Departing Post

Well, my friends, it has come. It is time for me to leave Damascus and begin my two-week tour of the Middle East. I refuse to make the typical, “it feels like just yesterday” comment, because, honestly, it feels like a lifetime ago that I stepped off Turkish Airlines flight 0952 to Damascus. Naturally, it is odd to think that I have been living here for seven weeks, but that is because there were many times when I thought I would never get used to the Middle Eastern lifestyle, and now it is fun and (mostly) easy, not because it went by in a flash.

As for my coming travels…

From here I will head to Beirut with my roommate Rob. We will spend one night there and then head to the mountains in east Lebanon for four days of proper backpacking and camping. We will start in a town just north and east of Beirut and finish in a town just south and east of Tripoli, sleeping by the trail along the way. We will stay a night in Tripoli and then Rob will head back to Syria and I will spend a few days in Beirut before catching a flight to Jordan. In Jordan, I will meet up with Greg, who has been in Egypt for two weeks, and together we will head into Israel for five days. On the 3^rd of August, Greg will head east for more travel and I will fly to Istanbul, where I will spend two days staring at the Bospherus and maybe get wildly drunk for the first time in two months, before catching my plane to JFK on the 5^th.

I could not ask for more from my experience in Damascus, except in the way that we, as humans, always ask for more. I improved my Arabic, I made good friends, made some bad ones, met interesting people, met boring people, experienced life in a totally new place, and learned a lot about how I live and about how others do. I found the love of a lifetime (see post from June 27^th), and reaffirmed my affinity for popcorn and Diet Coke. I shed more than twenty pounds and more than twice the equivalent in anxieties and unfounded prejudices. I did it and it is done: I jumped in with both feet and I have no regrets.

Well, actually, I have two regrets:

First, I wish I had handled my blog differently. As nice as it was to share my experiences with all of you, I do feel that the blogging was a bit of a waste. The abridged, censored, and watered-down writing style that I had to adopt in order to keep my posts easily readable, to make this page socially and politically acceptable, and to avoid frightening any of my readers at home, definitely detracted from the quality and honesty of the finished product. In my own journal I was able to go into detail about the intensity of my emotions and the enormous effect that this trip has had on me, but on the blog I had to watch what I said.

I would have loved to be able to write with more detail about how excruciatingly lost I felt during my first few weeks, but I could not, because I have anxious parents who love me very much and don’t want me to suffer. I also did not want an inbox flooded with worried e-mails, and did not want to have friends and family thinking that my experience was not a good one just because it wasn't stress-free.

I would have loved to delve into the depth of the mental challenges that I struggled with on a regular basis, but the idea of giving away my deepest limitations and weaknesses on blogspot.com is abhorrent to me. Maybe in a book, but not so long as my feelings would remain one click away from FrEaKySyRiA86; my hubris is simply too large.

I would have loved to sing the praises of the merits of travel, and express my gratitude for all of the growth I have experienced here, but I did not want to seem overly self-satisfied and vain, and, more importantly, I wanted to keep some things for myself. I believe that important thoughts can easily lose some of their impact when they are over-simplified for web publication.

As a result, as some of you may have predicted from the passage above, I have decided to stop posting for the remainder of my trip. I am going to take the next two weeks to write for myself. I am going to read, take pictures, see the sites, socialize, and enjoy the last stretch of this journey without feeling obligated to explain the process to a remote audience. My plan is to post once more, during the few days after I return to the states, so, if you are interested, look for that between the 5^th and the 10^th of August. If you don't see it, well, sorry, I guess I got busy. Andrew: I pass the blog torch back to you. For god’s sake write about something other than bicycles.

My second regret is that, when I leave Damascus behind, I will also be leaving behind the most delicious hummus on the planet. In my will I have added that, in addition to Duck Pond in Cape Cod, the mountains of Colorado, the streets of New York City, and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, I would like some of my ashes scattered in a bowl of my favorite hummus, for all to eat. In this way, I will return to Syria one day, and a piece of me will live on in yummy goodness forever, or until swallowed.

I hope you all have enjoyed reading, and if anyone besides my mom wants to be updated as to my whereabouts, please email me at eric.harris.bernstein@gmail.com, and I will be happy to keep you updated as I am able, for the remainder of the trip.

Take Care,

Eric

Marmousa

A week ago, I mentioned that Bret and I were heading to a monastery for the weekend; here is the story. The Marmousa monastery is located about an hour north of Damascus, 20 km outside of a small town called Nebek. The monastery beds and feeds visitors free of charge, and only asks that guests pitch in with meal preparation and do some work around the campus. Donations are accepted but not prodded for, and everyone I have met who has gone agrees that it is a very special place. Bret’s rent ended on the day that we left, and since he is not taking classes, he decided that that would be an opportune time to take off for some traveling around the Middle East. His plan was to do a tour of monasteries in the mountains north of Damascus, and leave straight from there to Lebanon. This would be our last hurrah.

In class on Thursday, when I was waiting impatiently for the lesson to end so I could meet Bret and get going, a Danish girl named Mia heard of my plan and asked if she could join. She seemed nice enough, and even though I would have rather just gone with Bret, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra person to split the cost of the cab with. The three of us met by the gate to the old city where Bret and I had first arrived in Damascus, almost exactly five weeks before. I thought about how scary and hectic the traffic circle had seemed on that hot early June evening, and noted how familiar it now felt. I asked Bret what it felt like to be leaving for good, but he was busy trying to figure out which bus terminal we needed to go to and wasn’t really paying attention to my nostalgic rumination.

Eventually we found the right bus terminal and hopped on a microbus to Nebek. An hour and a half later, we pulled up to a parking lot in the middle of the desert. The parking lot funneled into a quarter-mile-long set of stairs that lead up to what looked like a tiny Medieval village, set into a mountain drainage. Just to the right of the drainage sat one large, castle-like, structure with high walls that rose proudly above the mountain slope. The castle was flanked on the left side of the drainage by a large structure that sat high up on the next hill, and on the right by a series of small- and medium-sized homes.

We reached the top of the stairs, ducked through two three-foot doors, and emerged onto a beautiful open terrace with chairs and tables scattered about. A monastery employee approached the three of us and asked if we had come just to look around, or to sleep. We told him we would like to stay for a few nights and he asked if we had brought sheets. Woops. After we had been scolded by one of the monks, the employee found us sheets to borrow, then led Bret and I to one of the rooms set aside for male visitors. Mia had been nervous-talking since we got in the microbus, so we were both glad to get some time away from her.

We crossed to the part of campus with smaller buildings and arrived at a cave that had been walled off and outfitted with a door. The concrete floor was covered with straw mats and half a dozen bare, clean, and narrow mattresses were neatly arranged throughout the room. It was cool in the cave and, despite the multitude of flies buzzing about, there was a simple charm to it. Bret and I threw our bags down then took a seat on the balcony outside of the cave with our feet dangling over the edge. We sat and watched the expansive, empty, desert landscape in silence.

Bret is a very independent and difficult guy to figure out, but we had become close over the summer. There is an intimacy between us now that had not been there when we sat together at that airport bar in early June. I suspect that it came as a result of undergoing new and uncomfortable experiences together, but maybe we just have good chemistry.

Bret and I are very different in a lot of important ways, but a capacity for endless introspection is a quality that we share, and that common trait led a lot of our talks to very interesting and personal places. The summer has been a challenge at times and a joy at others, and at each of these stages Bret and I talked openly and honestly about how we felt and why we thought we felt those ways.

By the time we sat down together on that balcony, it wasn’t just that each of us knew how the other had felt at various points throughout the summer that made us close, it was that we each had arrived at some deeper understanding of the traits and priorities that drove the other. Bret no long felt the need to distance himself in order to ensure his independence and I no longer worried about invading his private time. We understood each other. We trusted each other. I would be sad when we parted ways, but I no longer feared being alone in the Middle East, and my new craving for alone time is a part of Bret that has rubbed off on me.

A priest passed by and told us that meditation would start at seven-thirty, followed by mass at eight and dinner at nine, so we headed back to the main building, kicked off our shoes and ducked into the church. Two rows of pillars separated the chapel into three rectangular areas. Everyone was seated quietly on pillows situated against the rear wall. Bret and I took seats in the center room. There was a brief prayer, and then thirty minutes of silence. Some people just meditated; others crossed the room and carefully brought candles to their seats from a table by the entrance, and used them for light by which to read and write.

When the mass started, Bret and I observed passively. Father Paulo gave a very interesting sermon in English about interfaith relations, passed around communion accoutrements, and dismissed the worshipers for dinner. Everyone helped in the preparation and clean up of a dinner that consisted of noodle soup and the usual sides of bread, yogurt, apricot jam, and olive oil. When all the work was done, Bret and I headed off to find a good spot to look at the stars.

We laid flat on one of the castle walls, hearing little other than crickets, and enjoying what was one of the most impressive star displays I have ever seen. Bret said that he appreciated the monastery’s beauty and quiet, but admitted that the whole “Christian vibe” was really throwing him: “Sometimes I just can’t turn my brain off, and the fact that there is this belief that all of these people share, that brings them all together, and that I don’t hold, just really fucks with my head. Except for the meditation hour, I’ve been feeling pretty uncomfortable. I don’t think I’m gonna stay as long as I thought.” It was more of the honesty that I truly appreciate. “I know what you’re saying, I guess I just have an easier time putting it out of my head. I wouldn’t want to stay more than two nights either, though.” I replied. Then we talked about boobs. Soon we were resting our heads on t-shirt pillowcases, slapping flies, and trying to ignore the snoring of our three roommates.

Having turned in early with the rest of the monastery, we woke up early and sat out on the porch, enjoying the quickly fading morning coolness, and staring out at the desert valley below the monastery. I spent a really relaxing day studying, reading, and writing. At various points there were odd jobs to help with around the monastery: Bret fed chickens, I helped peel and chop eggplant, but mostly we were free to do as we wished. In the late afternoon a very friendly regular visitor showed Bret and I around some nearby caves, and then we joined a group of other westerners for a walk up the canyon to the goat herders’ house. The goat herders, who, predictably, take care of the monastery’s goats, live in a very simple, but clean and comfy, house about two kilometers west of the monastery. The young Syrian who lead us there explained that the monastery owns all of the land between the entrance and the goat herder’s house, and pointed out a few buildings scattered on the desert hills that serve as various retreats and chapels for special occasions.

The goat herders were in the middle of dinner when we arrived, so they gave us a key to the goat corral, and told us to have a look. We spent about half an hour chasing the goats around, cracking up as we watched them spew scat, and trying to get one by the horns. Eventually Raice, a truly hilarious Dutch man, got one, but quickly realized there was not much to be gained by petting, and much to fear by way of kicking and biting. “I’ve never felt wool before”, I commented in a moment of weakness. “...and you still haven’t”, Bret added. Woops.

When we tired of trying to kill a goat just by staring, alla Clooney in The Men Who Stare At Goats, we found that the herders were done with dinner and wanted us to have tea with them. We watched MTV Arabia, drank boiling hot tea of disposable plastic cups, and then headed back down the canyon for mass and dinner.

After we had eaten and done our part to clean up, Raice commented, “I think they’re about to put on a play and I think it’s going to be in Arabic, so let’s get the shit out of here.” I was pretty beat, and our plan was to leave at five-thirty to hike the fifteen kilometers through the desert back to Nebek, but I felt bad just cutting out, so I stayed to watch. The play was…odd, and afterward I was happy to wash up and go to bed.

Bret and I woke on time and joined with Mia and her new American friend (who happens to live in Boulder) for the hike back to town. We past the goat herders’ house and were joined by two of their dogs. The dogs followed us for at least six clicks as we rolled over large desert hills. We all got increasingly nervous that we would be blamed for losing the dogs, but they left us when we hit a paved road that we had been told would take us into town. Two kilometers later, Mia lost her nerve and was certain we were on the wrong track. “We’re on the only road in sight, in the middle of the desert, Mia, I think we’re looking for the town where the road ends”, I pleaded, but there was no stopping her. After she had flagged down a sixteen wheeler and confirmed the directions (walk until you aren’t in the middle of nowhere), we were on our way. Bret and I fell back and talked about guy stuff, while Mia and Amy sped ahead, eager to see the next sandy hill. One kilometer outside of town, a Syrian man insisted on giving us a ride into the city center, which we graciously accepted.

It was just past eight when he dropped us off near the bus terminal. We had some well-deserved mini pizzas for breakfast, found a pharmacy where I bought nail clippers and itch cream (my arms and feet were pocked with bloody craters from clawed-at mosquito bites), and hopped the micro back to Damascus. I could not wait for my shower and my bed. Damascus was home…-ish.

Bret’s new plan was to stay with me in Damascus for two days and then leave for Lebanon, so I had a house guest, which I was excited about. He got along with my roommates Amanda and Chistopherus very well and they both teased me for my, typically American, lack of hospitality. (As a side note, this is not my fault: There is no telling what Bret ever wants. He has the oddest and most specific cravings, I swear. “I could really go for six fritos, some cheese-whiz, and an O.J.” or, “Man, a cigarette and a guava-flavored soda would hit the spot”, or my favorite, “I would kill for a Tab, some Mentos, and three ecstasy pills.” Ok, I exaggerated a little, but still).

It was boiling that night in Damascus, and Bret and I listened in horror as my trustee fan shrieked, sputtered, and died, just as we laid down to sleep. There were about seven seconds of complete silence, and then we burst out laughing. I think the incident of the dying fan really sums up my experience of life as a westerner in Syria: You figure out how to get by on comparatively very little and you learn to laugh at the minor annoyances. Although, for the first seven seconds, it really felt like the world would stop spinning along with that godforsaken fan.

All my best,

Eric Harris Bernstein

Bathrooms

Can you believe it? Two in one day! It's Friday, so I thought I would catch up on some posting. I love Fridays in Damascus, really LOVE them. They are my favorite part of living in the Middle East so far. Everything is closed so you are really forced to relax. It is truly fantastic. What’s that you say? Talk about the bathrooms? Well, ok.

Bathrooms in Syria are a funny thing. Ignoring the obvious debate between squat or throne toilet, what fascinates me is how space is prioritized in wash facilities. I have yet to see a toilet with more than ten inches of space between the front of the bowl and the nearest wall or door. With so little clearance to work with, I find that I have to flatten myself against the front wall so that my pants don’t get caught on the toilet seat as I drop them. Also, because there is hardly room to stand, let alone lower oneself onto the seat gently, sitting down becomes a leap of faith, whereby one must sort of plop, and trust that the seat is down and that the bowl will not crack. This is to day nothing of the five feet of head space that most bathrooms are allotted. Having said all of this, I must acknowledge that cramped living conditions might necessitate such space-saving efforts. But here is the kicker: The showers are freaking huge.

For whatever reason, Syrians have decided that doing one’s business requires six square feet at most, but showering, well, showering requires at least the area of a small bedroom. The shower room in my house, which, from what I have seen, is about average, is roughly four feet wide and well over ten feet long. The single shower head is located in the middle of one of the longer walls, so a bather has at least four feet of space of latitude in either direction, and enough room to the rear to perform a back flip. The water runs into a drain by the shower’s foyer (the name I have given to the several feet of the shower room nearest the door), but one needs a squeegee to dry the water that escapes gravity and pools by the rear shower wall. I actually find squeegeeing my own dirty water quite fun and satisfying. Regardless, though, I do not understand why some of the space allotted for showering can’t be redistributed to WC facilities. The Syrian government seems to love to redistribute, so I have taken the matter up with them in the form of a letter to the President, Bashar Al-Asad.

As a fun side note, I have just discovered that I share my love of Metallica with the proprietor of the internet cafe where I do my blog posting, and since it is Friday and the place is empty, we are currently rocking out to "The Unforgiven" at full volume.

Rock on,

Eric

World Cup Fun

Hello everybody! How goes it? We just got through a pretty terrible heat wave, so things here are peachy again. Classes end in less than a week and I will be leaving for Lebanon that day, so all of the sudden I am very busy trying to plan my two weeks of travel, buying souvenirs, etc. As a result, I have been spending most of my internet time researching various destinations, and have had little time to blog. Now that the World Cup Finals have ended, though, I thought I would write a little bit about what it has been like to watch in Syria.

When I first arrived in Damascus, I could not wait for the matches to start. I pictured the U.S. making a run into the late rounds, and I was excited to experience football fandom in the Middle East. During my second week here, when the first matches started, I watched excitedly with locals and expats alike, but it was not long before I realized that I was embedded in the lair of a sports fan’s worst nightmare: the bandwagoner.

Syria’s national football team is decent, but they have yet to qualify for a World Cup Final, so, predictably, Syrians opted to support the team with the best chance for victory in each match. I should specify that, when I say “support”, I don’t just mean “cheer for”, we’re talking flag-waving, face-painting, horn-blowing, lunacy. Early in the tournament, I had hoped that once some key teams were eliminated this bandwagoning would dissipate. I assumed that by the third round, I would no longer have to endure thousands of phony Italians and Brazilians packing the streets in celebration after every one-sided victory, but, alas, the further the tournament progressed, the more arbitrary and fanatical the ad-hoc alliances seemed to become. Why would a teenager from Damascus care about Argentina at all, let alone enough to wear its flag like a cape?

Despite the annoyance of obnoxious Damascenes constantly rooting for the clear favorite, my friends and I went all over the city, watching the matches in a variety of venues. We watched at outdoor cafes with young Syrians smoking sheesha, and at big open restaurants with families sitting at large tables covered in Middle Eastern dishes. It was always fun, but when it was not a team that I cared for, I usually just defended the merits of baseball against attacks by my European friends.

When the U.S. played Ghana in the first elimination round, we watched it on an enormous public screen and waved my American flag towel when Landon Donavon scored to tie the game. During the game we were each interviewed by a Syrian news crew who asked us the leading question, “why are all the Syrians rooting for Ghana”? I was tempted to give the news crew what it wanted and say, “it’s probably because the United States supports Israel”, but Charles convinced me that would not be wise. On the way home, we were harassed and followed by a group of adolescents who threw rocks at us until a Syrian man yelled at them and they ran off. He later turned out to be gay and propositioned Rob, who has become accustomed to both positive and negative attention from locals who are fascinated by his blonde hair and blue eyes. After our public shaming, things got personal.

All my western friends were sick of seeing Syrians draped in foreign flags, celebrating victories that they had no stake in. Picking a team to support is one thing, but picking a new team for each game is just wrong. The common wisdom amongst expats became, “root against the crowd: root for the underdog”. Now, I have been a Mets fan since I went to Shea Stadium on my 7th birthday, so I know something about rooting for the underdog. Here is what I know about it: It sucks. The thing about underdogs is that they lose 90% of the time. Thrilling as a shocking victory might be, it is rare. When the championship finally rolled around, though, I thought the universe might be offering me a consolation prize for all of the disappointing outcomes: Spain, the clear favorite and Sport’s Illustrated predicted tournament winner, was slated to face the Netherlands, who had never before reached the finals. Surely, I thought to myself, the Damascene bandwagoners will support Spain and, if the Netherlands manages to edge it out, I will be able to see the look of defeat on the faces of all those soulless Syrian sports fans, and laugh. But what I found when I arrived at a café to watch the big finale was worse than I could have imagined.

As if the government had ordered it, the entire population of Damascus had divided into equal parts Spain and Netherlands supporters. Now, no matter what the outcome, at least half of the city would be celebrating when the final whistle blew. At that point, my interest in the match became purely my interest in seeing the World Cup finally end. When Spain scored in overtime, a number of Syrians, dressed in orange to show their support for Holland, cheered wildly. Rob was staring blankly at the large projection screen with his mouth hanging open. Bret had his head on the table. I quit. Give me some upper deck seats to watch the Mets lose any day of the week.

Peace.

- EHB

Trying To Beat The Heat (Or, Beaten By The Heat)

Hello friends! How is everybody? Good? Good. I am also well. I have just finished my second week of Arabic classes (half-way done!), and have decided to write about the weather. Enjoy!

Afternoon heat in Damascus is by far the hardest part of day-to-day life here. Everyone struggles. Of all the highly motivated, intelligent, and creative people that I have met here, none have devised a suitable strategy to beat the heat. Ideally, I would to spend a few hours at home studying, reading, and writing until things cool down, but my unshaded second floor room is not an ideal hide out. All morning, the sun bakes my room, and the outdoor common spaces offer similarly little refuge from the mid-day heat. Phrasing it more positively, I can say that the sweltering sun allows me to really get the genuine Damascus experience, by encouraging me to complain about the heat constantly (a favorite local pastime), and causing me to sweat through any clothes that I put on (another thing that Damascenes truly relish). The common wisdom amongst locals is that there is simply no way to function during summer afternoons so, between the hours of one and five or six, most Syrians aim to limit movement as much as possible, and find shade wherever it may occur. My desire for constant activity made this difficult at first, but I am learning quickly.

My roommates Christopherus and Amanda have truly mastered the art of doing nothing during the day. They usually wake up in the late morning, and emerge from their room only to get food or water until at least 5 o’clock. When I get back from class around two and see them sitting in the partly shaded living room, my typical greeting is, “good morning!” This description, by the way, should in no way be taken as mocking; I was well on my way to this sort of schedule myself, before classes started and forced me to rise early and face the weather.

My new roommate Rob, who moved in just after Charles moved out on Saturday, seems to be generally productive (or at least more productive than I) during the mid-day heat. Since he is not in school, and therefore wakes up later than I do, it is not so difficult for him to muster the energy to be productive during the afternoon. From what I can tell, he is usually out and about while I am in my room hiding from the sun, but a few times I have seen him lying comatose on his mattress in the middle of the day with a fan pointing directly at him.

My landlady, Hanin, seems to have the best approach of all. Because her room is in the shadiest corner of the ground floor, it is usually quite comfortable during the day, so when it is light out she leaves the house only when errands or mandated court appearances make it absolutely necessary. If I ever live in Damascus long-term, I will buy some exercise equipment, find a room like hers, and get friends to deliver all my essentials. Well, perhaps it’s not that bad, but I certainly do miss being able to duck into some air-conditioning in New York, and Boulder’s pleasant breezes.

Despite my misgivings about the afternoon weather, I find that any time spent outside at night is quite fantastic. Because there is little moisture in the air and very few clouds in the sky (I think), the heat escapes from the city rather quickly once the sun goes down. My house’s outdoor living room is usually very pleasant after 8 PM or so, and almost every restaurant in the Old City is built with a movable fabric shade covering an open roof, so that patrons can enjoy the pleasant evening temperatures as they munch on fatat and tabouleh. The pleasant weather is easily the clearest explanation for why Damascenes stay out so late. Or maybe it’s because their rooms are as hot as mine.

Even though outdoor spaces cool down quickly in the evenings, for whatever reason, my room remains a sauna until at least 3 AM. The walls must be a marvel of insulation engineering, because no matter how long I leave my door and window open, the temperature in my bedroom does not drop. As my parents can attest, I have always loathed sleeping in hot temperatures, so to fall asleep at night I have adopted the old “water and fan” technique.

Every night before bed, I fill a 1.5 liter bottle with tap water and point my floor fan directly at my head and chest. Whenever I start to feel uncomfortable, I grope for the bottle on the floor next to my bed and pour some of its contents onto my head, arms, chest, and lower legs. At first, my technique was timid because I was worried about damp sheets, but in the weeks that have passed I have learned that water evaporates quickly in my room’s hot and dry climate, so now I don’t even bother to open my eyes as I liberally soak my bed and body. The trick is to fall asleep quickly, before the water dries, and before another cabdriver parks his car in the alley adjacent to my house and starts blasting Middle Eastern pop music. I have gotten quite good at this, and I no longer view these rituals as a pain in the ass, as I did when I first moved in.

The only thing that still disturbs my sleep is catfights. No, I don’t mean two Syrian women pulling at each other’s hair through their hijabs, I mean actual fights between stray cats. There is nothing more disconcerting than the high pitched squealing of two kittens fighting over food scraps. It’s like nails being dragged across a chalkboard, but with the added image of Feifel clawing at Garfield’s bloodied neck. Because my Panamanian roommate, Carlos, once tried to feed these cats with a bowl of milk, my house is now a popular hangout for dozens of strays, and battles over territory are a nightly occurrence. Many times I have woken with a start to this dreadful noise and seen a scraggly feline fleeing to a neighboring roof. Up to this point it may seem that I have just spent an entire blog post complaining, but please allow me to elaborate on some benefits that I have received from all this temperature turmoil.

In dealing with the daily challenges of life in Syria, heat being just one of them, I have learned to deal with my physical and mental discomforts without allowing myself to become distraught. For my first two weeks here, I often found myself getting really worked up about the lack of sleep or the difficulty of filling the afternoons. I would start to think about home, and all of the people and activities that made my life great, and I would lament being stuck in the Middle East for over two months. This was neither productive nor pleasant – the good times were still great, but as soon as something started to bug me, I would find myself unable to move on and feel at peace. It was only after much practice and thought that I came to understand temporary moments of discomfort as exactly what they are: temporary. Now, when I feel frustrated or sad, I simply tell myself to wait half an hour and, almost always, I have forgotten my concerns altogether before ten minutes have elapsed.

So what if I don’t sleep well here and there? So what if my afternoons don’t go perfectly? These things are hardly worth getting upset about, and realizing this made a world of difference. Learning to be patient when dealing with challenges is by far the most helpful and enlightening thing I have learned so far this summer.

I hope everyone had a good Fourth of July holiday. I am heading to a monastery in the mountains north of Damascus for the weekend, which is supposed very beautiful and peaceful, and I am really looking forward to some quality journaling time. I am going with Bret, who is leaving directly form the monastery to travel around the Middle East for six weeks, so this will be our last hurrah in Syria and I am looking forward to some raunchy conversation with him, as well.

Ma’sallama

Eric

Struggling With Addiction In The Middle East

Hello readers! Happy Independence Day! I was really stoked this morning to realize that Syria has a fourth of July too. Of course for them it's just "Sunday", but I think I picked up on some extra good will floating around. I hope all of you are enjoying your barbecues and fireworks shows; I will be grilling lamb, eating hummus, and drinking crappy whiskey until I remember all the words to the Star Spangled Banner. On a more serious note, here is a something I jotted recently about a terrible problem I am having.

In my zeal to adapt to life in the Middle East, I am afraid I have picked up a habit that is quite common among the locals, and which could have disastrous effects on my life and health. I hardly think I need to name the habit in question, but I will say that the more I try to resist it, the more I find that I am in the grips of a powerful chemical force.

In the States, this habit would not be economically or socially viable, but it is so affordable and widely practiced in Syria, that it is hard to say no. Everywhere you go here people offer you left and right. There is so much downtime in Damascene culture that people do it just to fill the day. Sometimes in the mornings I buy what should be enough for a week, and find myself back at the store for more in just a few hours. It just feels so good, and it so easily accompanies any activity; here, they even let you do it in restaurants!

The behavior I am referring to is, of course, eating humus.

Back home, I was lucky enough to grow up near Sahadi, an excellent Middle Eastern grocery store, so I had always been a fan of humus, but I relied mostly on my parents to supply it and regulate my consumption. When I went away to college, it was easy to stay away; the quality in Pennsylvania and Colorado did not compare to what I was used to, and it was too expensive to purchase on my student budget. When got here, however, and found a dealer just a few blocks from my house in the Old City, all hell broke lose.

You might think this post is somewhat tongue-in-cheek, but this is no laughing matter. I eat a disgusting amount of humus. I can easily eat half a kilogram in one sitting. I eat it with everything – bread, eggs, meat, a spoon. The other day I seriously considered trying to make it into a tea. What’s worse is, I don’t think I will ever be able to function normally without it. Whenever we run out on Fridays, when the Arab stores close for a day of prayer, I find myself lying in bed motionless, moaning deliriously for hours. One particularly tough Friday, I did manage to get out of bed, but only so that I could stumble to Umayyad Mosque and search for the shop owner and beg him to give me, “just a taste! Two kilos, please!” I was promptly escorted out, and told never to return.

I don’t know what I am going to do now that classes have started, because it is a faux paux to eat in the classroom, and I can’t bare the embarrassment of returning from the “bathroom” with chickpea stains all over my face again. If anyone has a good idea of how I can deal with this dilemma, I want to know, because this is a serious problem. Below is a poem that I recently wrote for a bowl of hummus in my refrigerator:

O Bowl of Hummus
Thy texture is so smooth
Like desert sand
Thy taste incredible
Like water to a parched traveler

I caress thee with bread
Kiss thee with veggies
Hug thee with mine Tupperware
I care for thee like a mother bear for her cub
Until I consume you

If only Romeo had had just a taste of your glory
He would have forgotten Juliet in an instant

I wish to bathe with you, in you
To commune with your blended splendor
Until our souls are one
And I am nothing but chickpea, tahini, and olive oil

Yours forever,

E.H. Bernstein

I hope that this post finds everyone well. I cannot believe I have been in Damascus for over a month and that my trip is half over. I wouldn’t say time has flown by, but as always, in retrospect, it seems like no time at all. I am already having to plan my end-of-summer trip in late July, and I guess it's really not that far off. Anyway, shout out to Max Bosworth who just found a job - Forell, get your s*@% together.

All my best to all of you loyal readers!

- Habeeb Al’Hummus

Eric Visits The Hammam

Hello friends!

I am happy to report that over the last week and a half things in Damascus have really started to roll. After my trip to Lathakia, I quickly began to feel much more at ease with the lifestyle here. Accepting the slower pace was hard for me, but once I did, I've found myself much happier.

One of the best experiences that I had in my last week of freedom, before classes started last Sunday, was a visit to the Turkish bath (or hammam, as the Arabic goes). I had read about Damascus' hammams in my guidebook and was excited to check one out, so off I headed with roommate Charles in tow.

We walked to the Hammam Nur Ad-Din, which is located just down the street from my house, in the Old City’s spice district. The bathhouse was built around the year 400 A.D. and is said to be one of the oldest functioning hammams in the world. Despite its age it has not lost charm.

A misleadingly small doorway led to a cavernous lounge with a domed ceiling that rose at least 40 feet. We traded our valuables for towels, swapped our sneakers for wooden sandals, and headed to the bath facilities. At the rear of the welcoming lounge lay a portal, behind which the humidity increased noticeably and the age of the building was suddenly apparent. Carpets and wood dissolved into bare stone walls and floors are in the classic Damascene black-and-white-striped pattern; the doorways were large and arched. We took a seat on a bench opposite a large wooden door, and awaited further directions.

A bathhouse attendant, disguised in the standard loner towel, handed us each a bar of soap and a scrubbing tool of wound twine, then ushered us into an adjoining room with three doorways. On the sides, two open doorways lead to smaller rooms where attendants soaped and rinsed visitors. In front stood a door of heavy dark wood, reinforced with black steel crossbars for an extra medieval appearance. This was opened to reveal a a white stone steam room about thirty feet wide and fifteen feet long. The air was just clear enough to see through.

The attendant motioned for us to sit on the floor on either side of a stone basin with a double faucet. He used a stainless steel bowl to splash us each with lukewarm water from the sink, and left us to enjoy the steam. Charles shared some tidbits of history about the bath with me - that they were primarily intended to be used to weary travelers recovering from journeys through the desert - and we commented on how good the humidity felt after the persistent dry heat of Damascus.

After a few minutes of enjoying the humidity, the attendant returned and pointed us through an open doorway into a small square-shaped room in the corner of the large steam room. This, I soon realized, housed the steam pipes that controlled the climate of the entire facility. Sitting just a few feet from the jets of scalding steam, Charles and I looked at each other and laughed, like two fraternity brothers who, after throwing back a pair of shots, realize that they have just had one too many. The steam spewing from the open pipes settled like a large cloud at about shoulder level, so everyone seated in the small room would stand up intermittently to breath in the heavy steam and to to suppress a cough. The room was far hotter and more humid than any sauna or steam room back home. When I stood up and breathed in the heavy steam directly it felt like inhaling soup. The sensation in my lungs was incredible.

Just when I was about to throw in the towel, a new attendant came in and lead Charles and I back into one of the washrooms where we were directed to lie, turn over, and sit up, as he scrubbed us each with a steel wool-like exfoliating cloth, then soaped and rinsed us each in turn. When he was done, he instructed us to return to the steam room to use the soap and scrubbers we had been given to wash at our leisure. Sitting by the basin, Charles passed me a pommace stone, which I used to scrub three weeks worth of dead skin and Damascus funk from my feet.

After we were properly clean and had taken a few last breaths of the heavy steam, we headed for the pre-exit cold shower, which felt like nothing short of heaven. A bathhouse employee used a fresh sheet to shield me from view as I shed my now-sopping-and-transparent towel. He wrapped me in the one fresh sheet and covered my shoulders with a second. After he had done the same to Charles, he sent us clomping in our wooden sandals to the main entrance room, where a friendly attendant replaced my covers yet again. He covered me from ankle to shoulders in freshly laundered towels and sheets, wrapped a third towel around my head. He asked where I was from and welcomed me to Damascus.

Charles and I took a seat on the Syrian carpets that cover the waist-high benches surrounding the large front room. In moments, a bathhouse attendant brought us tea and cold water, and we sat there with our feet dangling from the bench, drinking, talking, and observing the late-afternoon crowd that was now trickling in. I felt a profound calm. Around the room, fathers helped their young children undress and replaced their own thobes with hammam-issued towels. Men emerged from the steam rooms, knelt in prayer, then joked with one another. 

Everyone was smiling.

I think this was the moment I began to feel at home in Damascus. The site seeing that I had done previously was fascinating, but always left me feeling like an outside observer. At the bathhouse I felt actively engaged in Middle Eastern life. It was really great to see that the staff treating everyone with the same kindness and hospitality. No one even seemed to notice that the two visitors. 

When Charles and I agreed that it was time to get some food, we headed to the front desk, collected our valuables and paid the grand total for our luxurious visit: 350 sp each – roughly $7.50 – a very reasonable price for such an incredible and relaxing experience.

I hope everyone is well and that I haven’t lost too many readers due to my sporadic posting; with school having started, I find myself with less and less time to write and get to the internet café, but I will do my best to stay keep current.

Cheers,

Eric

Lathakia

Hello friends! I apologize, again, for another lengthy post, but my weekend trip to Lathakia was a very cool experience and it requires a lot of attention.

Allow me to preface this post by saying that adjusting to life in Syria was not an easy process for me. When I first got here, I told myself that the first week would be the hardest, and that once I got set up with a room and a tutor everything would be fine. When I left for Palmyra with Bret on the 12^th, I really believed that all my misgivings would dissipate by the time I got back, so when I returned from the desert only to find all my anxieties waiting to ambush me in the hot, polluted, streets of Damascus, I felt extremely disillusioned. The few days that followed were undoubtedly the most difficult of my trip so far, and it would not be a great exaggeration to say that they were some of the most difficult days of my life.

I sought advice from some folks back home and some of my well-traveled roommates, and everyone suggested that enrolling in the university, rather than just studying with my private tutor, would give me some much-needed structure and would be a good way to meet people and get more involved in my life in Damascus. I enrolled in the university for the July semester, which starts one Sunday the 27^th. In the meantime, I took steps to stoke my interest in the Middle East; I borrowed books from my roommates on Syrian history and politics (the latter being mostly banned by the government and unavailable in libraries of bookstores), and re-doubled my efforts to explore the city. I quickly began to feel much better, and when I headed off to visit the Mediterranean on Syria’s Cote d’Azur last weekend, I was confident that I would not experience the post-travel blues that had followed my trip to Palmyra.

The plan was to take an overnight train north out of Damascus to Allepo, and then take a connecting train the following morning to Lathaki. Greg and Toni, my travel companions and friends from the hostel, had taken the overnight train before and strongly recommended it. Greg added that the posted penalty of five Iraqi Dinar for pulling the emergency break made the resulting thrill a bargain at twice the price. We shelled out an extra 100 sp each for the sleeper car, but found that the state room chandelier was too dim, and the salmon was terribly overdone. The pianist was a nice touch, though.

Once we were underway, I pulled out a bottle of whiskey and we drank while sitting three abreast on the seats that folded out from underneath my mattress. Through our dirty, west-facing window we watched the cityscape as the train rumbled out of Damascus. Slowly we rolled through the industrial district, followed by run-down suburbs, and then we watched as the last of Damascus faded into flat desert. We switched off the lights to see better and starred out in silence at the dark, expansive, desert leading up to the foot of the distant mountains that rise just before the coast.

Soon after we got in bed, heavy breathing told me that Greg and Toni were fast asleep. As they slept, I sat up with my back propped against the compartment wall that doubled as my headboard, transfixed by the dark desert. This desert was different than the one Bret and I had seen the weekend before; drainages had cut sharp lines through the earth and the sand was darker and rockier. Curious, I got out of bed and stepped into the hallway, where the eastern-facing windows can be lowered for a cool nighttime breeze. The view from these windows were even more spectacular, with desert stretching out for miles and miles, towards Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, and beyond. I leaned my elbows on the sill, stuck my head into wind, and drew in deep breaths of clean desert air. It felt good to be traveling again; for me, there is an indescribable thrill that comes whenever I am moving through a new and strange place. Standing in the hallway, I wondered if my problems with adjusting to life in Damascus had been mostly the result of the abating thrill, and the realization that life in the Middle East is no more inherently exciting (or in some ways, less inherently exciting) than life in the States. My experience in Damascus is not that of a tourist in awe, but is closer to a permanent resident, who has to cope with all the tasks and frustrations of everyday life, as well the rewards.

Our train to Lathakia left just twenty minutes after we arrived in Aleppo so there was no time to look around. We boarded the sweaty passenger car and excitedly awaited what we had been told was the prettiest natural scenery in Syria.

Sure enough, the transition from the desert to the coast was remarkable. Farms that sat in valleys between the mountains reminded me of movies I have seen that take place in rural France. Some scenes seemed to be straight out of a Van Gogh, with rickety farmhouses scattered amongst patches of crops, all bordered by rushing streams. The climate changed as dramatically as the scenery and by the time we arrived in Lathakia the three of us were dripping with sweat from the humidity.

We found our hotel, threw our stuff down, asked for directions, and immediately headed for the beach. The microbus driver was going well over 100 (km/h), blasting his horn and weaving recklessly through traffic the whole way. It was like a roller coaster - half terrifying, half thrilling – and on turns the three of us gripped our seats for dear life, but when the rickety micro pulled up to the beach and I saw the light blue water covering the entire distance to the horizon, I nearly had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. We hurried across the burning black sand, stripped down to our bathing suits, and rushed for the water. I had been warned that I would be disappointed by the Mediterranean because of its warm summer temperature, but now I can say with some certainty that everyone who told me that is in desperate need of a more positive outlook, or a heavy dose of Prozac. The water I swam in that day was perfect in absolutely every imaginable way. The three of us alternated between swimming, treading water, and rolling in the waves, for almost two hours.

When we had had our fill, we jumped the same roller coaster microbus back to town. After showering, Toni wanted a nap, so Greg and I headed to a nearby café that was playing the soccer game. Afterwards, we wondered along the port’s fence, guessing what purpose the various military boats might serve, and hoping we didn’t catch the attention of any heavily armed security guards. Eventually, we happened on a very pleasant avenue sitting adjacent to the Med; stairs offered access down to a small beach, where restaurants had set up patio tables and chairs and were serving families, couples, and groups of friends, who had come to enjoy the view and the pleasant breeze.

Lathakia has a totally different feel than Damascus; the population, especially the youth, seemed much more content to me. In Damascus, I often sense a deep frustration amongst young people that I meet. I would have to be very glib to suggest that I know what it is these young Damascenes are craving, but whether it is money, sex, or more promising careers, it is not something that is readily available in Syria. In Lathakia, though, rather than wishing they were in the west, living the lives they see in music videos, young people seem more than happy with the beautiful Mediterranean, with its small waves that lap against a shore of volcanic rock, and a culture that is significantly more relaxed than New York or Los Angeles.

For a long time, Greg and I sat by the water and discussed the various political, economic, geographic, and cultural factors that might contribute to the slow pace that the Syrian youth seem to either love or despise. I wrote several pages in my journal as we talked, and as the sun set over the water, we realized that Toni would probably be wondering where we had gone. We hopped a cab to the hotel, collected Toni, and walked to the restaurant district, where we failed in our mission to find fresh fish, and settled for Italian food in a very nicely decorated restaurant with a good view of the street. All three of us were spent from the sun, so after dinner we headed back to the hotel and promptly passed out.

The next day we got up reasonably early with the ambitious plan of a mid-day visit to Sala’adin’s castle in the mountains, and an afternoon on the beach. We negotiated with a microbus driver to take us there, wait while we looked around, and take us back. Hasim, the driver, seemed very nice, and was extremely amusing. He stopped to buy us coffee on the way, and insisted that we each share cigarettes with him on the way to the castle. Only Toni had the willpower (or as I prefer to call it, the stubbornness) to refuse.

At the castle, Hasim got us in for free and gave us a very interesting interpretation of each room, of which it was my unfortunate responsibility to translate. “Hasim says this is the nightclub…this is where they had orgies…this is where Sala’adin used to smoke hasheesh. Very interesting Hassim, thank you, how did you learn all of this?” Along the way, Hasim also insisted that we talk, and attempt to marry, every Syrian woman that we saw. Despite all the joking, though, back at the microbus station in Lathakia, things with Hasim got hairy when he demanded an extra 1,000 sp. A local man came to our aide, helping to translate and reason with our now irate driver. After there was much excitement, and a large crowd had gathered to watch and weigh in, we agreed to pay him an extra 500 sp, and informed him that we would not, thank you very much, be having dinner at his house that night, as he had suggested earlier in the day.

The local man who had come to our rescue was named Ali, and after we had sorted things out with Hassim, he invited us to take a walk and get something to eat. He was wearing a baseball training camp shirt, so he was all right by me. Ali insisted on buying us lunch at his cousin’s shwarma stand and he told us all about his childhood in Lathakia, and his travels throughout the region. After lunch, we exchanged numbers with Ali, who promised to meet us for dinner that night, and then found a cab to a nearby beach. By the water, I bought an American flag towel (the first American flag anything I had seen in Syria), and we had a great late-afternoon swim.

That night, Ali showed us Lathakia’s Roman arch and we ate fish as he told us more about the changes that Lathakia has gone through since he was young. After we parted ways, Toni turned in for the night while Greg and I, always ready to explore, searched out an ice cream parlor and then sat and watched the port, which was busy, even well past midnight. The docks looked beautiful in the soft orange light from regularly posted street lamps. The flood lights that projected white from the tops of the various ships’ control towers gave them a strong and dignified appearance, rising like faces over the deck, keeping watch of their precious cargo.

Enormous cranes stacked shipping containers ten-high on the enormous freighters and as soon as a boat would fill up, it would power out of the port without delay. Compared to the miniscule craft shops of Damascus, this large scale, non-stop, commerce was exciting to see. Eventually Greg and I headed back to hotel, where I smashed a three-inch long cockroach with my sneaker. Disabled in the hind quarters, I watched the giant roach crawl with its front legs across the floor, like Liutenant Dan after the sneak Vietnamese attack in Forrest Gump, before I finished it off. Gross.

On Sunday, we took a quick walk by the water and got on an early afternoon bus back to Damascus. I knew I would miss the swimming and mountains in Lathakia, minus the cockroach-inviting humidity, but I was excited to start classes in a week, and was more determined than ever to make peace with my new surroundings, and learn to appreciate the culture.

On an unrelated note, I have been asked by a few people (ok, just my mom), why I don’t post more often. Because I want to try to make my posts somewhat readable, and at least a little bit interested, I need time to edit and decide on what to write about. Also, because I (obviously) don’t have internet at home, I am forced to write my posts at home and then go a restaurant with wireless internet so that I can e-mail the new post to myself. Once I have done that, I have to go to a different internet café that has disabled the government blocks on certain websites, so that I can post to blogspot. Because I am trying not to spend all my time on the web, the process of posting sometimes stretches out over a few days. I will continue to do my best, though, and I am very appreciative of anyone interested enough to stick with me on these lengthy stories.

Ma’asallama!

Eric

Real World: Damascus

Hello eager readers! Apologies for my radio silence of late; I was on the Syrian coast for the weekend and opted for the beach over the internet café. Because I am backed up on posts, I am going to go ahead with a post I intended to put up last week, and will fill everyone in on my trip in the next few days.

Well, you knew this was coming; I suppose it is a right of passage. Sooner or later I was bound to get drunk with a bunch of Middle Easterners and write about it: Fortunately for you, today is that day. Where to start?

Last Thursday I found myself in Damascus with no big nighttime plans in particular, so when my roommate Charles invited me to a party that most of my housemates were attending, I was excited to have something to do (since the week in the Arab world starts on Sunday, Thursday is the Arab Friday – Arab Wednesday is the new Arab Thursday, etc, etc.). I was slightly suspicious about what Syrian nightlife would be like, but decided that I would be remiss not to give a night out in Damascus my best effort. Accordingly, I downed three large Lebanese beers before we headed into the sweaty Syrian night to find a good time.

The party was being thrown at a house of ex-pats and students similar to my own, and on the way over my housemates informed me that Hanin might be in attendance. I had heard of the party antics of my landlady/tutor, and had even witnessed the aftermath on a few occasions, when she gave her best efforts to overcome pounding hangovers and teach me the complexities of Arabic grammar, but I had yet to witness my host in action. That, in and of itself, would be worth the proverbial price of admission, I told myself as we walked.

When we arrived, the party was only just getting going, so to fill the awkward silences I focused my efforts on polishing off several more beers, and taking down a glass or two of Arak (a licorice-tasting Middle Eastern spirits that is typically served with an equal part water). A few minutes later some Kurdish gentlemen arrived with a guitar and started singing and whistling along to some very beautiful Kurdish standards. Oh yes, I thought to myself as the drinks reached my head, I know this feeling; yes, I know this feeling well: This is drunk. This is a good feeling.

It wasn’t long before I convinced my new Kurdish friends to provide the musical accompaniment to Hotel California, and was leading a robust sing-along. I even threw in some Arabic translation to liven things up (ahlan wa sahlan a funduq California). Soon my Panamanian housemate Carlos was asking if I wanted to come with him to a park near our neighborhood to meet up with some locals friends of his. The park in question is a popular gathering spot for ex-pats and natives alike, because the police allow open containers and boisterous crowds there, without interference. Earlier in my trip I had hung out in said park with some friends from the hostel I was staying in, but I had yet to see this hotspot in full swing, and since I had exhausted my mental songbook…sure! Why not?

When we arrived, I was introduced to two yuppis in their mid-twenties – one Iraqi and one Afghani (you can’t make this up). I was fairly certain I had already witnessed the pinnacle of public park drinking when, sophomore year of high school, one of my closest friends, Ben Wilkofski, consumed what he later described as, “two enormous glasses of straight gin”, and ended up curled in a ball on the ground puking his guts out and screaming to a crowd of friends, “you guys, I’m dying! I need to go to a hospit-BLAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH”, but nonetheless, I was interested to see what these two war refugees would have to show me about partying in the Middle East.

Carlos suggested heading to a nightclub to find some girls, and when he suggested this our companions could barely contain their enthusiasm, especially since it was Michael Jackson night at the Cham Palace. The four of us piled into the Iraqi’s car and I was soon experiencing Middle East driving from the passenger seat, set to the thumping bass of “Billie Jean”.

Now, I am not a partier compared to many of my friends, but having worked at a Brooklyn bar every summer since I was eighteen, I am well accustomed to rowdy nights (and late mornings) out, so despite the strange setting, I was still relatively unimpressed. My Iraqi driver, on the other hand, was beside himself with glee:

“Jackson night is the best! Always we go to the DJ and we ask to play a Michael Jackson and then we make a circle and then someone dance like a Michael Jackson! It is the best, I love a Michael Jackson!”

The sheer dorkiness of my companions was as endearing as it was lame; they were like little kids headed to an amusement park, only drunk. The most interesting part was how hopeful they were that they would find some unsuspecting Syrian beauties to dance with. Although Damascus is far more liberal than, say, Saudi Arabia, and many of the women here wear western clothing, I seriously doubted their claims of a dance floor packed with promiscuous Syrian seductresses. Also, I remembered the sagely advice given to me by Ali, a Palestinian friend of mine from New York, which went something like this: “Eric, try to find Arab girl, but be careful, because if they catch you, they cut your dick”. Thanks Ali, but I think California girls (ok, maybe one in particular) are more than exotic enough for me. For their sake, though, I played up my own enthusiasm by saying that I had heard New York City nightclubs didn’t hold a candle to the nightlife in Damascus.

Sure enough, we arrived to find the club deserted - not a Michael Jackson impersonator to be found, and a number of other clubs yielded similar results. At a few destinations, because I am American, I had to negotiate with the bouncer to get my all-male group in the front door, but even these venues were empty. Eventually we gave up and returned to the park. I turned down a number of invitations to drive to a nearby mountain to watch the sunrise (which was still four hours away), but discovered that my new Iraqi friend belonged to the same gym as me and I promised I would help him get in shape. I had a few drinks with some hostel friends who I spotted in the park, then called it a night.

In the morning I experienced another familiar feeling. Oh yes, I thought to myself through a pounding headache, I know this feeling; yes, I know this feeling well: This is hung-over. This is a bad feeling.

Cheers,

Eric

The Desert Calls

By the middle of last week, the hustle and bustle, constant noise, and smog of Damascus had left me ill at ease. I wasn’t quite sure what it was that was giving me mixed feelings about this new city, but I recognized that I hadn’t really found a space in which I felt comfortable; my room is clean and reasonably comfortable for sleeping, but it is hot during the day and not that appealing for sitting or studying. I had searched for a pleasant park, a shady bench, or a quiet coffee shop, but my efforts turned up no satisfactory locales. I began pondering a weekend trip to escape for a little perspective.

Coincidentally, on Wednesday, Bret called and asked if I wanted to check out Aleppo for the weekend. I was a bit turned off when my guidebook described Aleppo as Damascus with more hustle and bustle, but for the sake of a travel companion, I agreed anyway. I met up with a newly mustachioed Bret at a nearby park at 6:30 on Saturday morning.

Eric: “This should be cool, I read that Aleppo’s supposed to have some really crazy markets.”

Bret: “Aleppo? No, we’re going to Palmyra, we’re looking at Roman ruins in the desert.”

Eric: “Oh, cool."

Pause.

Eric: "Thank god.”

I was glad I had misheard Bret when we originally discussed the trip; Palmyra (Tadmur in Arabic) is a much smaller city - population between 50,000 and 75,000 - located in the center of a 500-kilometer stretch of empty desert between Damascus in the west and Deir ez-Zor, near the Iraqi border to the east. Ancient Palmyra served as a vibrant stop-over for caravans traveling the silk roads between Turkey and the Mediterranean. Today it is home to some of the world’s most expansive and best preserved Roman ruins.

Some low-key desert site seeing will surely help my inner-city blues, I thought as I boarded the coach bus.

Thirty minutes into the two-and-a-half hour ride, dusty Damascus faded into the sand and an enthralling desert landscape laid out before me. The deserts of Utah and Arizona, though just as grand, are made friendly by familiar gas stations, frequent traffic signs, and well kept roads. There were no such pleasantries here; the blazing sun, rough sand, and crumbling roadside homes combined to form a menacing and beautiful site. This was a harsh desert.

The bus passed abandoned buildings, Bedouin tents, and piles of garbage. People near the highway avoided contact with exposed earth like it was a lava flow, seeking refuge in the shade of any structure they could find. One image that stuck in my head is of an old man sitting in a folding beach chair propped against the shady side of his mobile home. I imagined that in the afternoon he would follow the shade to the opposite side of his trailer, and wondered if he would spend the middle of the day lying flat underneath it.

When we pulled up to the bus stop in Palmyra, two things became clear. First: this modern town exists only for tourism, and second: it is low season. When we step off the bus we are immediately mobbed by over half a dozen taxi drivers, each one shouting and beckoning us to his car. Intense. A calm and commanding man pushed through the crowd and spoke in a tone that did not seek to compete with the panicked cabbies.

His name was Mohammed and he offered us a good rate, breakfast included, in his hotel. Mohammed led us through the pack and across the parking lot to his waiting car. The room he showed us was clean and even air-conditioned. For half the price of the room we had eyed in hostel nearby, we were happy to switch.

After dropping our bags, Mohammed took us into town where we had a pricey lunch (8 bucks each), and scanned our surroundings. Modern Tadmur was built when French explorers pushed natives out of the ruins and its surrounding oasis in 1929. I haven't visited at peak season, but I can firmly say it is extremely depressing in the summer months.

It is a place without purpose and without distraction. It exists only to sustain the celebration of an ancient city that was more habitable and vibrant in the first few centuries A.D. than Tadmur is today. The wonders of technology have missed this place.

The run-down restaurants and shops, intended to attract wealthy westerners, are empty; their owners mill about aimlessly. Everyone we pass artfully traps us in conversation, feigning hospitality in hopes of making a buck or two. I snap a few pictures of the deserted main drag as the local Imam issues a wheezy mid-day call to prayer from a nearby mosque, then Bret and I head into the blazing mid-day sun to find out what could possibly attract busloads of tourists to this place every year.

We were not disappointed. Simply put: the ruins are amazing. I can honestly say it was the most incredible tourist site I have ever seen; the first century Temple of Ba'el is a city in itself, marked by 40-foot walls, with a stout shrine to Hellenist gods in the center and chariot paths winding all about. Outside the temple, in what was the city center, high pillars mark the ancient colonnade, lined with remnants of small houses and leading to another first century temple. And best of all, being in Syria, the ruins are, for better or worse, nearly devoid of paternalistic barricades and warnings of "keep off", "don't touch", and "no pictures". The experience of visiting is really yours to make.

Because of the extreme heat, we had the entire site almost completely to ourselves. Three and a half hours, and liters of sweat, later we had our fill, and found a café where we sat down for water and orange sodas. The thermometer read 45°C - roughly 113°F. Bret put his head on the table and promptly fell asleep. I sat up writing in my journal. Despite the slight physical discomfort, I could not believe how peaceful I felt. I hadn’t fully realized the extent to which I have been de-urbanified; it felt so nice to be in a quiet place, surrounded by expansive wilderness. Not the natural parks I was accustomed to, but still the wildness of the place was palpable.

After our rest we hired a taxi to take us to the Valley of the Tombs, an area of several square miles that is pocked by tombs of various shapes and sizes. The scale of the valley is unbelievable; three-story tombs dot the horizon as far as the eye can see, becoming nothing more than large rocks at the horizon. At a number of times throughout the day these tombs are opened to public for a small entrance fee and it is well worth the price.

Afterwards, we washed up at the hotel and walked into town for dinner. We ate at a restaurant that sits on the roof of one of Tadmur’s nicer hotels. The all-you-can-eat buffet was covered in traditional Bedouin fare. It was delicious, and I put down three plates not counting salad and desert. Once finished, Bret and I admired the view from the terrace where we met the restaurant manager, Jamal, who claimed to be the cousin of Mohammed the hotel owner. He offered us tea and coffee and we looked out on the view as he explained his childhood in the oasis, and the most recent mass migration into the new city, that hardly existed thirty years ago. With an hour to kill before the U.S. v. England World Cup match, Bret and I took a stroll down the main drag to digest.

Kids ran about in the streets as adults watched from lawn furniture parked on the sidewalk. My feelings about the town’s depressing vibe did not change, but I noted that the people were generally very pleasant, and that the streets we considerably less heartbreaking in the cooler evening. Along the way a very cute six-year-old attached himself to Bret’s right hand and refused to let go. It is a serious faux pas in the Middle East even to fawn or point to to a cute child, so one can imagine how locals would feel about an American in affectionate contact with a stranger's kindergartner. Our new friend walked along with us as Bret mumbled under his breath about his impending doom.

Once Bret was freed from his long-lost illegitimate child we headed to an outdoor café that had set up a projector screen to show the soccer game. We smoked sheesha and I embarrassed Bret thoroughly by cheering loudly for the U.S. The crowd appreciated me filling the requisite role of outspoken, slightly obnoxious American. We had a great time and I joked with some of our neighboring tables in the best Arabic I could muster.

The 3:30 AM call to prayer kept me up that night, but we woke early in hopes of completing our sight-seeing before the day’s heat set in. This proved a failed effort, though, when, at 7:15, the temperature was already well above 90°F. We revisited the Valley of the Tombs for some tourist-free photos then hiked to the Fakhr al-Din al-Ma'ami Castle, which sits atop a mountain overlooking the ancient and newer city. It felt great to be hiking in a smog-free breeze again, furnace blast thought it was, and the well-deserved respite at the summit gave me more time to think about how much I had come to value the serenity of the outdoors.

I was certain I could get lost in that sand and sun for the rest of my life and not have a trivial worry as long as I lived.

Back at the hotel I saw that my urine had turned to a healthy brown, so I hydrated and we took in the desert landscape over a light breakfast, served late as per our special request. Before our 2:30 bus we wondered the oasis, and chatted with some of the locals who have re-inhabited it since the French departure. A nurse from the nearby hospital showed us his small creek and insisted that we wet our heads with its cool water. I did not fight him on this gracious offer, and he even helped Bret get properly soaked by filling his cupped hands with water and gently spreading it through my unsuspecting travel companion’s well-coiffed hair. I got a great picture of the two of them kneeling by the water.

Back in Damascus, I still didn't feel much of a sense of belonging, but at least I had started to form a pretty good idea about where I did belong.

EVERYONE CAN RELAX, I FOUND A GYM (and a phone, house, tutor)

As-salaamu ‘alaykum!

It has been a few days since my last post and a lot has changed, so forgive me for this lengthy update. Please feel free to skim. Since Saturday morning I have rented a room for the month in my tutor’s house, began Arabic lessons and, most importantly, joined a gym!

The house is the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, which I like because it is just down the block from some of the best markets in town, and still in walking distance from the Christian Quarter, where the “action” is. I have six roommates, not including my tutor, Hanin (ha-neen), who lives downstairs. Hanin was recommended to me by a friend of my uncle’s, and she is a firecracker; in a city where it is a faux pas to wear shorts in public, Hanin walks around in capris and a tank-top, shouting hello to every shopkeeper she passes. Occasionally locals will ask me where I live and as soon as I mention the general area, they will say, “ah, in Hanin’s house? She is crazy, eh?”

The roommates are all ex-pats whose travels make my summer trip look like a weekend in the Pocono’s. Nationalities break down as follows: Two from the US, one from Sweden, one from Denmark, one from Argentina, and one from the UK. In typical Middle Eastern fashion, the house is open in the middle, with rooms branching off from a central courtyard on the first floor. On the roof, where most of us live, bedrooms surround outdoor living space with a table, TV, kitchen, and sink.

The room is nice enough; not particularly clean and a little bit (ok, a lot a bit) on the warm side for me, but it has been ok so far. Haven’t had much time with the roommates yet, but they seem really nice and interesting. My first two lessons were very good and with a few hours of review outside each lesson, I feel like I am learning a lot. I am working hard to expand my vocabulary, reading, and sentence structure. I will write more about the house and studies later, but right now I want to talk about the gym and the traffic.

When I first imagined my trip to the Middle East, I pictured myself running shirtless through the desert, a pack of laughing children sprinting to keep up with me. In my fantasy, I turn off the road, sprint up a pyramid, and then below victoriously from the top, six-pack glistening in the hot Syrian sun. Well, even I know there are no pyramids in Syria, but I thought I could at least go for a run around the city. That lesser fantasy was eroded the moment I saw Damascene traffic. Allow me to explain:

Traffic makes traveling by foot a pain in the ass. As far as I can tell, there are five rules that govern driving in Damascus:

1. Go as fast as the limited space in front of you will allow.

2. Whenever possible, point your car at some obstacle in the street

a. Swerve to avoid said obstacle only at the last possible moment

3. Honk often

4. Travel as near to neighboring cars as possible

5. Disregard crossing pedestrians, especially women and children

6. If you must stop to avoid a collision, begin braking as late as you can and stop as near to this obstacle as possible

7. Never hesitate. Especially not when merging.

Navigating as a pedestrian is made even more difficult by the following factors infrastructural factors:

1. There are no traffic lanes, so it is impossible to know when or where an unexpected line of cars may appear, bearing down on you at an alarming speed. Furthermore, what would be a three-lane road in the U.S. is, at minimum, a five-lane super highway in Damascus, meaning you have many more cars to avoid when crossing.

2. There are extremely few traffic lights, and, though they may exist, I have yet to see one stop or yield sign. Bottom line: There is no guaranteed safe time to cross a street.

3. Traffic police tend to follow the crowd, rather than the other way around. This means that a large group of pedestrians will stand at a crosswalk until someone is brave enough to step out into the stream of traffic, causing cars to slam on the brakes.

4. In many neighborhoods, sidewalks are barely wide enough for a single person, meaning that most foot traffic spills onto the streets. On average, I get hit by about four side view mirrors per day (I blame this mostly on my broad shoulders and large, muscular, arms).

These unfavorable traffic conditions, combined with extremely poor air quality, meant that I would have to find a gym in order to stay in some semblance of physical fitness. So, after my lesson on Monday, I went well outside the normal tourist circle in order to check out a few health clubs that I had heard about from the same woman who recommended Hanin. This lead me to my first experience with Damascus’ microbus system.

How can I describe microbuses? Well, picture a Volkswagen Bus, but made by Isuzu in 1982, and outfitted with seating for 12-14, plus a driver (you can’t make this up). The microbuses run various set routes around the city, and act like local buses, as opposed to the more modern city buses, which run along major avenues. At 10 Syrian pounds (Lyra) per ride (roughly $0.21 American), microbuses are an incredible value. Microbuses often travel with their sliding doors open, and slow only to a roll when new passengers board or exit. If there were a perfect example of ideal Damascene driving, a microbus would be it. When I am lucky to find myself sitting by a window, I sometimes like to hold my arm outside for a breeze, forearm flat against the outside panel. Microbus drivers are such good Damascus drivers that I often find myself scrambling to pull my arm inside the car for fear that our clearance as we pass another car will be less than the width of my elbow.

On Monday, having braved my first microbus trip successfully, I arrived at an area that is home to a few fitness clubs. The first two were very small and dirty, and had very little equipment. The bench and barbell in my room in Brooklyn looks like Equinox by comparison. The third bluc, which I knew had a reputation for being very snobby, was a dream come true: Syria’s answer to Crunch or LA Fitness. In Syria, this meant that it had only what you would expect at a bare-bones health club in NYC, but it was more than I expected. So was the cost; a month-long membership that gives me access whenever the club is not closed to men (women get the weight room to themselves from 11:30 AM to 2 PM), cost almost exactly the same as a New York Sports Club membership in Brooklyn. By Damascus standards, this is outrageous, but with rent so cheap (about $220 per month) I was more than happy to shell out for my biceps’ sake.

Once I had forked over my membership fee, I headed to the locker room, where I put on shorts in public for the first time since arriving in Syria. Lying flat on a bench press, I immediately felt right at home. I was so thrilled to pump iron again that I could not wipe the protein-eating grin from my face, drawing many confused looks from fellow gym rats. I hit my chest and back, noting the strength I had lost during my hiatus from lifting, which began just before finals at CU. It was good to exercise again all the same, and my first workout taught me that Syrian meatheads are exactly like American meatheads. Same appraising looks, same subtle mirror poses.

On my way home, tired from my first workout in over a week, I mistook a different microbus for the one that had dropped me off, and soon found myself near the top of a mountain, about 6 km from my neighborhood. Shit. The next one I found dropped me a few miles outside the city limits, on the highway to the airport. Double shit. After consulting the map in my guidebook and trying in vain to locate a microbus back into the city, I eventually took a cab to within walking distance of the Old City.

Some friends from the hostel were confounded that I had spent at much as I did just to workout, and after I pointed out that the sum was roughly equivalent to their monthly cigarette purchases, they became indignant. Those of you who know me well will understand how much willpower it took not to ask them if they thought my Zeus-like physique was “an accident”.

Later that night I had a beer with my Californian roommate, Charles, and then met up with some friends from the hostel for sheesha and coffee. A good laugh was had by all when I regaled them with my quest to find a suitable workout facility. A Swiss girl named Samira was quick to point out that I investigated the same number of gyms as I did rooms to live in.

...And on that note, I am off to workout

EHB