I can remember getting off the plane and meeting Ahmad as clear as it was yesterday instead of 54 weeks ago, but I can’t remember packing for my first flight to Jordan that preceded it. As I sit here, taking the time to type a noticeably brief entry with less than 24 hours remaining before my flight back to America, I’m surrounded by mountains of ‘stuff’ that I somehow manage to accumulate, no matter where I live. Stuff to pack in this bag, fragile stuff to be packed with socks wrapped around them, stuff to donate (there’s been a lot of that) and stuff to throw away – there should be more in that pile!

Fittingly, I’ve had a very busy week and the events were piled just as high. There were two more wadi hikes – one with my friends Jo and Margie, and one with my usual hiking buddies Nelle and Jeff. I returned to the fateful Wadi Hasa – this time no cameras were lost! And toured a new wadi along the Dead Sea, Wadi Attun. The former was only the first few kilometers, although it still took us about seven hours to traverse! The latter was a short hike, but had some of the hottest water I’ve ever hiked through; vapor was practically rising off the river.

I took a Ramadan bike ride for the last time with my Cycling Jordan friends – this trip was filled with hugs and embraces from my many Arab friends in the club and implorations to stay in the Jordan and tear up the tickets. I asked Sa’ad if we could visit Haret Jdoudna again, like last year, and he agreed. A short ride of only ~30k because most others were fasting, but it was memorable. My friend Sufian, one of the first guys I rode with back in February of 2009, was my partner for most of the trip, and we raced each other and he humored me as I played the ‘role reversal game,’ which is where when children and teenagers run into the road to shout at me, I shout first: “HELLO HOW ARE YOU WELCOME TO JORDAN ARE YOU VERY GOOD? VERY GOOD FINE?” Their confused expression at hearing the commonly-taught phrases used by the bearded foreigner are always amusing. It usually keeps disoriented enough that I can get by without the unfortunately-typical stone throwing.

Only in Jordan can you bike past a graying, bearded imam in a long white robe, chatting with fellow robed farmers in gray cloaks, and all of them wearing baseball hats. The imam was wearing a Yankees cap. I wish I could have gotten my camera out in time! We all took the semi-legal ‘minibus’ system from Madaba and Haret Jdoudna back to Amman – only in Jordan can you get a tough looking, grizzled Arab driver who has hung a combination of Harley-Davidson pillowcases and fluffy, dusty, spangled polyester hearts with “I LOVE U” and “I NEED U” printed on them with glitter glue. It’s a country that plays bagpipes at weddings; Jordanians will proudly tell you the bagpipes were invented by Arabs, but I’ve heard that the Scots disagree with this assertion.

Work has been filled with cakes, cards, hugs, and in many cases, prayers for my safe journey and wishes that I’ll return soon. Of course, no Arab Goodbye would be complete without the requisite cheek-kissing and although my face hasn’t been rubbed raw like it was during my old EGT graduation days (~30 bestubbled men kissing you on the cheek in a row will do that) the IRD-sponsored iftaar that I returned from tonight definitely had a few as I bade a final farewell to my fellow teachers, the Iraqis and Jordanians. The cooking teacher, Husam, told me mock-severely that if it was about his cooking, he promised to make my favorite foods all the time if it would convince me to stay. All of the Iraqis told me that they would see me someday, be it either in Jordan – or hopefully, in America, where most of them are still hopefully holding out for an immigration authorization.

One last day work day remains, at Whitman, where I’ll repeat the system I’ve established of official key hand-ins, paper transfers, tours for replacement technicians, and last-minute questions from my former colleagues. Currency transfers need to happen at the local bank, too.

After that, perhaps Abu Jbara restaurant, or Schwarma Reem, or al-Borij. They all know me well from my years of attendance, and they already know I’m leaving. The flight I’m on, Air Baltic, probably won’t feed me anything in the country-hopping flights from Jordan to Latvia, Latvia to Copenhagen, and Copenhagen to Chicago – so I hope they won’t mind if there’s a delicious smelling schwarma or two in my carry-on bag.

It’s two in the morning now, and these piles aren’t getting any smaller. Before I finally call it a night, I’ll take a large sack of my clothes down and put them next to the dumpster up the street. When I’ve gotten up in the morning at 4 or 5 for some reason, I can see poor families scavenging in the bins for salvageable items. Hopefully these clean, folded, and gently-used trousers will be of use to them.