quiet I think I'm being when I get up that early in the morning, I know I wake her up. Most mornings, she says goodbye and tells me she loves me. But now I think she is either lying awake in the dark trying to go back to sleep or has also reached over to her bedside table and seen the news for herself.

I open the door to the bathroom and quietly walk up the stairs. I stand in the dining room, listening in the dark. I don't hear anything. I don't know what I expected to hear. Movement? Stirring? Crying? If she was awake, I would have gone in there. But I didn't want to wake her up to tell her. The only thing worse would be having to deal with a whole house that had roused at 4:00 in the morning. I wanted to hug her an tell her everything was going to be okay. I don't know who might have needed it more at that moment, me or her. I didn't hear anything, so I went back downstairs and got in the shower.

On the train ride in, I looked about me, but everyone looked the same as they always do. No one looked any different than they did on any other morning, tired men and women going to work insanely early in the morning. It was hard not to wonder who had voted.

I get a text message from Elise on the train, "I'm scared. I'm so sad. I don't know how to tell our children that this happened."

I could only imagine her morning through a series of text messages. She told the kids. "Peter is so upset."

"Is sam?" I ask.

"He teared up a little. He just really wanted cheerios."

At the bus stop. Running into the Moldovan-American on our block who looked as though she had been up all night crying. Going running. Offering to bring me a sandwich and my running shoes so I can run home for work. "say yes if it would help heal your heart," she would text. Me: "I'd rather be with you". We would decide to meet after work at the Lincoln Memorial. Work was eerily quiet.

It's hard not to feel hopeless, but the only thing left is to hope and keep telling ourselves everything will be okay.

I never really thought of myself as a patriot or ever felt especially patriotic. I've always kind of put patriotism and nationalism in the same basket as religion, based on beliefs. Beliefs are a state of mind in which a person thinks something to exist, with or without empirical evidence. It's how kids can believe in the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. It's how Cubs fans believed their team could win the World Series, and people can believe in life on other planets. But beliefs are malleable. I don't believe blindly -- and rarely without empirical evidence -- but I do have beliefs. I believe in the Golden Rule and that we should be kind to one another and do what's right -- not because I'm told I'll burn in hell if I don't, but because it is intrinsically the right thing to do.

I believe strongly on the principles on which this country was founded, freedom, acceptance, opportunity. Life liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Truth, justice, and the American way. And no one man can take that away from us.

I try to think about what has changed from before last Tuesday to today. Why do I feel different now than I did a week ago. The country is essentially the same. It stands for the same thing and represents the same ideals. I think what has changed -- if anything -- is my perception of the country I live in. I live in a different place than maybe I thought I did and that has been disappointing.

But nothing else has changed. The country is populated by the same kind and generous people that were there before last Tuesday. I am perhaps more disappointed in myself more than anything else in believing we had overcome in a short amount of time challenges we have long been facing. In a way, I am embarrassed by my naivete. But, though disappointed, there is no other answer than to become kinder and gentler.

I always knew who my dad was voting for, but was never able to reconcile the person I knew or hoped he was with this decision. On some level, I know that he would vote for whoever cost him the least amount of money. That he'd vote for Bart Simpson if it meant his tax bill would go down.

I hadn't spoken to my dad in the week leading up to or following the election for fear he would bring up politics. Yesterday, he texted me to tell me he had just gotten out of hernia surgery and was facing two weeks of recovery. I felt like an asshole for either not having known he was going into surgery or knowing then forgetting. I called him that afternoon to see how he was doing. On the phone, he asked me, "So have you been offered a job in the administration yet?"

The wind whipped across the reflecting pool. It seemed colder than it was even the day before. Possibly, that was just in my mind, too. The sky was weird. Sunny in spots, obscured by dark clouds in other. Purple clouds amassed on the horizon, but I couldn't tell if it looked like rain or just the coming night, dusk.

We watched Clementine kneel beside the reflecting pool and talk to the ducks. She named them, though I forget their names now. We watched her run up and down the steps of the memorial. I ate a salad Elise had brought me with a plastic fork, bundled against the wind in my black trench coat, indistinguishable from any other DC bureaucrat.

We walked up to the memorial. Elise turned to her left, toward, the Gettysburg Address. I walked up behind her, Clementine entwined between my legs. We both looked at it. Perhaps, reading. Perhaps, not. Through the surprisingly thin amount of foreign tourists, cameras and selfie-sticks at ready. It was a Wednesday after all.

"...That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Feynan EcoLodge, Part Two

I woke to a light rapping at the thick wooden door to our hotel room. Peter and Sam were stirring behind me, but perhaps not quite fully awake.

I struggled with the key in the lock for what felt like eternity before I finally got the door open. Elise was peeking back at me through th the crack in the door. 

“They went on ordered departure,” she whispered to me. I knew exactly what she was talking about without her having to say more. 

Colombo. 

“Shit.”

“I’m not telling you this so you stress out or to ruin your day,” she quickly added. 

We hugged. She told me it was going to be okay, everything was going to be okay, Elise taking the role of the rock. She has been calm and resolute, the eye of the storm. 

But we didn’t have much time to wallow or fret about the future. After breakfast, we headed out for a long my morning hike in a nearby Wadi (river bed). 

The kids quickly decided the fastest route through the river bed was through the river. Even if it meant their shoes and socks would be soaking wet for the rest of the day and the long drive home to Amman. 

There wasn’t a lot of wildlife to be seen, but the kids did discover schools of tadpoles in some of the calmer eddies and pools of the creek. 

We didn’t make it very far into the Wadi before the morning grew long and the afternoon sun began to creep upon us. We made our way out of the canyon and back to the lodge just in time for a late lunch before hitting the road and heading back to Amman. 

The kids — much to their chagrin — did have school early the next morning. 

Feynan EcoLodge

This past weekend, we drove south to the Dana Bioreserve and spent the night at Feynan Ecolodge. The entire lodge is solar-powered, nestled in the mountains near Wadi Rum, and run by members of local Bedouin tribes. At night, there are no lights (except one in the bathroom); the entire lodge is lit by candlelight. It was, indeed, as magical as it sounds. 

It was a longer drive than we anticipated, but our patience was rewarded for the last 20 km or so was off-road!  Our front-wheel drive Mazda CX-9 handled the bumps and turns like a much more rugged vehicle.  Despite the squeak in the passenger seat spring, it seemed as though the car had been longing to show what it could really do and this adventure was its chance to shine!  We made it to the lodge in one piece with the kids cheering and whooping from the way, way back, and Elise cautioning me to watch for boulders and goats. 

As soon as we arrived, we stashed our things in our room and set off for a short hike from the lodge to a neighboring Bedouin village where we were invited for traditional Arabic coffee.  We had a wonderful guide for the weekend.  His name was Suleiman, a Bedouin who grew up less than a mile from the lodge.  On our sunset hike later that evening, he even showed us his own family's tent and where "his head fell", a Bedouin expression for being born, marked by a stick laying against a stone.  

On the way to coffee, we came across a herd of baby goats.  In fact, the entire property was practically overrun with baby goats.  They were everywhere, even climbing up the trees around the lodge!

Neither Elise nor Peter could pass up the opportunity to pick up and hold a baby goat!

We ducked into the low-ceilinged tent (like the one in the photo below) and sat in a circle as our Bedouin host roasted a handful of fresh coffee beans over an open flame.  

He put the beans in a long-handled skillet to toast them.  After toasting them, he ground the beans by hand, then poured boiling hot water over them.  He told us that the coffee was supposed to be so hot it would "scare your mustache". 

Everyone tried a sip.  Peter even had three small cups of the light green Arabic blend.  

After our Bedouin coffee experience, we headed back to the lodge for a few minutes of downtime and a snack before heading out on the sunset hike. 

Once we arrived at the sunset spot, a few of us set off to get a higher vantage point.  

I call this one my Sam at sunset on Tatooine shot.  

This shot was not staged.  They really did huddle together like that, perched on a rock in the desert in the south of Jordan, watching the sun dip below the horizon. 

When it was time to head back to the lodge, we conveniently found a donkey waiting for us! 

By the time we had returned to the lodge, the sun had long set, and the shadows were deep.  The entire lodge was shrouded in darkness, save for tiny pinpoint of candle light, -- many in votives sprinkled through corridors -- or suspended in the air in heavy chandeliers.  

Dinner was also by candle light, except for the group of elderly Italian tourists who each had a piercingly-bright LED flashlight by which they were dining. 

After dinner, we headed straight to the rooftop to star gaze.  The sky in the desert is unlike any sky we have in Amman, and hopefully a site the kids will remember for a long time.  

We had to split up into two rooms for the evening.  Though the one room had two beds and a folding metal cot with what passed for a mattress on it, Elise and I ended up splitting up, as well, because we only had one key which we needed to both unlike the door from the inside and outside.  If we kept, the key, the kids would be locked in...which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, except if they had to get out in an emergency.  

I stayed with Sam and Pete who were asleep before their heads even hit the pillow.  I took a quick shower, testing the lodge's solar heating (which was amazing, by the way), and just laid on the cot, a metal bar in my back, listening to the silence. A single candle flickered in an alcove at the foot of the cot.  

A short while later, a soft knock came at the door.  It was the Easter Bunny.  More precisely, it was Elise with a box full of Easter candy her parents had sent her from the States and we brought with us to the desert, fully risking the chocolate Easter eggs melting in the heat.  Elise fashioned Easter baskets from hotel towels, and we filled the "baskets" by candlelight.  On Easter morning, the kids woke to cleverly crafted Easter baskets.  They were very impressed with the Easter Bunny's ingenuity.