I've been in Amman, and my hotel, for almost a week. It's starting to feel like home -- which I suppose it is, given that I've moved out of my Cambridge apartment and haven't moved anywhere else. I've gotten used to it and all of its little quirks.
The hotel staff couldn't be any sweeter or more helpful. It's a family-run hotel and they treat me like family. They are, in fact, so nice that I feel bad about asking for things. For example, until this evening, my tiny kitchen was been missing a glass and a bowl. Not one of a set of glasses or bowls -- there was no glass at all and no bowl at all. I was eating my morning Frosted Flakes out of a rather deep salad plate and drinking water from tiny teacups. They were so happy to give them to me and I was so happy to be reminded that I have wonderful people taking care of me.
It took the better part of a week, but I finally figured out how to program the cable box to only show me the four English-language channels.
The oven is the only part of the place that I really don't like. I suppose it's a personality conflict. The room has a gas oven where you have to light the flame every time you want to cook. And it won't light or stay lit unless the gas is up high. There was an unfortunate incident earlier this week involving too much gas, a fireball, and singed hair. I'm fine, and I'm trying to build a better relationship with the over, but I don't think we're compatible.
The hotel staff couldn't be any sweeter or more helpful. It's a family-run hotel and they treat me like family. They are, in fact, so nice that I feel bad about asking for things. For example, until this evening, my tiny kitchen was been missing a glass and a bowl. Not one of a set of glasses or bowls -- there was no glass at all and no bowl at all. I was eating my morning Frosted Flakes out of a rather deep salad plate and drinking water from tiny teacups. They were so happy to give them to me and I was so happy to be reminded that I have wonderful people taking care of me.
It took the better part of a week, but I finally figured out how to program the cable box to only show me the four English-language channels.
The oven is the only part of the place that I really don't like. I suppose it's a personality conflict. The room has a gas oven where you have to light the flame every time you want to cook. And it won't light or stay lit unless the gas is up high. There was an unfortunate incident earlier this week involving too much gas, a fireball, and singed hair. I'm fine, and I'm trying to build a better relationship with the over, but I don't think we're compatible.
Last week, I stocked the fridge with cheap frozen meals and some roasted chicken. And cheese (of course!) And soda. A week later, the soda is gone and I've eaten an impressive amount of cheese, but the rest is still there, freezing and spoiling in the back of the fridge. Despite my fear of the oven, most of my in-room eating has been grilled cheese. And those little cheese wedges. And individually-wrapped (unwrapped?) cheese slices ... mmmm ... Next week, I'll either shop for massive amounts of bread and cheese, or just eat out.
The oddest thing about the room is the wiring. This is one of 20 light switch panels in the suite, and there is absolutely no logic to which switch operates which light. For example, his panel is right next to the bathroom (left of the panel), so it would make sense for the left-most switches to operate the bathroom lights. On the contrary, it's actually #2 (going left to right) and #5 and #6. #1 controls one of 6 kitchen lights (right of the panel). #3 and #4 control different hallway lights. A switch in the kitchen controls light in the living room. It's kind of charming.
I'm grappling with some guilt about the daily cleaning service. I want to be clear -- it's a WONDERFUL thing and I appreciate it and enjoy it very much. I'm not complaining. But I'm not used to having people do things for me, and it makes me feel guilty to know that someone is cleaning up after me. (Yes, Mom and Dad and Rachel, really! I don't feel guilty about making the mess, or failing to clean the mess myself, but if someone else cleans I do feel bad.) So I clean every morning before I go to work -- do my own dishes, straighten up the bathroom, clear my clutter off the coffee table, and put my clothes away, only because I would feel bad if the cleaning crew had to deal with those things.
Except this morning. The staff told me to leave my laundry on the floor to tell them I wanted it cleaned. Last time, I left the pile right near the front door and it was gone when I returned. (It came back washed, pressed, and either hung in the closet or folded neatly.) Today I left the pile in the bedroom, right in front of the door. I came home, and it had moved to the bed. I'll be more clear tomorrow.
Except this morning. The staff told me to leave my laundry on the floor to tell them I wanted it cleaned. Last time, I left the pile right near the front door and it was gone when I returned. (It came back washed, pressed, and either hung in the closet or folded neatly.) Today I left the pile in the bedroom, right in front of the door. I came home, and it had moved to the bed. I'll be more clear tomorrow.
Then there's my new toy -- a new, two-pronged, 2,000 watt hairdryer. My mom may be able to get by with a low-watt travel hairdryer, but my hair requires some serious machinery.
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