Shami Wedding

I've finally been to a Shami wedding, and it did not disappoint. From what I had heard, there would be the women, dressed in abayas, who would throw them off to reveal miles of skin covered in patches by sparkly dress. This did indeed happen. I even threw on an abaya over my shoulders, at the bidding of Um Tareq, to hide my by-comparison rather conservative dress. There was a bit of cleavage, it was the first time I've worn this dress without an undershirt, but within a few seconds of entering the wedding hall I was greated by such copious amounts of cleavage all reservations were put at ease.



I sat with the extended family of the groom, who was off partying with the dudes elsewhere. Most of the woman were stripped down, especially the younger ones, but a few of the grandmothers sat stone-faced without removing manteaus or hijabs. A group started dancing in the center, and I joined, but with frequent breaks. I don't understand how these ladies can dance for this long without breaking a sweat. I needed to take breaks and fan myself to avoid looking like I just slipped into this dress after a track meet. Foods and non-alcoholic cocktails came around in rounds.



I got Um Tareq to dance, which had been my goal. I even got her niece to dance, who was introduced to me as able to put my dancing to shame. But she said, no, I'm not going to dance, there's this cleric who said it's haram. How can dancing with a bunch of ladies be haram? But the videographer might accidently catch me on the camera and that would be haram. But she loosened up and did, as predicted, put me to shame.



The bride came out, and walked slowly up the front of the room, and her friends ran up to the throne at the front of the hall where she was seated, screaming and cooing. The girl did look good. Then those of us who don't actually know her went up at randomly to wish her congratuations. The bride came off the throne and did two dances for the camera by herself, mostly just seductive swaying as the dress was huge. Then her girlfriends (and me) ran onto the floor to dance.



The groom came later. The guy's party pulled up outside, and we watched what was happening with the videographer's live feed to a screen inside. Dudes in traditional outfits played music and played with swords around the groom. I was a bit jealous, I mean, the ice cream was good but not as good as swords. There was a rush to redress before the groom and his father could come in. They walked slowly up the aisle, while the girlfriends shouted out "Our bride is the prettiest! ye ah!" and of course, the trilling. My attempts were laughed at, so I repeated them to great amusement.

The party died after the groom and bride has danced their dance. They looked happy and nervous, both pretty young. She's 20, he's was about 25, and a car mechanic. Everyone started leaving, except for some girlfriends and the family.

I was invited to another wedding in July.

Interreligious Dating

We were on a double date of sorts, walking around the Bab Touma neighborhood outside the old city and enjoying the Good Friday festivities. I slept through last week's Western Easter, though I could hear the merrymaking and bands.

We saw a bit of a parade, with a drumline, scout-like uniforms, and a giant paper-mache Jesus on a paper-mache rock, but left before the stage show because of the pressing crowd. It was packed on the street in front of the church, the kind of crowd where moving more than your neck was impossible, and waves of pushing with no discernible source swept through us.

After we extracted ourselves from the crowd with great difficulty, the other woman's mom called. I was instructed to go say something so the mom could overhear and rest assured that her daughter was hanging with the fairer sex. I ran over and said, "Hey! Where are we going now?" She looked at me quizzically. When she hung up I apologized, telling her the boys had sent me over so her mom though she was hanging with girls.

"Oh, she doesn't care that if there's boys, just that we're all Christian."

Earlier, the two boys and me had met up with her and some friends. "Don't mention anything about us being not Christian to her friends" her boyfriend whispered as we approached.

We were out late, until one, and took a taxi back to Jeramana. After we let her boyfriend out, mine turned to me and said, "It's sad. Their relationship can go nowhere."

It reminded me of the matchmaking I had done for some friends. "He's cute, he's educated... he's Druze."
"He's Druze! When can I meet him?"

Or remarks when two friends start dating: "Oh, and they're both Christian. Awesome."
Or sympathizing with a friend when she couldn't date a boy she really like cause it wouldn't go anywhere. "He's X. It's impossible." Or a Christian friend who eloped with a Muslim man. Her parents still won't talk to her. She called on Christmas and they wouldn't answer.

Not that it doesn't happen. Last summer an Alawi friend's relative married a Sunni Muslim woman. He reported that her family didn't seem that happy with all the booze at the wedding. But for every married interreligious couple I know, there must be 10 thwarted relationships, if not by the law, then by parents.

Not that this is a Syrian phenomenon: I know American couples who had to convert from one branch of Christianity to another in order to appease some parents, and a friend who was disowned for marrying a Muslim.

The Eyes!

I was walking around lower Manhattan when I could no longer contain my happiness. "Look!" I said to my friend. "No one is looking at me! No one!" I did a little dance on the sidewalk. No one even acknowledged this.

It was true everywhere in America. I walked into grocery stores, bars, parties, subway cars, streets, apartment complexes, and university cafeterias, and was ignored. It was awesome.

A day after arrival back in Syria, changing servees in Baramke, I really missed the anonymity. Dudes, from those shoulder-high on me to those whose own daughters could be my mother, were staring. Not even attempting to be subtle, some dudes had eyes zeroed in on my chest from a distance of 10 meters to when they walked by.

I don't think this is merely a reflection of my being foreign. Since my coloring could be that of a Syrian, my foreign-ness is usually betrayed by my lack of style. Even on days where I could be, and am, mistaken for a Syrian before opening my mouth, there is the staring. And my Syrian girlfriends all draw looks as well. I might be just extra-sensitive to it, though in the grand scheme some staring is a small annoyance.

But to be without it! So freeing! In Syria, my attempts to sidewalk dance are always blocked by my well-meaning friends exclaiming "Eib!"

In America there is no eib. There is, however, weirdness. My friends in America did give me weird looks every time I would stop and say "Look what I can do!" while breaking it down on the sidewalk. "Isn't this cool?"

Their eyes said no, but all their mouths said was "Come on. We're going to be late."

Ad Hominum

I've traveled quite a bit throughout the Middle East, to places where people have good reason to be angry at America. From Egypt, where our foreign aid helps prop up a discredited and hated regime, to Lebanon, where we supported Israeli occupation of the south for some 18 years, and more recently, a war. Yet the amount of times I personally was a target of even negative remarks? Maybe twice... if you count the farmer in the countryside around Saida in Lebanon who, after giving me directions and asking where I'm from, said, "Ah America! No!" and jokingly mimed that he was pointing a weapon at the car. Then he told me about his cousin's son in New Jersey or something, and waved as we drove off. This was in 2006, a few months before the war.

The only other tme was a friend of a family I used to live with, who visited once and was very proud to tell me that he hated America and all things American. The son pushed for clarification, saying you possibly couldn't mean the people too? Yes, I mean the people. I hate them too. I won't even eat pizza.
I pointed out that pizza is Italian.
Whatever, I won't eat hamburger either!
I pointed out hamburger is German.

The man was steadfast in his hatred of Coca-Cola, the government, and the American people, but stating this hatred was the extent. And that is the one incident among almost two years total of Arab world livin' and travelin'.

From Iraqi refugees in Damacus, most of whom have had their lives and livelihoods taken away from them because of my government, I have never been cause of any negative reactions. Governments are governments, people are people, I'm told. Even when my country directly attacked Syria and people were in the streets burning my flag in anger, nothing against me personally.

So it is very sad to me that this enlightened view does not hold true in all cases. There is a lot of hostility against Syrians in parts of Lebanon. I've heard dudes saying how a car with a Syrian liscense plate in Beirut is going to be stolen or fucked with, no doubt. One of my friends who lived in Beirut the past six months told me how she had to be careful not to speak in Syrian when trying to find a job. And then there are the stories of Syrian dudes getting beat up. At one point a couple months ago I was considering relocating to Lebanon and my boyfriend expressed reservations - of course I'd be fine, as an American girl, but there might be some trouble for him, he said. I know obviously all Lebanese are not hating on the Syrian people, but it's very sad to me that there are some willing to take their anger out on people.

Protesting on Cue?

The Syrian nightly news on Thursday night, the day of the protests, was all about the raid. The first segment was a long piece about the protests. There were many, many interviews with protestors: several men, a kid who started crying when talking about how the Americans came in and killed eight innocent people, a teenage girl with a Lattakian accent who said that Syrians can't be quiet, they need to let America know that this is their land and they will defend it.

I was watching the newscast with a friend's family. They agreed that the crying kid was moving, but... c'mon mubaligha shway (little exaggeration)? Tareq said he would understand if the kid was from Albou Kamal, but he's Shami. Effective kid though.

It was especially angering to see the condenscending New York Times write-up of the protests, "As if on Cue, Syrians Protest U.S. Incursion on Their Soil". Would that cue be the U.S. incursion on their soil and the killing of a bunch of civilians? No, no, according to the writer the entire thing is stage-managed by the Syrian Government. It would have to be, because obviously Syrians wouldn't feel real anger about this or anything.

The writer continues, basically saying, "So not that I was there and watched it or anything, but I saw it on the BBC and it (now actual quote) 'seemed likely that the government had orchestrated the protest, which looked precisely timed and organized.'" He then later calls the raid the "boldest" strike by American commandos since the invasion of Iraq. Yippee!

Ok, obviously protests here need the approval of the government, but that doesn't necessarily mean the emotions or anger of the protestors are less valid. Is it too hard to believe that the Syrian people would be, as their government is as well, outraged by the strike?

The rest of the of the Syrian broadcast featured the Minister of Social Affairs and Labor, who had been sent to the village by the president. She offered condolences and hugged children (Um Tareq exclaiming "Olee! So dirty!"). One little boy told what happened, with the two helicoptors landing, and how the soldiers came out speaking foreigner and firing in all directions. His accent was almost unintelligble for me, but then it was for every one else in the room as well. The Minister gave a very nice speak though I can't remember what she said.

And then the next day I bought some shampoo at a little store near my new apartment. "Where are you from?" the woman working there asked.
"America"
"America! Haha, we all want to go there and you come here! Welcome, welcome!"
In the end, she knocked 15 lira off the price of the shampoo because "it's your first time in my store. Welcome!"

I mean, sorry America, but I can't imagine a foreigner getting that kind of treatment in America if their country just attacked it.

Demonstrations

The Cultural Center and I imagine, the school, are not closed yet, but the American Embassy is closed today for security reasons. I was there yesterday trying to get some paperwork and everything seemed normal. I heard there had been demonstrations, but yesterday morning the Embassy was quiet as Abu Romaneh usually is.

Finally saw three demonstrations on the way to Baramke this morning. Mostly school boys holding aloft flags and pictures of the president, chanting as they walk down the street and not to school.

Surprise!

So the American Cultural Center is still up and running. They've received no official word from the government to shut down. I imagine this is true for the school as well. So despite all the press reports on Syrian media, they're not closed. Yet.

Reaction to American Raid

The fallout from the American raid in Syria on Sunday is beginning. It's been announced that the American School and American Cultural Center is going to be closed in retaliation.

The American School, like others all over the world, follows American curriculum and has classes in English. A lot of the teachers are Americans (I've only met 3, who are here for an "adventure" and don't speak any Arabic). The kids of different embassies' employees go there, the kids of multinational corps and orgs employees, plus some well-to-do Syrians. It's got some posh real estate in Abu Romaneh, near al-Jahiz Park and the Air Force building. The Cultural Center is connected to the embassy and does pretty innocuous stuff like advise Syrian students who want to study in the US and have a weekly movie night.

I'm surprised, since I was in the American Cultural Center today picking up my absentee ballot and nobody mentioned anything or seemed flustered.

What's not closing is the American Language Center (where I just took my GRE Saturday), which is generally acknowledged to be among the best places to learn English in Damascus.

About the raid itself, I hear American media saying the dead are militants including some big fish Iraqi named Abu Ghadiya. But of course they would say that (how long does it take American officials to admit to various bombings of weddings in Afghanistan?) The Syrian media is saying the raid took place at a farm and all the dead are civilians, including three children. How much of either can be believed?

The one thing every non-Syrian news source, Arab and American, agrees on is the location being Abu Kamal, despite that the name is actually al-Bou Kamal. It's ok American journalists, I saw al-Jazeera get it wrong this morning as well.

But the one fallback that I'm not expecting, and that the American community in Syria has been advised to keep a lookout for, it the personal. While I would fully expect Americans to bear personal animosity for the nationals of a country that attacked them (just look at the rise in hate crimes against Muslims after 9/11) I don't expect it of Syrians. Today I ate dinner at a friend's house. The topic came on the news and they asked me why America would do that and if I thought it was a bad thing to kill those poor people. But it wasn't like I was being blamed, just that maybe being an American would give me some insight.

But in terms of the reaction for being in a country that is attacked by your country? To me, closing the school and the cultural center isn't all that bad. In Sha Allah they'll open again later. I might need a job teaching at that American school someday!

Middle Class Refugees

According to an official at UNHCR, one of the problems facing the Iraqi refugees in Syria is their Middle Class-ness. When the money runs out "they don't have the survival skills of most refugee populations."

Let's Be Culturally Appropriate!

With the summer has come an influx of tourists. There are many Europeans and Iranians, though not at many Gulfis as I would have expected. The Iranians are easy to pick out if I'm in hearing range to realize I don't understand a word they're saying, or if the women are wearing chador, a garment not to popular among Damascenes. Outside Sitt Ruqayya in the old city, massive groups of 30 Iranian grandmothers will sway together, cluchting their chadors and walking like penguins due to the ravages of time on their ankles. These groups move with unstoppable single-mindedness toward their goal, the Mosque, often sweeping up bystanders too weak to fight against the grandmother wave.

The Europeans are naturally easy to pick out. They wear hats to keep the sun off, have cameras around their necks, and when I see them seem to be standing around tired, sick of the heat and somewhat overwhelmed. They also wear tank tops and shorts. While the tank top is a Damascus regular, shorts are not. Even guys don't wear shorts outside of the house except rarely. Tariq was recently chided by Sale7 for wearing shorts all the way to Mezzeh from Jeramana. "You wore shorts? To Mezzeh? Eib, ya zalameh! Eib! (Shame, dude, shame!)"

The tourists wear shorts, and whatever. Not exactly in line with local sensibilities - would it kill you to open a book or ask your tour guide what might be appropriate before you go? I think most people just look at the weather forecast and think "Short weather!" At least its not like in Cairo, where tourists would walk around downtown in tank tops and short shorts (the tank top is NOT a regular in Cairo) and wonder why people were looking at them. Or visit Upper Egypt's ancient tombs in bikini tops.

But sometimes its even better when tourists try to respect local tomes of appropriateness. I see a lot of foreign women wearing hijab, though they tend to let the front of the hair show, which is more Persian or Gulfi. I wonder what they think when they see all the Syrian women walking around without hijab. Unless you are visiting a mosque, there is no reason a foreign non-Muslim needs to be wearing hijab in Syria. You're overdoing it just a bit.

And sometimes attempts to be culturally appropriate fail miserably. I saw a family of tourists in Bab Toma where the women had tried to dress more in line with the locals and wrapped their shoulders, upper arms, and chests in a shawl. However, the women had neglected their bottom halves, and were walking around in short shorts.

The best I've heard is from my roommate who was in a restaurant in Halab when two foreign women walked in. One was wearing hijab - trying a little two hard to fit in anywhere outside of mosque in my opinion - but with shorts and a spagetti strap tank top. According to my roommate the tank was low enough that the bottom of the hijab did not meet the top of her shirt, instead, viewers were treated to cleavage. How so very wrong. It's like 20 times more offensive than just walking around in your tank and shorts.

Seriously, could that lady have thought she was wearing hijab correctly? Did she not notice that no other muhajjiba walking around complemented her wrap with exposed theigh, back, and cleavage? Seriously?

Grammar SMACKDOWN!

Last week's workshop was pretty cool - I feel like I've learned so much on Syrian media. I was there helping with logistics, mostly doing everything technology as I was the youngest one present. Every time the power point needed setting up or the instructor wanted to play a clip, it was youngest-person-in-the-room to the rescue! We are at one with technology, those who cannot imagine writing a school paper without the internet, the children of the 90s.

But I was also allowed to participate. And while I can understand college-level lecture, I don't know how I'd fare in any class. In exercises for the instructor they would come back covered with corrections but have "mumtaz!" at the bottom, because I'm foreign and at least I'm trying.

It was quite heartening when the instructor spent a session on grammar mistakes and had us correct a text together. I was all over "it's قال إن" not " قال أن". And on the last day the journalists turned in their group reports on subject related to UNFPA's mandate: reproductive health, AIDS, youth, gender equality. On one groups' report the first sentence began "ما تزال ظاهرة " and I was all, "grammar error smackdown!" Even though when I write in Arabic there are still tons of errors, it's nice to know that even trained Arab journalists, who when to school for this, make grammar mistakes, and that grammar is an issue in many publications.

I related this exciting story to a friend later who said there was nothing wrong with the verb as is. I told him you can't negate a present tense with ما so they either need to say ما زالت or لا تزال . He disagreed and told me the ما was not a negation here, but it really is. Seriously. I then asked him was زال means and he told me still or continue, when it actually means to kinda disappear or go away, thus with a negation it means the equivalent of English "still".

I know it's embarrassing when a non-native speaker corrects YOUR language, but it happens to me in English more than I'd like to admit. This is why I don't want to teach English: I'd be afraid of being called out daily. I mean, I can write or speak grammatically correct English and did take one grammer class in high school, but the various explanations behind "this sounds wrong" or "this sounds right" ellude me, so in the nitty gritty questions I'd just prefer to leave the room. This winter, I spent a few good weeks pondering the English equivalent of من اربعة شهور or the like. If the action is continuing, it's not "four months ago", and "from four months" which I found muself using in English conversation is literal and not actually used. I told a Syrian friend who asked "since four months ago, I think. yeah." I guess we don't have an exact match for that phrase, but make do depending on the preceding question.
"When did you start college?"
"Four months ago."
"How long have you been in college?"
"for four months."

I don't know. My head hurts. I also can't spell in any language. When friends ask me what is this word in English and to write it down for them, it's only on the second or third try that I think the word "looks right", and still tell them to go check me in a dictionary cause I'm not sure. I try to tell them that I all my writing on computers who correct me, but they still look at me trying to figure out I am not joking in that I cannot spell my own language.

Speaking of media, Wednesday evening, Syrian TV news incorrectly identified the Israeli knesset as being in Tel Aviv, not Jerusalem. As a friend said of it: If any one should know where the knesset it, we should. They hadn't actually seen the broadcast, nor had I, but heard of it through the office. No one actually watches Syrian TV except during Ramadan.

Weekend Getaway

My friend Rachel is leaving Sham after a somewhat disappointing 9-month stay, returning to where truly calls her heart, Nicaragua. But for her last weekend she decided to get in her favorite part of Syria one last time, which is traveling. She and my roommate Michelle have taken off to Tartous just to eat at one of their favorite restaurants, walk around the corniche, then return by bus (more than 3 hours each way).

So Friday morning we were out the door and on a bus bound for Lattakia by 9am. Four hours later during which I demonstrated by superhuman ability to sleep on buses, we arrived. A taxi wanted 50 lira to take us to the karaj where we could catch a micro to the Blue Beach, or 150 to take us the beach directly. We opted for the former, but as we got closer to town he tried to convince us otherwise.
"The micro is 15 each, that's 45. With the taxi its basically 100. Why not just go straight for only 50 extra?"
"Only 50? That's an entire beer!" I chipped in from the back. He laughed and took us straight to the beach for 100.

At the public beach we bought beers, some grub, planted ourselves under the shade of an umbrella, and stripped, taking the nearby girl-in-bikini as a sign that we could discard without 'Eib. None of us actually with suits, we changed instead into sundresses, shorts, sportbras, tank tops, and skirts. There was a moment of hesitation before taking the plunge, "Lattakia is more open, Lattakia is more open".

Every once in a while guys came over and annoyed us, one asking for my contact solution. Symphathizing with another contact wearer, I let him borrow, only to see him and his friends start to wash their hands with it. He had tried to chat us up when he borrowed it - "I have three friends, you are three. Do you have a car? We have a car. We should travel together. Your Arabic is good." - so I marched over and asked if he knew what the solution was. "Yes."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Yes."
"then what is it?"
"Hand - oxygen..."
"Its for contacts. Eyes." I grabbed it and walked back.

I hadn't been back to Lattakia since two years ago when it was a stop on my week-and-a-half Grand Solo Tour of Syria. What I remember as a construction sight two years ago are now luxury apartments close to the water. But the city still feels laid-back with a sea breeze coming in over the water and girls walking around in strapless dresses.

We stayed at the same hostel I had two years ago as well. In the morning, Rachel and Michelle continued on to Aleppo, Rachel's favorite city in Syria. I got back on a bus for Sham, cause I got laundry and work Sunday morning.

Score One For Me!

When I came back from Tunisia, gleefully sharing with friends how I had been mistaken for Lebanese, and believed when described as Shami, most responded with Bravo! and "See, your Arabic has gotten better." These congratulations were tempered with letting me know that this could never happen in Syria. This I understand - it's like how I keep meeting Indians and one Omani and thinking they're British because of the accent, but a British person would probably recognize the subtle differences (or perhaps not so subtle to them) between a person taught British-accented English and the real thing.

But yesterday, at an electronics store, a young boy and his father were hanging out while I asked the clerk for something. The father asked his son if he thought the foreigner's Arabic was good, and the kid stared at me, wide-eyed, saying, "You're not Arab?"

Alright, so the kid may be not yet versed in the ways of the world, and his father might have immediately identified my foreigness, but I'm still chalking it to my side. The count, if you're wondering, is 12 me - 2,456 Arabic. I'm closing the gap.

The Anxious Tour Guide

Finally guests! Some friends visited me this weekend; Jolianne, who was a roommate from Cairo in every way but actuality, and James, a friend of hers. They are both Americans living in Dubai, and thus had a great appreciation for the mild Shami weather and buildings older than 10 years.

It was a good time; I had an excuse to go out to restaurants and argileh, went back to Crac des Chevaliers for the first time since two years ago, and got to show off my Arabic (Joli remembers me well from our Arabic formative stages in Cairo: fi mushkila? ma feesh fuloos! mush iyeza haga! iyeza arouh liwusta balad - oh Cairo). But like anytime anyone visits me, I always feel an insane amount of pressure to really show off the place and especially communicate why I love it. This is no fault of my guests - all my friends are naturally superawesome, being my friends. But even in New York, I would freak out before a friend came through. What the hell am I going to do with them? I only go to school and work! How am I going to show them a good time in New York?

My father and brother came from Ireland to visit me for four days when I lived in Cairo. I tried desperately to convey why I loved Egypt. After all, my father didn't come to Egypt out of some burning desire to see the pyramids (or come to New York for the Statue of Liberty), but to see me and make sure I was alright. But I failed. We visited every tourist attraction in Cairo, which every Cairene transplant knows are the worst part about Cairo. All my dad seemed to get out of the trip was the arguments I had with taxi drivers, the noise, the dangerous abandon with which I ate street food, the garbage, the pushy postcard sellers at the Pyramids, the 4am call to prayer waking him every night, and the heart attack I gave him when I jokingly showed up at the airport in hijab (to his credit, we were a full 20 minutes in the taxi before he asked me about it). I failed to communicate how the rush of activity in Midan Tahrir swelled my heart.

I have been in Damascus much longer now than I had been in Cairo then; how on earth do I convey my passionate throbbing love for this city? While Joli and James are much chiller and less alarmed than my father (liking street food themselves) I still selfishly want to share the fruits of 8 months with them in 2 days. This led to my forcing sweets on them like a Syrian grandmother (you haven't eaten anything! This is the best place to get halowi ma jibneh! You can't be full, we haven't even gotten to the kinafeh!). I am in deep regret this morning as I realized I failed to feed them fetteh or the falafel and hummos from Falafel al-Masry, Jerimana's best. When eating a lackluster meal at Crac des Chavaliers yesterday, I was thinking, Oh God no! This isn't good Shami food! I have failed! We set out for the castle a little late yesterday, and on the two and a half hour bus rides to Homs and back I was thinking oh God, it's my fault the bus isn't faster! They are bored and this French movie about cops punching transvestites isn't helping!

Though they might have boarded the return plane a couple of pounds heavier, I think they managed to have a good time. But honestly, who wouldn't?

Insane Prices!

The first thing I was told when Tariq and his friend Tariq picked me up from the airport was, "Oh my god! The PRICES! THE PRICES!"

Mazout and Gas went through the roof. Now everything is expensive. My friend the micro is now 10 lira, from 5 before I left (from 10cents to 20 cents). Double! Most other things have gone up at least 5 lira.

At least government bread is the same, so no riots! But now the regular stores can't sell the gov bread and when you buy at the furn there is a limit of 2. And the lines are insane.

Enjoying the Lack of Safety Laws

Went on Sir'an yesterday. On Friday, the only day of the week most people have off, tons of families load up and take off for the countryside, with argila, grilled meat, and the children in tow. Yesterday some friends and I went off to Deir Mar Musa, a monastery up in the desert mountains around Nebq (small town hour away from Damascus). We packed food, though not grilled meat, and an argileh from Sali7, who decided to stay home and study like a loser instead of coming out. At the bus station, we realised we had a problem in that both Tareef and Rachel had no ID (a trickier issue for Rachel, as a foreigner who needs her passport). The police also made us empty the gas burner we had brought for the argileh, citing possible explosion as their concern. To empty it, Tareef opened the spigit and we stood nearby as the flammable gas rose in the middle of a busy bus station. No danger here. They let him stop before it was empty, leaving us to carry a mostly-empty cannister of gas, which is actually most likely to cause it to explode. Oh, whatever.

We had to get permission from the police to let those without IDs come, and we just said that Rachel, who remained mute and can easily pass for Syrian, was Syrian too. Her name is Lana.

At Deir Mar Musa, after climbing the crapload of steps to the top, we met up with Marios, at a lunch of mujedera (lentils and burgal), chicken, and salad prepared by the monks and nuns before hiking out a ways into the mountains. There we set up camp and the argileh, realizing after everything else had been done that Sali7 had neglected including the pipe. We tried hilariously to smoke straight from the argileh, which yielded good pictures but little else.

We spent the rest of the afternoon climbing up the mountain, for which i was yelled at to stop running around the mountain and climbing things (how familiar). With the sun getting low, we left not sure exactly how to get to Nabq. Luckily some guys had a flatbed truck and we jumped in. While some sat, the rest of stood, screaming with the wind in our face and waving at other trucks and people at the side of the road. I think this saved the trip for Manar, who until then had not expressed much interest in the climbing, preferring to chill with her beer. We would never be able to do that in America. Riding in the truck would probably get you stopped by the cops, and standing up while navagating the hairpin turns on hills and going 40mph definitely would. The drivers passed us bags of nuts and we passed them some candy. At Nabq we declined their repeated requests to join them at their house for coffee.

Once we got back, everyone came to Jerimana for ice cream at Bouza Ummaya, Damascus' best ice cream. Oh, happy days!

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.

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!

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.