The storm moved in forcefully, blasting the seven hills of Amman with dust, floating plastic bags, and a winter chill that went straight to the bones.

“Nobody here but us fools,” one tourist said to another “it’s going to snow later on”. They were both peering over the large map of the L-shaped National Historic Site, the Amman Citadel, Jabal Al Qala’a, displayed on a freestanding wall across from the entrance, where an oversized faded color portrait of King Abdullah of Jordan welcomed visitors with a friendly face inspiring confidence.

“So I heard,” the second tourist said rather coldly–let’s call him the photographer on account of the elaborate camera and enormous lens that hung from his neck.

“We can always hide in the museum if it starts to come down.” The first tourist offered, pointing at a rectangle near the center of the map labeled Jordan Archeological Museum. The photographer remained silent, leaned closer to the display, ran a finger across the map as if following a carefully researched route. A powerful gust blew across the hilltop, the only thing not visibly shaken were the remaining columns of the temple of Hercules that dominated what was known as the upper terrace. “You must really love Roman ruins to be out here in this weather,” the first tourist said.

The photographer, clean-shaven, short cropped silver-hair, steel-gray eyes, cheeks blushing from exposure, wrapped in an aztec blue Gore-tex jacket looked up at his interlocutor for the first time, “I don”t mind the cold so much, I’m used to it.”

“Oh yeah?” The first tourist was younger, late thirties maybe, a black beanie tucked over his head revealing only brown eyes, neatly trimmed dark mustache and beard framing a smile in a chiseled face that matched a fit body, “where are you from?”

“Minneapolis.” The photographer replied, then he abruptly trotted away up the same stone-paved trail Nabateans, then Romans, then Byzantines would have tread starting some two thousand years ago on their way to the temple on the hill.

“Nice to meet you.” The first tourist said more to himself than to the photographer who soon rejoined a half-dozen other sightseers who immediately surrounded him with questions. The wind carried their hushed conversation to the first tourist’s ears. “What did he want?” asked a woman who grabbed the photographer by the arm, his wife maybe. “Is he with us? I don’t recognize him?” said another woman. “Did he ask you were you were from?” said a very tall man wrestling with a map. The photographer nodded. “I knew it. That’s how they get you. Next thing you know you’re buying a carpet.” “Where’s your bag?”The wife said. Someone else chimed in, “Let’s make sure to stay together.” Suddenly, their words were warbled by another violent gust that made the Jordanian flag flutter furiously over the first tourist’s head. He watched the group climb towards the temple, shook his head and turned away from the wind and started walking to the southern end of the site to soak in his favorite view of downtown Amman, the busy Al Hasham street, the roman amphitheater, the artsy graffitti peppered on the hillside retaining walls, and to the southwest the fashionable Rainbow street area where he liked to sit on the terrace of the WildJordan cafe. He followed the scantily fenced contour of the citadel, took a couple of panoramic photos of the city with his phone, but the wind was blowing so hard, he found it difficult to keep a steady hand. He then cut across the temple of Hercules, which reputedly would have been larger than any temple in Rome had it been completed, and the often photographed three fingers and elbow, the only remains of a marble statue of the mythological hero that looked like two boulders from a distance, and were estimated to have stood more than forty feet high–among the tallest marble statues ever erected–before it was toppled by an earthquake, and ultimately pillaged to furnish the homes of distinguished Ammanians.

He looked up at the sky, the clouds rolling in were getting darker, heavier, threatening to burst. He decided to continue along the perimeter of the citadel before the weather spoiled the views. He was now walking into the wind, fighting it at every step, yet completely invigorated by the effort and the static energy overcharge. Palm trees and cypresses bent like inverted commas. On the opposite hill, the expanse of western Amman, with its modern glass buildings rising over even the green neon-lit minarets, and the lower profile urban sprawl of sand-colored limestone habitations that gave the city its unique, quasi-monochrome tint. Directly below, a fruit salesman hauled a cart of oranges along the citadel’s retaining wall, peddling his fruit as he passed houses and apartment buildings. A group of children kicked a soccer ball around in an abandoned lot. From above, they moved like a frantic swarm of sheep, or better, like the flocks of birds swaying over the city, swooping down, up and around in large circles. Having reached the northwest corner of the site, he stepped down into the maze of the ruins of the old Roman city, eventually emerging onto a large plaza facing the Byzantine church topped with its new wooden dome, built, as was the custom, right on top of a Roman place of worship. The victors get to write history and, more often than not, erase the ideology of the vanquished.

Finally succumbing to the cold, he followed his own advice and sought shelter in the museum, where he found the photographer and his cohort, huddled by the entrance where the guards had placed a sizable electric heater. The photographer and his wife were rubbing their hands together facing the glowing orange resistance coils. “Hey, we meet again. I hope you are enjoying your visit,” the tourist said without malice, “despite the weather”, he added, with maybe a little innocent jest. The photographer looked and immediately straightened up. He also grabbed his camera, as a defensive maneuver presumably. He mumbled something. Then his wife stepped between them.

“We don’t need a guide thank you”, she said curtly, “come on Archie,” She whisked the photographer away, whispering not so quietly derogative complaints about the locals to which the photographer contributed “it’s a different world honey, at least they’re not dangerous.” The group followed them into the exhibit halls, chattering away. “Yeah, well, Martha did get her purse stolen.” “That was in Paris.” “Maybe, but the thief was an Arab.” The other woman, trailing, cast a forced sideways smile.

The first tourist didn’t say anything this time. He clenched his jaws, shook his head to his left just once, as if to suppress a larger reaction. Gradually, his expression relaxed. He laughed quietly to himself the kind of laugh that makes people ask why are you laughing? He watched them disappear behind display cases featuring, among pots, pans, vases and jewelry, some of the earliest found statues of a human figure. He was struck, and almost distracted, by an armless, earless, heavily cracked two-headed bust, a mere foot high, whose four bulging eyes stared at him across the centuries. The small figures reminded him of something he’d sculpted out of Playdo with his daughter Julia last time he was on leave Stateside. They had named their statue La Llorona, after the ghostly Mexican weeping mother, and added blue teardrops running down her face. When he suggested they smooth out the bumps and cracks between the different clumps in all colors they’d molded together, Julia had refused, saying, “she’s perfect like this, broken, but still together.” He smiled at the clay figure and thought of a remark his friend Lee had made. They’d flown from their base in Bahrain to Amman for a weekend of sightseeing and other debaucheries. That was when he’d seen the Citadel for the first time, and, at the end of their visit, while they waited for their Uber in the small snack bar by the entrance, Lee had proclaimed “You know what Martinez? People at home need to stop watching television and open their minds. This place is fucking awesome.”