School sucks

I am currently doing a masters degree. I thought I would never go back to school after completing a (somewhat grueling) licence degree in France in 2004, but almost a decade later here I am, going to evening classes twice a week after a full day's work and spending weekends and holidays writing essays and doing research. People tell me it will be worth it, Hubby keeps gushing about how proud he is of me and my company is practically sponsoring me to do this.... and yet, I'm not really convinced all this is worth the effort.

I mean, of course I like to continue to develop myself and learn new things. But in an era of Google and Wikipedia, I find that information is readily available for those who can "click and link". Therefore, learning about academics long gone who put out theories on labour practices that no longer are relevant in our current globalized, tech-savvy, diverse and culturally integrated world or writing 3000+ essays on the epistemological position of diversity research, make me seriously doubt if at the end of these 2 years I will have learned anything of true value and/or added to my professional profile.

I used to think that school was the answer to everything. I grew up under that promise that an education opened the doors for success and career progression, but my entire life trajectory has been an example of exactly the opposite. I have a Mexican Bachelor's degree in Foreign Trade and yet have never worked in an commercial environment. I then went on to get a License in Commerce International in Paris and yet ended up working for a French Bank. I am now doing a Master's degree in Human Resource Management learning about Mayo's motivational theories only to realize in my every-day work that people management issues are much likely to draw on procedures, legislation and basic common sense.

And don't even get me started on the fact that I fluently speak three languages without having attended a single "language" course for any of them.

So what is the point?

Seriously.

I recently had a feedback session with the head of our department. I had been feeling a little bummed out that my yearly appraisal illustrated that although I had done my job and to a degree achieved my objectives, I hadn't particularly excelled at anything nor did it feel I gone "above and beyond". We talked a little about what is "holding me back" in my role and I guess in the hopes of making me feel better, she said "Fned, with your cultural and multilingual background you can do anything in this company, so I wouldn't worry too much about your performance rating". Although I've always known that the fact I can fluently navigate three languages would always be a great asset to have, I've never adhered to the idea that that's "all it takes", yet somewhow this further continues to confirm that is indeed the case....

That being said, if that is indeed how the world works in practice, in reality that's not how it works. Process, legislation and common sense says that having a masters degree counts more in the corporate world more than knowing how to go blah-blah-blah in 3 languages.

*sigh*

Guess that ends this rant. Back to my paper on "the psychological contract".

Fned.

Good morning

Hubby and I recently moved house. The story of that is for another time, but since moving to our new "chez nous" we have understandably been going through a period of adaptation.

Only this time it's different. Whereas with our previous place I never felt completely "at home" (even after living there 3 years), this place immediately became familiar and comfortable for me. There are several things that have accounted for that, but the main one I found has been the change to my mornings.

You see, we went from living in a 6th floor apartment, facing an immense park on one side and water canal on the other in a relatively quiet neighborhood, to living on the second floor of a building located on a busy high street (or "main" if you will) with a highly successful restaurant on the ground floor and across the road from several busy and lively pubs.

In our previous place, I dreaded mornings. The silence reserved to those living 6 floors above the ground, or the occasional chirping of the birds flying over the trees in the park across our street, or the howling wind of a wintry morning, made me hate getting out of bed. It always felt as if I was waking up in some "far away place", almost like on vacation, in a warm bed with comfy covers and the idea of getting out for the "nothing waiting out there" as the peace and calmness seemed to suggest, made me a very grumpy person in the mornings. It wasn't until I was finally out the door and on my way to work, leaving the park and its false promise of "not a care in the world" behind and stepping into the chaos and commotion of the "the City" (both literally and figuratively), that I felt myself start to relax and enjoy mornings.

Because this is when the familiar and comforting feeling of reality would return.

I don't live in the countryside or in a far away beach. It is not normal for me to wake up to the sound of chirping birds and gentle breezes. For 9 years before moving to London I lived in an overcrowded city where the familiar sounds of people shouting on the streets, cars angrily honking their horns as the rushed down the road and shops lifting their noisy iron curtains, greeted me every morning.

As crazy as it may seem, these sounds are comforting to me.

They remind me that life is waiting for me out there. Exciting, fast-paced, adventurous things are happening outside my door and the sooner I get in the shower and throw on some clothes the sooner I can go out into the world and discover what exciting new things the day has in store for me. I love the rush that comes from hearing those city sounds outside my window and wondering what else will happen in the day. For me, they are the reminder that we are alive in a world filled with ever-changing nooks and cracks, and I am part of it.

So when we moved to our new place and realized the windows in our bedroom, which we leave open to survive the heat of these summer evenings, once again let the "noise" of the city slowly creep into our room every morning, I suddenly noticed that I no longer needed an alarm clock or a kick in the butt to get out of the bed in the morning.

Instead I now wake up to a daily reminder that life, REAL life, is waiting for me outside and find myself jumping out of bed with a feeling of urgency to go out and seize the day.

Fned.

Miss you too...

The other day an anonymous person left the following comment in my last (September 2012) post:

Miss you! Come back to blogging!

I was stunned. I was speechless. I was touched. But most of all, I was in a dilemma.

I love my blog and I loved blogging. I often go back and read some of my posts from 2007 through to early 2009 and relive what was possibly some of the best moments of our life in France. Everything was exciting and new and fun to blog about. A cool job I enjoyed, a new apartment that we were making our home, new blogger friends to get to know either online or in person, exciting places to travel and explore, and of course quirky, beautiful, enchanting Paris to discover and enjoy to the fullest... I was a happy Fned and it shows in those blog posts. I love reading them now and remembering those times.

However, by late 2009 and early 2010 although things hadn't changed that much, I had.

I probably didn't realize it at the time, but I think that when my dad passed away, something just broke. From that moment on, very few things brought me joy or got me excited enough to rack up the energy or the inspiration to write about. Instead of accepting it was this loss that affected me so strongly, I attributed it to being "bored of life". Every time I clicked on the "New Post" button, a little voice in my head would pop up and start whispering "yeah work is fine, yeah you have a Hubby who loves you, yeah, you travel.....but you've already blogged about all that before....what's REALLY new and exciting in your life?"... and as much as I tried, nada. 

I don't think I consciously ever decided to stop writing, but I do recall starting posts several times only to stop mid way, sigh, feel the words "oh, what's the point?" creep up to my lips, delete the whole thing, and shut down my lap top with a slam.

When we moved to London three years ago I sincerely thought it would be a new start and again the inspiration would come rushing back and hit me with a big WHAM and it'd be like old times.

It didn't.

I mean, it did, I do get inspired to track for posterity the incredible journey that this half mexican half american chick and her half french half romanian hubby have gone through while settling down and living in Great Britain. The funny anecdotes, the quirky cultural-shock experiences, the long held cliches crashing down like a castle of cards.....

.... but the mental determination required to sit down and type coherent string of words to describe these experiences is just not there yet.

Which is the dilemma I am in.

Anonymous, I wanted to let you know that I did not ignore your comment... on the contrary. This post has been swirling in my head for a while now and is a direct reply to your message. I wanted to let you know how touched I was and how much it meant to me. I do hope I am able to come back to blogging soon (there IS so much to write about!).

Perhaps, slowly but surely, I may yet be able to resuscitate Fned's Blog. Thank you for reminding me how much I love and miss it.

Fned.

Jordan Part III - Wadi Rum

I have to admit I wasn't too thrilled when Hubby said that we were going to spend a couple of days in the desert during our trip in Jordan. I'm a city girl. Always been, always will be. I can take nature a bit. Beaches and mountains are cute and pretty a couple of hours but not really my thing.

But the desert??? It's just a vast emptiness filled with sand. What's there to see? What's there to do? How the heck can that be interesting? I asked these questions to Hubby and he just looked at me kinda funny.

End of the road, beginning of the desert

So when we arrived to Rum, the tiny village that is the gate to the massive Wadi Rum desert I was already regretting the decision. I looked with dread at the spot where the concrete road literally ends and the desert sand begins. We were picked up by our guide Ajmed who loaded us up in a jeep older that our old 79 camper van. While he drove us through the bumpy sand dunes and into the big scary nothingness ahead he explained to us that the entire Rum village is a Bedouin cooperative and all trecks and trips into the dessert are only allowed in the company of a Bedouin guide from Rum. This is both to make sure that no one gets lost inside the park (the Bedouins know the desert like the back of their palm) and to make sure that the park is preserved and respected by all. Greaat....

Our first stop was Lawrence's Spring. Ajmed explained that this is supposed to be the spiring of water from which Lawrence of Arabia drank during his travels through the desert. I was expecting to see a sort of oasis, with a puddle of water springing out from the sand. In reality, the spring sprouts from high up in the mountains. Rock mountains. I wasn't expecting rock mountains in the desert. Hubby and the others made their way towards the bottom of the mountain and started to climb up. I hesitently followed suit.

The view from Lawrence's Spring (post climb)

Contrary to what I had though, Wadi Rum is not just a vast emptiness filled with sand, but in fact a humongous rock mountain park, filled with dunes and hills and sand and immense rock formations and caves and canyons, all in different shades of yellow and red and brown.

I did ok climbing Lawrence's Spring on the way up but it took me considerably more time than the others to climb back down. I kept having panic attacks and was convinced my my new grip hiking boots actually had come with a factory defect and I was going to slip and plunge to my death below. But I made it down and sighed in relief. After all, it was over and there was no way climbing was going to be the recurrent theme of the day - not when you're supposed to be trekking in the desert

But it soon became evident that it was exactly going to be recurrent theme of the day.

The next stop Ajmed took us to was an immense sand dune mountain topped by another humungous rock. He explained that the sand dune was the accumulated result of the mountain in front slowly disentegrating to dust after being hit for centuries by the dessert wind. I smugly made my way up the sand dune thinking that the view from there was the purpose of the climb, but when I reached the top, the others just passed me and kept climbing upwards. Up the rock mountain! This one was way higher than Lawrence's spring (adding in the hight of the sand dune we were considerably high up in the sky) and the rock was much steeper and vertical. Despite Hubby's protests I told the others to go ahead without me.

The view from atop the sand dune (and only half way up!)

While I sat there atop the sand dune waiting for the others to come back down I told myself I didn't care that I hadn't gone up. I wasn't a lunatic enough to risk my life just to show off in front of the others. I mean, yeah, ok, there was the girl that had gone up in sandals and a flowing skirt but I wasn't about to kill myself just for that.

Hubby atop the smooth mountain

I refused to go up another slightly lower mountain a few hours later, this time because the blasted thing was shaped like an egg and smooth as silk. No matter how much Hubby pleaded, begged and insisted that our hiking boots were specifically made to walk on these surfaces I didn't budge and my feet were kept firmly attached to the ground.

I was feeling quite grumpy when Ajmed parked the jeep in front of yet another huge rock in the early dusk. The others didn't even bother trying to talk me into following them. As I watched them carefully climb up the rocky walls, gripping the nooks and cracks, pressing themselves against the narrow paths on their way up I asked myself what really was preventing me from going up. Was it really because I was afraid my boots were defective? Was it really because it looked too hard? I looked at the top of the mountain to the rock bridge that connected two rocks and admitted to myself that it would be so cool to be able to reach that place. To stand atop a natural rock bridge in the middle of the desert and look out into the setting sun. I asked myself when again would I have the opportunity to be in this place, in this instant in time faced with this choice: to push myself to dare to try the impossible or stay with my feet firmly upon the ground but eyes longly looking up with envy and want.

I told myself I could do it. I trusted my hiking boots. I trusted my hands and arms to safely keep me griped to the rock wall. I trusted my legs and knees to not take a false step and carry me up and down in one piece.

And most of all, I trusted myself to never forgive me if I didn't go up the damn thing.

I shoved my camera in Ajmed's hands and gritting my teeth asked him to capture the moment once I was up.

And he did.

Fned & Hubby atop a mountain

Fned.

The Polish Affair

Hubby and I attended a Polish wedding this weekend. The groom works in Hubby's team and happens to be French, the bride is Polish and the couple have been living in London for several years. Needless to say I was quite excited to attend this wedding. Having had to overcome similar multi-cultural planning hurdles when Hubby and I got married I was curious to see how they were going to pull off a tri-lingual multi-country event; how the would mesh customs and traditions, how they would overcome the language barriers and what would the result look like.

Lovely bride arriving

The wedding was happening in the the bride's hometown of Tomaszów Mazowiecki in central Poland so we expected the majority of the traditional rites would be more leaning towards the polish side. First there was the wedding mass at the bride's childhood church. The building was quite modern and huge which surprised me a bit as I was expecting a small cozy little medieval chapel like the ones you find scattered all over Europe (although I later realized that Poland having been heavily bombarded during WWII probably doesn't have many medieval buildings left!). In any case, all that was overlooked when the beautiful bride stepped out of the cutest little car when she arrived.

On we went for the ceremony and again, a cute touch was added when we suddenly realized the priest was conducting the ceremony in both Polish and French! It was nicely done too, he switched from one language to the other for each passage (as opposed to translating everything twice which makes the whole thing sooooo long!).

I couldn't really tell any huge differences from other traditional catholic weddings I've attended in the past (mainly in Mexico) except for the fact that there didn't seem to be much involvement required from any one else than the bride and groom. In Mexico, both sets of parents, siblings, nieces and nephews and "padrinos" play major roles in a traditional catholic wedding ceremony, but that didn't seem to be the case here.

The ceremony lasted a nice tolerable 50mins (if you don't count the additional 30mins outside the church where all the guests stood in line to personally congratulate the newlyweds)..... I guess everyone was in a hurry to get to the food and reception.....

.... and I was about to understand why.

The French influence was felt right away when the first course arrived to our plates later that evening at the reception dinner. Deep fried Camembert. Now this might sound too extreme to you, but it is one of the most delicious dishes in French gastronomy, and for obvious reasons, we only eat it on very rare occasions (what obvious reasons you ask?: well, other than the fact that it's an entire 500gr circle of non pasteurized cheese for each individual....it's breaded and deep fried. Enough said).

Yum! (and uh-oh)

The fried Camembert was just the beginning. Over the course of the next 7 hours (which is how much I lasted but was not by any means the end of the fete) I counted NO LESS than 8 courses!! There was the cheese, then came a lovely spinach soup, followed by a delicious fish dish. We thought this was the end so we confidently headed for the dessert table afterwards. Big mistake. By the time we were finishing our chocolate cakes and our coffees, the next course was put on the table: Greek salads, herring shish kebabs, veal cold cuts and mozzarella & tomato salads. We were also informed that the beer and sausage stand was now open.

Food, food, and more food!

We somehow managed to activate a second stomach and have a taste of all. Of course we figured that would be the end so we went back for more from the dessert table (this time for the chocolate dipped marshmallows) and once again, the joke was on us. I do have to say that the borsch soup was quite tasty, beef & mushrooms and all.

Here I must add that Hubby and I were sitting at a table with a mix of Aussis and Polish. The Aussis kept requesting the wine and vodka bottles to keep coming, the Polish kept warning us that there was more food coming. We just kept praying nobody noticed us when we eclipsed ourselves to go outside and get some fresh air.

I'll say it again: I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO A WEDDING WITH SO MUCH FOOD.

NEVER.

And let's not forget the alcohol. As per the Aussie's wishes Vodka bottles kept appearing out of nowhere whenever we turned around. I did find it quite amusing that a Finnish vodka was chosen (as well a Chilean wine) but when I asked our polish table neighbors about that, they shrugged and said that vodka was vodka and it's always good no matter where it comes from. I doubt the French would have said the same about the wine.

And then there were the games. I remember the first time I attended a French wedding and was clued into the tradition of the friends of the groom and bride preparing sort of funny/embarrassing "animations" to entertain the guests. The idea is that instead of toasts, friends present sketches or funny PowerPoint slides.

In this wedding though, the "animations" we're of a slightly different nature. Although we couldn't get all the instructions from the polish deejay (nor the somewhat sketchy French translated version - which I attribute to the vodka, not the translator) it sure was fun watching guests participate in a sort of "twister" contest, Michael Jackson dance-off and something to do with the bride's shoes.

The winning prize for each game? You guessed it: vodka.

One lucky winner's haul

On the whole, we had a great time and although we retired "early" at 2am (or around course 12) we did enjoy ourselves immensely.

Nasdrovia!



Fned.

6 degrees of nonsense

Hubby and I are currently traveling in Poland and as we walked along the streets of Warsaw's Old Town today it got me thinking.

I have a friend who used to live in Poland for a  long time. I'm not sure were exactly was his hometown but for the purpose of this post, let's pretend it was Warsaw, in which case these same streets must have been very familiar to him at the time.

It always fascinates me the "6 degrees of separation" concept that people are always connected in some way or form despite the distance or any other factor. And yet, however much connected we may be, the perception on that connection can often be radically different.

Here I am for the first time in this city where all is new and different. I find everything I see amazing and beautiful and spend my time taking tons of pictures of every pretty building I pass or street I see because I'm seeing them for the first time.

And there he must have been, walking at some point or other several times over these same streets and seeing these same buildings which after a while he probably no longer even noticed nor cared of their beauty or attraction.

Here I am looking at these places and thinking how I wish I had time to go into each one, taste every pastry I see in the windows, record in my brain the name of every street so I will never forget. 

And there he must have been, getting a totally different vibe from these same sights. He probably didn't care about entering in each building because he had entered in enough already. And he probably no longer gave a second look at pastries because, again, over the course of his life here they'd lost all their appeal. As for the name of he streets, I'm sure most we're  indadvertedly ingrained in his memory forever, without much effort simply by being attached to memories and anecdotes of everyday life for him.

I think of how I now view Paris against the descriptions friends that have traveled there give me when they return from their trip. Most of the times, the perceptions are radically different. While they excitedly tell me about the cute little street or the quaint little boulangerie they discovered while there, I am instead thinking that was the street my iPhone was stolen on and how I know for a fact that that boulangerie in particular sells crappy croissants made with of cheap butter.

I know that all this is basically the difference of being a tourist and being an expat, but it still fascinates me how perceptions on the same exact place can be totally different depending on the viewer.

Fned.

Jordan Part II - Petra

To say that nothing prepares you for Petra would be to lie....

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade prepares you for Petra.

Go back to the very first time you watched the movie (and don't even attempt to tell me you've never watched Indiana Jones)...... remember that thrilling moment when Indy, his Dad, Marcus and Sallah go off in to the dessert in search of the lost city of Alexandreta after saving Indy's dad from the nazis?..... Their horses suddenly slow down to walking pace as they enter a narrow rock canyon.... can you remember how your heart starts to beat faster as the pace slows down and you see Indy and the guys slowly start to raise their heads?......  Remember how your jaw drops and your eyes widen to take in the magnificent silhouette of the building that slowly begins to materialize between the rock walls as they advance?...... Remember how when Indy and the guys finally reach the clearing and stare up you can't help feeling as if you are there, sharing with the them that incredible moment, asking yourself if they (and you) are not perhaps in front of what is possibly the most amazing, magnificent and unique creation on this planet?..... For a fleeting moment you forget all about the Holy Grail and are almost certain that you have reached the Treasure itself - that you are standing right there in front of it.

Holy Grail? What holy grail?

That's exactly how you feel walking up to the appropriately named Treasury building when you reach Petra.

Hubby and I got to the little town of Petra in the early afternoon hours and immediately went into the entrance to the protected national park where the ruins are in. By the time we were walking the dessert corridor that leads up to the Siq, most of the tourists were leaving the park after having spent all day there. Score!

When we reached the Siq we immediately felt like were Indy and the gang. You begin to walk along the very narrow rock canyon that is the guarded entrance to the lost of city of Petra. Along the way you see carvings in the rock, handmade rock water pipes that used to carry water into the city and even a huge life size wall carving of a camel caravan making its way through the dessert.

Just when you think it's never gonna end you turn a bend and see a slit in the rocks ahead and you have to do a double blink because somehow it doesn't look right.

But it's right enough, you hurry up and run into the clearing and bang! there it is. The Al Kaszneh, also known as The Treasury building. It is so impressive and captivating it's only the ache in your neck that alerts you to the fact that you've been staring up at it for a long while.

Nobody really knows why it's called the Treasury in the first place. It seems to have been built as a tomb for some really important dude back in the Nabatean ere. I can't even imagine how important he must have been to have one of the World Seven Wonders built in his honor.

On the other hand, when you peek inside the inner room is just one big empty dark cave. Not too glam if you ask me.

But the Treasury is just the beginning. Over the course of the next two days, we visited Petra Inside and Out, Up and Down and All Around.

Inside because as you walk around the ancient city the Nabateans built, you start to realize that most of their city was carved directly into the rock mountains, so visiting their temples and monuments literally means going rock-cave-hopping.

Outside it gets even better. The Treasury is not the only amazing carved building in the park. Entire outside walls of the rock mountains were carved and made into majestic facades and decorative entrances. Most of these were tombs too - what was the deal with their obsession with making the afterlife so luxurious?

Going Up the mountains it gets even more impressive. Hubby and I decided to climb the 800+ steps up the Jabal Al-Deir in order to visit the impressive Monastery. Even though we set out first thing in the morning to avoid the glaring sun and the hoards of tourists, we were still bordering with exhaustion by the time we made it to the top an hour later. Still, the view was magnificent, amplified by the fact that we were practically alone.

As if that wasn't enough, we then proceeded to climbing up the Jabal Al-Madbah to visit the Sacrifice Palace. Thinking it would probably be easier than the Al-Deir (it wasn't) and faster to climb (it wasn't) we made it to the top around early afternoon. Despite being literally liquefied by the glaring sun, the view I have to admit was indeed amazing.

Coming Down from these mountains gave us the immense sense that these places must have been incredibly sacred for the Nabateans to have gone through all the trouble of going all the way up there to build such impressive structures, only to have to repeat the physically exhausting experience each time that they then wanted to go up and use said buildings.

Walking All Around Petra, was indeed an uninterrupted pleasure. Yes it was hot and the sun glared down on you unmercifully at all times and yes, you felt to an extent that this was a tourist spot by the looks of all the cheap souvenir stands that the Bedouin people have set up all over the place. But the truth is that the site does something to you. The magnificence, the reclusiveness, the sheer size and power, the beauty of its colors as the sun rises and sets throughout the day....

To an extent, I am glad the Rose City of Petra is no longer lost.

Fned. 

Jordan Part I - Jerash & Amman

It's been a while since I've written a post on our recent travels... well, let's face it. It's been a while since I've written a post period.

But our trip to Jordan a few weeks ago is one which I truly don't want to forget, so I've sat down and written as much as I can and how I remember it. I realize it's more rambling than actual travel blogging but I figure since pretty much this blog is dead already, hardly anyone will notice.

(Funny enough, last night's episode of An Idiot Abroad had Ricky and Stephen send Karl off to Jordan which made me want to write this even more). 

Despite our initial travel planning issues, we landed in the capital Amman on Sunday evening such as planned. Our first outing the next morning was in the direction of the ancient roman ruins of Gerasa in what is now known as Jerash, 50km or so north of the city. Gerasa was once one of the 10 Decapolis Cities in ancient Roman times and an important part of the Roman Empire. Today, the remaining ruins of what used to be without a doubt a magnificent city are still in quite good shape.
 

I have to confess I am not a big fan of roman ruins. There is usually not much left to see and it takes way more imagination that I reckon I have to sometimes reconstruct entire buildings and roads from a couple of rocks lying around or a column crookedly still standing in place.

But visiting the Oval Forum, the amazing Theaters, the Hippodrome, the Colonnade, the Cardo Maximo, the Temples not to mention the imposing Hadrian's Arch greeting us at the entrance, you can easily be transported back in centuries and imagine what the city must have looked like.

Hadrian's Arch

The Hippodrome

The Oval Forum

The Oval Forum + Fned & Hubby

The Cardo Maximo - aka the main drag

Bad ass Roman Fountain

Artemis Temple - oh, yeah... I see it.....

Cross section on the Cardo - that's a Roman traffic light for ya

Our guide, Mohammed, kept asking us if we were ok with all the heat and the tricky ground, climbing up and down all those ruins and walking for hours. I guess we were just so in awe of the sights we didn't even notice any of those things and kept dragging poor Mo from one place to the other.

"Don't worry about me - you guys enjoy the Theater while I wait here in the shadow"

"...and this is the Cardo, blah-blah-blah, moving along people, the sun is strong...."

"ok, I'll take take the picture but after that, can we PLEASE go? - it's been TWO hours!!"

Yup, 2 and a half hours later, we were back in the Jordanian capital. The modern city of Amman also has an incredible Roman Theatre which we visited later that afternoon. Carved directly into the rock mountain, it sits smack in the middle of the city center.

Smack in the middle of the city centre

I do have to admire the Romans and their love and passion for the arts. The amount of work, time, effort and cost that must have been put into building those incredible amphitheaters, all so that the people would have a place to congregate and enjoy plays, concerts, recitals, meetings, etc.

I doubt any of our current governments would build us something like that in this day and age.

Upper seats probably went for a couple of sesterious

Any seat of the house had good acoustics. ANY seat.

Imagine watching a Lady Gaga concert with THIS view

The amazing thing about these theaters was the incredible acoustics. They were built in just the right way that when the speaker stood at an exact location on stage and spoke at normal voice level, the sound resounded in just the right way around the theater so that EVERY SINGLE person in the 3000+ audience could clearly hear what was being said. No need for mikes or amplifiers --- and it still works to this day.

As I am a wee bit obnoxious skeptical by nature, I decided to test this. I asked Hubby to stand on the stage and tell me he loved me while I went way up to the "sesterius" seating zone. He grudgingly accepted and despite him muttering a brief and embarrassed "je t'aime", I heard it. And so did the other couple dozen tourists visiting the site.

Mental.

As amazing as these sites were, the reality was that we hadn't come all the way to Jordan to see Roman ruins.

We left Amman the following day and picked up our rental car. After some initial setbacks, mainly having to do with the fact that the city is a freaking cement labyrinth and getting our head around the "7 circles" concept, we finally managed to leave Amman and headed out along the King's Highway (modernized since the ancient times of the Middle East trade route) applying ourselves to the serious business of reaching Petra.

More to come later.

Fned.