Chapter I: A City on the Hill – First Steps into Amman
Grinning as if sharing a small secret, Imad said in a familiar Arabic accent,
"My friend, here the money for your ticket. Keep the ticket safely with you. I will have to present it to the company.”
He had just pulled the car over near the entrance to the Amman Citadel.
I was introduced to Imad the day I landed in Amman — at 3 AM, no less — and there he was: his salt-and-pepper beard perfectly neat, his hair, mirroring the same mix of silver and dark streaks, slicked back with just the right amount of gel, hoodie zipped, and a calm smile ready.
I looked like I had fought — and lost — a battle with my backpack.
And every single day thereafter, Imad looked exactly the same: hair and beard immaculately in place, waiting inside the car with that same easy smile.
Amman was the first leg of this trip.
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.
But if I’m honest, my mind was already racing ahead.
Two days from now, as per the itinerary, I would reach Petra — the sole reason I had traveled all this way.
The idea of finally walking through the Siq — the narrow, winding gorge carved through towering cliffs — had been the image I carried in my head for months.
(Siq: Arabic for "shaft" or "narrow passage," created naturally between high rocks.)
Still, here at the Amman Citadel, I was certain something new and something unexpected was waiting for me.
The sun was starting to settle into its golden rhythm — the time on my watch showed just past 10 AM — draping the stones in a soft, forgiving light.
The sounds of honking cars, scattered conversations, and the low thrum of daily life rose steadily from the streets wrapped around the base of the hill.
Just a few steps inside the entrance after I had purchased the tickets, a young girl approached me.
She wore a bright red hat, a matching long-sleeved red shirt, a white scarf, and a cream-colored hijab tucked neatly underneath.
"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, not desperate — just hopeful.
For a moment, I hesitated, wanting to say yes, to hear the place through her words.
But time was short. I politely declined and kept walking, though I couldn’t help but glance back as she moved from one tourist to another, each politely refusing, yet she remained hopeful.
I wondered if this was a side job between studies, or her full-time work to support her family.
I only hoped someone said yes to her that day.
I continued through the curved path, leading deeper into the Citadel grounds.
I noticed the stones strewn everywhere across the grounds, some gathered neatly, others scattered like fallen memories.
I couldn’t tell if they had been laid out carefully by curators or simply left where time had abandoned them.
The sight stirred something unexpected inside me — a faint, familiar pull.
It reminded me of Hampi back home in India — another city of fallen stones and ancient dreams.
I thought of the friends I'd traveled with then, how we'd climbed ruins together, watched the sunset, luckily caught the last bus to our hotels, laughed under heavy skies, and made everlasting memories against great backdrops.
And for a moment, I wished they were here beside me now.
How much ever the world changes, the need for familiar voices in unfamiliar places never really goes away.
I shook the feeling off gently and kept walking.
I looked around to my left — and Amman revealed itself.
The city wasn’t just below.
It was everywhere — spilling down the hillsides, climbing up the slopes, threading through valleys.
Beige houses stacked atop each other like weathered blocks, all the same dusty hue, stretching endlessly across the view.
And tucked into the valley below, almost casually placed, was the Roman Theatre — a massive, crescent carved into the earth.
