Friday, 29 August 2003, Jaramana, Syria
90 degrees, SUNNY

Wake at 9:30, and again at 10:30. Time to go up and drink Mate at Nizar's in our pajamas. We really don't change out of pajamas most mornings at all, until we've had showers. Most of the women wear pajama or housecoat like affairs all day, unless they go out. We stay up at Nizar's quite awhile, and ponder the empty apartment that is across the way - a two bedroom space belonging to a woman who apparently went to America, grew old and died. Her apartment has been vacant ever since. Naeif and I are thinking about buying it - heck, at US $40,000 it's a steal!

After that, again we go disdashi shopping in Bhab Touma. This time we're going back to the shop where I got my dishdashi, as it's way too tight. We also find the dishdashi of my dreams, finally, a lightweight material in a chambray blue with great embroidery on the front.

Dishdashis are like mu-muus. For hot weather, nothing beats them. Short or long sleeved, plain, plaid, colored or richly embroidered - they are like long dresses - worn by women and men alike in the Middle East. Similar to the Moroccan "jellaba", the Syrian version is a bit more casual.

We also visit a men's clothing shop owned by Naeif's friend Abdullah Chahaddeh's brother, Eeyad Chahaddeh. Abdullah is a fantastically talented as well as utterly handsome, Syrian quanoon player now living in London. His brother is equally handsome, a tailor still living in Damascus. Naeif had purchased a couple pairs of pants the other day that needed to be shortened, so we hang out for a while in the air condtioned shop.

We dash out from the shop to get me a new pair of sandals to replace the ones I brought with me, which are now disintegrating. Typically, I wear out at least one pair of shoes per trip that I take, as I do love to walk.

After that, Naeif and I go home and putting on our dishdashis. We decide to stop at Vino Russo for one glass of wine, though. After that, microbus to Jaramana.

Now Naeif and I are sitting in the courtyard, me typing this journal, he napping, both enjoying the small fountain and cool breezes. There's a LOUD wedding going on in the streets - there's been a wedding every night for the past three nights, almost. Ghazwan and his kids are out getting meat, 'cos it's time to BARBEQUE, Syrian-style!

We sit blissfully for awhile, enjoying the quiet. Then one person shows up, then two . . . pretty soon it's a crowd, kids everywhere. So much for the solitude - "al hayat" ("that's the life here")

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Ghazwan shows up with the meat, the grills are burning, and we're ready to barbeque! Rebal makes a whole plate of expert shish kabobs with lamb and chicken. Rama, the baby, needs constant supervision, as one minute she's waving a super pointy skewer full of meat, hot off the grill - the next she's cranking the fountain up to full blast.

The meat here is very fresh. There's none of the sitting around for weeks wrapped in plastic in a freezer in a supermarket that we have in the US. The lamb that Ghazwan brought back was killed while he was in the shop and cut up right away. There are also none of the hormones or additives or awful slaughterhouses that we have in the US. The animals roam around freely until they meet their ultimate fate on a skewer, being waved around by a sweet baby.

Sorry, vegetarians. That's the life here. And PETA members . . . phew, don't even come here.

The meat is done, and appears in giant piles on the table. Immediately my plate is full. I always eat slowly, knowing that as soon as there's an empty spot on my plate, it will be filled. Hands are a serving utensil here, as a handful of lamb bits goes from being clutched in Ommee's hands, to Naeif's father's hands to my plate. Charming.

After awhile, my stomach starts to hurt, so I decide to turn in. There's three groups of people here, about six in each group. I drift from group to group, but of course, there's nothing but Arabic being spoken. So, I decide to sleep, and rest my stomach. Ouch. It really hurts. Well, I'm in and out of the bathroom (no more details needed). I'm feeling quite dehydrated. Ugh. Was it the "hands as serving utensils/bacteria repositories"?

Finally at 2 AM, Naeif comes to sleep, I ask him to get some bottled water and white soda and my sweet husband throws on his dishdashi and zips out, returning quickly. At least it's a 24 hour town . . .