Saturday, 30 August 2003, Jaramana, Syria
90 degrees, SUNNY
I wake up and feel much better. Stomach cramps gone and I feel thinner also. Ah, the Syrian Diet . . . Naeif and I don our dishdashis and lounge around in the heat of the day. Me typing, Naeif napping, Marlin studying English and Ommee snoring up a storm. I go out in the courtyard for a lounge, turn on the fountain, and if I stay perfectly still, I won't get too hot and start sweating. Little Rebal, worker bee, comes out and starts splashing water all over the courtyard, then gets out the big squeegee and starts cleaning the floor. What a great little guy! Naeif joins him, and waters the plants with the hose, and pretty soon is squirting me until my dishdashi is soaked. It doesn't matter though, in this heat, it's refreshing and dries in about a minute. We have a mid-morning snack, me eyeing all the food warily, and finally I have a hard boiled egg, a piece of cooked potato and some tea.
In "developing countries", I've found that you can't go wrong eating a hard boiled egg that you peel yourself. Likewise with fresh fruit - but you have to peel it yourself after you wash it with a little soap and rinse thoroughly. Soap will pretty much kill any bacteria that can cause you trouble. Last time when I visited, I had NO problems with the food - but that was winter. Now it's summer, the bacteria are rampant, and there have been a few episodes - as you know if you're a faithful reader of my ramblings. When eating in restaurants, it depends on how clean the restaurant looks - if it's more of the "five star" variety, you should be fine eating most anything. It's a good rule of thumb to stay away from anything with ice - often this gets scooped up by hand to place in the glass. Anything cooked fresh is okay. Tea or any drinks made with boiled water is okay. Start your trip being fastidious about drinking bottled water only - that you open yourself - some places may refill the bottles with tap water. Brush your teeth with bottled water at first, and wash your face also with it if you tend to be sensitive. After a few days, or a week, you can gradually "ramp up" the introduction of more "exotic" foods. I spent three weeks in Morocco and was eating snails off the street towards the end of the trip, but of course, your mileage - and your stomach tolerance - may vary. That said, don't be so careful that you miss all of the food - especially in Arab culture, food is SO much a part of the local color, that your trip will lack flavor (literally!).
In Syria, if you do get sick, there are many pharmacies - identify them by a strange logo that looks like a red snake curling around a green champagne glass - and the pharmacists inside usually speak several languages - or at least English - and are quite knowledgeable about digestive ills.
Naeif has a theory that he heard somewhere - probably an old Arab wive's tale - that if you eat an onion when you arrive in a new country you won't get sick. We didn't try it this time - and we got sick! Soo, next trip, bring on the onions!
Around 3 PM, we decide to head out to Damascus - I want to check out the silver souk, and Naeif has a taste for some of Abu Romme's shwarma. Hop in a cab, and we're there in minutes. I find that what Naeif calls the "silver souk" is what I call the "Handicrafts Souk" - and I visited it last time I was there. There's also a crazy military museum, with a bunch of defunct Syrian warplanes up on blocks. Also in this complex is a little snack bar with sodas, and a mosque. My birthday is in a few days, so it's time to look for my birthday gift! What I want is a wide silver cuff bracelet - and there are many to choose from here, as well as silver necklaces, rings - anything you can think of. Tiny pillboxes, gorgeous silver "letter carriers", silver daggers - and all at a fraction of what you'd pay in the States. After I've looked in every single window of every single shop (it's not a large souk - by Hammidiyyah standards), and purchased a pair of leather "jesus sandals" for US $5 I spot a nice bracelet similar to the picture I have in my head and we enter that shop. The shop is packed with daggers, necklaces, rings, jewelry, and several more cuff bracelets - wider ones! I end up buying two - one was exactly what I'd pictured in my head of the type I wanted, and the other was too beautiful to pass up. The first one is about three inches wide, and the other one is two inches wide. Total cost US $130, they're solid silver with the requisite "925" number stamped into it that signifies "yep, they're authentic."
Another great thing about the Handcraft Souk is there is no haggling. The price of the thing is what you pay, Arab or foreigner alike. It's somewhat of a relief from the other souks, where negotiation is a sport. And if, unlike me, you don't have your personal handsome Arabic native speaker in tow, it's a real relief! Everything in the souk is authentically Syrian - embroidered dishdashis, pillows, wood inlaid furniture, leather shoes and bags, damask (where Damascus gets it's name!), embroidered tableclothes (these are awesome), scarves, jewelry of every sort, and cool wood backgammon boards! Be sure not to make the mistake I almost made - there is also a mosque tucked into one side of the souk courtyard. I walked towards it, "oh, look, they're selling rugs here . . . oops! it's a mosque!" Naeif just watched me go, grinning, figuring I'd see what was up soon enough. The prices here may be slightly higher, by a few dollars, than the rest of the souk, but the stuff you can buy here is authentic for sure, and you don't have to paw through all the cheap crap and imitations you find in the other souks. This one has some governmental controls to ensure that Syria's handcraft traditions are not lost or crapped up.
If you're familiar with "American Tribal Bellydance" don't come to Syria, especially this souk, for jewelry. You'll certainly go bankrupt. *grin!* There is a lot of old tribal style necklaces, bracelets, big chunky stones and large, ornate choker style necklaces. Beautiful stuff! For me, an Egyptian style cabaret bellydancer - we haven't come to this part yet. Naeif promises we're going to see a dancer that he used to work with in a couple days, at a nightclub where he used to play. Yallah!!
We walk out of there, right across the street to the National Museum of Damascus! I never knew it was here! Makes this location easy to find as well. It will be even easier to find when the new 4 Seasons Hotel across the street is finished. There is a lovely outdoor cafe on the museum grounds - we have to return to the museum itself, as it's closed - with a canopy made entirely of vines - blocks out all the sun. Naeif and have a peach ice tea and I display my goodies.
Now, Naeif wants to powershop. We walk over to al Shalin street - what Naeif calls the "lazy souk" because all the vegetables, fruits, leaves in the shops are cut up and ready to cook. He gets some "shenglish" - which look like labneh (Syrian cream cheese) balls mixed up and rolled in spices - for eating while you drink Arak.
Now it's dark. Have I mentioned that while walking through Damascus at night in the residential neighborhoods, you smell jasmine everywhere? There is a variety called "Night Jasmine" appropriately enough, that blooms at night. Gorgeous.
There are a lot of great clothing stores here - I pop into a Stefanel and get a cool white linen dress - essential for this heat - for US $20 on sale. Then I need to get a couple of light colored underpants (US $2 each) to wear under it. The lingerie here is fantastic - made in France, Germany or Italy - OR locally here in the S.A.R. (Syrian Arab Republic) - and they make nice stuff!
Naeif hits "Lucky Man" - a men's clothing shop with very cool stuff, and buys a sort of stylish light khaki barn jacket, a gorgeous blue Italian casual shirt, and a pair of casual leather loafers - US $60 total. The jacket sleeves are too long - alterations included.
Now we've shopped enough for today, and Iead Naeif down a route that I know well - having prowled all around this shopping district. It's exploded, though, even since I was here last, and it's very busy. We take the stairs down into a tunnel that leads us across the street, and even this tunnel is encrusted with shops. I call this the "chick souk" as it's stuffed with cheap makeup, hair clips, nail polish, cheap jewelry and bags - all kinds of accessories. I select a hair clip, and Naeif decides 50 cents is the "tourist price" when they start trying to speak English to me, so we head out.
There's a park above, and I want to stop and rest, have some of the fresh potato chips that are everywhere and sit on a park bench. Naeif laughs and says I'm becoming typically Syrian - wanting frequent breaks to sit down, and watch people. Hey, it works for me!
One last stop at Abu Rommee's shwarma place so Naeif can get his fix, and I sip an Ayran (yogurt drink) to replace some of the "good" bacteria in my digestive tract. I take a hilarious picture of Naeif here, two fisted shwarma, one chicken and one lamb. We hop in a microbus in Bhab Touma and go home to Jaramana. Walking the couple blocks from the bus, Naeif is the returning hero, running into friend after friend, lots of men kissing men's cheeks going on here. Meanwhile, a small child waving an ice cream cone does a hit and run into the front of my skirt - vanilla everywhere. No worries, I'm washable.
Don't bring any clothing to Syria that cannot withstand dirt, dust or a small child armed with ice cream.
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")
---
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 . . .
Thursday, 28 August 2003, Jaramana, Syria
85 degrees, SUNNY
Naeif and I sleep until 11 AM and wake up to NO WATER! The contraption that moves water up four floors only to have it cascade back down to the ground floor is broken. No showers, no face washing, no teeth brushing, no bidet, no little hoses next to Arabic toilets working. This is a bummer! We eat breakfast, and finally Ghazwan is in charge. Soon a little truck pulls up in front of the house - the truck of the man who fixes the machine that pushes the water. What seems like minutes after that, we're showing, washing, brushing and bidet'ing with wild abandon.
After that, we sit around for awhile, drink tea and have breakfast. I think I better check in at the American Embassy, since I've been here a week now, and plus, I'd like a little alone time in Damascus - a good thing! I hop in a cab, have a "cab driver conversation", and I'm on my way. Out of Jaramana, thru Zahira Camp - a Palestinian camp, quite dirty - onto the freeway, into Damascus, thru Barampke Square, towards al Mohagerin to the Embassy. I make a seamless transaction, wave "Marhaba" (Hello!) fA 3
Se guards and other guys with guns, and find the Embassy . . . closed. Duh. It's Thursday. Embassy is closed.
Schedules can be trying here if you're used to the Western calendar. Our Saturday and Sunday in the US correspond to Thursday and Friday here. So, Saturday and Sunday are regular workdays. There's no "TGIF", it's more "TGIW" or "Thank Goddess it's Arba-ah (Wednesday)".
At any rate, I messed up. Can't blame Naeif for not telling my ass, I should have known! So, I take a walk ("bitlakee hone" - "take a walk") down Abu Romaneh, the street that the Embassy is on down towards the Assad Bridge, thinking of tea, except I catch a cab before then - too hot. Wayy too hot, so I head back to Jaramana. Finding Naeif home, I make him take a searing sun walk thru Jaramana in search, perpetually, for dishdashis. A hot weather dishdashi. But, we find none, as the shops are closed, we're the only fools out in this heat. A cool beverage before we go home.
After that, Naeif and I take a nap in the big salon, with a fan blasting on it. I guess we sleep for about two hours, because when we wake up, Ghazwan is saying "yallah!" it's time to go to Saydnaya - a town not far from Damascus.
Okay, we have some history here.
Saydnaya is home to a large church, orphanage and convent - allegedly a site where Jesus, that cool carpenter guy, walked from, traveling - I don't know where - maybe in search of shwarma? The church itself dates from the 1500's, and is quite the religious site. Religious or not, it's a gorgeous building, and has a view for miles from the roof. And quite the stair climb.
We remove our shoes and worm into one tiny little room filled with candles - quite warm. There are lots of "hands of Fahimi" metal objects on the wall, and dozens of incense burners hang from the ceiling. A woman, one of the nuns from the convent, is performing some sort of ablution on all who wish to kneel before a small altar, which has still more religious objects displayed. Thuraiya tells me I can blow out a candle, light it, and relight it, asking "God" for whatever I wish. I'm not sure what I want, I already have everything I could possibly need. US Trooops out of Iraq? That's a good one, so I ask for that. Bring 'em home, "God!". Except when I try to place the candle gingerly in the brass holder, it drops over diagonally. Uh, oh. I try every possibly configuration, in each candle hole. Same thing. I hand it to Naeif, who really has a heart utterly full of love, and he's able to place it perfectly. I retreat from the warm little room - it's best I stay out of overly religious environments. After that, we visit the church - very old, and still active. A few nuns dust the various artifacts and the pews. About a dozen super ornate chandeliers hang from the ceiling, making the room much smaller than it actually is.
There are some cute kids running around in the church - orphans? - and one adorable little boy walks by with a tiny chick. No, a real chick! Like a baby hen! It's too cute. Rama, Ghazwan's baby runs off in pursuit of both little boy and chick and screams when she's not able to grab both for closer inspection.
After that, we're all feeling pretty holy as well as hungry, so we head to Al Mazzar, one of the enormous outdoor restaurants that are so popular here. This is another place where Naeif used to play his Nay (Egyptian flute) in the Arabic ensembles that play here every night.
Wednesday, 27 August 2003, Jaramana, Syria
85 degrees, SUNNY
Typical leisurely morning, Naeif and I wake up late and eat breakfast. After that, we do a couple visits - notably, Naeif's aunt, who is a widow. His uncle died suddenly during my last visit, very tragic. It's about two years ago, and his wife is still wearing black. We have some kahwa (coffee) and I do a lot of smiling at everyone and bust out a few feeble words of Arabic. After that, to Naeif's other aunt, his mother's sister - grandmother of cute little girl with glasses, Noura. We have some ice cream there, and talk about the food chain and why it would NOT be good to kill all the mosquitoes in the world. Yeah, translated thru Naeif.
After that, back to Casa Rafeh to hang out in the courtyard. Keenan, Nizar's oldest boy, a really great little guy brings over a surprise - an "arranib"! ("rabbit"). He's got a basket with a plastic bag over it, and I don't realize what he's got until a consultation with Naeif. Suddenly, I think and say "This is a PET, right, not dinner?" Knowing I couldn't handle witnessing the rabbits demise - it's an adorable little white rabbit. I display the proper way to handle the rabbit - i.e., do NOT pick it up by it's ears, as Keenan did when he proudly presented it to me (!!). I pull the rabbit out, it's scared to death, and show him how to cradle it in my arm and cover it's eyes, and it calms down. It seems the bunny is in good hands, as Keenan describes, through Naeif, how he plans to keep it in a cage on one of the terraces in the back of their house, closed off with room to roam. Ah, good.
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Tonight, to Cassion - a restaurant on the top of Damascus Mountain. Me, Naeif, Marlin, Thurayia, Walid and Rebal and Rawad, Ghazwan's cute kids. As much as I adore these kids, Thuraiya and I are complaining about having to bring them along. Especially when all of us try to squish into one cab. Finally, we take two, and there is an inexplicable fiasco where one cab gets lost (!!) and we have to wait halfway up the mountain.
Cab riding is curious here - well, along with a lot of stuff that's curious. The drivers don't really know street names, to get around, you ask to be taken to a landmark or a neighborhood, then direct from there. Often the cab driver will ask directions en route from microbus drivers, other cabbies or pedestrians. Still, cabs are the way to go, only try the microbuses if you can read Arabic script well, as their schedules of pickups and drop offs are mystifying at best. There is a general route, but subject to detours depending on the destinations of the riders.
Back at Cassion, Marlin, Thuraiya and I are at a table and Naeif, Walid and the kids are nowhere to be seen. This is one of those "what the hell is going on" moments for me. Finally, I figure out that the cab carrying Walid and the kids, for some reason, couldn't stop, or find Naeif so they had to take another lap all the way around the mountain, since the road is one-way only. I'm slightly miffed at all these gyrations just to go to a restaurant, can't we just walk in serenely and all sit at a table like regular people? It seems not, this time. Finally, everyone is located, and I huff off, petulant to the table. I soon get over it, and we drink tea and have some really delicious falafel and shwarma and enjoy a spectacular view of all of Damascus at night.
Tuesday, 26 August 2003, Jaramana, Syria
90 degrees, SUNNY
Today we get up fairly late - this is becoming a habit - and I decide it's time to pay a visit to my pals at the American Embassy. We finally get ready and head out in a cab around 4:00 to find it closed at 3:00. Oh well, time to drink tea! We're near al Mouhagerin, which is the neighborhood that Basma, my Arabic tutor lived in when I was here last. She's now married, and as I walk up this familiar street, I wonder how she's doing. We come to her street, and Naeif informs me that it's perfectly acceptable in Arabic culture to just drop in for an unannounced visit after a year and a half. So, we do. . .
Basma's father, the director of the Foreign Language Institute for Non Arabic Speakers in Mezzah is happy to see me! We go in, and he calls Basma, now married. She lives about a ten minute walk away, so she pops over. I'm so glad to see her! She's great, happy being married and looking good. Naeif and I have completely interrupted a lesson - but it's another American. I ask him "what are YOU doing here?" and he inquires the same of me. His lesson is quickly forgotten and he gets a big kick out of his "culture lesson". We spend another half hour or so, I get Basma's number to set up a couple more lessons, and bid farewell.
Naeif and I head towards Bhab Touma in a cab. When we stop, he takes me to his favorite shwarma place. The guys are happy to see him after his five year absence. After that, it's all about dishdashi shopping.
Dishdashis are long dresses for men and women. The women's versions range from lushly embroidered with tassels to simple, unadorned cotton affairs for wearing to and from the hammam. The men's are all the same style, with a V neck, and either a plaid or solid color lightweight fabric. You see people all over in the street wearing these in the summer, very practical. The one I end up selecting is hunter green and tan, with a tassel embroidered onto the front. There is all kinds of complicated embroidery on the bodice, and around the lower half - it's pretty spectacular. I now feel I need to acquire a more simple one for lounging, plus this one I have now is not as breezy as I'd hoped it would be. It is striking, though! There are some for women that are sort of convertible. This is the variety that the my friend, the lovely msLaura in California will receive, as she is now gestating her first baby! The robes are embroidered in infinite varieties, and have a big pleat running down the front, sort of an Empire waistline that expands to accommodate the inevitable multiple pregnancies that Syrian women must endure. Two bands just under the bustline are attached to long cords with tassels that *zip!*tie the thing back up after the baby is born. On a normal woman, the pleat is merely decorative, offering a fetching peek of a contrasting color. On a woman, such as my mother in law, who has had nine children and never really "snapped back", the pleat accommodates her Buddha - like belly. These robes are great, and are supposed to be worn roomy.
We select our robes, but do not have enough money even after Naeif talks the price down from 3400 S.L. to 2800 S.L. (a little over US $53 total). It seems as soon as the shopkeepers see me the price goes up. Then Naeif starts the haggling, and divulges "we are not tourists". The price drops dramatically. We leave a deposit, and will pick up the robes later.
We get back from Bhab Touma, and Naeif's cousin from London visits with her parents, and her sixteen year old son, also named Naeif. They speak English and Arabic, which is great, a real relief. I sense that Small Naeif (as I dub him) is getting slightly bored, so I ask if he'd like to join me, just to dash into Bhab Touma and back to pick up my dishdashi and pay the rest of the bill. He jumps up, yes! We leave, to my profuse reassurances to his mother that he'll be fine, I know the area, etc. All the buses to Bhab Touma are PACKED going out of Jaramana, but we finally find one, and are on our way. I go back to the dishdashi guy, and humdullah that I have Small Naeif with me to translate what the store guy is saying. We get the robe, jump back into the bus and zip back to Jaramana.
After that, we go up to Ghazwans, for some biera, nargilah and Syrian pizza - which is suprisingly good. I think it's even improved a bit from the last time I was here. It's always fun at Ghazwans, very casual and no outrageous amounts of food - just snacks. Marlin shows up and we hang out some more until about 2 AM. Syrian nights go LATE, everyone is out, running around, kids are awake LONG past any bedtime . . . yallah!
If you're just joining us, you might like a program to follow along with the blog entries. I won't be IDing everyone, so this is a quick reference list to Naeif's extensive family, starring here in the SyriaBlog.
Naeif and Fahimi (me) - the happy couple.
"OMMEE!" The matriarch, Naeif's mother who makes stuff happen around here.
*Special thanks* to MUHAMMAD TAHA, the Internet King of Syria for getting me hooked up online! It took awhile, for three or four people to puzzle it out, but Muhammad came for a visit and had us rolling and publishing in about a half hour. MABROOKNA, Muhammad!
Naeif's Brothers:
Ghazwan ("want a beer?")
Firaz
Nizar ("ai-WAH!!!")
Hassan
Hamzeh (lives in Libya)
Their wives:
Ghazwan's wife: Mazenah
Firaz's wife: Amal
Nizar's wife: Amale
Hassan's wife: Maleek
Their kids:
Ghazwan's kids: Rama (F), Rebal and Rawad
Firaz's kids: Hooda and Marah (F)
Nizar's kids: Mirnah, Murwah, Keenan
Hassan's kids: Mataz, Murad, Mudar.
Fahimi's PEEPS!
The English speakers, Marlin (Naeif's sister) and Thuraiya (cousin)
Ossama and Ahmed, the guys at KABRA computer, my internet access!
Muhammad Taha - Internet King of Syria, also a fellow Macintosh user.
Naeif's parents:
Altaf: Mom "Ommee"
Adel: Dad "Ebbee"
Naeif's friends:
Issam: lifetime friend, fabulous Oud player
Wessam: now living in Lebanon
Walid: lifetime friend, lives near us in Chicago, also visiting Syria
Fourat: Violin player - studied in Russia for 11 years, great guy, English speaker. Used to live in Chicago, but got sent back to Syria when he tried to audition for a music job in Canada and didn't have the right papers to get in. Now working as a recording artist in Syria.
countless aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins and on and on . . .
Monday, 25 August 2003 Arneh, Syria
80 degrees, SUNNY!
Wake up around 9:30, and hang out on the porch. Despite the fresh mountain air, I didn't sleep a wink last night. It was because of the utter quiet. Not a sound. Not a cricket, not a bird, nothing. No sirens, car crashes, 'el trains or belching buses. I missed the noise! Something smells delicious, though . . . .
Soon it's time to eat kishk, a delicious Druze breakfast soup. It's sort of milky potato soup with lamb in it - very lemony and tangy - with ripped up pieces of pita bread added. Middle Eastern food is not for the calorie conscious, this is in evidence by all the weight everyone has gained since last year - not a good thing at all. Hussein's wife, Malek, works non stop cleaning, cooking and mopping the place after she's cleared all the breakfast dishes. I try to help, but it seems I've got the double whammy of foreigner AND guest, and therefore don't need to do any work. Plus, Malek has everything under control.
Despite the swarm of bees that's buzzing all over the kitchen.
On to my next plan of napping and reading. Naeif is feeling healthy again today, and so everyone gets a chance to catch up with him. They're speaking in rapid fire Arabic anyway, between bouts of staring at me for what reason - I don't know. Naeif says it's because they want to talk to me, but can't speak English well enough. Needless to say, my Arabic is not up to par past a few basic words and phrases. This goes on for a few hours - reading and being stared at. Napping and being stared at.
Finally, it's time to "go into town", to the tiny village of Arneh, to get some vegetables and food. This town has grown even since I was here last year. Maybe it's because of Syria's extremely high birth rate - which the government has now stepped in and suggested a limit of three children. A new madrasa (school), many new stores and homes. This is almost exclusively a Druze community, so you hear no calls to prayer, and there are no mosques or churches.
We cruise around in Hussein's van and stop at a couple of Naeif's relative's house. His aunt and uncle, dressed in traditional Druze attire have a spectacular villa, with a terrace complete with overhanging grape arbor. Three birdcages hang from the arbor, and there are grapes everywhere, and flowers. It's really gorgeous - a house like this in Chicago would be worth millions. Well, there are no houses like this in Chicago. Naeif's aunt and uncle seem pretty pleased that I'm so openly adoring of their house, and his aunt gives me an armful of handmade Druze bread and invites me to enjoy her scented verbena plant growing on the terrace. Then, the Arabic coffee comes out and dishes of grapes. Ah, this is the life!
The fruit tastes about a thousand percent better than the wooden stuff we have in the US. We're picking it right off the trees here, you don't find that in Chicago. Grapes, nectarines, figs, apples, pears and cherries all grow on the trees here.
The Druze traditional dress is all black and white. For the men, a black shirt with a white keffiyah (big scarf) which is worn sort of like a turban when they are in the fields, working. Many of them, and almost all of the older Druze men have mustaches, with varying degrees of flamboyancy. Some men wear a small white skullcap with a small pompom on top. Their pants are voluminous Zouave pants, worn with black boots. The women wear black dresses, a blouse with a very full skirt. They have white rectangular scarves which they wear in all sorts of different configurations on their head or over their face. There is no need to veil their face and hair in the Muslim custom, but many women do when they are working - to keep out the dust, no doubt, driven by practicality more than religious fervor.
The Druze are a very secretive sect. Derived from the Ismalis, a Shi'ite sect, they are very clannish. It is impossibly to "marry" into the Druze faith, and you cannot convert. Druze marry other Druze - except for the men, who may marry whomever they wish. Women can marry who they wish too, even non-Druze, but that almost never happens in Syria. To read more about the Druze, you can start with the American Druze Society at www.ads.org.
From where I'm standing, the Druze are the greatest. An invitation in to their consistently spotless, elegant homes brings out the Arabic coffee, tea and fruit and lots of visiting. Naeif translates for me that I think the aunt and uncle's house is just great and they seem pretty pleased by that. I bet I could stay there and sit on that terrace for a week, eating grapes, and they'd both be pretty happy about it. As we leave, they give us a big bottle of homemade apple cider vinegar - I sample it, and can report it's delicious. But then, I love vinegar. The "handshake with relilgious man" (see August 22 entry) story comes out again several times here, and everyone gets a huge kick out of it.
After that, we visit another uncle and have some nectarines, just picked, and sit on another beautiful terrace. Then, it's time to head back to the house, but first we see - Nizar! Naeif's second oldest brother married a woman, Amale ("Hope"), from Arneh who he spotted at a wedding the family attended. Nizar is great - I get lots of laughs from this family by imitating his exuberant "Ai-WAH!" (sort of like "hooray!"). He follows us back to the house, and it's time to hang out on our own terrace before dinner.
Dinner is an immense plate of rice - Syrian couscous - with pieces of chicken, and a tomato - cucumber salad, with the homemade apple cider vinegar. So simple, so delicious. We attack the chicken and rice with our spoons and devour it. No worries about serving spoons, we all eat from the same giant plate. After dinner, the kids bring out a tabla, and start playing a debke tape - probably hoping I'll bust out with the dancing as I did last visit. However, my stomach is still recovering, and I remain uncharacteristically still.
What I do accomplish is "Erika's Cleanup Project." It seems, since my last visit, that a lot of waste paper, tissues, etc., has simply been thrown over the porch railing or shoved in a nearby bush - to what, disappear? I'm horrified by this - even the bathroom garbage is handled in this way - it's dirty. I seem to assume a supervisory role, while Naeif and all the boys attack the ground with various inappropriate tools - a shovel, a hoe, a pick - there is no rake. It seems to do the trick, though, and we collect enormous bags of litter and burn it all by pouring diesel over it. Hey, when in Syria . . . at least the bees beat feet out of there.
After that, the drive back to Damascus. We stop at a cute little park along a stream. Thermoses are filled from the stream for drinking water, but I decline the offer of a sip. I drank from this stream when I was here last February, but I think the water might have been running over a few more things, the snow on the water having melted all summer. I notice, to my dismay, trash everywhere, and many plastic bags clinging to the brush. Syrians need to be gently reminded to stop littering their gorgeous country.
Once home, it's time for a shower. Naeif and I head off to visit his friend Wessam, sit on his terrace and have a few beers. A few more people join us - Wessam's brothers and a new baby or two. Wessams sister joins us, she speaks some English, and Naeif later informs me that he was almost engaged to her. Ah, intrigue and drama in Jaramana and a peek at the crazy "arrajnabe" (foreigner) that Naeif married.
Around 1 AM we call it a night, and walk thru the streets of Jaramana - some shops are still open.
Sunday, 24 August 2003 Jaramana and Arneh, Syria
97 degrees, SUNNY!
Naeif wakes up at 8 AM, to a little bit of digestive upset, and goes off to drink Yerba Mate. I wake up at 10:30, and am feeling slightly under the weather as well. I take a shower, we have breakfast in the salon, and we decide to take it easy today. Maybe just a little dash out to shop for dishdashis later when it gets cooler.
Could it have been the glasses of Arak at Hussein's last night or the local digestive bacteria that caught up with us? Both Naeif and I are feeling weak today, so we lounge in the salon and drink white soda. It's time for a relaxing day. It's usually my plan to drink nothing but bottled water, even brushing my teeth with bottled water, for the first week or so, but this time we both jumped right in to drinking the tap water and eating all sorts of food, vegetables, salads, even some very decadent kibbeh at a restaurant - uncooked lamb. I hadn't been as careful as I usually am initially with the food, because we really are here at "home" and do not have a rigorous trip schedule so there's plenty of time to relax.
Readers of the journal may be wondering when I'm gonna get my ass out and see some history already. When my brother and sister in law get here on the 4th of September, in addition to my swinging birthday party planned, we'll be doing a road trip, Lawrence of Arabia style. We'll hit Aleppo, Latakia, Homs and more. Right now, it's all about Syrian family life, Rafeh-style.
Meanwhile, back in the salon, Naeif and I are lounging. He insists it's the flu, I diagnose it as simple travellers upset. An extended discussion in Arabic ensues, and it seems the pharmacist, who is on the phone, agrees with my diagnosis. Naeif and I head into a different salon to watch some CNN Europe and take an nap for a few hours.
There is a curious custom here. Whenever the phone rings, and someone is having a conversation, everyone else stares at that person, and comments on the conversation while they're talking. It's unsettling and confusing, but . . . "al hayat" - that's the life here.
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Now the plan is to go to ARNEH, with Hussein and his family. This is a good plan. Get rid of the slight travelers upset that is plaguing Naeif and me. Naeif actually got sicker than I did, he's not used to his country anymore, it seems. We all get it together surprisingly quickly, pile in Hussein's van (which is much nicer than the piece of crap VW microbus) and zip out of Jaramanah.
Arneh is northwest of Damascus, about two hours out of the city. It's the scene of the Rafeh's mountain home - in the Golan Heights. It's really gorgeous - they have a little two room house with a big porch and a fairly large kitchen with an incredible mountain view. I swear, it looks like Tuscany. The ride to Arneh is eventful, at one point, I need to hide in the back of the van - foreigners are not particularily common here - until we pass the military checkpoint. Finally, the arrajnabe "foreigner" can sit back in the front seat, after Hassan chats briefly with the military guys - they know the Rafehs - and we travel up the road a bit.
The route to Arneh is kind of crazy. Mostly highway, with drivers paying no attention to those crazy dividing stripes on the road. People selling bread and fruit rush out into the road, practically, and cars pass on both sides. It can make you crazy. After entering a more rural area, it's a bit more serene. The people on the road merely stop what they're doing and stare endlessly at anything passing by.
Finally, we're on one lane rural highways, winding around the mountains, and it's getting a lot cooler outside. The air is fresher, it's just way more blissful all around.
Saturday, 23 August 2003 Jaramana, Syria
97 degrees, SUNNY!
Naeif and I sleep until NOON! We get up, have a quick breakfast and beat feet out of Jaramana to Damascus. We're heading to the High Institute for Music and Ballet, Naeif's alma mater, so he can check it out and see if any of his friends are still there. As we're exiting the cab, serendipitously, there are two of his very good friends - Hassan and Nahill, a French horn player and a Trumpet player, both current music students. Nahill is studying in Genoa, Italy and speaks English very well. Myself, a trumpet player as well, enjoys chatting with him. These Syrians get around! We go into the Institute - the music school in Damascus is very new - large and modern - the home of the Syrian National Symphony of which Naeif is a former member, 2nd chair French Horn and the first French Horn major to graduate from the Institute.
Visitors to Damascus would enjoy a concert by the Syrian National Symphony - they have several concerts during the year, and are quickly becoming a world class orchestra. Inquire at the High Institute for concert schedules - there are also dance and theater performances.
Inside the school, Naeif sees another friend, then another and soon his name is being announced over the intercom. Naeif Rafeh in the House! Ossama, an oboe player, and very nice guy hangs out in the cafeteria with us, and then we decide to go to Damascus, to the coffee shop of the Cham Palace.
It's meltingly hot outside, and I don't have the desire to walk as much as I did last time I was here. In the cab, it's still hot, no air conditioning. The Cham coffeehouse is very swanky, marble Arabic palace style with fountains - and blissfully cool. Several Saudi businessmen are sitting and chatting, with their spotless white robes and headgear.
I've seen many Saudis in Syria. They are unmistakeable, with their white robes and white or red and white checkered keffiyah headgear. They are accompanied by one or more wives (I saw one guy with three) completely robed in black with tiny slits for just their eyes. Almost all of the women have one or two children in tow and are power shopping, clutching many bags. I saw one Saudi man in Bhab Touma, the picture of a cross between paternal adoration and decadence - in a store for baby clothes, picking out many adorable baby outfits, one after the other, while smoking up a storm, filling the store with cigaret smoke. Brand new Mercedes and Jaguars glide thru the Damascus streets unscathed, with Saudi Arabia license plates.
After the coffee shop, Ossama leaves us, and we head to Souk al Hammidiyyah. Last time I was here, there was a lot of construction going on. Read, a lot of guys sitting around drinking tea, all dusty. Now, the souk is packed with new shops, clothing, "Oriental" goods, cheap belly dance costumes for the tourists, lingerie, furniture, ice cream shops, food, nargilahs - anything you can think of. Inside the souk, I start feeling weird - weak and hot. Thinking a glass of tea will pick me up, we head to Nofara. The last time I was here, I used to hang out at al Sham, the tea shop across the way, all the time. Today, we opt for Nofara, as al Sham is in direct sun. We order tea, and I'm sweating a lot. I'm feeling very dizzy and disoriented, can't even sip my tea. Naeif swoops me out of there, and we head to a restaurant where it's cool. At al Essar, one of the beautiful old houses in Damascus that's been made into a restaurant, we have a nice salad, hummus, some mineral water and kabobs, and I start to come back to life. Our restaurant bill comes to less than US $5 per person.
There are many of these old houses in Damascus, made into restaurants. The terrace is filled with tables, and when the hottest part of the day has passed, a canopy is rolled off and it becomes an outdoor cafe. Some rooms are furnished with traditional Syrian sitting room furniture - curlicue wood, inlaid with different colored wood veneers and mother of pearl. Also, if you're looking for an actual bar to enjoy a glass of wine or your mixed drink of choice, most of these restaurants cater to tourists, and have a full array of drinks to enjoy.
We need to pay a visit to the (now) former Maestro of the Syrian Symphony. Naeif's conductor when he played French Horn with the Symphony for eight years. He suffered stroke, while conducting - the poor guy collapsed off his podim into the Concertmaster, six or seven months ago, and is still convalescing. He's married to a British woman, they have an apartment in Damascus. We head up to their place, it's a VERY elegant 60's-ish apartment right off a busy street. It's full of books, African art, piles of sheet music, records and CDs, audio equipment and . . . a blaring TV which gets turned off immediately. The conductor is a bit out of it - poor stroked-out guy, but seems to liven up after we all start chatting and laughing - in fact he seems quite lively, despite his unfortunate condition. He whispers to Naeif that he thinks I'm cute - awww! His wife is absolutely great, and I enjoy speaking English with her a great deal. Their two adult children are there also, both around my age. The woman is here with her mother, taking care of the conductor, and the son shows up later with his Lebanese girlfriend who has just had radial keratonomy surgery that morning! I immediately begin chatting with her about it, being somewhat interested in eyesight improvement, and she's a huge proponent of it. Seems to have been an utter success for her. Everyone's laughing and talking in Arabic, English and a little French, and I'm feeling quite stupid for only knowing one language. The conductors wife pronounces me "extremely articulate" as I'm talking about this blog, and my other travel writing projects, so that makes me happy.
After the conductors house, I want to zip to the Goethe Institute, which was one of my major hangouts last time, for a little glass of shay. Naeif heads off in what I protest is the wrong direction, but he's confident. I let him lead me thru streets that I know are incorrect, but it's a possibility that I'm disoriented about the streets that fan off in a wheel shape from the corniche near Abu Romaneh. Finally, Naeif says "Here it is!" and I say "Ah, yes. The British Embassy". He's been away a long time, starts laughing and says "Habibi, you know Dimashq better than me!" We hop in a cab and go to the REAL Goethe, just where I left it, however my friend is not there - he works mornings. A quick tea in the garden, and we walk off towards Bhab Touma. On the way, Naeif points out a coffeehouse, Mermer, where Naeif used to take quite a few of his ladies - he was a pretty swank, stylin' guy when he was in Damascus, I can see. I feel lucky, at least.
After we get to Bhab Touma, I feel sort of achey, weak and tired again, so we to back to Jaramana. A few of Naeif's friends are waiting for him, but all I can do is lie on the couch, even refusing offers of Barada. Think I've been hit by a li'l travel sickness, uncharacteristically.
After we're home awhile, Hussein invites us over for nargila and a visit on his terrace. Since I had such a great time the last time I was there, I decide I can rouse myself for a visit. We walk over, about a half block, and are greeted by an enormous, crazy fountain painted copper with broken Greek vases spilling out water into a pool. It's over the top and I love it. We spend a long time there, and are joined by Naeif's cousin Omar's (who lives in Chicago) sister, her husband, their son and adorable daughter Miera - who I utterly fell in love with on my last visit. Miera and I are never more than six inches from her, I'm either taking photos of her or kissing her, or she's dancing for me. What an utterly gorgeous little girl!!
We stay there until 3 AM, then wobble home. Naeif gets tons of amusement out of my attempts to use the Arabic toilet in his parents house. I'm slightly trashed, though, and while I do complete the task successfully, I manage to squirt myself in the head with the hose, and also soak my feet. What's a girl to do when she marries a cute guy, and finds it necessary to learn an entirely different concept for going to the bathroom?
Friday, 22 August 2003 Jaramana, Syria
97 degrees, SUNNY!
Wake up at 10:30 AM. Breakfast in the courtyard. I'd be happy with just tea and a hard boiled egg, but the dishes full of food are already piling up on the kitchen table. Lots of people in the kitchen, Ghazwan and his family, Ommee, Ebbie, Marlin, Naeif and I. We eat an enjoyable breakfast with Ommee only plying me with extra food once after I consume my two hard boiled eggs. Naeif has a full schedule of family visits today, which is no surprise, and I don't plan to even try to talk him out of it. After all, this is his first visit back home in five years, so I've got to let the hometown crowd gaze at his sweet face for awhile.
Meanwhile, Marlin, Thuraiya and I have our own plan - Dimashq al Khadeem, khawa wah shay! (To the Old City for nargilah, coffee and tea.) Thuraiya takes us to al Bal cafe, where we came once on my last trip. It's blissfully cool inside, and I dub it the "Fairouz Cafe" as Syria's answer to Madonna seems to be a favorite on the music system. Ah, back in Dimashq with my girls, I have really missed these two, more than I realized. We spend hours dishing, drinking tea and mango juice and smoking nargilah. After that, we walk out of Old Damascus, into Bhab Touma (the 2nd Gate - Damascus is made up of 7 gates, entrances into city areas) to search for shahata - plastic sandals worn in the hammam - not to be confused with shakuhachi - japanese flutes. We find some delightfully garishly colored, squishy sandals, and I buy three pairs (for me, and a pair for brother and sister in law) for 250 S.L. (about $1.25 per pair). Thuraiya skillfully negotiates the best price, not the arajnabee (foreigner) price. That task done, we head back to Jaramana.
When we get home, there is some waiting around for no apparent reason (to me). It's very hot out, so maybe we're just waiting until the heat dies down in an hour or so. I finally get intel that the plan is to go to a restaurant for dinner, the whole mess of us, for dinner around 5 PM. This is an "arabic appointment", however, and therefor subject to change or whim.
We all pile into the Ghazwan's ancient VW microbus around 7 PM and go to an IMMENSE restaurant, called al Essar. There are fifteen of us, Ghazwan, Firaz and both their families, me, Naeif and Ommee. The lawn chairs are in the back of the microbus, and we head out for an adventure. This restaurant is in somewhat of a rural area, and there are several of these large outdoor restaurants one right after the other, all packed. I'd gone to one last time I was here, but it was winter, so we sat in the indoor section and there were not as many people.
This place is unbelievable. There are probably a hundred tables spread all over an outdoor area that has a gigantic waterfall on one side, which cascades down into several pools with smaller fountains. All the tables are set around these pools, and there are tiny bridges between the pools that the waiters are practically sprinting over and back, serving all the customers. Palm trees are everywhere, and bushes with flowers. We sit upstairs on a sort of courtyard overlooking the main floor. I have never seen a restaurant like this in the States, it's just spectacular. There is a massive screen near the waterfall, and Arabic music videos play. The tables are covered with dishes, everyone is eating and smoking nargilah and having a great time. For the children there is a large play area - I mean LARGE play area, that has a merry go round, bumper cars, bumper water cars, a crazy slide, a ball room and even a cotton candy man! There are a LOT of kids at this restaurant, but there is no screaming, no visible tantrums that I can see. The children are all well mannered and doted upon by their parents. This restaurant caters to a largely Muslim crowd, therefore there is no alcohol of any sort served. It's not really missed by me, though, as it's such a beautiful place, under the stars with a cool night breeze.
If Americans could see through my eyes, the Middle East, there would be no wars. We'd all just be sitting at one of these restaurants eating all together and singing in broken Arabic to popular music videos. Do you hear me, George Bush? You should be listening to me. You'd have never started that illegitimate war based on lies if you could really meet these people and spend time with them as I do. Arabs are not MY enemy.
After we get home, I need to run out and get some conditioner for my hair, which has gotten pretty dry from the sun and the weird water here. Naeif and I walk thru Jaramana, find a little shop with grooming supplies, and some surprisingly nice makeup. Naeif handles the transaction for me quickly, and we exit the store, only to have me wham my forehead into the metal door cover that has been pulled down a third of the way over the door. Silly me, I stepped under it as we entered, as they were just about to close the store. Nonetheless, it startles me as head meets metal, and I let out an abrupt blue streak of some decidedly American utterances. . . .
If you forget any grooming things, rest assured that you can find whatever skincare or hair care you need here - or a very reasonable facsimile thereof. There are high end products here from Italy, France, Germany - anything that a well groomed girl needs. And I noticed that the black pumice stones they use here for removing dead skin on the heels work way better than my metal "cheese grater" that I brought with me.
After that, it's time to go back to Naeif's house, for some biera and nargila with the fabulous Ghazwan and everyone hanging out at the house. My darling friend Ahmad shows up, and we try unsuccessfully for a couple of hours to get online with the iBook. It's fruitless, and I decide to bring the computer to Kabra in a couple of days.
Another visitor to the house is a Druze (more on the Druze later) religious man from the village of Jaramana. He's wearing the traditional Druze attire, and it's quite an honor for him to visit - he is, of course, a relative. Normally, when meeting people, you stand up, say "Ahlen!" ("welcome" or "greetings") and shake their hand. I follow this procedure and don't find out until AFTER the visit that women are not to shake hands with the religious men. Naeif's whole family think it's hysterical that I made that mistake of grabbing his hand and shaking it, and have all kinds of fun laughing about this. I start to imitate my gaffe, with increasing embellishments, including a pantomime of wiping my nose THEN reaching for his hand. Naeif's mother is howling with laughter by this time. Naeif's entire family are Druze, but they are pretty relaxed about the stricter customs of their faith. They seem to have the right ideas about religion, which is: make foreigners feel welcome, enjoy each other's company, kiss and hug the adorable kids a lot and serve lots of delicious food, and indulge their crazy new sister in law's adoration of Syrian beer.
Have I mentioned that I'm the first foreigner EVER join Naeif's family? I have no peer - Naeif's family goes back in Syria all the way to before the French occupation. 100% Arabs all of 'em, until Naeif dragged in the crazy American. To his family, I might as well be from Mars, what with my strange habits, love of traveling alone, obsession with the internet, no interest in cooking and crazy clothes. I seem to come up with one outfit each visit that causes absolute befuddlement. Last trip it was my roomy black harem pants I'd picked up in Morocco - which are the same pants the Druze religious men wear. This time it's a pareo - large square scarf - that I tie on as a skirt. At least they are all amused, and not horrified.
Naeif's brothers get LOTS of mileage out of this "handshake w/ religious man" story throughout our visit, and I can tell they are relating it yet another time when I see them laughing and imitating my handshake. I'll take a little ribbing about it, I think it's pretty damn funny too!
Thursday, 21 August 2003 Jaramana, Syria
90 degrees, SUNNY!
A lazy day chez Rafeh, getting rid of remaining jet lag and giving Naeif some much needed "family time".
I wake up uncharacteristically early at 8AM and join Naeif and his parents in the courtyard for some breakfast. We bust out the Boudin coffeemaker and some Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I fail miserably at making coffee with it, and it tastes terrible. Oh well, bring on the tea.
Naeif's mother spreads out an impossible breakfast. I eat my usual one hardboiled egg and tea and watch them consume enough food for three people. And Naeif wonders why everyone has gained so much weight.
After breakfast, I insist on a walk thru Jaramana to Kabra computer to see my darling friend Ahmad. We get showered and are off, thru a town that seems to have exploded since only one year away. Naeif is even more amazed, having been gone five years now. It's really hot, the sun is relentless. I'm too happy to duck into Kabra, and - it's completely different! What was once a bare, somewhat shabby little office with a couple computers is now twice the size, with shelves of brand new gear everywhere. Ahmad is not there, and Ossama no longer works there. We'll come back later.
After, we struggle thru the hot streets of Jaramana, people and cars and dust everywhere. It's too hot to do anything, so we retreat to the coolness of the Rafeh house and some chilled Barada beer. We hang out for awhile in the salon, and a few people visit - cousins of Naeif's. After two or three beers and a lot of Arabic speaking with me glazing over only understanding a word or two here and there, I take a three hour nap, since activity is impossible in this heat.
Naeif cranks the fan, and joins me in my nap. After that, we adjourn to the courtyard, it's time to eat. Cousha, which is a small zucchini stuffed with rice and lamb, swimming in a tomato broth. Also mlukhiaer (muu-khleer) a dish that is a green vegetable, much like spinach, with chicken mixed in. Now that it's cool out, a walk in Jaramana will be much more pleasant. A visit to Hassan, Naeif's friend who now owns a large barber salon by the same name - it's a great place, huge and clean. Naeif meets many more friends as we meander in the streets, me desperately trying to avoid pitching off the gutter, the sidewalks are always very uneven.
We get back to Kabra computer, and Ahmad is busy teaching an internet class, so Naeif and I enjoy some tea. It's so great to see Ahmad again, he's about to be married on August 29th - we're going, yallah! We spend about 45 minutes hanging out with Ahmed, I missed my friend too much. We'll come back tomrrow when he's not so busy, and he will set me up so I can upload these journals.
After that, a quick raspberry smoothie on the street and back home for some Arak and nargila with Ghazwan, my coolest brother in law. Now this is pleasant. The evening is nice and cool now, and people come and go as me, Naeif, Ommee, Ghazwan, Masana, Marlin, Firaz and Amal and a lot of kids (yes, check the FAQ) drink Arak and smoke nargila long into the night. Latenight, Thuraiya joins us as does Naeif's friends Issam and Wesaam, visiting from Lebanon. Now, I bust out my cool tea light candles and some incense and finally go to sleep around 2 AM. Naeif stays up until 3. When it's so damn hot out during the day, what can you do but take advantage of the night being so cool.
It's somewhat frustrating to me, of course, not being able to speak Arabic better. Last time I was here, I studied intently, but did not make enough progress to be able to hold much of a conversation. Where I excel is food conversations, or "cab driver" conversations. Short, simple interactions where many politeness words suffice.
Wednesday, 20 August 2003 Paris, France 12:15 PM
Thankfully, an uneventful flight from Chicago to Paris, with Naeif recieving "SSSS" status going through security at O'Hare. Both of us had to practically disrobe, but the security personnel soon realized that my husband was a good egg, and we passed through quickly.
The plane trip over was smooth and unturbulant, but unfortunately stuffed with babies that screamed for the entire time. Argh. I chatted with an adorable Egyptian boy who immediately informed me that he wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, and commented on the pilots landing technique. He switched from perfect English for me, then to Arabic for Naeif and also told me he could speak Spanish. Totally great kid!
Now at DeGaulle Airport, possibly the ugliest airport I've ever seen - though I have not seen them all, so I will reserve judgement. Waiting for our flight to Damascus, Naeif is chatting in Arabic with all the people around us. I've noticed that when you have more than 2 or 3 Arabs in a room, it's an instant party - everybody becomes old friends instantly, and always discovers mutal friends, usually living within 5-10 miles of each other.
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The flight to Amman is uneventful, typical packed flight. It's only after we drop off 3/4 of the plane in Amman to continue to Damascus that we start flying like rock stars! Naeif and I snag extra bottles of wine from the flight attendants, and we discover an American woman on board - traveling to see her Syrian husband and three children (they all live in the US but will move here soon). Naeif and I are practically jumping up and down - partly because we're giddy from lack of sleep, or maybe it was the little glasses of whisky the steward presented to us. Watch out for that short 50 minute hop from Amman to Damascus. Once you get the plane down to a few Syrians - yallah! Hafla! (party!)
We get to Damascus International, and it is still spotless and white, marble floors gleaming. Naeif is practically skipping, he's so happy. We quickly run into one of his friends, military guy, and whip thru passport control. Naeif's whispers of "She's American!" seem to actually make the military guys work faster, and we're on to baggage claim immediately.
Thankfully, Air France has NOT lost our luggage. I can now concur with my cousin Richard about the service - very good - and my sister in law about the coffee - great! Swoop thru the baggage claim doors, and there is everyone. Predictable hugging, shrieking, kissing and general merriment ensues. I'm swamped in cute little girls - my nieces! The little boys grab all the bags and take off for the car. We're on the road towards Jaramana, with little regard for those stripes on the road that divide the lanes. Yallah, back in Syria!
We're almost home when I realize I've lost my camera. It must have fallen out of my pants pocket on the plane. Frantic searches in the backseat does not locate it. We get home and there are more people - Naeif is so happy to be home, but we decide the best thing to do is call the airport immediately, and see if they found the camera. Marlin calls a friend she knows, as does Ghazwan. One of the family's friends comes over and collects us in his van, and we head back with Hassan (another brother) me and Naeif. The good news is, they've found the camera - it had indeed fallen out of my pocket on the plane. We sit in one of the military offices with a bunch of guys in uniform - apparently all friends of Naeif, as the greetings are enthusiastic - under enormous portraits of Basher Assad Jr. and Sr. We whip down a couple shots of kahwa muddher - VERY strong coffee, retrieve the camera and zip back to Jaramana, about a half hour away.
Back at the house, the party is still going on, and I join my girls in a Debke already in progress. Thuraiya informs me I have two new debke dances to learn now in addition to the one I know. We spin around the salon for awhile, and then I flip out to the back porch, where there are dozens of people and predictably, lots of food including SHWARMA!
By now, I'm REALLY feeling tired, so I bid everyone "tissbah all rheer" (Goodnight, I'm going to sleep) and have a much needed shower and retire to my cement-like mattress.
All that's left is the party at our house to get rid of all the food in our refrigerator. Habibi is cooking kishk - a delicious Druze specialty - that is like potato soup with meat, but is soooo tangy!