Later, when we are back in the car I ask Sharif what his mother meant. It’s Latifa who answers. “It means that a man is about to ask you to marry him or to fall in love with you.”

I feel my face turn red and I turn toward the window as I imagine my father bargaining to get rid of his youngest daughter.

Sharif stops at a store and buys cigarettes and Pepsi. He then heads out of the city toward Ajlun. The driving is so peaceful. I’m in the backseat of his black Fiat with the windows down, and Muhammad Munir’s Egyptian voice so loud I can’t hear anything Sharif and Latifa are saying, which is fine. I watch the hills and trees and villages, imagining the people who live there, wondering if my mother thought of her village every time she drove by Jordanian villages. Being away has made me see the country as more beautiful. I am even enjoying Latifa. Away from the house she seems relaxed, like a different person. She and Sharif seem to be comfortable with each other.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you look just ahead of you, you will get your first glimpse of the castle and you will notice along the side of the road there is a watermelon stand.” Just as he says this, he turns the car off the road, stops, and gets out. When he returns, he is carrying a huge watermelon. We drive slowly the rest of the way to the castle. We find a shady spot to park and sit under a tree eating sticky, cool, delicious watermelon. (Prepared as always, Sharif keeps a “watermelon knife” in his glove compartment.)

“I lived in Rome for some time,” Sharif begins. “I had an Italian friend who gave tours. One day he was supposed to give a tour to a group of Americans, but got very sick and implored me to take his place. I thought this would be no problem. One of the first things I did in Rome was the historical tour—I thought I knew everything there was to know. Alas, I was wrong. I knew the major sights, of course, but you would be amazed at how many piazze and fontane these people wanted to know about. I had no choice but to use my imagination. I kept trying to think of the names of famous Italians, but I ran out quickly. The historical section of my brain only does our history. I stood at the microphone pointing right and left: ‘Here is Piazza dei Nasseri. Over there is Via Santo Antaro. Wait until you see Castello degli Angeli Che Amano i Palestini.’ Fortunately, they were young Americans and no one seemed to notice.”

So funny to think of those historical, literary, and political words translated for fun, the last one especially, which Sharif says means “Castle of the Angels Who Love the Palestinians.”