I ran into Abd, back from Russia for a few months, in the old city. He invited me and M to an outing with students of the literature college to Sweida. There was a cave, and they were bringing a DJ and speakers and going to set up a regular dance party there. 300 lira only, food and drink on us. It sounded fun. I agreed to get the booze, M the food.
The next morning those of us from Jeramana met at Rawda to make the journey to Mezzeh. Abd and his friends were 15 minutes late. The bus was supposed to leave at 9, and going to Mezzeh in the morning rush can take a while.
I shouldn't have worried. I forgot that "bus leaves at 9, don't be late!" means the bus will leave closer to 11. We waited in the hot sun. It is summer now, at least during the day, until the sun goes down and I grab a coat.
The bus finally came, filled, and got moving raucously. The driver played Arabic songs, and students were in the aisles dancing the entire time. We stopped in Jeramana to pick up the DJ, prompting those of use who were in Jeramana to complain that we could have saved a lot of time had we known.
We rolled through Sweida to Areeqa, and got out in front of a restaurant. "Where's the cave?" we asked, until it became clear that we were going to hang out in this restaurant. I complained to who I had finally identified as the trip organizer, "What, there aren't any restaurants in Damascus? We could have partied on a rooftop and saved ourselves the trip. I was promised a cave party."
He promised it would be cool, and that we were near a cave, but it was unfortunately closed. We went into the restaurant, set up the DJ, and started on M's sandwiches and my vodka. After eating, people started dancing, including a girl in black who memorized the crowd with her hips. I don't understand how these girls dance this much - in a short sleeve teeshirt I was sweating within minutes but the muhajibat danced the entire time without so much as a feminine glistening of perspiration.
Finally an expedition set out for this cave, which is currently under some sort of construction. Even though cave reconstruction isn't the sort of thing that just pops up one day when you're making plans, the organizer had told everyone we would party in a cave, meanwhile booking the restaurant. It had small opening, and inside was cool and pitch black. With mobiles and lighters we navigated around, stepping in a lot of mud. It would have been impossible to hold a party in this place.
The party finally ended at around 5, which was good as my buzz was wearing off. On the way back I sat next to the good dancer in black, and we got to chatting. She volunteers for an organization that fights domestic violence, and my boyfriend and her also had a long talk. Afterwards he told me he was surprised that a muhajiba would be so cool and down with gender equality... which shows that not only the foreigners have misconceptions about the hijab.
Showing posts with label debauchery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label debauchery. Show all posts
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Iraqi Wedding
With shame, I admit that last night was the first time I have been to a wedding in Syria. While since moving to Syria I have been to a wedding in Pakistan and an engagement party here, no wedding. Early last summer my friend Saleh teased me by inviting me to an upcoming wedding, promising a good time as it would be an Allawi wedding, meaning mixed and drinks (Shami weddings are traditionally gender segregated). But the day rolled around and he was in the village and forgot about me and went and I got to hear about it later.
Last night Um Tareq suddenly announced that she and Um Qassam were going to a wedding and I should come too. This despite a day of traveling that began at 5am- my pleas of exhaustian were ignored. As were the fact that I would have to go in sneakers and less-than-formal wear, everything being packed. And that I was dirty.
"It's fine! Yalla!"
So I went. I asked who's getting married. She told me, oh, I don't know, somebody's relative, which doesn't exactly narrow it done.
The salle was a place called قصر الأميرة, Castle of the Princess, which at least to me sounds less cheesy in Arabic. It was mixed, though mostly ladies. The bride and groom were seated on a raised dance platform, her dress fanned about her. They both looked young and nervous, and for not the first time I couldn't help but think of a wedding as a vulgar affair, announcing to the world the couple's (assumed) sexual initiation. The bride wore the popular style: elaborately detailed bodice, large sweeping skirt, intricate hair, layers of makeup. Um Tareq leaned over, telling me that the bride was fat, but the groom looked neat and na'im. I told her she was a little mean and she said, what, she is fat! Look at her arms, they're full.
The bride turned out to be a relative of Um Rad, a jovial friend of Um Tareq I've met before several times. She was very interested in my joining the party, and anytime a song coaxed the seated to the floor she would grab me by the arm and drag me out there. I got a quick lesson in dancing the "Iraqi way", which involves a lot of head movements. Luckily I'm an ace at the snake so I embressed. But the star of the show was an approximately 8 year old girl, who had tricked herself out for the party: full blue dress, teased up hair with sparkles that flew and glittered in the air every time she flung her hair around. Girl got down, and enjoyed being the center of the dancing ring. The bride joined the dancing occaisonally, but the dress limited substantial movement. There was some debke, but it was nothing like the non-stop debke frenzy I experienced at a Palestinian engagement party this summer.
During dancing breaks, I chatted with some ladies, some of whom I'd met before and most I hadn't. Luckily Um Rad was there to introduce me:
"She's American but she doesn't like Bush," a sentence repeated verbatim with every introduction.
Really? American? The introducee would reply. Then would come questions about America vs. Syria and such. Sadly, Um Rad had some cake-related matters to attend to, and I was briefly left alone dancing with some ladies and their fiances and an eight-year-old without introduction. One woman said she liked how I danced and I returned the compliment.
"Oh! Are you not Syrian?" she said at my accent.
No, no, American.
I left somewhat early, due to aforementioned fatigue, but I might have to honor three engagements to really learn some Iraqi dance.
Last night Um Tareq suddenly announced that she and Um Qassam were going to a wedding and I should come too. This despite a day of traveling that began at 5am- my pleas of exhaustian were ignored. As were the fact that I would have to go in sneakers and less-than-formal wear, everything being packed. And that I was dirty.
"It's fine! Yalla!"
So I went. I asked who's getting married. She told me, oh, I don't know, somebody's relative, which doesn't exactly narrow it done.
The salle was a place called قصر الأميرة, Castle of the Princess, which at least to me sounds less cheesy in Arabic. It was mixed, though mostly ladies. The bride and groom were seated on a raised dance platform, her dress fanned about her. They both looked young and nervous, and for not the first time I couldn't help but think of a wedding as a vulgar affair, announcing to the world the couple's (assumed) sexual initiation. The bride wore the popular style: elaborately detailed bodice, large sweeping skirt, intricate hair, layers of makeup. Um Tareq leaned over, telling me that the bride was fat, but the groom looked neat and na'im. I told her she was a little mean and she said, what, she is fat! Look at her arms, they're full.
The bride turned out to be a relative of Um Rad, a jovial friend of Um Tareq I've met before several times. She was very interested in my joining the party, and anytime a song coaxed the seated to the floor she would grab me by the arm and drag me out there. I got a quick lesson in dancing the "Iraqi way", which involves a lot of head movements. Luckily I'm an ace at the snake so I embressed. But the star of the show was an approximately 8 year old girl, who had tricked herself out for the party: full blue dress, teased up hair with sparkles that flew and glittered in the air every time she flung her hair around. Girl got down, and enjoyed being the center of the dancing ring. The bride joined the dancing occaisonally, but the dress limited substantial movement. There was some debke, but it was nothing like the non-stop debke frenzy I experienced at a Palestinian engagement party this summer.
During dancing breaks, I chatted with some ladies, some of whom I'd met before and most I hadn't. Luckily Um Rad was there to introduce me:
"She's American but she doesn't like Bush," a sentence repeated verbatim with every introduction.
Really? American? The introducee would reply. Then would come questions about America vs. Syria and such. Sadly, Um Rad had some cake-related matters to attend to, and I was briefly left alone dancing with some ladies and their fiances and an eight-year-old without introduction. One woman said she liked how I danced and I returned the compliment.
"Oh! Are you not Syrian?" she said at my accent.
No, no, American.
I left somewhat early, due to aforementioned fatigue, but I might have to honor three engagements to really learn some Iraqi dance.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Getting Down at Eid
I was invited up to Aleppo for Eid by my boyfriend's family. They are no strangers to the draw of ajnabiyyat as his uncle is married to a Russian woman. We went out to dinner all together the first day,a group of more than 20 plus innumerous children running around everywhere (bill was only 8000 lira). Every one thought it was a little weird I don't eat meat, but Abd al-Karim's wife doesn't either so at least I had an ally. I've meet the uncle and his Rusiyya wife before, but this was the first time I had seen her outside of the house and was surprised to see she's muhajiba. Since last summer, she said.
"Maybe you'll be hijabing eventually too."
"Impossible."
"Why?" She and two of the other uncle's daughters leaned in.
"I already have enough trouble matching pants and shirts - match a hijab too? Impossible. I see how all the muhajibas got it going on - matching it all up. Look at me - today I'm wearing blue and black and white and green with a red coat. It's a disaster."
They laughed, and the subject was dropped. I thought this was easier than responding as I had, throughout Ramadan, to inquiries why I wasn't fasting: "I'm not Muslim." This would usually have to be expanded on with reference to Lent.
"Why don't you just try fasting?"
"I did Lent, so I'm good." or "We have our own fasting time." ("We" being Christians).
But this is just dishonest, and slids into that murky grey area where a little lie about being a Christian turns into immense discussions in which I have to defend Catholic theology. Not that I thought a pleasant Eid dinner would turn to dicussions of the divinity of Jesus; but still in awe of Syrian women's ability to put together an outfit, this is more true than professing my devotion to the Christian faith.
But luckily the family's religiosity on hijab did not extend to alcohol, and we were able to enjoy a regular bachanal (well, kind of). The second day of Eid we went to a Saher (staying-up-late) party at the Jalal Sport Club, decked out to look like not a sports club. On the way in I whispered to my boyfriend, asking if there would drink, and if so, would it be alright to drink in front of his family. He said probably, but since we're still on the trying-to-impress them stage, only if others are drinking.
There was a bottle of whiskey waiting for us at the table, with uncles and a cousin already sipping it neat. Most every other table had wine or whiskey as well. The table was overfilling with appetizers, most of which were meatless. A known singer entertained and during particularly engaging songs half the congregation got up to boogie. We ate and drank and danced till well past 2am. It was interesting to celebrate a Muslim holiday with a family where most of the women veil and the whiskey is liberally poured. I think there's a conception in America that Muslims as a rule are very religious and strict, when proponents of any faith vary in adherence to the letter and spirit of the Law.
But glad we're in agreement alcohol is the way to celebrate a holiday.
"Maybe you'll be hijabing eventually too."
"Impossible."
"Why?" She and two of the other uncle's daughters leaned in.
"I already have enough trouble matching pants and shirts - match a hijab too? Impossible. I see how all the muhajibas got it going on - matching it all up. Look at me - today I'm wearing blue and black and white and green with a red coat. It's a disaster."
They laughed, and the subject was dropped. I thought this was easier than responding as I had, throughout Ramadan, to inquiries why I wasn't fasting: "I'm not Muslim." This would usually have to be expanded on with reference to Lent.
"Why don't you just try fasting?"
"I did Lent, so I'm good." or "We have our own fasting time." ("We" being Christians).
But this is just dishonest, and slids into that murky grey area where a little lie about being a Christian turns into immense discussions in which I have to defend Catholic theology. Not that I thought a pleasant Eid dinner would turn to dicussions of the divinity of Jesus; but still in awe of Syrian women's ability to put together an outfit, this is more true than professing my devotion to the Christian faith.
But luckily the family's religiosity on hijab did not extend to alcohol, and we were able to enjoy a regular bachanal (well, kind of). The second day of Eid we went to a Saher (staying-up-late) party at the Jalal Sport Club, decked out to look like not a sports club. On the way in I whispered to my boyfriend, asking if there would drink, and if so, would it be alright to drink in front of his family. He said probably, but since we're still on the trying-to-impress them stage, only if others are drinking.
There was a bottle of whiskey waiting for us at the table, with uncles and a cousin already sipping it neat. Most every other table had wine or whiskey as well. The table was overfilling with appetizers, most of which were meatless. A known singer entertained and during particularly engaging songs half the congregation got up to boogie. We ate and drank and danced till well past 2am. It was interesting to celebrate a Muslim holiday with a family where most of the women veil and the whiskey is liberally poured. I think there's a conception in America that Muslims as a rule are very religious and strict, when proponents of any faith vary in adherence to the letter and spirit of the Law.
But glad we're in agreement alcohol is the way to celebrate a holiday.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Damascus Can Be A Tiny Place
They say there's something like 5 million people in Damascus and its environs, but honestly sometimes I feel like there are 30 with how I keep running into people.
UNFPA and SHABAB (that's an acronym) did some training of kids (15-30) for interactive theatre last week. The week ended with two performances where they did their skits on education and women's rights for youth and NGOs. I covered the training for UNFPA, showing up early and on a Saturday to get photos of the first day.
Soon, I was recognized. A guy came up to me and asked if I was "that girl" at the Danish party in Jeramana the previous Thursday night. "You dance well!" he said, which is exactly how you want people to identify you when trying to be all professional. "To Nancy Ajram - remember?"
All too well. The Thursday evening in question I and several others from Capoeira class went to a party hosted by Danes at a pool in Jeramana. They rented out the entire pool, and we ate meshawi, swam a bit, drank a bit, argeelaed a bit and danced. At one of the later points in the night, for a large group of us debke became booty shaking or raqs sharqi depending on the music. A Nancy Ajram song came on, one of those that my roommates and I back in Cairo 2006 had spent long nights dancing to, and I busted out the raqs sharqi.
For this, I was recognized by two of the interactive theatre actors who did not know each other but both happened to be at the party. Well, nice to meet you too.
Friday I skipped the first performance because of a conflict with my Capoeira class. It got out at eight, and as I was walking on Sharia Baghdad I ran into two of the actors. "Why weren't you at the show??" they demanded. "Tomorrow, in sha Allah" I said, but was a little embarrased because I was wearing a tiara.
It was my birthday, so my capoeria class had surprised me with cake and a tiara, which I was now wearing for all of Shariah Thawra and Baghdad to see.
So I think all of those people in the theatre group think I've crazy and possibly on crack. Which sucks because I know I'm going run into them in the future.
UNFPA and SHABAB (that's an acronym) did some training of kids (15-30) for interactive theatre last week. The week ended with two performances where they did their skits on education and women's rights for youth and NGOs. I covered the training for UNFPA, showing up early and on a Saturday to get photos of the first day.
Soon, I was recognized. A guy came up to me and asked if I was "that girl" at the Danish party in Jeramana the previous Thursday night. "You dance well!" he said, which is exactly how you want people to identify you when trying to be all professional. "To Nancy Ajram - remember?"
All too well. The Thursday evening in question I and several others from Capoeira class went to a party hosted by Danes at a pool in Jeramana. They rented out the entire pool, and we ate meshawi, swam a bit, drank a bit, argeelaed a bit and danced. At one of the later points in the night, for a large group of us debke became booty shaking or raqs sharqi depending on the music. A Nancy Ajram song came on, one of those that my roommates and I back in Cairo 2006 had spent long nights dancing to, and I busted out the raqs sharqi.
For this, I was recognized by two of the interactive theatre actors who did not know each other but both happened to be at the party. Well, nice to meet you too.
Friday I skipped the first performance because of a conflict with my Capoeira class. It got out at eight, and as I was walking on Sharia Baghdad I ran into two of the actors. "Why weren't you at the show??" they demanded. "Tomorrow, in sha Allah" I said, but was a little embarrased because I was wearing a tiara.
It was my birthday, so my capoeria class had surprised me with cake and a tiara, which I was now wearing for all of Shariah Thawra and Baghdad to see.
So I think all of those people in the theatre group think I've crazy and possibly on crack. Which sucks because I know I'm going run into them in the future.
Monday, August 25, 2008
In Sha Allah Mabrouk
I had a weekend just chock-full o' parties, beginning Thursday night when I went to Um Mohammad's daughter's engagement party.
Um Mohammad is a Palestinian woman who cleans the UNFPA and sometimes we ride the servees together. We got to talking, and I no longer lament my Jeramana -Mezzeh commute as she lives in Husayniyya, out past Sitt Zenaib and the airport. It takes her an hour and half to get to work.
She further told me she had 8 girls and two sons. I remarked that it must be crazy with all those kids, to which she replied that oh, all the girls but three are married off so there's not that many. And Iya is getting engaged next week! Would you like to come? You can sleep over! We'll kick the men out so you don't have to worry, it'll just be girls!
I accepted the invitation for the party, which is how I found myself dancing with 50-year-old muhajjibas to reggaeton.
I had been expecting a lot more meat. It's almost shameful that I've been here 11 months without a single Shami wedding, but I had heard what to expect: Ladies be off by themselves, stripping down to impressively gaudy dresses and putting Rotana video to shame. But while the party was predominantly female, there were a few guys so many hijabs stayed on. This however, did not stop the Sexy Dancing. Neither did the heat, which had hit 43 C that day, compounded by the sweaty multitudes dancing inside a concrete room. I thought that I would be able to impress with my ability to bust a move, but I was put to shame by grandmothers and 12-year-olds in belly tops.
The engaged girl, Iya, who is 18, looked mostly bored as she sat on her raised platform above the revelers. She must have spent hours at the salon: makeup heavily done, each strand of hair shackled down, and everything topped off with glitter and stick-on stud rhinestones. Her pink dress had an impressive circumfrence that, when she sat, fanned out behind her. An aunt helpfully stuck a kleenex into the halter bustier to cover up the cleavage.
The groom was brought in with much fanfare and photos. The fiances looked at each other nervously when he walked up to her and took his seat next to her on the platform. For the official photos, the mother of the bride hauled out a matching pink cape to drape over her daughter's bare shoulders. The two awkwardly shuffled a dance, careful with her dress, before retaking their thrones and we, the masses, began to shimmy and debke again. Then the groom left to go back to his party in Mughayyam Jeramana.
The evening ended after 9pm, but the seeminly endless sisters of Um Mohammad and their children and children's children stayed. We sat out in the garden sipping sugary tea and talking. I had to focus a bit more than usual because they are from countryside Palestine and have a different accent: most notably they say gaff for qaff, though a few of them used kaff. They all lamented the tiny size of my family (my brother and I) while boasting of their own. Um Mohammad has her 10, one of her sisters, 13, another 12. "Palestinians love children!" they told me. Um Mohammad's 24-year-old niece has three and one on the way. There were children everywhere during the party, running underfoot, being handed off, staring at me and offering me candy.
A Syrian friend later told me, "Oh the Palestinians. They have children like they're competing against each other."
Yes Palestinians and Irish Catholics! We will breed our way into taking back our lands!
Um Mohammad and her son refused to let me go home alone. "We understand its different in Jeramana, but girls don't walk by themselves in Husayniyya." They came with all the way to Mughayyam Jeramana, despite my protests of knowing the way. Really sweet woman, Um Mohammad - since I didn't stay over I've now promised a sleepover in the near future.
I love how people say, "In sha Allah mabrouk!" (Hopefully congratulations!). It is after all just the engagement, with the actual wedding planned after a year or so. Anything could happen between now and then, so mabrouk, in sha Allah.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Independence Day in Damascus
July 4th I went to a party of mostly Americans at a shared house in the old city, the first time I've hung out with foreigners my age in a long time. After I finished at the university, there was little chance to see foreigners on a daily basis, and the friends I had made all eventually traveled back home. There were a spattering of non-American foreigners as well, mostly Brits and Dutch, who were more than happy to join in the Ammerican merrymaking. I had no idea there were this many Americans here. I was told in the summer the number jumps big time.
But nothing brings you home like vodka watermelon. The party organizers had tried to get some pork, but found the massive half of a wild boar, shot in Jordan and presented to them in a plastic bag at a liquor store in Damascus, unappetizing. Understandably so. I know there are places to get pork in Damascus, in containers other than plastic bags, but not being a big fan of pig I couldn't offer the hosts any direction.
They grilled chicken instead, and I opted to eat some cake.
But nothing brings you home like vodka watermelon. The party organizers had tried to get some pork, but found the massive half of a wild boar, shot in Jordan and presented to them in a plastic bag at a liquor store in Damascus, unappetizing. Understandably so. I know there are places to get pork in Damascus, in containers other than plastic bags, but not being a big fan of pig I couldn't offer the hosts any direction.
They grilled chicken instead, and I opted to eat some cake.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
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.
"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.
Friday, October 19, 2007
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!
Friday, September 28, 2007
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.
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.
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