Time To Prayer?

[Istanbul, 7/17/25]

Just before I left Amman, the Oklahoma Palestinian said, “You should stay another month!”

“I can’t. I must go home.”

“You should just live here, get work, find a woman,” he smiled.

“No, no, I must go home. I still have my apartment in Vietnam.” Then, “Maybe I can come back next year, when Palestine is liberated. I’ll fly to Jerusalem to celebrate, then take a bus here!”

“We can only hope.” Thoughts of Occupied Palestine saddened him, as they should all of us. He had been waiting forever for those genocidal invaders to be incapacitated, at least. Why must his people bear the brunt of their lusty racial hatred?

You’d think taxi drivers in touristy Jordan would know basic English words such as “bus station” and “embassy,” but most don’t. Though I could always get back downtown by saying “al balad,” anything more complicated was a problem. On this day, typing “North Station” into Google Maps on the driver’s phone solved it. On the way, the driver stopped at a tiny store to buy a packaged cake and can of sweet drink. He even offered me a piece, which I declined by grinning and putting my hands up, “No sugar!”