Downtown

I set off down Al-Kulliyah Al- Islamiah with no plans in particular, just the vague notion of ending up in the downtown area and from there catching a cab back to 7th Circle. It is my first time alone in the city, and the thought of a solo cab ride has me feeling somewhat anxious, which is why I'm planning to hail one from the exact same spot that we did as a couple yesterday. That way I would at least have a vague idea of the route the cabbie should be taking, and would thus be able to anticipate the spot at which to yell 'Hoon! Hoon!' on Al-Medeena Al-Menouwra.

I start walking in the direction of second circle and pass the shwarma stand, Reem, which has a small crowd balancing on the thin strip of pavement, josteling to get to the front of the queue and get their hands on the renowned pitta wrap. The smell of the roasting meat is tempting, even after my huge meal and I can see why the even King himself has deigned to eat at this grubby stall. Further along, when the street veers off to the right and becomes Abu Bakr as-Siddiq, Rainbow St, is the gelateria where Brangelina took their kids on a recent trip to Amman. Again, I'm tempted, but the Lebanese meal in my stomach is preventing me from getting my mouth around some of that celeb endorsed dairy goodness.

Further along the way I wander into the Jordan River Foundation, a handicrafts centre, which was set up to benefit refugee women and promote their traditional heritage and cultural technique. The gift shop is unattended, except for the handful of cats in the forecourt, sprawling in the sunshine. They are smudged with dirt, but look well fed and content. I have a quick browse and pick out some of the dead sea products to take back to the hotel with me- it's still much too cold for a trip out there, but I'm still keen to experience some of the purported healing properties.

I have to cross over to the other building with my selection in order to make the purchase, where there is a diminutive man behind the desk who thankfully has change for my JD20 note. He reeks of cigarette smoke, and I'm pretty glad to take my change and get back out into the fresh air.

Once back on Rainbow St I decide to negotiate the back streets in order to find Books@Cafe- the famed spot for hip young locals and travellers, who go for the coffee, narghile and the array of spirits that are not served in many other locations in this predominantly Muslim city. I must have taken a wrong turn, and I end up walking past the Episcopalian Girls School at pick up time. The uniformed girls are waiting on the footpath, chatting and bickering and even thought they're speaking in Arabic and I wouldn't have a clue what they're saying, something in the tone of their voices is comforting and it's reassuring to see that schoolgirls across the globe don't differ from each other much- I wouldn't be surprised to see this group girls walking past my house in Melbourne at 3:30pm.

I'm still not too sure where I am when I come to a fork in the road, and I figure I've got to keep heading downhill, whether my intended destination is there or not, as my thighs are still too sore from yesterdays citadel climb to contemplate the ascent. Luckily, I've taken the right route, and I see the lemon tree hanging over the stone wall with the Books@Cafe sign printed in large letters.

I head through the book store to the staircase in the back left hand corner and enter the cafe. Its vinyl lounges and bright colours surprise me, I had been expecting something more low key and less pretentious. I order a coffee, which comes black in a huge cup, with a small jug of milk on the side. I pour it all in at the counter and look for a quiet spot to regroup.

There's an empty table by the window so I cast off my two jackets and my scarf and the bag full of dead sea goodies and plonk myself down. The view is typical of this city- you can see across a small undulation in the landscape to another of the seven hills, piled with identical sandstone buildings. The coffee is lukewarm, and on the table next to me I can hear an american conversing in English with some locals. They're takling about directors and procuders and film crews and the american periodically exclaims 'Well, that's the business' and I try to tune out- this is the type of talk I've come here to escape.

Halfway through the cup of coffee I decide to leave. I gather my things and head off down the hill to the appropriately named, Downtown. The Lonley Planet map, I've decided, is pretty much useless, so it's mostly guesswork that gets me down narrow staircases and winding roads and back to the corner where the pet shop sells tortoises, cruelly caged with pigeons. I know exactly where I am, and make my way to where I plan to hail a cab.

Along the way I'm distracted by the some of the brightly coloured stalls that sell everything from knock of perfume to silver jewelrey, from narghile equipment to mens suits. It seems like a 'touristy' area, like Chinatown in New York City, or London's Camden markets, but encounter only three or four other western faces on my way, and it seems that this is actually the place that the locals do their shopping.

I buy a couple of scarves from a young guy who mistakenly believes, after my price negotiation, that I speak Arabic. I am disappointed to have to set him straight, but he smiles and says, “Where you from?” . I tell him Australia, and he opens his arms and says 'Ahlan wa sahlen'. Welcome.

I am amazed at how smoothly my cab ride goes. The driver doesn't speak a word of English, and I'm elated to find that 'Al- Matam Hardees Al-Medeena Al-Menoura' (the Hardee's restaurant on Al- Medeena Al-Menoura st) is enough direction for him. He probably finds it strange that I want to all the way to 7th circle for a burger, but its too difficult to explain that it's just the closest spot to where I need to go. I'm certainly not going to attempt to direct him to the door of the hotel, as it would involve more direction than my limited language skills will allow.

I'm on the look out for the neon red sign for at least half of the cab ride- I don't want to overshoot, and miss the overpass that will get me on the right side of the freeway to get home. After ten minutes or so I see a street sign that confirms we're on the right street and I sit tensed like a wildcat ready to pounce. I see a flash of red behind the fast approaching overpass and yell 'hoon, hoon!' over the noise of the traffic. It is such a relief to have made it home.

Back at the hotel room I run a hot bath, sprinkling in the bright purple bath salts which sizzle and give off a... unique odour. I cover myself in the dead sea mud (which shares the bath salt's funky smell) and let those minerals do their healing thing. A few hundred meters away the traffic roars down Al-Medeena Al-Menoura and I lay back and pretend that it is the sound of the ocean.