We stood inside the monastery, a sixty-five-foot structure carved directly into the mountainside. In contrast to its Hellenistic facade, complete with twelve ionic columns, the interior was simply one large open space. Our guide said it was likely a gathering hall for the Cult of Obadas, followers of the Nabatean king, or a tomb for his family. It was never used as a monastery. I whispered to my sons that it was never used as my bedroom either. They had a good laugh, as they did the first time I showed them photos of Petra and said I once thought this would be my home.
The single door didn’t have stairs. To get inside we had to climb up five feet, a height from which I would have jumped if my knees hadn’t been killing me. I winced as a teenager to our right ran forward and threw himself into the air. I squatted and slowly lowered myself over the edge before helping Brenda and the boys to the rocky plateau.
All around us tourists took pictures and congratulated each other for surviving the journey. Others rested up for the return trip on couches beneath a large tent. After we bought more water at a nearby concession stand, we found a cluster of seats near the tent’s rear. Our guide joined us, as did the other members of our group; three administrators from the college where my wife worked as a vice president and their spouses. My wife and her colleagues had come to Jordan to strengthen partnerships with two local schools. I had come to confront demons.
One of the spouses sat next to me and asked how I was doing. She knew about the cult. They all did. I’d mentioned it last night at dinner. They warned that the visit to Petra would be emotional for me, but they didn’t know I used up that emotion long ago, often in ways that still made me cringe and wonder how I was alive. I had no emotions left, not as far as the cult was concerned. I’d come here to prove that to myself, and I believed I had; the trip felt like a vacation, no more or less stressful than any other. So I told the spouse I was doing fine. But I don’t think she believed me. I lifted my bottle to my lips for a drink before realizing it was empty. I excused myself to buy more.
The concession stand line was long. While waiting I noticed people hiking up an adjacent mountain, its summit fifty yards above the monastery where a crowd of people stood looking around, some through binoculars, taking in what must have been a spectacular sight. The pain in my knees had subsided; I’d gotten my second wind. And so without another thought, I headed for the trail. But I didn’t get very far. A minute in, I reached a sign with an arrow pointing the way. Its caption read “View the End of the World.” And I could not bring myself to go on.