To Western eyes, it’s unlikely that Amman would be classified as a “beautiful” city: it doesn’t have the wide, tree-lined boulevards of Paris or the modern skyscrapers juxtaposed next to the lean-to street carts of Bangkok. It’s a city of rolling hills: geometrically stacked with white square houses, scattered with ancient Roman ruins, the call to prayer echoing through the streets five times a day.
Amman is dusty, dotted with beautifully reverent mosques and cheerfully colorful markets. It’s a city of people, women with their hair carefully covered but their smiles showing. The men hawk goods, drive tourists, perch around tables with cigarettes dangling and teacups full. It might not be the most beautiful city, but Amman has character: even with the colors, the scents, the sounds all stripped.
Note: I was a guest of the Jordan Tourism Board, but all opinions are my own.