That said, I need to wean myself off academic writing. Even when I write fiction, I think I sound too much like an essay. It’s going to be hard to train away six years of university writing, but it will be worth it to sound less dry.

Since I don’t have many stories about my life at the moment, I thought I’d scour my brain for some funny memories. Best to get them down in writing before I forget them completely. This particular anecdote is from Amman, in August 2006.

So for the third or fourth day in a row I’m aimlessly wandering the streets of Amman. It’s a great city for wandering: lot of hills, windy streets and long staircases that weave past homes and backyards. I’ve wandered into a neighborhood near the Citadel, and have decided I’d like to find a shop or two to look for souvenirs. The streets are quiet.

Now, here’s the thing. I’ve traveled through a few Muslim countries by this point, so I obviously know that people pray five times a day. I’ve learned the signs that it is that time of day – the call to prayer on a mosque’s loudspeaker or, you know, people getting down to pray. I know to be respectful and get out of the way. But at this particular moment, I don’t see any such signs and I don’t have a watch with me to know what time it is. So I continue wandering around.

I finally see a store across the street that looks like it might contain jewelry or art. I walk over, and pull the door open wide.

Right in front of the door, facing right towards me, are six or seven men on the ground praying. All of them look up at me, annoyed.

I freeze in embarrassment. Then, slowly, I back away through the door, and shut it softly behind me. Then I flee the scene of the crime.

Lesson learned: When traveling in a Muslim country, if the streets are eerily quiet in the mid-afternoon, don’t be a dolt and go barging into a store.