It began in 2007. I had been in Jordan with my father; our spouses remained stateside. He got on fine, with dozens of doting nieces and nephews keeping him flush with arak, but I decided to cut the trip short. Booze was never my thing.
I missed my wife and our small condo in Blacksburg, Virginia, but mostly I’d seen enough of Madaba, my father’s hometown, despite the charm of its stone alleys and shabby storefronts, ambiance for a carnivalesque sense of tenor and motion. It was the time of year when many residents spend the night on verandas and rooftops.
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