Hills of Ajlun

He stares blankly into the horizon, his gaze resting gently on the crests of the green hills. It is a lethargic gaze, which, without the hilltops to support it, would surely fall freely to the ground. In a similar manner, he was resting his chin on his hand, with his elbow propped against the hard wooden counter. Nearby was his fifth cup of tea today, it only being an hour or so past noon, with its fragrant, familiar steam wafting lazily above the rim of the glass. Despite his sloth, he will be sure to not let his tea get cold.

He works there, in a small restaurant owned by his relative, nestled in the hills of Ajlun. From its dining area, which is constructed such that it is open from three directions, the only obstruction being from the entrance, patrons would be pleased to find a stunning view. The restaurant overlooks the many orchards that pepper the bases of the hills with their ancient olive and fig trees, which, when viewed from a distance, creates the effect of a gradient as the peaks are left covered in thick forest. On the crest of the highest hill lies the imposing castle, Qal’at Ajlun, which has for nearly one thousand years stood over the region. The view, unfortunately, may be the only thing one will find themselves pleased with at this establishment.

The dining area, as it often may be found, is entirely desolate. The entire restaurant is silent, bar the soft whistling of the wind as it flows through the open seating area. Days often pass without a single patron. The only souls in the establishment are the elderly owner, his brother, and his nephew’s son, a young man, less than 20 years of age. The owner sits at an empty table in the corner, behind the door, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea as he sorts through some documents, taking time to check his Whatsapp messages. The boy continues to stare off into the distance, his mind wandering only he knows where. His brother sits by the front door, awaiting guests which seldom seem to arrive.

The occasional car drives along the narrow country road which runs past the restaurant. One finally stopped and pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the building, and from that silver sedan disembarked a party of four, three women and a young man, relatives on a day trip, hoping to take advantage of the pleasant weather. They entered into the sleepy restaurant, carrying with them two sets of conversations, both lively, yet neither of them about anything at all. The owner’s brother rises from his chair to greet the guests and guides them to their table, of which they are spoiled for choice. Predictably, their previous topics of conversation are dispensed with, as their focus is now the awe inspiring view, which then becomes the center of new conversation.

As the guests take their seats, he hands them each a menu. He then heads back to his post at the entrance, on the way nudging his grandson to bring his attention to the new guests. Laboriously, the boy lifts himself from the counter then slowly makes his way to their table. His legs move begrudgingly, his face wearing an expression of tired disinterest. His eyelids seem heavy, his eyes barely open, yet he is not wanting for sleep. He just simply cannot be bothered. He stops some distance from the table of the guests, seeming that he simply cannot be bothered to take the few more steps it would take to reach their table. In a low mumble, he asks what they want to order. The patrons, taken aback by his odd demeanor, begin to give him their order. They have agreed on their order, so the lady nearest to him begins to relay their choices. “We would like a tabbouleh salad, mhammara, sfiha, as well as three strawberry smoothies and a pot of tea, and bring the food out all at once please.” He tells them that they do not have sfiha or mhammara. They then ask for the kibbeh and falafel in their place. Without any change of expression, he tells them that they do not have falafel. A quiet chuckle escapes the male patron, who then asks jokingly, “What do they have?”. The lady placing the order hesitantly asks, “Surely you have hummus?”, to which the waiter responds that they do. She tells him that they will then have hummus in place of the falafel. He turns and leaves abruptly, without bothering to confirm their order.

Left alone in the dining area, with the exception of the owner seated in the far corner, who is currently preoccupied with checking his Facebook, the guests exchange a few humored whispers on the odd demeanor of their server. After exchanging a few remarks, they then turn their focus to their beautiful surroundings. The clear blue skies are decorated with brushstrokes of white cotton clouds, a light breeze carries the scent of an army of trees, leagues of orchards composed of aromatic rooted soldiers. The young man gets up and leans over the balcony, admiring the castle in the distance. Suddenly from behind him he hears a crash, and the women gasping in shock. He turns and sees that the woman sat next to him, his cousin, had fallen from her chair, which now lay on the ground beside her with a leg missing. He rushed over to help her up, and realized that the chair she had been sitting on was completely rusted through at the joints. He pulled at one of the remaining legs, which then broke off with little resistance. They all expressed their shock at the state of affairs in this restaurant. A server who could not care, a menu in which nothing listed is available, and chairs which fall apart. All they could do is at least hope that the food will be good.

After a short while, in which the guests were still reeling from the chair debacle, the boy brought out all of the dishes and laid them on the table in front of them. They brought his attention to the broken chair, to which he responded with a disinterested shrug and walked off. The cold dishes, the tabbouleh and hummus, were servicable, not necessarily bad, just unimpressive. The kibbeh were greasy little American footballs, a few bites were enough to make one nauseated, and thus were left unfinished by the group. The ladies had their strawberry smoothies to tide them over, which were inundated with neon pink strawberry syrup. They left their meal disappointed with their food, and after some more time spent in idle conversation while enjoying the late spring weather, they got up to leave, chuckling at the absurdity of their lunch. The young man and his cousin are heading out the door as they hear the other two women engaged in a minor commotion with the owner’s brother. They turn back to find that they had misentered the bill and overcharged the group a few dinar. He corrected the error, and the party made their final exit, getting into their car to leave.

They left, thinking to themselves, what an odd place, where the service may be abysmal, the menu barren, where the chairs fall apart beneath you, where the food is severely underwhelming, and they get your bill wrong. Perhaps the greatest oddity of all was that they didn’t particularly mind it, as nothing can truly spoil your day when immersed in the beauty of Ajlun’s verdant hills.