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It was our last day in Jordan. We were walking down a sunny market street in Jerash towards our car, ready to go to the Amman airport. A man waved us over. “This your car?” he asked. “Yes…” I replied cautiously. He gestured to the tires, speaking Arabic rapidly while my friend Noah and I looked confused. Quickly I was able to evaluate the situation. “Noah, our tire’s flat. We can’t get back to the airport.” I kept my voice measured, as to not panic Noah. “I knew you were going too fast on the speed bumps,” he muttered back. “I can fix tire,” the man offered. “Oh thank you so much,” I responded gratefully -- neither of us actually knew how to change a tire. As the man inspected the tires more, a second man approached us. “This is your car?” Second Man asked. “Yes” I replied, abashed for having to answer that a second time. He chuckled then spoke to First Man. “Do you have a spare tire?” he translated. Second Man, as it turns out, is fluent in English. We pulled the spare tire from the trunk, and First Man started replacing our tire. Second Man turned to me and Noah, both of us texting to let the rental company know what happened. Second Man shook his head in disapproval and nudged me. “Hey! Pay attention! You need to learn!” he scolded. He motioned towards the car, where First Man had started to drill out the tire. I sheepishly tucked my phone away. “We’re from New York City. We don’t have cars, that’s why we don’t know what to do.” I explained. “Still! You must learn! It’s important, hmm?” Second Man then left us to help First Man switch out the tires. We were a sight to behold, a short Asian-American female and a tall half Japanese/Hungarian male, hovering over two middle-aged Jordanians as they were on the curb of a busy street changing the tire. It was January in Jerash, a time and place you’ll unlikely find tourists. Other locals dropped by for a quick conversation with the First and Second Man (they didn’t know English) and waved at us, amused at our predicament. First Man sighed, said something to Second Man who looked at me, no longer on my phone. “He says you have the wrong tire. We need to change it back to your original one. There is a gas station down the road you must go for a new tire.” We were cutting it close to making it to the airport, but I was just grateful that there were good people willing to help tourists like us. Who knew how long First Man had waited for us to return? As First and Second Man finished changing our tires (again), a third man appeared. He immediately started to talk and laugh with First and Second Man, like one of our many visitors but he stuck around. I don’t know how big Jerash is, but I think the three men had just met today by our beaten up rental car. Third Man, his smile still lingering on his face turned to me and Noah. “Do you want to come over for tea? Everyone come for tea!” And I truly believe if Noah and I said yes, all of us would have gone to Third Man’s place, have many cups of ceylon tea, tell stories (through Second Man’s translation) and learn each other’s names. I’d tell them how Iran’s missile strike in Iraq the day before I left caused people to beg me to cancel my trip to the Middle East -- and that I’m glad I didn’t. I’d tell them how in New York City, not one person would stop to help with a flat tire, let alone three people and others who dropped by to check in. Instead I declined, explaining we needed to head to the airport. I pulled out my wallet, wanting to tip them for helping two strangers, but they all suddenly disappeared in separate directions, as if to prove they didn’t help us for money. All we had left from them was our flat tire and instructions to the gas station.