Since the election, locals we meet ask early in any conversation, “So, Trump?…”
There’s an implied, “WTH?” and maybe a search for something. A wariness, perhaps, that we’ll spout off on Muslims or whatever. Mostly we shrug sheepishly and agree that he’s our leader and ask if we can still get something to eat?
“Of course. You are our guests. You are most welcome here.” And then things carry on as they did last week. The food is still good. The prices haven’t changed.
The Marine Corp Ball was last night. They hold a ball at Embassies around the world each year in early November to celebrate the founding of the Marine Corp 241 years ago.
It’s a formal affair with lots of ball dresses, pomp and ceremony. Flags are paraded. Speeches are made. Cake is cut and given ceremoniously to the oldest and youngest Marine present. And because the Marines were founded in a bar, there is lots of alcohol involved. Then dancing.
Mrs. S.A.M likes to go. We play dress up. She buys a dress, gets her nails done and does up her her hair with a can of hairspray and 3 dozen bobby pins. I put on my Dad’s old tux.
After the Ball, close to midnight, we caught a cab home. The exchange started much the same.
“Ah, you’re from America!?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Jordan!”
“Thanks. We like it here.” A brief pause. Reedy Arabicmusic poured out of the radio.
“Trump?”
“Yeah.”
“Trump.”
“Yeah.”
“Trump!” He gave a thumbs up. “Trump! Trump!” Each time a little louder. “Trump, he’s crazy!” The car doors locked. “It’s okay! Trump, he’s crazy!. But the world needs crazy!”
“You think that’s a good a idea?”
“Yes. Maybe he’ll finish the job. Nothing is working so far. People are dying out there. Syrians. Iraqis. So many people dead. Hopefully, crazy will help.”
“For their sake, I hope so. For all our sakes, really.”
We spent the rest of the ride practicing our arabic numbers in this, now hi-speed, mobile preschool. Our own kind of crazy.
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I'm not sure he's all that crazy. I despise Trump, but maybe MURICA needs a good “spanking”.
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