“Nice talking to you, Fadel!”

He’s in the air right now.

About eight hours ago my father’s plane took off from Amman—he is due to land in about four hours at JFK in New York and then he will change planes to Cincinnati.

It still strains credulity that my father made the trip—after all he hasn’t left the United States since 1953. Then he was with the US Air Force and he crossed the Atlantic with his mates in a ship that took 17 days. His entire travel time today—even with the requisite two hour arrival, and the layover in New York, is under 20 hours!

I mean this is a man who doesn’t like to go across town for dinner!

But this sphinx-like man with the heart of gold, ability to talk to anyone and the gentlest/firmest grip I know came, to Jordan and did what he does best: went out to dinner and talked to people in his leisurely, caring way. I think he was a hit.

The other day I dashed off a blog entry offering a thumbnail sketch of what we were doing, and what he was thinking about (could you tell the driving in Jordan bothered him???!) but of course an itinerary is never very interesting. As in any trip, it is the little moments that are the most telling, most revealing, most memorable. My father jotted down things on old envelopes throughout his trip, and yesterday I started to jot down some of the moments that resonated with me.

On October 2, right after my father arrived, we were walking out of the airport, and then leaving Queen Alia International Airport, and my dad exclaimed, “why this could be Orlando!” If you know my father well, once he makes a proclamation, one is likely to hear it again. So several times I heard him tell people here in Jordan: "you know when you come out of the airport and see the landscaping and palm trees, it looks like you could be in Orlando, Florida." Like clockwork this morning, as we drove into the airport area, he echoed his sentiments again.

On Friday, October 3, his first whole day of waking up and living in the Middle East, we visited the great Roman city, Jerash. We went with my fun fun colleague Nancy to take in the Roman centurion show and chariot race (the brochure says that an actor from the classic movie Ben-Hur, as well as a consultant from Gladiator helped them create the show). We had come through the monumental arch built for a one-time visit to Jerash by first-century Roman emperor Hadrian and I left my dad for a few minutes while I went to purchase tickets with Nancy. I come back around and my dad had sat down beside a Jordanian guard, and they were talking away, like someone my father had just met in his office (his office by the way is his corner booth in the Imperial Diner). My dad sees me, gets up, shakes hands, and says, “Nice talking to you, Fadel!” I got a chuckle out of that one. My father thinks my mother was the more personable in the family, but he is no slouch in the making friends department.

Last week we went out to dinner in Amman—to a new place, Tony Roma’s Ribs. Ohmigosh…this place would make you feel you were in a mall in Anywhere, USA with great ribs and just that, you know, feel of a TGIFriday’s. We went with dear friends Rehema and Lubna. During the meal Rehema ate like we hadn’t seen good suburban food in months (ummm…we hadn’t) and kept the order up with the great ribs, baked potatoes, spinach dip and chocolate chip cookie with ice cream. We asked my dad to join in the ecstasy over the middle-brow dessert and he quipped, “I know when to quit.” Rehema and I just looked at each other and laughed, and one of us said, “We don’t know when to quit” and the other said, “we should get t-shirts that read, “We Don’t Know When To Quit!” True to form—we kept on eating. As we left that evening, Lubna whispered in my ear, “I see why you like to go home so much and see your family.”

My father usually joined me for most of the classes while he was here, enjoying the interactions and energy of the students. But one afternoon while I was repeating a lesson, I absolved him of class attendance, and I watched him ambling across the patio toward the Dining Hall, taking the arm of Lubna, and just chatting away. On another occasion I had a study session for a mid-term exam in the Dining Hall, and my father held court with several young faculty at another table. When I asked him what they had talked about over the course of that 90 minutes, he simply said, “well, I think we solved most of the problems in the world.”

When we visited Mukawir, that now-desolate site of the ruins of Herod’s summer palace, and pilgrimage spot for John the Baptist fans, I reminded my father that right after I graduated from college I had taken Grandpa (his father) to Vancouver to visit WWII friends of my grandfather’s. Everywhere we went I wheeled this man around. I remarked to my father as we trekked up that precipitous hill that my grandfather was only two years older at the time than my dad is right now, and here he is making this arduous climb in Jordan. A few days later as we worked our way through Petra (always interesting—always exhausting) he turned to me and said, “I guess these two new hips I have are working out okay.” He asked how far into Petra my friend Anne had gone in March, and wanted to go just a little bit further. The next day my father made a few phone calls to the US, to his brother and a few friends, just to make sure they knew he had wandered through one of the anointed seven wonders of the world. He is not a man of frequent boasts, but that afternoon he enjoyed the jealousy from those friends.

The other night, on our way back from the church I attend in Amman, we passed by Nancy’s apartment, heard her marvelous laugh, and we peeked in the window. She and Rehema had enjoyed a repast, invited us in, and there we sat like old friends, laughing into the night sky as the sun fell and the moon shone. Seeing my dad with my friends, seeing him share stories and exude comfort, well, it’s just as good as it can be.

On the first day of his visit, and on every subsequent day, as we came through security (actually we call it “Public Safety” at KA—it just sounds better) I told the officers that my guest was “Abu John.” That is a loving way to say, “John’s Papa.” Every time we came through the gate, the men and women of Public Safety would greet me, and smile and shout, “Welcome Abu John!” That was about the extent of my father’s astute grasp of Arabic—but he got great mileage out of it.

The other day my father decided we needed to check the oil in my new car. I could have been 16 in our drive-way in Cincinnati, or any place I have ever lived where my father, for his own peace of mind, checks under the hood and makes sure the car I am driving is doing well.

There were a couple of lovely moments just this morning, as his visit came to an end. We had packed up the car with his suitcases about seven, before breakfast. I would drive him over to the airport at 10, after my first classes. I had to stop over and make a few copies before class, so I sent him off to the Dining Hall—I knew he would be fine. Food and conversation are his calling cards. As I rounded the corner, I saw that my dear student Hamzeh had come up to him, and they walked into the DH together—busily chatting. I heard my dad say, “Anza, how are you today?” He is a good man—not a natural Arabic speaker, but a friendly man. There they were, two of my favorite people together.

I then joined them for breakfast when a young man came up and said to my father, “I am sorry sir, but I borrowed a pen the other day from you, and forgot to return it. I am sorry and thank you. I hope you enjoyed your visit.” My father leaned over and said, “do you think that would happen just any place??”

As we drove to the airport my father said, “you have a great circle of loving friends. We are lucky, aren’t we?” He might have been referring to nearly any moment of his trip, but it might have been our carefree evening last night at Haret Jdoudna, our favorite go-to restaurant nearby. The title of the restaurant means, “the courtyard of my grandfather,” and you sit in a beautiful courtyard, enjoying the delights of Arab food, and you revel in your friends. We went with three of my best friends—Randa, Tessa, and Rehema. We shared stories, ate the spicy cubes of beef with all the roasted eggplant, tomato and onion side dishes. It was a clear evening, with a sense of joy of what my dad had seen and heard and experienced in the last two weeks.

He’ll be landing in about three hours, and I have an evening of boarding duty before me. I will put down some thoughts on how he responded to my classes in the next few days.

I can only imagine what the Mayor of the Imperial Diner will be telling his flock tomorrow morning…