Grinning as if sharing a small secret, Imad said in the same warm, accented English I was beginning to recognise, "My friend, here is the money for your ticket. Keep the ticket safely with you. I will have to present it to the company.” Imad had just pulled the car over near the entrance to the Amman Citadel.
I had first met Imad the day I landed in Amman, three in the morning, no less. Even at that hour, his salt-and-pepper beard was perfectly neat, his hair, streaked with the same mixture of silver and dark, slicked back with just the right amount of gel. Hoodie zipped up, a calm smile on his face, he looked remarkably fresh for someone working at such an unreasonable hour.
I looked like I had fought, and lost, a battle with my backpack.
And every single day thereafter, Imad looked much the same: hair and beard immaculately in place, that same easy smile waiting for me as he sat behind the wheel.
Amman was the first stop on my journey, although my mind was already racing ahead to Petra.
I only had about 45 minutes, maybe less, to explore the Citadel, something that had watched over Amman long before the city even had a name.
According to my itinerary, I would be there in two days. Petra was, after all, the place that had drawn me to Jordan in the first place. For months I had imagined myself walking through the Siq, the narrow, winding gorge between towering sandstone cliffs that leads into the ancient city.
But for now, I had a little under forty-five minutes to explore the Amman Citadel, a hilltop where traces of different civilisations had survived for thousands of years.
My watch showed a little after ten. Sunlight fell across the ancient stones, while the sounds of honking cars, scattered conversations and the low thrum of daily life drifted up from the streets below.
A few steps inside, just after I had bought my ticket, a young girl approached me. She wore a bright red hat, a matching long-sleeved red shirt, a white scarf, and a cream-coloured hijab tucked neatly beneath her hat.
"Where are you from?" she asked with a gentle smile.
"I am from India," I replied.
Without hesitating, she added warmly, "I can show you around if you want. Tell you all about the Citadel."
There was an earnestness in her voice: not pushy, just hopeful.
For a moment, I hesitated, wanting to say yes, to hear the place through her words. But time was short, and I still had much of the Citadel to explore.
I politely declined and continued walking, though I couldn’t help glancing back. She approached another visitor, who also seemed to decline her offer. Still, she kept trying.
I found myself wondering what her days at the Citadel were like. I only hoped someone said yes to her that day.
I followed a curving path deeper into the Citadel grounds.
I noticed the stones strewn everywhere across the grounds: some gathered neatly while others scattered like fallen memories.
I couldn’t tell whether those stones had been laid out carefully by curators or whether time had abandoned them.
Something about those scattered stones took me back to Hampi, in India, another place where the remains of an ancient city stretch across a vast landscape.
I remembered the friends I’d travelled with then. How we’d climbed ruins together, watched the sunset, caught the last bus to our hotels, and laughed under clear skies.
For a moment, I wished they were there beside me.
I lingered on the memory briefly, then continued along the path.
I looked to my left, and Amman revealed itself.
The city was everywhere: spilling down the hillsides, climbing up the slopes, threading through valleys.
Beige houses stood closely packed, some stacked above others like weathered blocks, their pale stone merging into a seemingly endless sweep of buildings across the surrounding hills.
And tucked into the valley below, almost casually placed, was the Roman Theatre: a vast stone crescent carved into the hillside.
