The most ancient and dull city of Hamath

I was walking through Old Damascus a few days ago, and it struck me that some person or perhaps even a secret government entity is trying to send me a message. The message seems to say, You are leaving soon, but you still have things to do. The forces of bureaucracy (I don't believe in the forces of evil, but you'd have to be crazy to doubt the forces of bureaucracy) have aligned so that my flight out of Syria departs a little more than three hours after my tourist residency expires. So one of the things I have to do is revisit my friend Muhammad Az-Zaabi in the Immigration Offices. But another more happier task I must still pursue is that of shopping. "Oriental Handicrafts, Dave" a sign in the old city read, quite literally. There was other writing on it in Arabic that I did not stop to read (it is strange that though I have studied Arabic for three years, I can still pass a sign like that and quite happily regard its content as little scribblings when I want to), but the only three English words on it were "Oriental," "Handicrafts," and what looked for a thousand lira like the word "Dave." But this sign's nudging suggestion is an utterly reasonable one. What would a trip to the Orient be worth without the purchase of fine handicrafts and silks and spices? These are some of my goals for the week.

As for my time in Hamaa (Hamath), it was enjoyable spent with my new friend Tha'ir. I met Tha'ir on a street in Damascus, where he was visiting to do some shopping. We will soon see whether this shopping trip was the trip of a Baltimorean to New York, or the trip of a Monktoner to Baltimore (Ok, I know there's a mall in Bel Air.. and lots of others closer than Baltimore.. Sorry). But anyway, we got some coffee and he invited me to visit him in Hamaa. So Thursday, on the bus to Hamaa I got. Hamaa is in the sort of western central agricultural plains of Syria and is and has long been a major producer of cereals and vegetables and livestock derived products*. The first thing most Syrians will tell you about Hamaa, aside from perhaps warning you about going there, as my tutor did, is that it has lots of Nawa'eer. Nawa'eer is the "broken plural" (think "child, pl. children") of the perhaps more recognizable word "Naoura," called in Latin "nuria." A nuria is by most appearances a water wheel, but its purpose is different: Nuria have long been used to pump water out of rivers and lakes up into aqueducts. They scoop water up in little troughs, and powered by an animal or the wind, or often the river itself, raise it up and then dump it out into the aqueduct. The largest of nuria in Hamaa are probably 30-40 ft. tall. They date from the 13th and 14th centuries when Hamaa was controlled by the Byzantines (whom my host identified as Romans, but we typically distinguish from the Roman Empire for the main reason that.. that one hadn't really existed for a thousand years.) Hamaa also has an old city, like Damascus, only 1/1000th the size.. like one street between two oldish buildings. This is no one's fault but the Syrian government's and many would argue the Muslim Brotherhood's also. Most Syrians are still too uncomfortable or misinformed to tell you any of the facts of events that led to this loss, but Wikipedia is like an unrestrainedly garrulous future-political prisoner on the subject (Wikipedia is not censored in Syria. But Blogspot and Facebook are! With the advantage that I can write whatever I want and the secret police will never get to read it!† Just kidding, guys). The events are known in the West as a massacre. I will say to the former President's credit, matters seem to be more complicated than that. Perhaps some of you remember. It was in 1982. And I dare say I would be deceiving myself if I didn't think every battle in the world against violent extremism, from Hamaa to Afghanistan and Iraq, hasn't involved unnecessary civilian casualties. Thank goodness only the supporters of the Muslim Brotherhood in Hamaa rose up against the government back then. So.. the gist of it is, Hamaa's old city is mostly gone. I don't know to what extent. My host was either not inclined or not informed so as to talk about a number of subjects, the events of 1982 in Hamaa being one of those. Other things we saw mostly involved water wheels.

I was happy to come back to Damascus, but never regret having gone.

*meat, dairy, leather and wool… Jell-O??

†The age-old question of clandestine Syrian Facebook users.. does Bashaar al-Assad have a profile? Will he have me arrested if I friend him?

This post is rated PG-13 for bad language and implicit sexual reference

I should probably preface all my posts with that warning.. minus the implicit sexual reference.

Anyway, I was walking back from the old city tonight, because the bus service had stopped by the time I was ready to leave. And I was walking by the Citadel, which was quite beautiful on this clear, warm night when I saw a very strange ad posted on the Citadel wall. I swear on Jebus's modified so as to not be blasphemous name that I saw an ad for a blood donation. It read: Sick woman asking for donation of blood type O- or O+. I promise you, this was exactly what I read even though I was not sure at first what "kuliyat zaharat O-, O+" might mean, since the word kuliyat usually refers to a college in a university.. But the O-, O+ part made it plainly obvious. And puzzled me greatly..

On an unrelated but equally amusing note (that poor woman's unfortunate illness aside), I can happily confirm to you all that the Prophet Muhammad had some pretty badass uncles (here and in the preceding sentence is where the PG-13 rating comes from, if you wish to skip over this paragraph). He had one uncle named "Abu Talib" which means "Father of the Student" (for no reason that is readily apparent to me) who remained a polytheist (he never converted to Islam) but protected the prophet from his violently dissatisfied tribe to his death. But he had another uncle "Hamza bin abi Mutalab" (made all the more badass because his name is a letter of the Arabic alphabet) who one day, returning from hunting lions (it is pretty cool generally to hunt lions, but it really only becomes badass when you're hunting lions in Saudi Arabia, which, to my knowledge, has, nor has ever had any lions) went to the temple where Muhammad was praying and, seeing one of their tribe mistreating him, drew one of his arrows, saying to the offender, "Hey you with the yellowed butt* [I'll leave you to decide what that refers too.. with only the hint that that's the implicit sexual reference] Leave him alone!" And then shooting him with one of his arrows.

I was walking back from the old city because the bus service had stopped before I was ready to leave. I'm not sure of the rationality behind this cessation of service.. I think it might find use if it stayed running a little longer, but anyway I walked. Which, despite being a rather long distance, did not seem particularly so, because the night was very warm and beautiful. I bought a bottle of wine too (no, I know by now, Mom, that it would be indecent to drink a whole bottle of wine in one night). The wine I bought is known as Napoleon, and I think I have mentioned it before, but perhaps not on this web log. To those of you who are not yet familiar with it, it is a Syrian wine which costs about $2.50. This might be enough, but I think I should describe it further perhaps. For instance, I'm pretty sure by now that it is just unsweetened grape juice with 12% grain alcohol added in (or maybe just pure ethanol.. who knows?) and I would describe its bouquet as comprised primarily of artificial plastic grapes with subtle notes of Cheez-itz™. But it's not as bad as it sounds.

I don't have much else to report.. I'm planning to visit the National Museum tomorrow, which should be rather exciting. I'll be sure to tell you about what I see there. But I have homework to do now and I have never been one (and by never, I most likely mean always) to avoid homework or any sort of responsibility.

I am coming home soon! I am excited about this, but I have to say, on my walk back from the old city I waxed somewhat romantic about Syria… I saw a picture of Bashar al-Asad (they are everywhere) and I thought how I would miss seeing him. It would not take being eaten away by rats to make me confess that I love Big Brother, perhaps. You may consider me weak-willed, but I don't know how much I would feel inclined to resist a baby-sitting totalitarian government. I am happy to walk and feel safe, even if occasionally, or even frequently to pass a man with an AK-47 with collapsable stock. As the Lebanese poet Mahmoud Darweesh says "fi ash-Sham, Astatee'a an amshi wa anaama" (In the land of the north [Syria], I can walk around asleep). There is safety in despotism. Sometimes. (Though perhaps, as I think likely, that's not exactly what Darweesh meant).

At any rate, I will be happy to return to a place where I can freely speak my mind and fear no repercussions. I hope one doesn't have to travel to a place like Syria to realize that, but for me, at least, though I love this country and will be forever saddened if I cannot return someday, that's what it took. Patriotism is a balancing act between somewhat bigoted over-enthusiasm and terrible ingratitude, but it's an important act we all should learn. And perhaps I am the last to do so.

David

p.s. Amy, I don't know if you will be reading this, but I found you your tiger. Unfortunately, I tried bargaining with the owner, but the price he asked was too high and anyway, I think it's illegal to transport endangered species across national borders.. I have pictures though, and I promise to everyone that I will sincerely do my best to put more up on Picasa in the coming days.

*Homophobia is not badass

Zafaaf (Wedding Festival)

Well, followers and polytheists,

I think it may well be a sign. I walked up Muhammad Abeed al-Rez Alley tonight to the regalement of fireworks. When I entered my apartment, I went first to the terrace to see if I could get a look at them. I saw the fireworks well, coming off Qasyoun perhaps a kilometer distant and I did my best to take pictures, wondering what occasion they could possibly be commemorating. Of no particular hint, but certainly of interest were the intermittent outbursts I started to hear from the house across the alley. I would see a rocket go up and explode, and then hear a boom, followed by ululations. Then the drums started. I thought, a parade! But why on my street? I waited to see the band pass, drums and men chanting and a trumpet playing, but my neighbors where going down into the street, understanding the situation better than I did. I went down too (leaving my camembert on the terrace) and soon noticed a red Kia with flowers on it. And the band members wore baggy pants and broad gold belts with billowy shirts and little caps. They formed a path coming from my neighbor's house. They were drumming very loudly and chanting words few of which I could make out. They waited a long time, and I did too, with my neighbors. After twenty minutes or so, perhaps 10 spent in silent anticipation, listening to the ululating going on inside, the bride and groom ("'aroos" and "'arees") came out to stand in the doorway, and the music resumed. I heard a few measures of "When the Saints Go Marching In" from the trumpet (Muslims have saints too, more or less). I took a video. Doubt I'll find a way to post it, but I won't go on with the details too much. The traffic backed up and the drumming began to get louder and the as the couple walked out a few steps more, the men in the baggy pants started working their torches, spraying combustibles into the air to make them flare up. Then someone decided to light one of those big canisters that shower firecrackers in a five foot radius right next to the bass drummer and his neighboring torch bearers and they all turned their faces away from it and laughed with me. The couple advance further into the street, where cars were backing up and unwittingly heightening the sense of festival by honking on their horns repeatedly. But the band, forming another path in front of the bride and groom drowned them out. And the lead cantor stepped out and started a call and response with the trumpeter and drummers. This went on for a while, and there was sword fighting and everything we come to expect in a wedding festival. Finally the groom led the bride to the passenger side of the Kia and departed, waving one last time to the video camera, perched on a short lady's shoulder.

I call this a sign, if you can still remember through that grueling description to the beginning of my post, because today I went back to Turkish Airlines to inquire again about a flight change so that I can make it to Nathan and Melody's wedding. They said $150 this time, but that the only available flight was on the 11th of May. I shrugged at this and started to mull it over, but I think after what I saw tonight, I can't say that those two days will be in any way consequential.. to anything. When I had been told it was $600 dollars and my mother invoked her father, saying, It's only money, I felt more cautious. But now, if anyone says to me the 11th of May seems too early, there's no reason not to respond, even before having taken Introduction to Logic, which I am finally registered for, If Time is Money and It's only money, surely it follows logically that It's only time.

David

The Sea and Me

Most people agree that kids are cute in almost all things that they do. Or I imagine that people agree on this.. Most of all they say funny things. But there's something about their inane manglings (sometimes logical, but mostly inane) of their native language that is somehow more abundantly cute when you have little hope of understanding what they're saying. Sadly, perhaps, for its creators, I do not imagine that anything similar occurs with Teletubbies in their Mandarin Chinese version, just to take a random example. It may, no disrespect meant to the speakers of that language, just make them even creepier. But their relative muteness probably plays some role in that. It's been a long time since Chip was watching Teletubbies in the kitchen at Cedarcroft, and I have had few occasions to watch that fine and certainly entirely worthwhile television show since, but I remember it thus. I've heard Al-jazeera for children is good though. Only children don't usually understand Standard Arabic very well, so I don't really see how this could be so. Maybe I'm just jumping to conclusions. Maybe I should talk to a child before I rule this out. Maybe, just maybe, a Syrian child would not run screaming or just quietly back away if a tall, bespectacled, apparently recently electrocuted young man started speaking to them in alternately mangled Damascene Arabic and hesitant Classical Arabic. More likely they would just laugh at me and neither of us would understand the other.

* * *

Hello everyone.. A new day in Damascus. Or.. a Tuesday in Damascus, that sounds less momentous and metaphorical. I had my end of session exam (test) today. And afterwards, we took a class picture, and I got to sit cross-legged on the floor in front and hold the "Miss Sufaa''s Level Five Arabic Class" sign. Figuratively. Sufaa' means purity. I'm glad names like that aren't common in English. It's a fine name in Arabic, but names like "Chastity" or "Patience" or "Belligerence" are a little too lyrical and somewhat stuffy for our modern language. Perhaps I would consider "Belligerence" an exception if it were actually used as a name from time to time. People never go for the really good names. In Arabic, you may be interested to know, lots of names, most Muslim names, in fact, have common meanings that sometimes show up randomly in newspaper articles or books, and generally have a much more direct connection to the language than American names. Of course "Muhammad" and "Mahmoud" and "Ahmad" all have pretty religious meanings and are rarely used in other contexts (the first means "Praiseworthy", the second means "Praised Worthily" and the third means "Most Praiseworthy"). But other names have more everyday meanings, like "Waseem" or "Muraad" or "Khadeeja" meaning "Handsome" (I once had occasion to meet a rather misnomered Waseem*), "Wanted (One)", and "Premature Child", just to name a few. But it just doesn't work like that in English. And for the better perhaps. Names are better when they're unclouded by ill-fitting or unfortunate associations. No one reading this, please, have the idea to name your child "Preemie". However I do encourage you, by all means, to purchase a pet skunk. That would be way cool.

Sorry I haven't been posting pictures lately. I haven't been finding a lot of laptop time. I will try tomorrow to post some more, because I still haven't posted anything, much less told the story of "The Sea and Me". Perhaps I had best tell it now....

"The Sea and Me"
--A Bather's Tale--
When I was back there in Latakia, I went out one morning by bus to the ancient Phoenician city of Ugarit, which perches on a little bluff by the Mediterranean. Having scoured this site to my satisfaction, I began to walk toward the sea, wondering if I might bathe in its waters. I asked a shopkeeper "Keef Amshi il-al-shaaTi'?" and he directed me down a road which he supposed led to the beach. I walked through the orange groves, stopping to gaze upon the terrible lizards that abound in that part of Syria, and to listen to the frogs. When I had gazed and listened enough, I walked on and found myself back to the main road. But going along it, I began to make out the water. I walked faster, passing sheep and shepherds within the walls of an incomplete government project until I reached the beach. I walked around on the rocks. I looked in the water. And at last I decided to swim. Changing into my bathing clothes and securing my backpack where only I could see it, I kept my shoes on. Not half as much to be able to walk painlessly to the sea over the water chewed rocks as to be able to jump from the sea to chase away any youth taking interest in my backpack's hiding place. No backpack interested party arrived, nor anyone for that matter, for the time being. I walked to the edge of the rock, where the water was high, but the subaquatic drop-off dramatic. I stood and waited. I had felt the water before and in honesty felt none too welcomed by it. So that the fewer of you will make jest of me, I will say that its temperature I estimated to be twenty degrees centigrade. I sat down, submersing my legs in the water, submitting my seat to the cold lapping of the waves. But it gave me no encouragement. I stood again, but for not as long. For I thought of the shame I would feel did I abstain from bathing. I was thinking of my cousin and uncle swimming in the frigid Labrador Current off Cape Cod. I thought for a moment, though, that the temperature difference between my air and my water was much less than theirs. And the breeze all the stronger. But still, I could not rationalize an escape. At last I jumped. Not a dive, but a jump, for the shock to my senses might well have been greater otherwise. It was a start, but fell short of a shock. So I began to swim around. On my back and on my front, in to the rocks and out. But I fretted for my backpack. A gaggle of men approached, upon the crag above its nest. I do not know that they saw it. But they saw me, and seemed to survey my activity with mild amusement. I swam on my back for them, I even dove down to the bottom, but they left unimpressed. I dove down to the bottom and reached tentatively for a white object I saw there. But my hand was timid, for I could not discern its form and the lower waters were colder. The water was clear and I considered it beautiful. The garbage of the beach did not reach me there. But I was bound to return to it. The sun and my ragged bathing towel dried me well, and I donned my clothes once more, making to return to the city.


----------David

*It's ok, he was very grumpy and was asking a lot of money for an apartment. It's ok.

Hooray! Moderate success!

And what an entry have I got for you on my cooking/microbus web-log that not so artfully avoids any content relating to any truly substantial occurrences that have befallen me here in the Ocean-Habitat of Damascus! (The area of Damascus is sometimes called "Moheeteh Dimashq" which seemingly means the area around Damascus, but actually means the Ocean/Environment of Damascus.) I cooked Tajine tonight! Tajine is a traditional dish….. from North Africa!! In spite of having bought recently a little cookbook, as I related to you previously, I took this recipe, or rather happened upon it, on the New York Times website where it was written out in more comprehensible form (i.e. English), with greater specificity by far, even referring to the ingredient spices by their full names, rather than collectively calling them "spice" (Yes, my happy little cookbook does this with great frequency - an obstacle I feel helpless to overcome. Can you help me?) Tajine is a soupy dish. I used chicken, it's usually made with lamb. I used bulgur, it's usually made with couscous. I used fresh apricots, its recipe called for dried ones. I broke the rules, as I am wont to do so as to prevent my cookery from tasting too much as it is intended to, or tasting too much like anything an honest partaker could call delicious. But I am sometimes very dishonest when I partake, and I thought it was.. at least.. good. I'll make it for you all, and you will have a chance to humor me with your already much depleted humors, expended here.

Now that I have a web-log, I can post links to other web-logs! Here's one I read on "Wordpress" (which has never been blocked in Syria). It's about animals. Take a look: http://animalreview.wordpress.com/

Tomorrow I go to my certain doom (and I will have a chance to report on its certainty, probably, before I get to post this) in a partner oral test!! It's ok. I have confidence in my classmates and in myself. It could be difficult if I end up with either my Belarussian or Korean colleague. They can be very difficult to understand, and sometimes it seems like my accent makes it equally difficult for them. We'll see. Roughly everyone else is readily understood. The Greek students have trouble with their alveolar fricatives ("th" and "dh"). The Italian students always end all their words in vowels. The other American student pronounces every word like it's a hotdog topping*! But none of them are as difficult to understand.

Ok, so I was with Maxim (from Belarus) but it went well. We actually talked for a long time while we were waiting to be called in and even talked about accents a little bit. He mentioned that when he first heard the other American in our class talk, he didn't understand a word. Apparently he can understand me pretty well. It's interesting though, each nationality that learns a language sort of develops their own version of it and sometimes, with people that have particular trouble in pronunciation (like Phillip.. the other American), these versions aren't particularly mutually intelligible. But Maxim and I speak the same language, thank goodness.

I have a test tomorrow too..

Next time I'll tell you about what happens to the Prophet's cousin in Habesha with King Al-Najashi! Because I haven't found out yet..

So I know now: so basically, Jaafar (Muhammad's cousin) reads the king a bunch of Suras and he cries.. especially when he is read the Sura "Maryam". Neat!

Thighs and Legs,

David

*Pickle relish means "a breach of the charter" in Arabic

gross..

Life may well be a circus* and the world a stage in actuality, but sometimes it seems to me like that circus is a radioactive cesspool and the stage is being put to rather gruesome use by mutant iguanas in a drama of their own creation.. Perhaps I can't claim to have witnessed the strangest occurrence ever to grace the hallowed rubber covered floors of a Damascus microbus (I always trip on those silly floors, as I did on this occasion), and perhaps I can't even really claim that anything outside those buses has particularly cesspool-characteristics (I hope I can't). But I at least witnessed something that inspired in me these rather dismal thoughts. The occurrence was this: I got in to a microbus going toward my neighborhood. There were two young men sitting in the first row, I tripped over the rubber floor pad into the second row. I passed up my money, and we were off. The first time the driver stopped for someone to get in, it sounded like he said "Mu tari'" which seems to mean "I'm not going to the end of the route" but literally translates to "No way", although not in the sense that we use it in English. But it happened that the two people he refused were very young, a little girl and her younger brother. The passenger on the door side took issue with this callous refusal and made it well known. He and the driver started arguing, I really couldn't follow what they were saying, but I think I heard a "The Qur'an tells us…" from the passenger. Soon the driver had pulled over, de-ignited and was at the door arguing face to face with his pious-minded accuser. He gave the passenger his money and told him to get out, leaving two of us with the driver. The other passenger seeming to sense that the right moment had come, got out the open door. On we went, me and this angry man, he not seeming to notice my presence. If the walls of any microbus in Damascus might ever resemble anything other than the complete opposite of a flower, one could rightly have called me a wallflower. But under the circumstances I remained a mere wall-unexplicable-adhesive-remenant. And thus was I camouflaged. For a good 30 seconds. Arriving at a suitable turnaround spot, the driver asked me where I would like to be dropped off, only the Arabic language has a great deal of trouble expressing the conditional mood and I only made out the word "drop off". I dutifully answered, but the response was predictably incomprehensible. So I got out and walked. I know it gets tiring to hear so many microbus stories, but they really are fascinating places, just as you might find a mutant iguana drama troupe a rather remarkable spectacle. Or at least I do. And it's what happens to be most interesting to write about. Not cleaning or purchasing a brain-dead cellphone or trying to unlock my iphone, but the little buses I spend such brief but somehow significant minutes in each day. I've thought since my first ride in one how great it would be if I could just ride around all day interviewing and talking to passengers, conversing with the driver. But finding a driver willing to acquiesce to such a request would defeat the purpose almost. Acquiescence can be so boring. I thought of a good aphorism yesterday that I wanted to hold onto. But as it arrives to most good aphorisms that are actually quite bad or at best mediocre, I've forgotten it, probably forever..

On a more uplifting note, I learned today where Araq, the aniseed flavored brandy that is so popular in Syria, got its name, which means "sweat" in Arabic (you think that's bad, consider the Persian version of Araq, called "Arâgh-e sâgi" - dog's sweat). We owe to the Arabs the invention of the alcohol distillation, which for those of you who are not sure of the chemistry (and I am among you, in all honesty), this involves taking a solution of water and alcohol, like the fermented juice of grapes, and concentrating it by means of burning off the more volatile alcohol and then condensing it at the top of the still, forming little droplets that look like……. sweat.

There's little to report on other matters. My professor is increasingly devout. My lessons are increasingly productive. My new cellphone is increasingly weak-willed. My sleep is increasingly decreased. But today is Thursday, and it's the weekend. So things may change.

I hate to end on a bad note, but I have to mention, in my desperation for some variety in my cheese beyond the highly varied and albeit amusing shapes of its delivery, I bought a brie shaped container that I somehow knew instinctively was cheese, without stopping to question why it was not in a refrigerator, why there was a little boy holding a cracker topped with a disconcertingly triangular piece of creamy substance, or even why it said "processed spreadable cheese" at below the logo of the maniacal boy. By its taste, my guess would be that it was composed of velveeta, cream cheese and american cheese mixed together and reconstituted in pie-piece shaped molds. You may well question my sanity, but I would respond: what desperate traveler in the driest of deserts would not at least begin to run toward the first convincing mirage that met his eyes. You might rightly retort that running for illusory water seeking relief from terminal dehydration is different from accidentally buying a processed cheese pie. Even one composed of eight entirely unnecessary pieces.

On the other hand, I am fairly confident at this point that I will never in my life eat a more perfect orange than I can eat every day here in Damascus. I'm afraid I'm even driven so far beyond my facilities of self-expression as to be forced to invoke the cliché that I had no frickin' clue what oranges really taste like before I ate one here. Seriously. I should mail you some.

Appreciatively, and Perpetually perplexed by the way Syrians always sing "Happy Birthday" in English instead of some Arabic version of the song as they are doing now with great enthusiasm in my neighbor's house,

David

*or was it a circle??

Hello everyone,

I've heard there have been some problems finding the photos I posted yesterday to my blog. If any of you have been successful in finding them, please forward your methodology to the rest of the email list. As I have mentioned before, blogspot is blocked in Syria. You might question the soundness of my logic in using this host site then, but as I have also mentioned, I still have to take "Introduction to Logic" this summer at Towson and furthermore, I think it adds a dimension of excitement otherwise absent in travel blogging to have only intermittent access to my blog. If this seems very silly and rather stupid to you, my sympathies. It is quite silly and even quite stupid in my opinion as well. But nothing of the sort has ever stopped me from doing something.

Take for example, my shopping expedition yesterday, during which I purchased a $12.50 digital radio, manufactured in China for a cost of $3.00 at the most. But it was marked with a price and I did not consider trying to bargain with the shopkeeper, especially when he popped in a battery and began to dance to the music station he had tuned it too. How could I? It was a worthy purchase, though, I think, because now I can further improve my Arabic listening skills by tuning in to the vitriolic sermons that abound on Damascus radio for the benefit of taxi and bus drivers the city over. I also bought a promising book, "The Art of Damascene Cooking" and a chess board, so my tutor and I can play chess at a reduced price, which, he tells me, we may attempt tonight! He needs to beat me, he says.

In other matters, I am about to acquire a cell phone. I literally swore to my tutor that I would do so today. And so I will try. I also have chosen a spot close to the office for Turkish Airlines, so that I may make it there before they close today to discuss a much desired alteration to my itinerary. In sha' Allah, as they say here, "If God wills". We shall see.

I hope you are doing well, and I'm sorry that there is nothing I can do at this point to look for my pictures on the blog, but regardless, I am posting new pictures to it. I hope they will reveal themselves in due course. I have a suggestion in this regard: my profile picture is a photo of part of the Golan Heights which also appears in the "album" I have been posting the new pictures too. So if clicking on this picture, which should be readily visible to all visitors, yields a photo album, you have indeed uncovered these heretofore mislaid pictures. Good luck.

I'll try to find them this afternoon though, accessing the blog from a computer better endowed than my own. Sorry about the confusion.

Talk to you all later on. To those of you I got to talk to at the Browns' Easter gathering, it was wonderful to see and talk with you all. I really hope I'll be doing that in person on May 15th.

Alphabet soup,

David

A Happy Chance

In Arabic, it's custom to say "Forsa Saeeda" when you meet someone instead of "Nice to meet you". This expressions translates literally to "A Happy Opportunity". I ran into some Georgetown students from Amman, that's all. It was bound to happen sometime, being that foreigners, students especially, spend most of their time in the same 5% of Damascus. But it has been a night of happy chances. I was walking through the Old City in search of a chess board (I was several hours too late for that, I'm afraid) and I saw someone I had sat next to in the placement exam at the university. Then I saw someone I had sat next to in a microbus nearly an hour earlier. Then I saw someone I stood next to at Bayt ul-Qaseedeh, who's actually a friend of Ayad's (my tutor) as well. Maybe it's a good omen. Perhaps it means I will meet great success the next time I attempt to make an omellette. Or to write a tome. Or when I enlist in the Navy to join the yeomen. Or the next time I eat a pomelo. Who can say?

I will see you from Latakia.

Damascus the Solemn

I make introdoction: Tis is blog. I rite. Sank you.

I went to Bayt ul-Qaseedeh again tonight and I heard translations of two American poets - Langostun Hugges and Ahlahn Gisnburg.

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Tonight, I am back to cookings. I've been eating for a long time now a combination of things: eggs with cheese cooked in olive oil, served on pita bread (which I am told by my tutor has no other name than "khubz aadi" here - "regular bread") and sometimes with sesame seeds; and then a second, less easily summarized dish of questionable construction - a soup of sorts (though I have to add water to it every time I heat it back up, because it all disappears in the refrigerator) comprised of chicken wings, chicken wing stock, onions and peppers and cabbage, a copious seasoning of cumin and salt, and.. let me look.. noodles and white beans. Tonight, I wanted something I could finally call reasonably edible. I had managed to secure a recipe for chickpeas and chorizo. We do not have chorizo here, but there are some little sausages that every butcher shop has, so they can claim a more diverse offering than just butt beef. I think sausage-making is heavily censored by the government in Syria. This is not because I happened to see a black mercedes with smoked windows and h black-suited men in it pull up to my local butcher shop and confiscate a string of weisswurst the butcher had been toiling over with a German sausage-making manual, but simply because I have only happened to see one type of sausage. Ever. Since my arrival. I attempted this recipe. But did I follow it? I am not a follower (I do follow a couple of podcasts, actually). Did it mention the inherent difficulties in sautéing cooked chickpeas? Did it give me reason for caution? Alas, if it had, I would not be eating warm Hommos (which is actually just the name for chickpeas here, but I'll let it slide) with sausage and onions and leftover cabbage mixed in. Shallow-fry your chickpeas with care.

But this is not a cooking blog. If it were, I know you would have the good sense never to read it. It is a Syria blog. I am in Syria. And what's more Syria is about to enter Summer Time! Summertime could not be further from the present moment. But Summer Time is just a day away! And isn't that just almost as exciting? Thus the natural balance will be restored. No one on the internet, by the way, has accurate info on Summer Time.

This weekend is Easter - Eid ul-FiSH. The capitalization means you don't say "fish". Fasaha, (composed of the same three consonants as FiSH - intro Arabic lesson!!) is a lovely and most convenient verb that most logically means "to celebrate Easter". Your first Arabic sentence - "NufSuHu eid al-FiSH" - "We celebrate Easter on Easterday". This is a perfectly nonsensical Arabic sentence that no Arab will understand if you say it to him/her. How am I celebrating Easter? "Sawfa nufSuHu fee il-Ladheekia" - "I will celebrate Easter in Latakia". By eating fish (not FiSH!) and hopefully some calamari as well. Latakia is a port city on the northern Mediterranean coast of Syria and a very old city which in fact has one of the few fully intact Roman arches in Syria (Damascus has a broken one). I will take a picture for you. It also apparently has a beach or two. We shall see about that. I will not forget my bathing suit, however. I will make my journey by bus and I will know not how long it is for that I stay. One of the most remarkable sights to see in Latakia is the ancient Phoenician city of Ugarit, where the alphabet was invented. If you remember from elementary school, it was the Phoenicians who invented an alphabet - not just for their own personal use - but for you and me too! (This was at about the same time that the Egyptians got around to coming up with hieroglyphics - something the Syrians had had in similar form for millennia, they are quick to boast). This was in the 1000s B.C., I think.. roughly. So hopefully I will see these things, and so will you. Latakia's about the size of Baltimore, for reference..

So I will go do work, I will go to work, and then I will set the wheels a-turning like those ancient Phoenician mariners before me, if the oceans were asphalt and their ships coach buses.

Live on in America!

David

Oh, also, I think I did some injustice to my pomelo experience in my last email. Let me try again: Imagine that you have a large yellow squishy ball, like the ones used in gym class dodge ball. Now imagine that there's a smallish grapefruit inside of it and that you want to get to it and eat it. Get to it. Rip off the layers of white fleshy void. Eat it. Now you have conquered a pomelo.

***You can read more about the Phoenicians at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phoenicians!!!***