For starters, the movie on the big screen isn't "Die Hard," as I had expected, but a black-and-white '70s-era Arabic film starring a polyester-clad protagonist with sideburns the size of Brillo pads. I go back out to the foyer to inquire about "Die Hard," but the doorman just waves me back inside. Figuring a little patience and curiosity can't hurt, I find a seat near the aisle and try to make sense of the film.

The plot proves to be a mesmerizingly bad mix of action, romance, mystery, slapstick comedy and social commentary. So broad is the premise that the hero seems to spend most of his time racing from genre to genre. In the span of a few minutes, we see him running down the street shooting a gun, breaking up a squabble between his enormously fat neighbor and her improbably skinny husband, making an emotional phone call to a worried-looking woman and sitting in jail while his cellmate dreams of belly dancers. The token sex scene -- no more than 30 seconds from foreplay to cigarette -- features no disrobing, no stylized fadeaways and no changes in facial expression. After a while, I can't help enjoying it.

Then, just as the bad guys are celebrating their apparent triumph -- just as the fat neighbor lady accidentally uncovers a clue that will change everything -- the reels change, and an old Hong Kong action scene flickers onto the screen.

I wait for the Jordanians in the audience to whistle, throw popcorn or shout curses at the projectionist. Instead, nothing happens: Small groups of Arab men slouch in their seats, chatting and smoking cigarettes; others get up and make their way to the bathroom under the stage. A few fellows stand up from their seats to stretch their legs, but not a soul expresses any concern about the fate of the bad guys, the Brillo-pad hero or the huge woman with the tiny husband.

After about 10 minutes, the Hong Kong movie ends and the lights come up. A couple of vendors stroll into the theater to sell sandwiches and tea. Figuring this to be some sort of timeout while the projectionist searches for the last reel of the Arabic movie, I stay in my seat.

When the lights go down again, however, a blurry, French soft-porn movie comes up on the screen -- again without a peep of protest.

As intrigued as ever, I settle into my plywood theater seat and wait to see what any of this has to do with "Die Hard."

When I first arrived in Amman from the ancient stone city of Petra that morning, I knew that I wouldn't devote much of my time to standard tourism in Jordan's capital. Granted, the city has a long and storied history -- both King David and King Nebuchadnezzar II sacked the place long ago -- but its modern incarnation just doesn't have much character when compared with other regional capitals such as Cairo, Egypt, or Damascus, Syria.

Rather, with tidy concrete buildings on its myriad hillsides and late-model Nissans navigating its calm streets, Amman struck me more as a bedroom community than a place to visit in and of itself. And since Petra had already given me my fill of ancient monuments, I decided to forgo the smattering of ruins in Amman. Instead, I sought out what the city had to offer in the way of Hollywood-style entertainment.

Admittedly, watching American movies while visiting foreign countries is a bit contradictory, but it's actually one of my favorite travel vices. This is because travel -- which is commonly seen as an escape from the routines of home -- can often take on a routine of its own through simple, recurring challenges like communication, transportation and nutrition. Even within the escapist setting of travel, I've found that movies allow me to enter into a new, neutral territory -- a darkened, womblike zone where, at least for a couple of hours, all reality is suspended. There, I can let my imagination be painted with glorious, nonsensical shades of possibility. I find that I leave the cinema with a heightened sense of magic: When I walk outside, the foreign streets have become even more vivid and intimate than they were before.

Granted, my life doesn't change much after this, nor does my brain enlarge, but the visceral buzz is worth the admission fee.

In Amman, recent Hollywood movies are screened in the shopping malls of upscale neighborhoods such as Shmeisani, and cost about the same as they would in America. Older American and Arabic movies, on the other hand, play in the various run-down cinemas of the downtown area, and cost just 1 dinar ($1.43). Since my hotel was downtown, I decided to see what these cheaper cinemas had to offer. When I saw a poster for the 1988 Bruce Willis action flick "Die Hard" hanging outside a small cinema on Basman Street, I couldn't resist.

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