Motorbikes in the Desert

Rachel and I took the train to Alexandria, which decided to stop for over an hour right outside Cairo. But we got there eventually, and asked a few guys about where to get the bus to Siwa. 30 minutes later, we had tickets to the 10pm bus and a few hours to kill, so we walked around the various bus station food stalls, testing the fruit and taamiya, and getting stared at by a creepy man while we brushed our teeth with bottled water behind a pile of dirt.

Siwa is an oasis near the Libyan border. People there speak a type of Berber, and the women (past girlhood) are generally only seen riding on the back of donkey carts, face and everything covered (not even eyes).

6am Siwa, at which point Rachel's cough had grown to full-out misery, we checked into the first hotel. At noon, Rachel made her intention to not leave the room very clear, so I went out into the town to arrange a desert safari for the next day. Several dudes offered me prices, but in one shop the guy said, "How would you like to go? 4by4, motorbike.." Holdup. Motorbike? Yes, motorbike. And its cheaper!

The next day we got on the back of the motorbikes and rode off into the Great Sand Sea. This is that part of the Sahara that's always on National Geographic: the undulating sand dunes, nothing but sky and sand. Motorbikes are mad fun on those dunes. I was behind Muhammad, and Rachel behind a guy named Yusef. Muhammad was fun, racing up and down the dunes, but Yusef was rather a bit timid. On the downslopes he would turn off the bikes and clumisly shuffle down, Rachel walking beside him. Muhammad and I were meanwhile racing off. Those dunes are high. We had to stop every couple minutes to wait for Yusef or turn back. Then Muhammad got a call from his friend the police officer. The cops were out patroling the desert and apparently its illegal or something to take tourists out on motorbikes (something about it being not safe). That morning before we left a rival tour guide had called me and told me not to go if it was on bikes. "Not safe," he said. Whatever.

Muhammad shouted to Yusef to follow us and took off - soon Rachel and Yusef were left in the dust. We raced to get out of the desert, to get on the road where no one would get in trouble. When we crossed over roads or rocks there was always a bump, but once that shit sent me flying, up over Muhammad, but luckily I landed back on the bike. We also saw a herd of camels. There were about 20, including babies. It took us a good close-to-an-hour to get out of the desert and to the hot spring at the edge of town. Muhammad dropped me off at a hot spring then went off the see what was up at the police station. 40 minutes later, Yusef and Rachel showed up (slow). 5 minutes later, Muhammad: all good.

After sandboarding and riding aroud on the roof of a 4by4, we camped out with a bunch of Koreans, though Muhammad and Osman, the guy running the camp, kept making fun of the Koreans by saying random syllables to imitate Korean. Motorbikes are mad fun though - and no one needs helmets!

Merry Christmas: Pyramids, Sushi, and Shisha

Christmas was very low-key in Cairo, probably explained by the lack of Christmas. Egyptian Christians are Coptics, and their Christmas is January 7, a time at which I will be back in Damascus. Oops, missed Christmas.

Christmas Eve we went to an American's apartment for Christmas dinner, which was a potluck notably including Jamaican food. It had been since Pakistan since I have tasted anything spicy, so I ate enough for three non-gluttonous people. Then, per tradition, we danced til early morning at Club Latex.

The next day Rachel and I went to the pyramids, which were surprisingly low-key. Yes, two men did try to hop into our taxi on the way and get us on camels, but I was also mistaken for Lebanese. Twice. I guess the pyramids aren't a big Christmas destination, but the tourists there were a nice mix: Europeans and Americans yes, but also sub-Saharan African, Turkish, and honeymooning Indian couples among them.

Dinner was sushi followed by shisha at Seqouia, the posh place to see and be seen, on the north side of Zumalek, on the banks of the Nile. Prices have gone up since last being here, but it was Christmas so we splurged. Plus, the closest sushi in Damascus is in Beirut. Apparently Cairo is in the midst of a sushi craze: even Latex the nightclub had sushi.

Running Around Cairo

Rachel and I have been running around Cairo, which is not as cheap as I have remembered it. Part of this is coming from Syria, part is inflation here, which has made everything more guinee while the dollar has fallen against the guinee, from close to 7 when I was here last to 5.5 today. It's strange being a tourist in a place I used to live, and I keep feeling like I should go home to my apartment rather than our hostel. Not that much has changed, except the road outside the AUC dorms in Zamelek has changed direction, since that is more convenient for the president's son Gamal who lives near by. According to Hisham, the foreigners are also different: in our semester, there were about 110-120 or so. Now there are 450 and the university rents out entire former brothels to house them for the semester.

After eid al-groping, Rachel and I woke up the next noon to eat kushari (a uniquely Egyptian dish of rice, pasta, lentils, chickpeas, and spicy red sauce. I have fantasized about this dish since leaving Egypt. Rachel thought it was "okay") and chill in Downtown, much more sedate on the fourth day of Eid than usual. I called Karim, a classmate from back in the day, who picked us up and we went to Malibu in Mohandaseen to smoke shisha, then met some of his friends and went out to a film.

"kharig ala al-qanoon" (outside of the law) about drug running in Egypt, was hilarious. Every seen was punctuated by loud dramatic swells of music and ended with close-ups on the eyes of the characters. I understood quite a lot of it but my favorite part was that it starred an old actor who looks like Fred Thompson as the head of the drug cartel. Why is Fred Thompson Arab and running has in Egypt? Karim dropped us off not 20 meters from our hotel. Still, in that short walk, some 15 year old touched my ass. Seriously, never coming during Eid again.

Hoping for the best, I tried calling Hisham with the number off my old Egyptian simcard. Yes! He still has the same number!

The next day Rachel and I did some touristy crap: went to khan al-khalili where I had sticker shock. I tried to bargain near to prices I remember paying back in the day, but the vendors just refused to sell at that price, even when I walked away. I kept changing the price to Syrian lira in my head and thinking I could get this for so much cheaper in Damascus.

We visited Hussain's mosque and al-azhar, tipping a guy to let us climb the tallest minaret, which afforded a great view of the city. We left Islamic Cairo, walked through city of the dead, graveyards where people live alongside the dead because of the lack of housing in Cairo, and ended up at al-azhar park to watch the sun set over Cairo. Then Hisham called and I had what had been a typical night out back in my youth in Cairo: we got home at 5am.

Egypt Welcomes Me Back

In Damacus, Eid is a rather sedated affair. There are sheep slaughtered in the street, but nothing crazy goes on. Cairo appears to be different.

Rachel and I rolled up into Cairo last night, and it being her first time in the city, we decided to walk around a bit. The streets were full of people, being Eid, and for the most part we just got a few guys saying shit to us, nothing big. We walked over the Nile where tons of brides and grooms were taking pictures with the river and skyline in the background.

Then we were on Sharia Talat Harb in Downtown, not too far from the hotel, just looking for a little cafe to grab a shisha or a tea. The street was full of mostly men, but there were women too. I mean, crazy full of tons of men.

Packs of guys started following us and saying in Arabic "are you Egyptian or foreign? just say something so we know" and then switching to English. It's best to ignore, but then some guy (kid, really, like fucking 19 at the most) grabbed Rachel's ass as he ran by. Then her tit got grabbed, then my ass, all by different dudes. The last one I chased down the street yelling "'aml eh? Haram alek la tilmasni!" Where's a cop when you need one? I yelled at them to leave us alone in Arabic. They followed. It was really fucking frustrating and Rachel said "I don't see how you did this for 5 months." I swear, it really wasn't like this every day, it's just because of Eid.

So hey, welcome back to Cairo!

So Very Cold

In Cairo now, after another over-a-day of traveling, and the Damascus-Cairo route is starting to get a little routine (third time). Rachel and I left Damascus in a shared taxi at about 3:30 Thursday to Amman. In this trip, Jordan is always just something you want to get through before spending all your money.

From Amman, we caught the bus to Aqaba, arriving after 2am at the port. We bought tickets for the slow boat to Egypt as we were told this would leave at 7am, while the fast boat wouldn't leave til noon... or so. After a night spent huddling together for warmth and attempting to sleep on outside benches, all while eyeing the "High Quality Blankets" being sold (but who wants to carry it) the sun came up and we were told the slow boat wouldn't leave until 9am. All right, whatever, we just wished it wasn't so cold.

What was cool was, as we bought the tickets and went through Jordanian immigration, I was asked if I was Syrian (the accent must be getting better!). No. So who is Syrian, your mother or your father? Um, neither, sorry, no Arab here. At every step of the process it was the same thing, so that's fun right?

We were in the duty free store, trying to stay warm when the guy said, sit down, have some tea, the slow boat doesn't leave until 2pm. Information confirmed this and we got our tickets changed, with 7 more dinar each, for the fast boat, leaving at 12:30.

It left about on time, and there it was a short 8 or 9 hour bus ride to Cairo. A short, cold, bus ride. And I'm back!

Eid Mubarak!!

I'm leaving for Egypt tomorrow, as I have to be on the Jordan-Egypt ferry before it is swamped by returning Hajjis. Let's find out if I remember any masri! I wonder if the Christians in Cairo go all out with the lights like they do here in Damascus.

Cool Off, Dudes

Something very strange has been happening the past week: harrassment, on an unprecedented level.

When comparing Damascus and Cairo previously, I had always hit upon what to me, after traffic, was the most obvious difference: the fellas. I had had few problems with the men of Damascus, and they seemed to have no problem with me. Hell, I walked around in a skirt higher than knee length with only a few hungry-eyed stares as a response.

Then, last week, I had a man follow me off the the servees (micro) when I went to Jerimana. He walked a pace behind me, whispering in a low voice, "ansiya... instinni, bas su'al" (miss, wait, just a question). I ignored him and he went away quickly. The next day, in another servees, just as I was about to get off a man handed me his business card. "Sho hada?" I asked, confused, what is this? He just said for you, call me, and left. Okay, so that one's not so bad.

Then, Saturday, I was on my way to Sitt Zeinab to teach English at 10am. At the beginning of the trip, when I handed my change to the man next to me to pass up, his hand paused on mine for what seemed a bit more than necessary for the passing of change. No, I thought, I'm just being paranoid.

Once we were well on our way, he turned to talk to me in low, sweet tones. "sho ismik? mineen inti?" His intentions clear, I tried to ignore him but he kept trying to convince me to go to a restaurant or some shit. Then he put his hand on my leg. I jumped like it was made of fire and told him don't touch me! He said sorry and continued. The man next to him got off the servees and Romeo didn't move over, instead staying umcomfortably close. He talked and snapped his fingers to get my attention, touching my arm and leg. "La tilmasni! sho bedak?" He said sorry again, then leaned in close and asked "kum fuloos?" (How much money?). This is strange for several reasons, first amoung them that nobody ever says this in Syria. 'edeesh masari is the Syrian way to ask this. They say kum fuloos in Egypt and maybe other places. Second, I am obviously not a whore. It is winter, and I am wearing a large jacket over all my clothes, nothing provocative about it. It is also 10am - there's a reason the euphanism is "ladies of the night." Prostitutes generally also don't play hard to get. I yelled at him again not to touch me, and people in the servees turned to look. People turned to look, but it was my stop so I just got off.

What is the reason for this sudden upsurge in harrassment? Maybe, with the upcoming hajj, soon-to-be-hajjis are trying to get their sin in before the forgiveness. It's just strange that after 3 months with so little, dudes be hitting on me tons now. I swear I'm not any hotter than last week. At least I'm getting hit on in Arabic.

I Almost Burn Down My House

I had thus far avoided any strange situations - no wild dogs or near-kidnappings - so it was about time I did something like almost burn down my house.

I came home Wednesday and went up to my bedroom after grabbing a snack. I was immediately struck by the smell of something burning. Turning on the light, I was able to pinpoint the source of the smell quickly: the giant smoking hole in the middle of my bed. I had accidently left the electric blanket on when I ran out that morning. I opened the window to corrail some of the smoke from the smoke-filled room, which added a rush of oxygen to the mix, increasing the present flames. So I grabbed the burning sheets and threw them out the window onto the roof, then ran downstairs to grab some water.

I ran into Um Mazen downstairs. "How are you?" she asked. "Fine, fine," I replied, running back up to douse the smoking hole in the mattress with the waterbottle. On the roof, I attended to the burning sheets with a mixture of waterbottle and beating.

I surveyed the damage at this point: the charred electric blanket and sheets were obviously unsalvagable. The mattress did have a large black hole on one side, so I flipped it. Luckily I never make my bed, so the comforter had been pushed off to side, and only one corner was slightly darkened by the inferno. The another blanket had been sparred all damage by virtue of its being on the floor. I looked around the room to the scattered papers, books, clothes, and other flammables, thinking shit, if I had come home an hour later, this place would have been an inferno.

I haven't yet told the family. In the morning, I brought the remains of the sheets and electric blankets back inside and hid them under my bed. Having an "I almost burned down your house that you have so kindly offered to a foreigner" conversation would be awkward in English, let alone Arabic. But I guess it's better than the "I'm sorry I burned down your house" conversation. I'm trying to avoid either. I can sneak out the sheets and blankets easily and replace them, but I imagine it will be hard to sneak out a mattress. The family is pretty much always, always home, so I'm going to have to make sure they are really really asleep.

Last night Um Mazen asked if I wanted her to wash my sheets for me. I think my "NO! That's okay" response was a bit too forceful.

On a related note: did you know that electric blankets are not supposed to be running all night while you sleep? No one told me this.

Lebanon Might not be an Ideal New Years Destination

I was in class today when Ester, the Italian, got a text from her friend that said "the general of the Lebanese army died in an explosion". She shared, and we all immediately thought why? Michel Sulaiman is the one guy everyone agreed on for president - who gains from killing him? And immediately as well - shit, does this mean civil war? During the break our teacher checked it out and no, the general was not killed, but a vice-general (نائب القائد - what do we call this? One of the guys right below the general) was.

Still - who benefits? Those aligned with March 14 and Hizballah all have good relations with the army. Maybe it was the Islamist militants the army spent the summer fighting in Nahr al-Barid?

Micro Etiquette

The micro is my primary means of transportation. These friendly little vans seat usually seat 12, with enough room to squeeze in 2, or at times 3 more, who have to awkwardly squat. A ride anywhere in Damascus and the nearby environs is 5 lira or about 10 cents. They run on almost-always regular routes, with destinations written on the top. I take them just about any where at any time, except between 2 and 6 am they can be rather thin on the ground. They are a pretty awesome public transportation system.

Their use is quite simple:
As you see the micro you would like to take approaching, signal to the driver to stop. Stick your hand out and kind of wave it. Or something. Just indicate your desire for a ride. But not too much, cause then you'll look kind of spastic. Be cool, yo. The driver will either slow down, or put out his hand to indicate that the seats are full but you can squat if you'd like, or just wave a refusal based on the stuffed state of his micro. Then you wait more. At certain popular micro-stops, such as Bob Toma and Shariah Sawra, you will have to fight a bit to get on one. Women less so, as men will often step aside to let you on.

Once on the micro take any open seat. Usually women prefer to sit next to women, but often necessity dictates sitting next to man. Men will often shift seats to let women sit next to one another, but this is a luxury for times other than the morning, afternoon, or Thursday night rush, when you are to have caught a micro with a free seat. If you have gotten on a full micro, squat for about 5 seconds, at which point (if you a woman) a man will insist you take his seat. Take out your money and hand it to a man sitting in front of you. All change will be passed up to one of the men directly behind the driver, who will pay the driver and make sure every one gets correct change. If everyone occupying these seats are women, the money can be given to one of them to make change, but generally a man is preferred. In certain circumstances, even a random foreign chick with a weird hat can take on this duty.

When you are near your stop, tell the driver to go to the right (please) or that you would like to get down here. He will pull over to the right. Say thank you as you exit!

Who Wants Peace?

Obviously not these idiots. Or their government that turns a blind eye to these activities. Quick to demolish Palestinian homes in collateral punishment, but slow to evict illegal settlers (by Israeli definition!), if they are ever even evicted.

Rock on!

I had a rock-filled weekend, going to not one but two "music parties" (literally concert in Arabic). The first was for my friend's friend's band "Fade 2 Black," or as the fans know them, F2B. Back together after one of their members had to go into the army, they rocked Jerimana Thursday night at a bar named Vitality. It had free pool, a bartender who could do cocktail-esque tricks (is it sad that my standard of "cool bartender" is a Tom Cruise movie from the 80s?), and a bar that was occaisonally lit on fire. F2B stayed true to their name and mostly did Metallica covers, until a girl with an awesome voice joined them and then they did some "I Will Survive", Evanescense, and "Zombie," that 90s song from the Cranberries about The Troubles in Northern Ireland. The last one twice. There was one original song from the band, which was half in Arabic and half the song "Summertime." Not exactly my bag, but everyone else had a head-banging good old time. Every one loves that Metallica.

Friday night I went to another show in an Armenian church in the old city. "B Flat" performed a mix of covers, plus a few originals, sadly (for me) all in English. Why to rock must it be in English? There's a whole untapped market of genres to be sung in Arabic, as right now the Arabic music scene generally consists of classic and disposal pop, the latter more famous for the Lebanese ladies who writhe in the video clips than their lyrics or musicality. Leena Shamamyan is at least singing in the Arabic but her stuff is very classical-ish. Where's the Arabic metal? The Arabic reggaeton? Arabic soft rock? Arabic electronica? Arabic reggae (oh, wait, I have heard this). Why mostly have acts like the Spice Girls been duplicated (The 4 Cats are getting a lot of play on Melody Arabic) or singers like Britney and Christina (Dana, Haifa, Ruba, just turn on the freakin music channels). Not to say I don't buy this music and memorize the words and have been to a Nancy concert, but c'mon, there's a good four or five video clip channels. Let's widen the range which right now is from Um Kulthum-Fairouz to Dana-Nancy. Fine, I'm just selfish and what I really want is The Smiths, but in Arabic, so I could listen to them over and over again like I do the Smiths, and then I will rock in Arabic. Or at least, in self-pitying and ironic Arabic.

At the end, B Flat did do a hilarious medly of Black Eyed Peas, Usher, and yes, Tupac's "California Love" with "Compton" changed to "Damascus". Of course, there was more Evanescense and even "Zombie." People fucking love Zombie but no one actually seems to knows it's about Northern Ireland specifically or against ongoing, seemingly intractable disputes generally. Hmm.

Suck on it, World Bank

There's a great article in the NYTimes today: Ending Famine, Simply by Ignoring the Experts that explains how Malawi has gone from begging for food aid to exporting food. How? The president finally told the World Bank to suck it. Malawi is one among many nations that the World Bank, IMF and rich donor countries pressure to open up to market forces and cut back on subsidies. It will hurt now, they say, but the payoff is down the road.

Wrong! So suck on some subsidies, World Bank!

Sneaky Meat

The family I live with has decided that I am unhealthy. Granted, this is a pretty apt description, as apparently my move to Syria has coincided with the breakdown of my body. I'm going to blame this on the Divine, who has punished me for bragging about my 6 months of Egypt without the slightest health complaint. Wait, I'm an athiest.

The family, especiallu Um Mazen, has decided that I what I need is meat. Lots of meat. "Look at us. We are not coughing and we eat meat everyday. We do not need to take vitamin pills for anemia. Meat is delicious."

Her argument failed to convince me. So instead she has become sneaky. "Eat the kibbeh," she'll command.
"Oh no thank you, I don't really like red meat."
"There's no meat. Just try it."
"It's kibbeh, there is meat. I know kibbeh." (kibbeh is a fried ball of meat)
"There's no meat. Just eat it. Try it, c'mon, try it."

The other day we had soup. I asked what kind of soup it was and was told vegetable. "Is there red meat?"
"No, there's none. Try it. It's good." I used my spoon and fished out a chunk of lamb.
"Um, this is meat."
"That's not meat. Eat it. It's delicious."

I have explained that red meat doesn't agree with me. My stomach is not a fan. Despite this, the sneaking continues.

I am in a Valley

I am in a valley in terms of Arabic right now. Class is kicking my ass. To top it off, in order to get all the classes done before Eid we have class 6 days a week. Every night there are pages of readings, the new grammer is not so much explained as shouted and then we are berated for not understanding, and on top of this we are supposed to be reading a novel in the cracks of time. This is good - finally a challenge. But I do feel like concentrating on class has caused my Syrian to slide.

It's also a little annoying, being the only American in class, having to answer to the teacher's tirades against American policy. This is a strange position to find myself in, based on my own political leanings, but there's some shit I just have to clear up. Like the "America wants to make Iraq the 51st state" hypothesis.

The teacher also likes to quickly quote ancient poetry (and I mean quickly), and then looks happy when, as expected, we don't understand a word. He has also told us not to complain about the novel, he could read a 100-page novel in a day. So could I. In English.

Syria's Coming!

Syria's accepted the invitation to come to the Annapolis Peace Conference, I just read on Al-arabiyya's website. Though I would love to dwell on the implications and give my own humble opinion, I'm very busy since I have to give a freakin' two-hour presentation on this same topic Tuesday. Hopefully there's some Zionist in the class who will fight most every one else. That way, my presentation can consist of saying: "Israel. Go!" and serenely presiding over the ensuing tumult.

قصة قصيرة

كنت أنتظر رفيقي على جسر الرئيس في مطر, فكان في مطر ليومين كلهما هذا الاسبوع. ما كان عندي شمسية وكنت بردانة شوي ومبللة كثيرة. جاء اليّ شاب عمره 27 على الاكثر, واعطيني شمسيته. عرفت انّ هدفه ليس برىء. قلت له انّي لا اريد شمسيته وقال لي: بس ما عندك شيء.

. قلت: بس هالا انت ما عندك شيء
قال لي: مافي مشكلة. منين انت؟
فبدأ التغزل
قلت: من امريكا
قال اي متدهشا: امريكا؟ انت امريكية؟
قلت: اه
قال لي: انجد؟
قلت: اه
قال لي: بتحكي عربي منيحة. قديش صار لك هن؟
قلت: شهرين تقريبا
طلب مني رقمي موبيل ورفضت. طلب مني موعد الى معطم لنسف الرد. سالني لمذا وقلت له: عندي صديق, فهمت شلون؟ عندي بويفريند
قال: بدك ثاني؟
قلت: لا,مع وحد في مشاكل بكافي
فاخبرني انه في الامن واذا عندي اي مشكلة لازم اتصل به وحاول ان يعطيني رقمه فمشيت الى مكان ثاني في الجسر

Mehndi Party

The night before the wedding, it was time for a Mehndi Party!


But of course, the best designs were for the bride:

Election Tomorrow

The big news here is the Lebanese presidential election to be held tomorrow, after being delayed 4 times. The news is all ablaze on the topic, especially on the the high interest that America, France, Britain, Israel, Syria, Iran, and others have in the result. Basically (and very basically) from the multitude of Lebanese political parties there are two camps: "pro-West" and "pro-Syrian" (including Hizbollah). The two sides have to agree on a presidential candidate, who must be a Maronite Christain because of Lebanon's insane constitution. The Christians themselves are split between the two camps.

If the parliament cannot decide on one candidate tomorrow, many fear that the two camps, who are probably training and arming supporters, will form rival governments, and its 1975 all over again.

The family I live with and I watch TV together, them agreeing with various mps and ministers from the latter camp. They were impressed that I know from what sect each of Lebanon leaders must be from (President, Maronite Christian; Prime Minister, Sunni; Deputy Prime Minister, Orthodox; Speaker of Parliament, Shi'i). Abu Mazen shakes his head at this, and blame the French. "You know Lebanon used to be part of Syria. They divided us to make us weak. United we are stronger."

My New House

It have not yet been a week in my new house, so it's still growing on me. It's $10 more a month than my old place in the old city, but meals are provided. This has actually turned out to be a double-edged sword, as Um Mazen, the matriarch, has decided her goal is to fatten me. She saw me taking vitamin pills, questioned their purpose. I said, oh, it's just cause I have anemia (yes! I totally know that word!). She shook her head and said I just need to eat more. Now, every mealtime, she watches me eat, always pushing more onto me. I know this is part of Syrian culture to stuff the guest, but I think she takes it to the extreme. And the look of concern on her face also makes me think there is something more than simple hospitality.

The residents of the house are currently myself, Um Mazen, Abu Mazen, and their son Iyad. They have other sons and daughters, but they all live either in Lattakia or Britain. One of their kids got Irish nationality. I said, oh, that's funny, I do too. Not too long after they were talking about their other son, the one who's room I'm in, and how he'll be finished studying soon but wants to stay in Britain.
"Is he going to get a working visa?"
"It would be easier just to marry."
"Is he engaged to a British girl?"
"It's all the same now with the EU. Any European."
"Uh-huh."
"It wouldn't have to be a real marriage. Just on paper."
"Well, maybe he'll find a British girl."

The family's nice, except Abu Mazen has an annoying habit of talking to me like I don't know anything. There were neighbors over, and they were asking me about American politics, so I was explaining how Bush "won" in 2000, why he won in 2004, and we talked about the future election (everyone here loves Hilary). Then the conversation changed to the merits of different types of exercise. I think swimming is the best, the neighbors thought walking. At this point Abu mazen breaks in to say, "Walk-ing" and mimes walking with his hands, and says the English word. "Swim-ming" miming that action as well, though he doesn't know the English word. Everyone just kind of looks at him, because it's obvious that I knew those two words, since I had been using them in normal conversation for a good several minutes. I'm not fluent, but shit, I can get around fine in Arabic. In the morning sometimes he'll point at the various foods on the table and slowly say their names for me. Dude, you hear me speaking to you right? I know the words for cheese and bread!

The house has a hole-in-the-ground toilet, which I don't have a problem with, but I am beginning to appreciate the luxury of a western toilet. It also has no hot shower, which requires me to heat tubs of water with gas and dump them over myself. They promise they'll hook up the gas a water heater and the shower soon.

Karachi

So, what was Karachi like? In the middle of the emergency laws, no less. I have 299 pictures of Karachi, including two arial shots, but sadly my computer decided to die. Hopefully a resurrection will occur, but in the meantime I'll have to rely on my powers of description:

Um, Karachi was like, um, cool, and stuff. The frantic reporters on the news (at least that was the situation on al-Jazeera before I left) must have been stationed in Islamabad or Lahore, because I really didn't see anything. On a typical day in Cairo there are far more security forces and police on the streets than I saw in Karachi. Granted, I was mostly in an area called Defense, where the walls are high, with guards at the gates and generators to guard against failures in city power.

The days after the wedding I did get to go visit a shrine, the burial place of a sufi saint who is revered by both Sunnis and Shi'is. They were way more chill than in Arab world: no one even asked me to cover my hair. I also went to a market, where I bought some earrings for myself and little gifts for the family I have now left. I still want to be invited for Friday morning fatour, after all. I also visited a huge public park, which was gorgeous and clean.

Karachi is hot. This was nice, since Syria was cooling when I left, and has been winter ever since I got back. I am cold.

Karachi is colorful. The fabrics are amazing. I have never seen such an array of colors as I saw at the shrine and especially at the wedding. Very, very cool.

Karachi may be dangerous. The last night, the idea of walking 300-ish meters to the Crepe Factory in Defense was nixed as too dangerous. So we piled into two cars and drove. Some people I met there also carry around a "stealing phone", so that if robbed, they can hand over a phone without giving up their real phone and losing all their numbers.

In other words, I have to visit again, possibly even leave Defense or even Karachi. They say Islamabad has beautiful mountains. I have already been invited to a wedding in July!

Not Going Private

So I'm not going private, mainly because I'm too lazy to enter in the email addresses but more so because I've gotten over my bout of paranoia. It may return, however.

I'm Mistaken for Syrian

Yesterday I was walking home when a group of similarly-aged young people stopped me to ask where Sha'lan is. I happen to know, so I started to tell them.
"Oh, you aren't Syrian, are you?"
"No, but Sha'lan is..."

As they left, they said, "Merci!"

Please Just Take the Money

Saturday I was again at Saida Zeinab teaching English, and during a short break during a marathon of children, I ran out to quiet my stomach. Walking down the street, I really felt like everyone was staring at me. The boys I had just taught were all smiles, yelling "Hello Teacher!", but so were the older boys (men), whose smiles were just a bit less innocent. I bought some bread at the bakery, where the man tried to give me the bread for free.
"It's on me"
"No, no I'd rather pay."
"It's on me. You can pay next time."
"I'm not going to be here for another week."
"It's all right."
"Please just take it." I held out the coin, and finally he asquiesed, looking defeated.

Then on the ride home I was a little late so I jumped in a cab instead of walking from the garage to Shariah Baghdad. The driver and I chatted, but at my stop he refused payment. I insisted, and he accepted.

Then I was waiting to meet my teacher, and stomach hungry once again, I bought some peanuts from a dude on the street. "How much do you want?" I asked (this actually sounds polite in Arabic).
"Whatever you would like."
"Um, I want the price?"
"On my head."
"It's 10 right?"
"Yes, 10." he took the coin.

Is this supposed to be come opportunity to flirt? Seriously, just take my money.

Flying to Pakistan

I got to the Damascus Airport rather early, after being offered a ride by Anas and Mohammad, relatives of the people I used to live with (have I mentioned I moved the day after I got back from Pakistan?). Waiting, I read a bit of my short story collection, which drew the curious to ask if I was foreign, and then, how I could read Arabic.

"Can you read that?" They would ask, pointing to the open book in my hands. No, I just really like to stare at Arabic and flip pages.

One man was considerably hard to shake. After complimenting my Syrian Arabic, he attempted to get my number. Dude was mad old, by the way. I asked and found out 38 to be exact. Sorry, no number possible.
He didn't give up (all in Arabic, naturally):"Just for friends. Isn't that common in America? Boys and girls are friends in America."
"Usually they are about the same age though."
"How old are you?"
"How old do you think?"
"You look about 17." Ok, so now its even creepier. "So can I have your number? Just for friends."
"No, I have friends. Of my same age."
"What's the problem? Here, it's not weird for men of 38 to marry 20 year old girls."
"Yeah, I'm going to go to my gate now."
"Can I have your number?"
"No."
"If I ask again, will I get a different response?"
"No, same response. Bye." The last question was asked with a twinkle in the eye, as if we had been flirting and my previous no's had hints of a future yes for the persistant. I assure, there were no hints of any other answer.

At the gate I chilled with all the Saudis, many niqabis. Some women talked to me, shaking their heads when they found out that I was going to Pakistan by myself. The pity in their eyes was clear when they found out my parents live in America. When they inquired and were informed of my age (22), one said, "by God, so young!" Old enough to marry, not old enough to live far from my parents or travel by myself.

In Saudi, those going to Pakistan stayed on the plane while most deplaned, and a few joined us. So all I've I've seen of Saudi is through a plane window. Now event the airport. Back in the air, the plane was very empty. The flight attendents had all heard me speak before and now bored, a few wandered over and chatted.

In Karachi as I got off the plane, an airport employee met me and asked if was "the American." Um, yes. "Go with him, he said, pointing to another man.
"Why?" I asked with palatable fear.
"I got a call from my manager in Damascus. You are American? Go with him."
"Where are we going??"

The employee hustled me to the front of the immigration line, and I sailed through protocol. Hadi's father and sister were there to meet me, when I found out that Hadi's mom, being Syrian, is friends with the few other Syrians in Karachi, including the manager of Syrian Air in Pakistan. He had put in the call.

Before Pakistan

Getting to Pakistan was a bit of a hassle, and the reason I didn't write anything about my planned trip beforehand was that I didn't want to jinx it.

I had to find a flight, and there are very few Damascus-Karachi flights. There are none direct, in fact. Luckily Syria Air has a twice a week flight that stops in Dammam in Saudi Arabia with a less-than-an-hour layover, versus the 8 hour layovers in Doha or Abu Dhabi I was looking at if I flew another airline. I bought a ticket to leave on a Tuesday and come back on a Saturday, only missing two days of class. Yes.

Then, visa. The Pakistani embassy in Damascus requires a letter from your embassy stating that you are indeed the person your passport says you are, that you are an American citizen, and that you are allowed to travel. The American embassy refuses to do this letter since possession of a passport means all of these things. So I had to go to the American Embassy and get a copy of a letter that says they don't do letters, and give that to the Pakistani Embassy, who refused it. "We need the letter."
"Look, it says they don't do letters."

So to ease the situation along I squeezed out a few tears and wailed that it was my sister's wedding and I have to go to Pakistan. The man led me inside to talk to his boss, who asked if I was Syrian, then if my parents were Syrian, then why I spoke Arabic. But he decided to go ahead and give me a visa, as I knew they would, since Lindsey (my friend who got married) had gone through the same letter ordeal two weeks previous, and emerged with a visa.

Then I was almost all set, when Lindsey told me the wedding date changed because of all the trouble she had with the Pakistani embassy in Kuwait, and then DC. I took my ticket with "non-refundable, non-exchangable" stamped on it to the office and got it changed, without a penalty or fee or trouble.

Then I just had to convince everyone around me that I would be ok. When I told people I was going to Pakistani, they reacted, well, much the same way people in the States reacted when I told them I was going to Syria.
"Oh my god!"
"Are you going to be safe?"
"Why?"
"But its so backwards!"
"Will you have to wear hijab?" - the last question was especially ironic.

True, Pakistan has been dominating the news lately, what with the Emergency Laws and suspencion of the constitution following on the heels of Benazir Bhutto's return and two suicide bombs that killed around 150 people. But most of the protests happen in Islamabad or Lahore, it seemed, and I was going to Karachi (oh wait, the bombs were there). I actually did call Lindsey, told her I was a little nervous, but she told me it was all good. Plus, I got to stay with Hadi's (her now-husband) aunt.

But I figured it would be fine as long as I stayed away from any political rallies. And it was.

So I've Been in Pakistan...

I just got back this morning from Karachi, where I went to Lindsey and Hadi's wedding. I had left Friday. Much, much more on this later, but today I have to study for my test tomorrow.

Going Private!

I'm going private with the blog in a couple of days. If you would like to continue reading the my adventures in Syria and struggles with Arabic, email me at filledepaille@gmail.com or facebook me and I'll add you!

Moving, moving

I found a place. It's on Shariah Baghdad, close to everything. It's a family of a mother and a father and a 26-year-old son, who just graduated from law school, and is a midget. The father is a professor of law. I met the son and the father yesterday. I get the bedroom of their son who is away in Manchester.

Right now, where I am, I have pretty much complete freedom. Because there are (now) 8 girls, the family can't possibly keep track of our movements and I am able to come home whenever I want - 3am, 7am, whenever. But living with the new family, though I asked them about staying out late and they said, you know, not all the time, but sometimes, ok. As the only foreigner, I can't come and go as I please. Well, I expected that when I first came to Syria, but then I set up with my current situation. Am I ready to give up staying in Jerimana until daybreak? Old Maid marathons and movies until the sun comes up? Clubs until the wee hours? (okay, as I've done the latter twice in two months, I can safely say that will not be missed much).

But the benefit to my Arabic! All Arabic, all the time will be my new home. I'll miss the family I'm with now, but looks like I have to go ahead with it. Even if it is a whole 500 Syrian lira more a month ($10)!!!

Loves the Music

Unlike previous weekends, in which I was a loser and stayed home or came home early(I'll blame the sniffles) I actually got out. Thursday night I went out clubbing with a few friends, Tariq, Salih, and the kickboxing champion of Syria, Abud. I failed to bring my foreign girl friends along (sniffles). Three guys and a girl is not good math for getting into clubs. I asked why this was all on me, don't they know any girls?
"Yeah, but you know Syrian girls. They have to be home by 10 or 11."

We did manage to get in free at a club in one of the fancy hotels near Cham Palace (not Jetset). I have yet to pay to dance. The club was on the fourth floor, dance floor outside overlooking Qasloum Mountain. The music - occaisonally there was a respite from incessant techno, but most (not all- no one fucked with Shakira) rap or latin or Arab song was mixed with a techno beat, rendering it undanceable to me. Not to every one else there, though. What is it with Americans? The world loves techno. The Europeans students love it. Elizabeth from Zimbabwe loves it. Syrians love it. But every American, before heading out to the club goes, "Wait, is it techno?" Football and techno, two things the world loves that America just doesn't. Mindy hypothesises that, as the birthplace of rock, soul, jazz, etc., Americans just can't get down without that soul. Even the white ones.

I did get to hear some music with soul the next day at the Layna Shamyan concert. A Syrian-Armenian (when I said, really? She's Armenian? I was told: with a name like Shamyan? Are you kidding, of course!) singer with an incredible voice. It was in a theatre off Sharia Sawra not far from Souq Hammidiya. Packed to standing room. Afterwards, I bought her two CD's over Tariq's protests that I should just burn his. I like to support an artist every once in a while, especially when four cds (2 Layna, 2 promos of other artists from the label) cost the equivalent of 8 bucks. I got to sit right up in front - it was pretty amazing.

Exercise!

I recently extended my visa, which is always fun. Some people complain about the bureaucracy here, but as a graduate of NYU I don't find it all that bad.

I went to the farther Office of Immigration and Passports so I could extend it for a whole two months. I woke up super early (7 on Saturday!). First, I had to get extra passport pictures, which took ages as the only shop in sight did not have a camera. Instead, they scanned my passport and printed copies of that picture. Whatever, it worked.

Then to the office. On the third floor I got four copies of the same form to fill out, then went back downstairs to buy a stamp that needs to be on each of the forms, then filled them out on the hood of a car. Then back to the third floor, a short wait, to a different office on the third floor, up to the fourth floor, back down to the third floor, back up to the fourth floor, and back down to the third floor.

See, that wasn't so hard.

I Get Off My Lazy طيز

So I've decided to stop being a leech on society. A fellow Fulbrighter put me in touch with a woman who runs a weekend school for Iraqi children, so now I volunteer teaching English there. Friday was my first day.

The school is in the woman's one-room apartment in Saida Zayneb, an area outside of Damascus which is very poor, has quite a lot of Iraqi refugees, and is famous for the Saida Zayneb mosque, the main attraction for Iranian pilgrims to Syria. It takes less than an hour to get there. Saturday I went back and taught the same group of girls from before, plus two more classes. 6 hours after I had arrived, the woman who runs it was thanking me profusely as I left and I felt, well, good. "Skukran jazeelan" (thank you very much) said the woman, to which I replied "Skukran lilforsa" (thanks for the opportunity).

The students were divided among the teachers haphazardly, and I had no idea of their levels prior to beginning class so everthing was completely off-the-cuff. Their English was also so poor that I had to speak almost entirely in Arabic, following up every English sentence or word with the meaning in Arabic. The students are harder to understand than most people I interact with since I'm so unfamiliar with the Iraqi dialect and accent, but I expect this will improve. Both days, there were some French journalists buzzing about taking pictures and talking to the main woman.

Most of the girls are from Baghdad. One of the lessons on Saturday I worked one-on-one with a 14-year-old girl, who is very behind in English. Most of the students are, as Syrian schools start English a full two or three years before Iraqi schools, plus many missed a lot of school because of the war. The girl asked me if I spoke "logha ajnabia" (foreign language - English) well, and how I knew it, so I told her I was from America. Really? She asked. Is America nice? Do your parents live there? Is America pretty?

I'm never embarrassed or reticent about telling people I am from the US, except in this situation. I know they know that I am not the US government, and are obviously not going to turn on me because of my blue passport, but still I feel somewhat responsible. My friends, my neighbors, some of my family supported Bush or the war, and I don't think I can absolve myself of all responsibility just by the fact I didn't vote for Bush.

The last class on Saturday was for older girls more advanced in English. The way English is taught in school here drills the grammer but skips over conversation and listening, so I was trying to get them talking. They told me about their families. The girl who is the best in English informed me, "My family from Baghdad, and I have four brother- no, three brother now, one died, and a sister." I didn't ask how.

Even More Syria to Love

I applied for, and received an extension on my grant! Now, at the least, I will be here until December 2008. Kick-ass!

I Swear I'm Not Going to Get Married

As I was preparing to go to Egypt, oh so long ago at the tender age of 20, my family expressed their dissatisfaction with my chosen study abroad site. My grandmother revoked her annual birthday gift to my tuition fund. My father just got quiet when "Egypt" was discussed, as he did around discussions of "Syria" for the past four months. "Why not France?" my mother begged, having made her opposition to my being in the Middle East known from the first time, a year previous, I had told here I was going to major in Middle Eastern Studies. "You're not studying abroad."
"Of course not Mom. NYU doesn't even have a program there."

Right before I left, resigned to reality, my mom imparted one last warning: "Do not get married." I laughed, as my mother knows my thoughts on marriage on any level other than the theoretical are similar to my thoughts on heroin. No thanks. Looks like fun maybe, but not for me. I understand from where her fears came, as I had never expressed any desire to marry at my still-to-young age in America, so what would compel me abroad?

Now I understand. I have met so many American and European women married to Syrian men. At my house, the family proudly speaks of their past tenants, with special admiration for those who have gotten married. Flipping through their goodbye notes and passport photos in the house's log, Um Zahir stops to point out "She's living here in Damascus with her husband... Oh! She got married just last year. We had the wedding right here in the house... Oh! She's married to a Jordanian... Her husband is Lebanese - too bad they got divorced."

Then one of the girls staying in the house got engaged and is getting married on November 9th in Pakistan. Her fiance is half-Syrian, half-Pakistanti.

Then I met an Australian girl (22ish) who just moved here to live with her Syrian husband, who I have been informed leers at other women and told my friend, in Arabic, right in front of his wife "I wish I had met you before I met her," as the Australian does not speak Arabic. Ok, that's just a douchy guy.

Shit, then I was going home from my friend Rasha's house on Eid and I was having trouble finding a microbus. I asked a man also waiting with a woman, who could be foreign or just light if he knew whether any of the other micros went by Bab Toma. No, but I'm trying to get there myself he said. Where are you from? America.

The woman broke in, "I guess we could just talk in English then." She was British, married to the Syrian man. She had met him while studying here for a year. "How are the university classes now?" she asked. "Still tons of Italians?" She assured me her Arabic was very good now. "Marry a Syrian and it happens." We shared a taxi to Bab Toma.

Rachel, who had been in Nicaragua a year and a half and saw the same phenomenon there, told me these women fall in love with the culture, then marry a piece of it. I do love Syria, but I think I'd rather just return with an argileh and an oriental rug.

Circus!

The last night of Eid I went with some friends to the Ukrainian Circus in Jerimana.It was a modest circus, a small tent in a usually empty field, filled with plastic chairs. Most the performers did double- or triple-duty, as clowns, contortionists, acrobats, tightrope walkers, jugglers, and animal handlers - they had a baboon.






It was enjoyed by the mostly all-child audience, except for the part where a magician turned a burning piece of paper into a kitten. The kitten jumped out of his hands and ran towards the crowd, causing women to scream and throw their chairs in their attempt to run away. Women are strangely scared of cats here. Some of the acts weren't bad, though my friends bitched about the quality.











But I did get to hold a snake!

Too Many Bitches

I need to move.

Last week, there were 5 girls. There are now nine girls living in the house with the family, though there are only 7 rooms. One is camped out in the living room, rendering it unavailable for everyone else. The other is sleeping downstairs with the family in Um Zahir's room, where Samar and Said sleep as well. What the fuck? Why did the family accept more girls than they had room for? I would understand if someone was leaving soon, but no one's leaving for two months! Furthermore, a lot of the girls who moved in don't speak any Arabic (yet), so all conversation not with The Family is in not Arabic - mostly Enlish, but also Italian or German.

I started asking around to find a place to live with Syrians outside of the old city. I could just get my own apartment, but I don't really want that. Family or Syrian students (girls) would be nice. My language exchange partner Kenaz is looking at Muhajireen for me, and of course I've got the Jermimana crew looking there. I don't know if anything will come of it, as nothing has yet.

So I've been peacing out of the house a lot, eating iftar with friends instead of with the family. Iftar is Arabic Time with The Family, and now English is flying across that table like nobody's business.

Upswing

Much like a sine curve, learning a language is a series of ups and downs. I had been feeling rather down about my Arabic, especially last week. Jesus Christ, I will never learn this fucking language.

Then, the clouds parted (metaphorical clouds, there aren't that many literal clouds here). This past Friday I went to Jeramana to meet friends. I had planned to go home somewhat early, around midnight. But as we were hanging out the power went out in Jeramana, so I had an excuse to stay. Blackouts in different areas of the city is not rare, though I hear this summer it was happening all the time. We got candles and all sat around talking - rules: no English, which was surprising challenging for Ra'id but not the two Americans. Two candles later it was sohour, after which I finally left Jeremana to sneak in to my house with the risen sun.

Since, I've felt much better about my Arabic, not that I was rocking the candle circle, but I feel I'm getting better. I had a language exchange with my friend Monar, who doesn't speak much English - three hours of pretty much all Syrian. I even contributed quite a bit to a class discussion about drugs and addiction (I feel as though having been a resident of the Netherlands gives me liscense to weigh in on legalization), breaking the silence that had fallen over me since defending America.

Also, I'm mad popular. For language exchanges. Even my Arabic professor at school, yesterday she asked to see me after class. What did I do? Nothing, she just wants to have a languages exchange after al-eid. That's like free private lessons, with the only payment my status as a native speaker of English with a cool, sought-after American accent. Did she ask the Australian in my class? Hell no.

Repeat After Me:

Not all Jews are Israelis
Not all Israelis are Jews

Not all Jews are Zionists
Not all Zionists are Jews

Not all Israelis are Zionists
Not all Zionists are Israelis

Now let's talk

Defending America

My friend Rusha invited me to an iftar at her friend's apartment this week. Nine women, all about 23-24, all working, two married. They teased the one who's been married for 10 months about her lack of pregnancy - "after a year!" she protested. It was a potluck type meal so everyone brought a dish to pass. I bought some chocolate croissants.

The woman who's apartment it was in lives alone, which is rare in Syria, especially in Midan, one of the more conversative areas of Damascus. After dinner some of the women watched Bab al-Hara, an insanely popular Ramadan series, while others grilled me about America. "There is no religion in America - it is sad. People think that they do not need God but then at some point in their life they feel empty." I explained that actually America is a very religious country. Our congress starts everyday with a prayer. "Really?" I also was asked about Israel and America, and wound up explaining how the first five books of the Bible are the Torah, and how Christianity came from Judaism, and how Jewish law and Sharia' are quite similar, both in form and in derivation of law, as distinct from Christianity which emphasizes orthodoxy over orthopraxy.

But most of the time I tried to explain that not all Americans are afraid of Islam or Arabs. "There are places with much ignorance of Islam, but there are also places with many Muslims and everything is fine" (my Arabic isn't exactly eloquent). In fact, I think it's better for immigrant Muslims in America than in France or Germany. "What about Israel? I hear Americans only get one side of the conflict." Actually, that's true.

But these girls were so sure that they knew exactly how these issues are debated in America, and about American society in general. While there is a lot of ignorance in some areas, there is also quite a lot of tolerance of all religions (except Mormons:) and it's not a godless Sodom and Gomorrah, no matter how much I wish it were.

It was very similar to classes I had earlier this week, in which a discussion of media had turned into why America Hates the Arabs, and a one on Edward Said and Orientalism turned into the America is Colonizing Iraq Hour.

The Australian giving a presentation was making a point about how America in Iraq is different than Britain in Iraq/Palestine/Egypt or France in Syria. "The Americans want to leave." But the teacher and the other classmates did not buy this. "No they want to stay and control the oil. They never wanted Democracy, they just want to control the oil and occupy the land."

Hold up. No fan on the occupation of Iraq myself, I had to make a few distinctions. America is not against Democracy in Iraq. The administration doesn't care that much about the type of government that emerges, as long as Iraq is friendly on foriegn policy and to American business interests. The problem with Saddam wasn't that he was a dictator - we're friends with enough of those, but that he threatened our good dictatorial friends the Saudis. And oil. If he had remained the nice dictator he was in the 80s, shaking hands with oil companies, there would have been no reason to invade. I tried to explain that an idea had developed in the Bush government that if Saddam was removed, Iraq could become another Turkey - friendly democracy that doesn't controvene the US on foreign policy. If it is an unfriendly democracy, well, look at Palestine. Or going back in history, Congo, Iran...

America does not want to occupy Iraq. Bush wants a nice elected government that does fuck all domestically (who cares?) but goes with the US on important international matters, and gives business a whack at the resources. I'm not saying this is admirable, but it is not the French in Syria.

Back in the States, I am not at all reticent about criticizing US foreign policy, especially in the Middle East, or American misperceptions. But here, I often feel compelled to defend America under attack. At least through most of the debate, "American government" or "Bush's goverment" was used instead of the general "America", and I often express skepticism with my own goverment. But when people talk about America as a monolith of ignorance and hatred for Islam and the Middle East - c'mon. I know we have Fox News and a shitload of assholes who were mad that Keith Ellison got elected (first Muslim in Congress) not to mention all the assholes who would be mad if they actually followed the news enough to know that Mr. Ellison had been elected, but we also have a diversity of debate. Half of us were against the war from the start, for example. Half of us voted for Kerry. What, 70% of us finally realize what a horrible fuck up the war in Iraq is. And some of us are Muslim or Arab, and many of us have friends, colleagues, or family who are Muslim or Arab. I don't mean to say America is a happy land of handholding and racial/religious tolerance, but shit, people aren't lighting cars on fire in our banlieues.

At least at dinner we could agree on one thing: "My teacher told me to read 'The World is Flat' by Thomas Friedman, and it was so bad! I hate that man." Amen.

Party til Sohour

I finally really went out last night after three weeks here. The occasion is Lindsey's (a housemate) impending move to Kuwait to do her research. The day started with a horribly difficult midterm exam in Arabic, in which the reading section was about carrier pigeons. Luckily I knew the word "carrier pigeon" because of random events last week.

After iftar Mindy, Michele, and I met Lindsey at the botanical gardens next to the citadel (we could only smell the river a bit) and had chocolamou, a delicious ice cream/mousse hybrid. Then it was onto a cafe, where Jihan (an Algerian friend of Lucy, a SOAS student. Jihan's been staying in the house for two weeks, having moved to Syria to get the hell out of her parent's house - she works in a salon here) was singing. Hung out with the SOAS girls and some sketchy/nice guys who work in the souq (just like Egypt!). She sang only one song, but got the crowd going with her hips as well. Good voice.

A strawberry shisha (it's so hard to remember to call it argileh here)later we made our way in a big group to Domino, a restaurant by day/club by night. We got there a little before 1, demanded that the DJ change the Eurotechnoshit that was playing (though Lilia, German, was loving it), and got our requested mix of Arabic, Latin, and hiphop. One guy, who was actually quite good at dancing, kept wanting to dance with me but he also came up to my chin, which made dancing a bit awkward. Ramy, the guy who got us all in Domino for free, was seen in the middle of the dance floor making out with and dry humping a huge foreign girl. Some drunk foreign man kept staggering around the dance floor, while the Syrian girls (heavy eye makeup and belly shirts) worked to show up the foreigners. Tariq tried to spin me at one point but instead I accidently smacked his nose with my arm. There was a little blood, very little.

Before 4:00, having sweat my hair wet and beaten the shit out of a nice boy, the four of us who stayed to the end made out way back to the house. On the way back we ran into Abu Tabla, the old man who during Ramadan walks into the all the alleys beating a drum to wake people up for sohour. He went into our alley at the same time as us, so we had to hurry. Luckily we could use Lucy's key to the side door and sneak in. We changed into our pajamas, then went down to sohour with the family, who thought we had just woken up.

Danger Danger Danger

I finally got to go back to class today after two days of Fulbright orientation. There's 10 of us here, some doing research, all but one with Language grants, though many are doing straight language training for their Fulbright grant as well. Two more will be joining us much later in the year.

We had briefings with the economic officer about sanctions, with the consular officer about how doing drugs will get you thrown into a pit and kicked for 14 years without your family knowing where you are, with the security officer about how terrorism, like last year's attack on the US Embassy here, or regional conflict is a very real possibility and to keep alert, and with the medical officer on how to boil everything before you eat it and soak it in chlorine and you know what why don't you just ship in all your food from Sweden. She also warned us that the sun is stronger than we might think and that we should consider investing in some sunscreen, especially as some of you (motion in my direction) are quite fair. That was the first day.

On the second we got to hear the political officer sigh and explain "the United State's official position" on everything. He didn't have any info to tell us (swearing his own ignorance) on the Syrian nukes? that's blowing up the news here. Every one here I've talked to laughs at the idea of Syria pursuing nuclear technology. Why North Korea anyway when Iran is so much closer? The US hasn't corroborated what the Israelis are saying. Could this turn into a conflict? The political officer said we have no idea, but we hope not. He also ventured that the Syrian-US relationship is more tense that it has been at any point in the past couple of years. Hopefully that won't mess up my getting an iqama! But meeting the political officer once again gave me pause about a possible career at DOS. He seemed so disheartened, schilling the same lines about US policy in the region, most of which he didn't seem to believe. Fun.

The other news is that Syria will be invited to the November peace conference. Will they RSVP? Speaking of respondez-vousing, I'm going to an iftar at the ambassador's residence tonight - there is no ambassador, but the charge d'affaires will be there, taking questions from those gathered, about any old thing.

Damascus: City of Freaks

So it's been quite an eventful weekend. I turned down a date with a friend (because "I'm just not ready to date now") on Thursday evening and on Friday evening the whole family and a few of the girls went up into the mountains to have iftar with some of Um Zahir's family. They were up in a village in the mountains about 30 minutes away. The family was happy because they had two engaged girls, sixteen and fourteen. "Do you think that's young?" we foreigners were asked, and replied in the affirmative. "It's common in ar-reef (the country)". The "older" one is getting married not long after Ramadan, the younger one in about a year. We oohed and ahhed over the pictures from their engagement parties, but the older one had about 30 professional pictures, with classic wedding and senior pic poses, in which she had professional hair and makeup and a massive dress. The younger one had 3 dark, crappy pictures. We're not sure why the disparity. Both girls are cute, and their finances are, um, less so. They're both marrying cousins.

Back at home, we the foreign girls sat around talking about how young these girls are. Huda, Zahir's wife, is only 24 and has two kids, 6 and 4. She was engaged at 16, married at 17, gave birth at 18. Mindy has a theory that marrying cousins has caused a great rift between the attractive and nonattractive. "In America, most people are in the middle, from the top side of average to not that attractive, but still not horrible. Here is seems like people are either gorgeous or hideous."

"Plus, have you notices all the congenital diseases people have, or how many deformitites? You see lots of albinos, people with club feet, humps on their back..." She continued to list types, including types of short people "... some are perfectly proportioned, some have long arms, some have short legs, some have big heads. And this one time I was at Dar Musa (a Christian monastary) talking to this monk you was young and looked normal, but then I looked down at his feet and he had a sixth toe growing out the top of his little toe." Lindsey burst out: "You make it sound like Damascus is a city of freaks!" which is just a hilarious mental image. See the postcards: Visit Damascus, City of Freaks.

The Fulbright orientation starts tomorrow and I'm not very happy because it means I have to miss two full days of class! That's eight hours, and the midterm at the end of this week. And soon I promise to write about the shit that's been going down here: nuclear Syria? and bombs in Beirut.

Mad Props

No disrepect to Ramadan or Islam is intended on my part. Fasting during Ramadan is mad hard, hard enough that I couldn't keep it up for long. I was more making fun of myself for fasting because unlike Muslims I don't have any religious or spiritual reasons behind it, and I'm a pussy who couldn't do it. I was really just doing it for the experience, but when I realized I was looking forward to my period for the first time ever (women can't fast during that) it was clear that Ramadan isn't for me. So I don't know which is really more offensive: my complaining about how hard Ramadan is or fasting as an atheist "trying out something new!" I'm done fasting now since never getting sick or having a digestive problem when I was in Egypt is catching up with me (what happened to my stomach of steel?).

"Dude, fasting is hard. How long till iftar? I want some water."

"Why are you doing it if all you do it complain?"

"..."

And here's a random fun quote from a friend: "In Syria, we worship the moustache."

Classes Classes

I've had three days of classes thus far, and it's not so bad (when you drink water). Today I didn't even wake up for sohour, so I feel incredibly well-rested, and I've already had a bottle of water and a date so I feel incredibly fucking incredible.

Classes aren't bad. 9am-1pm 5 days a week. I have 14 in my class, Germans, Swiss, French, Koreans, Spanish, Danes, a Norwegian, and another American. You can hear their accents through the Arabic, which is quite funny. Especially the French and the Koreans. But I've already hooked up a language exchange with a medical student twice a week to really learn the Syrian ammiya, as class is straight fusha.

Yesterday after class I went to Yarmouk, a Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Damascus to help my friend Colin teach an English class. There wasn't a great turnout because of Ramadan, but once this month is over there should be a lot more coming. It's sad - we were at a Palestianian Cultural center and the walls were covered with murals drawn by the children. While the situation is obviously more dire for Palestinians in the occupied territories its hard to believe that in all the negotiations the only mention to the refugees is that there should be "a just settlement". Class was on the roof under a large curtain to shield the sun, and looking over Yarmouk (which is huge) I thought, "These people will never return to Palestine." It's really fucking sad.

After class I accompanied Colin to his friend Ra'id's house for iftar (where we all had hung out playing cards last Thursday night). It's really fun hanging with those guys, but Ra'id is hitting on me and I really don't need that. I just wanna hang, yo. He called me Saturday to invite me to an art gallery on Sunday morning, but I had class. Then last night he's asking me if we can go out sometime this week to talk, so he can "get to know me better." Jesus. The food was delicious though, and Ra'id and Ruba's (his 20 year old sister) mom loves me and my laugh and jokingly told me I had to move in.

دعيفة وسعيدة

That didn't last very long. Yesterday, the third day of Ramadan, I broke my fast. I had run a shitload of errands, and was hanging with my friend Colin deciphering a newspaper (he's working on Jahin). The sun was brutal. Fuck it, I bought some water. ya haram! But it was delicious. Maybe with the promise of heavenly rewards I could have held out. Food, that's not so hard but water? That's just cruel. So I drank. I was weak and happy- دعيفة وسعيدة . But I guess that's quite common for me ever since I lost my religion, whereas in my younger, religious years I would have savoured suffering for god. I'm weak and hedonistic, and loving it!

My I-need-some-water position was reconfirmed today during the first day of classes. I actually tested into level 5, though with how the test went I had been readying myself for 3. Four hours a day - I can't get through that without something to drink. Food in my belly from a more recent time than 4am suhour would also be nice. Also, suhour makes me dead tired. Iftar at 7 means I'm not that tired until 11 or 12. Suhour at 4am. When suhour is over before 5 (after helping clean up and all that) It takes me a while to get to sleep, what with having just eaten and the tea forced upon me each morning. Another girl in my house also broke fast today with Coke and juice. I'll still not eat during the day (for however long that lasts on this, the fourth day of Ramadan) but give me that water.

Ramadan is Easier if You Sleep All Day

Thursday night after iftar I went to visit my friend Colin in Jeremana, an area of Damascus that used to be heavily Druze but now there's lots of Iraqis too. Not only was it the first of Ramadan, but it was also a Christian holiday عيد الصليب (festival of the cross). I don't think we have anything similar here, and I don't really know what it celebrates. I found out about it during iftar when we heard booms from outside. "That's the Christians celebrating." We went up to the roof and could see where people were shooting up fireworks into the sky. Bab Toma was quite busy as well.

In Jeremana, Colin, the guy he's living with Tariq, and I walked around before going At Raid's we mostly talked, shishaed, and played Old Maid. Tariq expressed admiration for Hitler. Why? Because he killed Jews, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Tariq admitted that he knows Jews and Israelis are different, and that the Holocaust was instrumental in gaining support for the state of Israel, and that it's bad when innocent people die. "Still," he said, "you have to admit that he is better than Stalin." Raid's sister joined us for cards. At around 11 I texted Huda to let her know I would be late. At 12:30 I thought I should go, but was convinced to stay. So I stayed until sohur (the meal before sunrise), getting home after 5am.

Woke up Friday at noon. Apologized to Um Zahir and Huda cause everyone told me they had been worried about me when I didn't show up for sohur. Turns out Huda's number in my phone was off a digit. Took a nap later in the day. This makes waiting for iftar much more bareable, but I won't be able to do this when I have class 9-12:30 tomorrow.

لن اتعلم العربية ابدا

متى ساصنح جيدا بالعربية؟ درستها اكتر من سنتين لكن من رجعت من مصر الى امريكا اشعر بانا في نفس الدرجة. جاءت الى سورياواعيش مع اسرة سوري تعلما وتكلما كثيرا لكن في بنات امريكيات في البيت. ممكن لازم انسي العربية و ابدء بالروسية او فارسية او هستمرمع فرانسية , وحدة من اسهل الاغان. ساحاول

Ramadan Karim

Ramadan began today. This meant Um Zahir woke us all up at quarter to 3:00 am for the morning meal. She knocked on my door and asked "Aneet, tasoumee?" (Are you fasting?) Well, once I'm awake, why not. We groggily went downstair and ate, before going back to bed at 4:00am. While we were eating the family recieved calls and made call wishing people a happy Ramadan, and found out that we were an hour early. The Ramadan calendar Sandra bought yesterday was off my an hour - ouch.

So I've decided to fast. Everyone's doing it, except Mindy who's been too sick to leave the house. Why are we all doing it? None of us are Muslim. But by fasting I'm adding to my white girl foreigner experience of this crazy different culture! What other reason do I have? My excuse is that fasting means meals with the family, meaning more Arabic. Sigh... only 3 more hours until I can eat (7pm). What am I saying? I can eat anytime I want. 3 more hours until I allow myself to eat.

I had my placement test at the University today, which just about raped me. Two hour test of four thirty minute sections: listening, reading, grammer, writing, and then an oral portion. I fucked up, but I hope not bad enough to be put in a horribly low level, at which point I should just give up.

I started talking to this Syrian girl while I was waiting for my oral, and I was telling her how I find Arabic hard. "I think it's beautiful," she said. Beautiful, I concurred, but still hard. "Language is not hard if you really love it and commit yourself to it. I'm learning Japanese right now and it's supposed to be a hard language but because I love it and the sound of it I love to study and so it's not hard."

Thanks. Arabic isn't hard, I just don't love it enough.

To Fast or Not to Fast?

Ramadan might start tomorrow if the moon is visible tonight. Should I fast or not? Zahir asked me today after my marathon with the bureaucracy whether I was planning on fasting. I hadn't really considered it... after all I'm not Muslim. I told him maybe, but I like food. He and Um Zahir laughed at this, but said I should think about fasting.

Lindsey is planning to fast. Initially, for solidarity with her Muslim husband. When she told him, he got mad, and told her that she shouldn't fast for him, fasting should be only for God. She set off to the Bible and a translated Qur'an to find out whether she could theologically justify her fast. She's fasting, she decided, for God. It's the same God.

I feel as though I shouldn't fast, despite Jolianne's "Ramadan Diet" success (this was just a good side effect, not her aim in fasting last year). I am, after all, an atheist and fasting for God is therefore not a possibility. Would it be wrong of me to fake piety? Or worse, fast for the aesthetics, meaninglessly attaching corporal and temporal concerns to what is supposed to be a religious act?

I won't be eating or drinking in public, which is rude when everyone around you is fasting. But what will I say when the family invites me down for iftar (the meal to break fast), and asks me whether I fasted?

Also, it's really hot and I can't imagine making it from 8am (classes at 9) to sundown without water. And a month is a long-ass time.

I Rock the Bureaucracy

I finally registered for classes Jama'at Damasq! This may seem like a small victory, considering I'm here to take classes, but it was hard, man. I had to get a letter from my embassy saying that they have no problem with my registering at the University, the AIDS results, and go to the University, with all three of these things on opposite sides of town.

First, the embassy, which has consular open hours from 8am-10am, and a long line. Michelle from my house and I took a taxi to the embassy (I know where it is now, since I walked there and back yesterday) and were there by 20 to 8. Waited on line outside. Waited on line inside. Sat around in a big room with tons of Syrians who want to come to America. Got out by 9am, went back to Hafes al-AIDS. Michelle had yet to get the test, whereas I just needed results. I tried to push her forward (students to the front of the mass of people). Michelle only arrived one day before me. I went over to the results window, and had to wait for it open. There were Koreans, Somalis, Italians, some Syrians, and mostly Iraqis. When he found out I was American, the guy sitting next to me pretended to shoot me with his gun-finger and said "Your country did this, you know?"

"I know."

"Ah but people are different than the administration right?"

"I voted for Kerry."

That got a laugh. Another guy heard I was American and wanted to speak English to me, telling me he had wanted to continue his university studies in America but, you know, the political situation.

"Is it true that if you marry an American girl you can get citizenship?"

"Um, after some years."

"Some American girls like to marry foreigners, right?"

"Some."

"And you, you are single or married?" He was looking at my obviously empty ring finger, so I couldn't lie.

"Single, but not looking to get married."

"Really, how old are you?"

"Too young." I mean, aren't you going to at least pretend it's my eyes?

By the time I got the results, it was past 11, but I managed to find the Bab Sharqi bus to the university. 5 lira later, I was in mezza. Registration took about 5 minutes. I did it! And with a day to spare. Placement test is on Thursday - I hope I don't bomb.

Hafes Al-AIDS and more!

I have to run all around to get registered for classes at the university - I have until September 12. Yesterday, Sunday, first day of the week, I tried to find my way to Damascus University, which I was warned was a difficult journey. Zahir in my house offered to help me, but a typical American I refused. I should figure this out myself, I thought. At Bab Touma I got a taxi to Jama'at Damasq, which was the event recounted before, with the fake fiance. But he dropped me off at Jama'at Damasq the campus for sciences, not the one I need. I wandered to street with a lot of students waiting for microbuses and two women said they were going to Kuliyat al-Adab (College of Literature) in Mezze where I needed to go. So they directed me to the right micro, paid my fare despite my protests. Finally, the Mahhad for Arabic.

I have to be back in a few days with my AIDS test, passport photos, a letter from my embassy stating they have no problem with my taking classes, copies of my passport and Syrian visa, and an application form.

This morning I went to Hafes al-AIDS, which is close to Bab Touma, with the two women from SOAS (School of Oriental and Asian Studies) at London University - there's an exchange program with Damascus University. I wanted to get out early, and actually woke up before 9 (yesterday it was 12:30pm - let's blame jetlag, and last night I couldn't get to sleep til after the 4am-ish call to prayer). The girls got moving a little slowly.

It was a zoo at Hafes al-AIDS. It looks like everyone has to get AIDS tests to do anything. I was waiting with a bunch of High School kids before I found out there was a seperate entrance for student and others. With the letter from the University we skipped the massive line out front and went to the "Students and Domestic Workers Testing Room". Others insisted I sit because of how pale I was, though I tried to assure them that I really am just that pale. "Domestic Workers" was khadimaat meaning only females. Next to our testing room was one for several groups, inclduing "Entertainment Workers". Now what is that a euphanism for?

Syrians Don't Try to Rip Me Off

I had a busy first day in Damascus. I woke up without knowing what time it was, so I just got up and went to breakfast in the hotel. Oh, 7:30 am. Awesome. I asked at the front desk about how to find a family to live with. "Wait for the manager, he knows a family." He'll be here 10.

So I went around looking for the other items on my to-do list: watch, Syrian SIM card, passport photos. At 8 everything was closed but I managed to buy a watch on the street. At 9 I bought a new charger for my Egyptian cell phone. The guy had to dig in the back to find something that worked with "such an old model". I bought it a year and half ago! He sold it to me for 100 lira, ($2) because of my eyes. I also bought a sim card off of him for 600 lira. I have a crap load of lira, and I was counting out when he stopped me, took one of my bills, and told me I was counting out thousands. Oops. I put them back in my bag, took my change. Now I have a friend, Khalid, albeit a friend that wants to marry me.

That's the problem with making guy friends here. First they want to get with you, then when you tell them you're married (I need to get a ring to make this believable), or otherwise taken, or not looking (this is not understood, after all I am old) they want to just be your friend. The taxi driver who took me to the Damascus University today (god that was hard) was singing my praises so I concocted a fake potential husband in New York, an Iranian-American named Amir (thank you Shadee for your brother). Why don't I have a ring? They are expensive in America, I said, and he's working to buy one. He'll visit me here and give me the ring. The driver, Muhammad, was particularly interested in knowing if we go out together. To restaurants? To movies? Sure we do. Do we live together? No, I live with a friend and he lives with his brother. We can't live together until we are married (I don't want the driver thinking I'm some libertine American whore)!

Back to yesterday I went back to the hotel and met the guy, Zahir, in whose house I am now living. He took me to the house, I saw the room (I get to move in September 25 - until then I am on a couch in a living room which is now off limits to everyone else). It's $150 a month - not too shabby. It's off the main street between Bab Touma and Suq al-Hammadiyya in the old city. By 2pm I had paid off the hotel and moved my stuff. There's Zahir, his mother, his wife Huda (24!) and two kids, Said 6 and Samar 4, who are Muslim, plus the foreign girls. It's an old house with an open courtyard in the center and 3 floors (plus two bedrooms on the roof). There's a Polish girl, German, British, and four Americans including myself. I met all of them, with varying degrees of better-than-my-Arabic, except the Brit who arrived five days ago. I don't think I heard her speak Arabic. There's a 33-year old American who is "miserable."

One of the Americans is my parent's worst fear: she arrive two months ago on a CLEO (what I'm on right now too). She met a half-Syrian, half-Pakistani, first language English, and they... got fucking married. She just returned from her honeymoon in Turkey. She's going to Kuwait on Fulbright and he's supposed to join her. At some point she's going to Pakistan for the traditional 400 hundred of his closest friends and family Pakistanti wedding. She's 22.

I did speak a lot of English with Mindy, the miserable American, but after a day of being really good, and speaking a lot of Arabic, I swear. I'm a bit frustrated with where my Arabic is, how much less I comprehend compared to a year ago right after Egypt. But I have to remind myself today is only my second day. Maybe I'll understand more at the dinner table tonight.

Flights to Damascus

I got here Friday night after an overnight flight to Paris and an overday flight to Damascus. The Paris plane was filled with middle aged American couples going abroad for the first time (well, there were two of these next to me). One couple had won there trip from a furniture store drawing. The other had just decided to up and go. "Where are you going?" they asked when I said I was connecting. "Syria," naturally got a stunned reaction. I've been told to be careful.

The Damascus flight left midday Paris. At the gate there were two American women dragging kids. One woman had four, from sullen, angry teenager to chubby four-year-old. The other looked like Nancy on Weeds and had two small girls. They chatted about how the kids liked Syria, how the older ones were pissed off to be returning, how the younger ones where fine with it, how maids have such disloyalty.

"I brought mine to the State in May and she ran off within the first month!"

"Are you serious? Will you get in trouble?"

"No, no, I reported her as soon as it happened."

"Let me tell you, they are not loyal. I've had a maid in Damascus 5 years and she's looking for another job! She's signed on for another year with me but is looking for another job during the year! No loyalty!"

"I know. If mine was planning to run off she could have at least stayed for most the summer!"

Oh, don't I know it. We landed late, bags took forever, the embassy driver took me to Sultan Hotel where the embassy had booked me a room ($22) a night. It was nine so I went wandering off in the streets to find an internet cafe and email my parents that I was alright. I'm alright.

Last post from the U.S. of A.

After two days of driving around to do errands and crap I'm just about ready to go. Almost packed, I swear. I'll land in Damascus tomorrow night after a brief layover in Paris. Still no update on where I'll be staying - I called numerous times only to have it ring over and over, and emailing only prompted one response: full at AlHaramain. So this will be interesting!

Of course, it will be interesting anyways. Today there was a a fun little altercation between Syria and Israel. This is making my parents really thrilled to drop me off at the airport. Wish me luck!

Things I am Not Going to Miss About New York

Well now that I'm leaving, I'm also going to leave the pity party. So here's some shit I'm not going to miss about New York:

- prices: movies, drinks, food, every fucking thing

- dodging asshole cars who don't want to share the road with bikes; dodging asshole pedestrians who neglect to watch for bikes

- the ubiquitous creepy/voyeuristic/increasingly porny American Apparel ads: No thanks, I really don't want to see a 5-foot cooch.

- getting yelled at by construction workers on my bike - really, what reaction do they expect? Am I going to get off my bike, fuck them, and then continue on my way to work? I really don't budget that kind of time into my commute.

- the person who stole my bike seat

- the hotdog guy who was right next to my bike but apparently didn't say a word while a guy stole my fucking bike seat

- Flight of the Conchords - because the season actually ended so there is nothing to miss

- did I mention the price of shit in New York?

- if I have to hear "Umbrella ella ella" once more time the stabbing begins

- shitty clubs where the focus, instead of on the dancefloor, is on assholes with AmEx cards who reserve the privilege to drink Grey Goose for $300 a bottle

- I-bankers who have to make up for a 70 hour workweek by being the biggest douches at the bar

- handbags and shoes - why do people give a shit about this shit?

- hipsters

- those Sunday mornings when you think "I should go work out or go outside because it's so nice" but then its 3:00pm and the store is too far away and you're very hungry so you scrounge for leftover forgotten soup crackers from your roommate's takeout last month

- beauty standards - people in New York be so pretty!

But of course, I'm going to be about three times prettier when I step off the airplane in Damascus on Friday night. Ahh, for once my pasty skin is a blessing, not a burden.

Reservations

I don't think the American Embassy is very happy with me. They offer to pick Fulbrighters up from the airport, a service of which I plan to make use. They also offer to book a few nights in the Sultan Hotel for us, a service I declined. I'll be staying at al-Haramein, I told them (much cheaper). Then I packed and went to California and didn't go on the Internet for a few days.

Pandemonium! Well, not really. The woman at the embassy had sent me emails making sure I had reserved at al-Haramein because it's very busy now and lots of hotels are all booked up, then emailed my contact at IIE who emailed me asking the same thing. I told them no, told her she could go ahead and book me Sultan, to which she replied that Sultan is full!!! Holy crap!

I'm not very worried. Last time I went to Syria I rolled up in a bus and had no trouble finding a room. If al-Haramein is full I'll go next door. If that's full, go to another hostel. I'll find a bed. But apparently the embassy does not find this comforting, so I'm trying to call ahead and reserve.

So close to Thursday. Packing is a bitch.

Things I am Going to Miss About New York

I've left New York - only one week until I leave for Syria. Of course I already miss it: Specifically, I miss:

- anonymity on the street - this does not exist in Damascus, where I might as well wear a sign that says "FOREIGNER"

- PDAs - not exactly down with the culture in the Middle East

- Flight of the Conchords, Weeds, The Office

- free concerts all the time

- that I can see any movie on a big screen from mainstream to indie, the latest to something from 1936

- Baked (in Redhood)cakes and cookies

- everything that makes the red states cringe: on-demand abortions, abundant gays, and craploads of immigrants


- a city so liberal that Manhattan Mini Storage can put on a billboard "Your closet space is shrinking faster than her right to choose" with a picture of a coat hanger

- breakfast anytime, which means greek omlette anytime

- a variety of restaurants, from Indian to Ecuadorian

- biking daily through at least two, and often three boroughs

- the view from the Williamsburg bridge

- the view of all of Manhattan from my apartment in LIC

- bars with pool and kareoke

- all my lovely friends, of course

2006: Damascus: Mosque Party!

I had finally made it to Damascus after a fun journey. I was dropped off at al-Haramein hotel on Sharia Bahsa, got a room, threw my shit down, brushed my teeth, and took a long-overdue shower. Despite having not slept since the ferry the previous day, I felt envigorated and went out into Damascus.

It was immediately apparent that I was in Syria: pictures of Bashar al-Assad everywhere. Not just on giant billboards, but on the backs of cars and in store windows, like a mustachioed icon, a saint in sunglasses. Some back car windows even had the trinity of the current president, his late father the former president, and his late brother the former heir to the Republic (all in sunglasses naturally).






I followed the copied pages from the Lonely Planet Middle East and went to Suq al-Hamidiyya. Since it was Friday the street was pretty empty and most of the shops were closed. But the Ummayad Mosque was sure open!

There are seperate entrances for tourists and the faithful, the former needing to give up about a dollar in entrance fees and don a black abaya. Once inside, you can wander and photograph to your heart's content, as I did. It was after Friday prayers so it wasn't stuffed, but still had a bit of activity. The Ummayyad Mosque was a Roman temple to Jupiter turned into a Christian church under the Byzantine Empire then turned into a mosque under the Ummayyad Empire. It's very cool because vestiges of the mosque's previous incarnations are visibile: the structure. The mosaics looked Byzantine to me.

Just outside the mosque are the bones of the gosh darn bestest Muslim in the world (at least according to every Crusader): Salah ad-Din. Without much fanfare or signage, twin sarcophogi are lit up by green florescent lights. Salah ad-Din was buried in a wooden sarcophagus in 1193, but in 1893 Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany donated a marble one. The body was never transferred so there remain the two.

Away from the Ummayyad mosque, I went to the Shi'i Sayyida Ruqayya Mosque, daughter of Hussein grandson of the Prophet. Built by Iran, Lonely Planet finds the mosque "quite alien, but very striking, Persian".Those with better standing to evaluate Persianity must judge. I once again was handed a temporary abaya (this time by a man, who also tried to help me secure it). Handing it back to him when leaving I discovered that he spoke English, and he discovered that I was an unsaved soul in need to proselytizing. "Meet me tomorrow. I will tell you all about Islam" he said, giving me a paper with his number. He was cute, and I wondered if he was trying to convert me, hit on me, or both.

I was mosqued out so I ate some falafel (delicious) and made for Azem Palace, residence of the wali (governor) of Damascus during the Ottoman Empire. I took a free tour in Arabic, of which I understood a surprisingly large amount (surprising to me). I even asked a couple of questions. The guide was very impressed, as many people are when a foreigner, especially an American, speaks Arabic. Sadly, the bar is set very low: I guess "Sabah al-gheer" is a welcome change from "EX-CUSE me, do YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? ENGLISH?", at least in Egypt. In Syria people were surprised that I was even in their country.

COMING UP: I explore the Christian Quarter which means Church Party!