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