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

Live From Syria!

Hello from the oldest continuously populated city in the world!

I arrived at DIA (Damascus, not Denver) yesterday around 6 PM, local time (11 AM east coast, 8 AM west coast, I believe). Please allow me to summarize my travels thus far:

I got through security at JFK without any problems and soon after met up with my friend Bret, who will be in Damascus while I am, at the airport bar. I had what I feared would be my last whiskey of the summer and we caught up before it was time to board. The flight from New York to Istanbul was painless, except for a few screaming children, although I badly miss-timed my Ambien, which ended up kicking in just as I got off the plane.

I was about 9:30 AM in Istanbul when we landed. Bret and I walked around, ate, got some Turkish coffee, which is more like pudding than a beverage, and then joined the other commuters in lying down and sleeping on the two-person airport benches. A few times I awoke with a start, afraid I had lost my backpack with my laptop, passport, and journals in it, only to realize it was serving as my pillow, and fall back asleep. Five and a half hours later it was time to board the plane for Damascus.

The second flight was mostly empty so it was easier to sleep, and sleep I did. Prior to take-off I was vaguely aware of Bret, seated in the window seat directly behind mine, chatting with a man sitting on the aisle of his row. I woke up about 45 minutes from Damascus when a flight attendant put a lunch down in front of me. More airplane food? Ugh. I watched Cyprus pass underneath us, and saw the desert east of Syria come into view as we began our descent.

Bret was chatting with his aisle-mate again who, it turns out, grew up in Iraq, lived in Amsterdam, and was visiting family in Damascus. Unknown to me at the time, Bret had awoke mid-flight to see his new friend, Yousef, going at it with the girl in the seat between them. When Yousef offered to take the $1.50 bus with us, rather than shell out for a $25 cab, we were grateful, and I assumed his girlfriend would be coming along. It wasn't until Yousef went off into the passport control line for people with Arab passports that Bret told me she had been a complete stranger. What happens on Turkish Airlines stays on Turkish Airlines, I suppose.

We got our bags, met back up with our new friend and headed to the bus. As we walked towards the bench seats in the very back I got the sense that most Syrians with any money whatsoever took cabs or had friends pick them up. The other passengers, by and large, were sickeningly thin and dressed shabbily. Andrew, this is the place for you!

As the bus started towards the city we were treated with an incredible scene. Small farms, marked by shacks with enormous piles of trash beside them, sat beside the main road. Small children worked on tiny plots alongside their parents. As we neared Damascus proper, farms gave way to enormous slums. Half-built but seemingly occupied apartment buildings stood next to the crumbling walls and staircases of older abandoned ones. Hundreds of these arbitrarily placed tenements rose from the streets beside the slightly elevated highway. There were no traffic lanes, and cars cut within inches of each other, honking frequently.

When the bus pulled up to our stop, Yousef got off with us and arranged for a taxi to take us to Bab Touma (St. Thomas' Gate), which is one of the many entrance points to the old city, where Brett and I are both staying. Though he was very friendly, and more than willing to let Bret and I practice our Arabic with him, he was unfamiliar with the addresses we had been given. We got out at Bab Touma square and, bags in hand, decided to try to find a phone to call my hostel or his host family. The square was utter chaos, unlike anything I had seen before. This made soccer practice with my hispanic youth soccer team look like a well-rehearsed military parade. No payphones were found and no one seemed to know what a hostel was, so Bret bought a cellphone, but still could not reach his family. I got through to the hostel; they were expecting me, and gave me a few landmarks that I thought would make finding them a cinch. Bret got through to someone at his house and we parted ways; he headed back to the square and I headed towards my hostel.

Thirty minutes later it was getting dark and I was still lost. I knew I was in the right area, but I was on Al Abbarah street and my directions said Al Abbarah 2nd. If there is one thing I have learned from all the time I have spent looking for books in Norlin library, it is that exact directions matter. I tried walking into Al Abbarah #2, which lead me down a narrow, dimly lit, staircase that wreaked of anti-septic. At the bottom of the stairs I found myself standing in an oddly shaped room with white tile floors and a single reclining chair at its center. The single fluorescent bulb in the ceiling illuminated a man smoking a cigarette while performing dental work on another man, seated in the chair. I shook my head and mumbled something to effect of "you've got to be kidding me", and headed back out to dingy Al Abbarah Street.

I figured I would see if my hostel's street, Al Abbarah 2nd, branched off from the dead end. I left the cars and people behind, heading down a dark and empty alley. I passed starving kittens eating garbage and locals that stared at me from their doorways. Kids ran after each other on bicycles in the dwindling ambient light from the sunset. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable but told myself that this was the adventure I had always wanted, and nervously pressed on.

At the end of Al Abbarah I reached a "T" and saw a sign that said Al Abbarah 2nd. I was relieved, but noted the run-down doorways and broken windows and wondered what this hostel might be like. I asked around and a woman in western clothing pointed to a black metal door with a Syrian flag on it, and in good English said, "that is the only hotel/house on the street". I rang the bell and a young guy came to the door. When he saw me he seemed to have been expecting me, so I mumbled a question with the word "hostel" in it, and he nodded yes.

I turned left down a narrow hallway and stepped into a nice room with an open roof. There was a table in the middle and couches against the walls. The proprietor, who I had spoken to on the phone, greeted me by name and invited me to sit down. He asked if I was here to study and when I said yes he immediately switched to Arabic, which I thought was very considerate. I surprised myself with how much I could get out. After a cup of tea he showed me to my room, which is small but clean. I didn't think much would come from sitting around in my room, so I ventured out to find an ATM that would give me enough cash to buy a phone. Not able to get my card into the first ATM and feeling a little annoyed, I stopped at an internet cafe to ensure concerned parties that I had arrived safely. Afterward, I decided to take a cab to a reliable bank ATM that the hostel staff had recommended.

In the taxi on the way to the bank, which was located outside of the Old City walls, I tried to chat up the cab driver. He was either unable or unwilling to understand my Arabic, but after a little conversation in his broken English he became quite friendly. Nassir the cab driver waited for me by the bank, but the first ATM didn't work. Feeling a little isolated, with only the cash I had arrived with, and no clear way to get more, I asked him to take me back to Bab Touma. On the way back, Nassir confessed he has always wanted to visit New York. I told him he would like it, and turned to look out the window, thinking of home. STOP! Nassir waited as I tried another ATM, this one gave me no problems and I took out enough Syrian Pounds for two or three nights in the hostel and food/getting around money for the next few week or so (About 200 dollars, US).

At Bab Touma, feeling much better, I tipped Nassir very generously (about 50 cents US), and figured it was time to eat. It was about 10 PM local time, but the restaurants and streets were still packed with people. I sat down on an outdoor cafe just beside Bab Touma square, where locals were smoking hookah, eating, and, oh my god! Are those beers!? In broken Arabic I ordered a dish that included chicken (I was certain to learn this word well in class last summer), and a beer.

The entire restaurant was captivated by a game show playing on two flat screen televisions. I asked a guy about my age what it was and he told me it was like the one with the rude English man that we have in America. I chatted with Ahmed and his two friends, who were fascinated to hear about New York City. Before ten minutes had elapsed, Ahmed was showing me text messages from his girlfriend in Cyprus: "I can't do this anymore, we are done", and complaining that he didn't want a girl in Syria because they would never "make a sex". I told him that he should find an American visitor in Syria, marry her, and get an American passport. He agreed and I promised to send any that I found his way.

After Ahmed and co. left, I sat for a while, reading Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, writing in my journal, listening to the sharply dressed entertainers on the television singing in Arabic, and generally taking in the atmosphere. It was a sweaty atmosphere. The two men sitting next to me eventually asked where I was from and when I replied "Ana min Amreeka, askoon fee medinat New York" (I am from America, I live in New York City), they replied, "welcome to Syria". Another failed attempt at practicing Arabic.

Around 11:30 I headed back through the alleyways to the hostel. In the common room, I found an English guy having a cup of tea. He was a little bit younger than me, but with tremendous travel experience around the Middle East (tremendous by American standards, he pointed out). We chatted about our trips, plans, learning Arabic, and politics before I couldn't bare my own stench any longer and headed to the shower. In my shared bathroom I found a shower head that ran from the sink faucet, and a squeegy.

After my shower, feeling much cooler, cleaner and less stinky, I bid my hostel-mates goodnight and headed for bed. With a fan blowing on me it was cool enough to get under the covers and I slept like a log, happy at what I had accomplished, and glad to have my tasks in order for the next day. In the days to come I will find: A cellphone, a place to live, a tutor, a gym.

I hope everyone reading this is well and I would love to exchange e-mails with anyone @ eric.harris.bernstein@gmail.com. I hope this wasn't too dull, I am still figuring out this whole blogging thing.

EHB

One Hour Away

I'm going to go ahead with a short post now because I have to leave for the airport in an hour and I have a few phone calls to make before I do.  Forell put together a farewell gathering for me last night, which was far more than I expected and was an excellent send-off.  This morning I finally found a place to stay for my first two or three nights, which is very comforting.  I feel good, I'm excited to get going.  

In the last few days I have thought a lot about my first summer at sleep away camp.  I was eight years old and had always been a very homesick kid.  The night before I was terrified, and the first week of camp was a cry-fest.  I can only imagine what the counselors were saying behind my back.  Reflecting on that experience in light of the traveling and moving I have done since then, and in light of planning for this trip, has been an interesting experience.  I am happy to say that, even though there are of course some light jitters, I feel much more excited than anxious.

I was planning a more in-depth and introspective post but I don't have the time, so that will be coming upon my arrival in Damscus, when I have more time to work on it.

For any curious parties, here is a list of the items coming along:

Clothes

5 varieties of footwear:  Running shoes, Topsiders, Sneakers, Flip-Flops, Soccer cleats

3 nicer pens for journaling

12 Bic pens

16 Number 2 Pencils and sharpener

500 Flash cards (not sold in the Middle East)

Toiletries (Tooth brush, toothpaste, travel shaving cream, four razors, soap)

Claritin (Just in case)

Pepto Bismol Tablets

Big tube of sunscreen

3 journals to write in

Small Moleskin date book

Leatherman Juice multitool

Smiley face bandana that has been everywhere with me since eighth grade (overnighted from Colorado last minute by my roommate, cohort, and man-date partner, Dylan Robert Michel)

Pentax K1000 (Analog camera circa 1972 that I have used since 10th grade)

4 rolls of color film

2 rolls of black and white film

2 extra camera batteries

Mac laptop and charger

Rayban aviators

Eye glasses

2 baseball gloves and baseballs (So I can teach new Syrian friends or host brother to play catch, not, as my father thinks, to drive him crazy)

4 books for fun:  Eating The Dinosaur by Chuck Klausterman, Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig, For Whom The Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway, Florence of Arabia (Recommended by Maud) by Christopher Buckley

4 practical books:  Guidebook on Syria, Arabic textbook for my first and second year classes, English-Arabic dictionary, Arabic-English dictionary

1 extra duffel for weekend trips and my end-of-summer excursion

1 backpack (made by the New York Sports Club, stolen from Max Bosworth several summers ago)

197 pounds of pure power

Looks that can literally kill

Mary Sullivan's good Karma

Ok non-existent readers, lunch with F-train and ORP, then off to the airport.  

Quote: Courage is a mean with regard to fear and confidence.

- EHB