My continued failings as a host were put into stark relief Sunday night, when Manar invited my roommate and me over for tabouleh. We arrived at 9:30, bearing Bear Beer (the highest alcohol content of any beer in Syria) and a bottle of wine. Manar welcomed us, set us up in the newly redone living room, in which they have traded out the couches for the old-style floor pads and painted the walls green. The importance of hosting cannot be emphasized more than in Manar's house, where despite only being a two-room apartment (not two bedrooms - two rooms total), the family reserves one to entertain guests.
Manar shooed her mother away, and ceremoniously brought out three bottles of wine - 2 red, 1 rose - before going to the kitchen and retrieving salad, jarjir (a green plant thing), chips and french fries. Soon the doorbell rang and it was delivery argileh! We sat down to feast and chat.
Manar said she had to invite us over because we're always inviting her over. She works right near our apartment and gets off at eight, so I often call her to come over. Sometimes I order an argileh, usually there's a beer in the fridge if she'd like, and there's hardly ever food unless I whip up some Indomi (like ramen).
This has been perhaps the hardest adjustment for me. When I go to peoples' houses I feel weird being waited upon. Now that I have a place, I know I should wait on guests, but its hard to snap out of my hard-wired American hosting: "There's a beer in the fridge," and you can go get it. Hungry? "I think there's some cheese, olive oil and zaatar." Thirsty? "There's drinkable water in the kitchen pidot." Then I sit, and as my guest gets up to walk to the kitchen I remember my role, and jump out, chasing them down the hall.
"Nooo! You! Sit down."
"It's really no problem," they protest. "I can grab the beer/bread/cup of water."
I physically block their path, yelling, "No! You are my guest! Sit down in the saloon! I will bring you water!"
"Ok," they say, now thirsty and terrified.
As a good Syrian host, I shouldn't wait for my guests to voice thirst or hunger. I should offer from the moment they walk in the door, until, in need of refreshment or not, they acquiesce. But from America I'm used to going to a friend's house, voicing my hunger, and asking if I can eat their food. "Sure, everything in the right cabinet, but not the milk or jam in the fridge cause that's my roommmate's." Then I make a solo search of the options and eat their crackers.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
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2 comments:
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This post was very enjoyable. I got a kick out of it because, of course, I had the opposite experience while in Canada. When I first arrived and was inviting friends over, I would expect them to sit in the living room while I ran back and forth from the kitchen with plate upon plate of food. My Canadian friends, the ones who had no Middle Eastern background, would sit on the sofa like nervous hostages. Some would try to help but were quickly ushered from the kitchen back to the sofa. They didn't know what to do - or if they should do anything. Then, as we ate, they nervously licked every crumb off of their plates, afraid that if they didn't they wouldn't be allowed to move from the table!! As I began to understand the Canadian customs, my hosting habits changed and we met somewhere in the middle. A Canadian's way of saying your welcome in my home and I'm comfortable with you is to say "You know where the fridge is. Help yourself!"
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