The other day we realized that we’d hit hotel bottom here in Amman.

Besides the piles of decade-old dirt in the corners, the obscene toilet, and the smelly blankets, its usually about 50 degrees in our room. To combat the cold, we’ve been sleeping together in one very small bed to keep warm. Which would be a good idea, except that due to our two-inch thick, malformed mattress, it’s like sleeping in a bathtub, with both side at a 70 degree slope. The owner, gold-toothed Tony, with his cardigan, Palestinian symbolizing keyeffieh and New York baseball camp shuffles around with his father and another unidentified mustachioed man. Mealy but mellow and always acting as though he just smoked a doobie, Tony embodies flow. Which would be great if the whole place didn’t have such a nursing home feel to it. Or if he didn’t tell smokers it was okay to “ash on the floor”. Or if the alley its in didn’t include a bum hangout.

But here we are, at $10 a night in the Cliff hole hotel, boiling eggs, drinking Nescafe coffee, sleeping in our clothes and finding a sliver of sunlight to sit in as we start the day. And we’re still lovin’ this life, always ready to get on the road again, goin’ places that we’ve never been, seeing places that we’ll never see again. (We usually can’t wait) to get on the road again.

(Graphic compliments of the graphic wizardess and new mother, Keri Smith at Wish Jar)

Willie Nelson. . . .Herman Hess, maybe mixing icons is a little like mixing metaphors. Just another rule I’m choosing to break.

We’re alive and doing fab. Please don’t anyone worry about a thing.

We rode down to Tyre a few weeks ago along the Mediterranean to South Lebanon, the hotbed of Israeli conflict. Rob, Inma’s Director, was driving. The landrover was full of an unofficial religious delegation. One of these, an American–let’s call him Ray–rode in the passenger seat. He was speaking to Samir Inma’s founder, who sat in the back.

The topic was the upcoming Prayer Breakfast, a Congressional event held every February, where thousands of VIPs, including Bono and the current president, gather to speak with God in a non-denominational setting and without the presence of the press. While in D.C., Samir would be giving a lecture, his reputation as a diplomatic bridge-builder and international businessman preceding him. He and other special guests affiliated with Inma Foundation would be stay together at a special residence. This would all happen in a couple weeks.

As the six of us listened, Ray gave Samir a complete play-by-play of the Prayer Breakfast’s schedule of events, including where he thought they might lunch, at what time they would coffee break and who he was hoping to speak with.

At this point, Michael and I met eyes. There was nothing wrong with this scene. Nothing offensive. Nothing rude. But all we could think about was this: Those Americans, they sure do like to plan. Then they like to talk about the plan.

See Michael here, on the front terrace of our Beirut apartment, reading Sophie’s World? He is quite content, sitting in the sun.

But just seven hours later, we’re settled into bed, ready for sleep, when the sounds begin. We hear the first one, glance at each other and say: Could have been a truck backfire.

And all is quiet for awhile. Then another one sounds, something a bit different. But we ignore it. Finally, I am teetering toward sleep when a long hollow ga-goooooon reverberates across the city. My eyes open.

I say: Oh my God.

And I suddenly understand that my whole life, until now, I have been hearing car backfires that SORT OF sounded like guns. But that what I just heard was clearly something quite a bit closer to a gun. I notice that my heart is beating fast, but I am calm. Michael is up, slipping on some pants.

He says: I’m going to the front terrace to check it out.

I say: What should I do?

He says: I guess just be ready to get dressed if we have to.

But Michael returns within a minute or two, reporting a peaceful neighborhood scene. There’s nothing unusual at our intersection–Corniche Mazra and Saeeb Salem– despite the fact that we live smack on the border between Sunni and Shiite neighborhoods, a cradle of potential conflict.

The next morning we talk to our friend Adel and he explains that celebratory firecrackers and shots were fired last night following a political speech. We learn later that February 14th (four days from now) will be the three year anniversary of Hariri’s assassination. We learn from our friend Maureen that a few days ago, following a Hezbollah panel, Hariri’s son made a speech essentially telling the “opposition” that he was ready for a fight.

Okay.

So, the next night, around the same time, just as we are attempting sleep, we hear a constant deafening noise. At first, I think it must be a strong wind. Then it sounds more like a tornado. I briefly consider a garbage truck, but then immediately dismiss that idea. Finally, I wonder if it is a very fast succession of gunshots. But when Michael opens the bedroom’s sliding glass door which faces the residential street below, the sound getting ever-louder, he does not panic.

He says: So THAT is what a tank sounds like.

And we try to sleep.

Beirut, upon first glance, is a Disneyland of dreaminess. There’s Chili’s, Hard Rock Cafe Starbucks, Subway, and this bizarre obsession with retro-style American diners, such as the one you see behind my unhappy husband.Because we want it so badly to be true, we are instant victims–convinced of this burger-oasis between the chicken, hummus and fatoush all around it. At first, as soda-pop-jerk-dressed waiters walk the floor, Cadillac headlights glow across our red-leather booth, and we spot bacon-cheeseburgers and coke-floats on the menu, we are forced to close our mouth and dab a napkin at our drool. But it’s only one bite in, and one exchange with the server when we know we’d been duped.There’s something special about American cattle and exaggerated customer service. And it just doesn’t travel very well.

We are now living in Lebanon. I say living because I believe that once you buy Cheerios and eat them with milk and bananas in a ceramic bowl with a real spoon, you can no longer claim to be a tourist.

In the news, I see that Clinton has won N.H. and Nevada, Obama stole the hearts of South Carolina, McCain’s gaining ground, and Kenya is in chaos. I learn that Heath Ledger is dead, China has outlawed plastic bags and that Bush was recently just a couple borders away having coffee with Abdullah.

But here’s what’s freaking me out. Through the same source, a day after the fact, I discover that while I was complaining about no hot water the night before, an American-vehicle targeted roadside bomb killed four Lebanese in “war-torn” Beirut.But wait. I’m LIVING in Beirut. And if I wasn’t online, I’d never know.

Yes, this is bizarre. Just as bizarre as getting a text message from our NGO director on January 21st that said: “Due to the situation in Gaza, we will not be having activities in the camp.” Just as bizarre as being advised to go home on January 25th because an undercover agent had been assassinated, and the tire-burning had begun.

Today, we met with the NGO director and were briefed on the situation. Road-blocks and protester-police clashes around the camp means we should stay in our area, a ten minute taxi ride away. You see, the Shiites are pissed about the electricity rationing. . .there’s some aftermath from the assassination. . .but we know this is also a way for the “opposition” to try and weaken the government. Over coffee, the three of us discussed what’s happened since we arrived and who might be responsible. I have to admit, being here is a rush.Between the bombs, the traffic, the strikes, the sectarian squabbles and the electricity outages, we are living in the news. Yes, Beirut is where Drama has purchased a permanent pad for herself and put down some roots. You know, joining the gym, picking out paint swatches, finding her favorite Whole Foods location. And the Beiruti’s, even the expats, have really taken to her. I’m starting to believe they might even feed off her. If we’re not careful, so will we.

But I know Drama. All too well. She’s super clingy. Like Friday morning, around 5:30, as thought-rattling thunder rolled through the sky and the naked women on our wall lit up like Moulin Rouge and the Call to Prayer began and I thought about the cold, long, dark hallway to the bathroom? Yeah. She wouldn’t let go of my hand.And last week, when I locked the door to take a shower and the water strangely stopped working just as I was finishing and then I swore I heard the front door shut, but then Michael didn’t answer when I called and so I brushed my teeth and lotioned my legs and by then he totally should have been home but he totally wasn’t and I had to dry my hair, but I was afraid to get, you know lost in the zone of the hair-dryer sound when clearly, the guys I saw earlier on a nearby roof were members of Al Qaeda and they were now in the house waiting to break down the bathroom door. Yeah, Drama was in on that one, too.As much as I get a rush from our stories of time spent in a city whose very name evokes visions of hostages, terrorists and masked militants. . .as much as I love the fantasy of starring in my own humanitarian action flick. . .and as much as I understand the excitement of leaving the house and never knowing WHAT the day might bring, the big D is not good for my well-being.So the idea of residing long-term in a city who seems to thrive on her very presence. . .well. . .no. Thanks, but no thanks.But I will leave here with a different view of the world and of my government. I am realizing that where your loyalties fall has less to do with open-mindedness or how broad your horizon is, and more to do with who you are deep, deep within. What comes out when your faced with conflicting opinions. The instinctive stuff that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of your genes. A place you don’t typically visit every day.