Fourth of July

Last night (in Jordan, that is) was America’s birthday, God bless her. I spent it with an Englishmen, a Thai girl from Saudi Arabia, and an American who’s only lived in the States for about 2 years. Nothing like the glorious stars and stripes that was last summer, when Stray, Seth, and I played 18, grilled bratwurst, shot off some bottlerockets, and capped it with Apocalypse Now Redux. The one thing in common with last year was that I would not surrender my God-given rights as an American to listen to the Boss and CCR on Independence Day.

A group of American students who studied in Amman last semester with SIT and are working here this summer invited the folks in our program to join them for a Fourth bash at their apartment. We met them there for burgers and fruit salad, Tostitos and 10 Stella Artois tallboys (the cheapest beer in Amman, believe it) in tow. The girls that live above them (one American, one English) popped in and said they were headed to a Rammallah Underground concert that evening. Rammallah Underground?! If I’m getting screwed out of Dianna Krall, I met as well replace it with a pro-Palestinian rap bash. The girls had to bake a cake (?) and shower, so Tom (the Englishman) and waited around for them. About 9:30 we started to get antsy, and the rest of my friends from my program had curfews to meet, so Tom and I bounced to the ounce and made our way to the show, planning to meet up with everyone else afterwards.

And of course when we arrived at Books@Cafe, we caught the last thirty seconds of RU’s set. Rap concerts and I obviously do not operate on the same time frame (a la missing Lupe Fiasco, best in the game, opening for Kanye in Dallas). No bother, Tom and I met my housemate Joey at the concert, grabbed some beers and argileh and two hours of A-list conversation. Economics is all about trade-offs, right?

We headed back to the apartment, picking up the gang from a nearby bar. Back at the ranch, the girls who deprived me of Rammallah Underground (but not Bruce Springsteen) had invited more people – non overtly American – to celebrate with: a handful of really drunk Arabs, a few Aussies, a couple of American ex-pats, and a French girl. In prime Jacksonian fashion, I hijacked the playlist for a little Johnny Cash and Billy Bragg + Wilco. We set off fireworks on the roof (only Americans really know how to set off fireworks), drank more Stella, and had the neighbors ask us to quiet down. America!

I’m seriously still a little burned about missing Ramallah last night, but who knows, perhaps I might them or G-Town next Friday in Jerusalem? Oh wait, don't you know that they're playing there THE NIGHT AFTER I LEAVE FOR JORDAN. Good grief.