I think it's working?

hurrah! zee blog is back.

In anticipation of finding internet and maintaining my blog, I had already written on my laptop about the first few days here. It is as follows:

Monday morning I was packed and ready to go by 930. My aunt and her driver Ramez were going to drop me off at the taxi station and help me find a car to Damascus. At breakfast she made me take two sandwiches for the road, one that I made with apricot jam and white cheese and the other she made for me with chancleesh (pink/spiced cheese) and salty green olives from the family orchards. As we got into the elevator and I said my goodbyes to Ketes, my aunt said something in Arabic that I didn’t understand. “We will miss you when you’re gone! Shoo haida? What is this?”

We found our way to the taxi station and my aunt worked to find me a good driver. At first they all told her I would have to pay for the whole car because Americans have to wait 5 hours at the border and nobody else will want to wait for you. She explained that I already have my visa and there is no reason it should take that long. As they were arguing, her phone rang and Ketes was on the other line—I had forgotten my glasses and contacts in the bathroom. Of course. Ramez took me on a slight detour back to the house where Ketes had assembled my missing belongings, along with a few things I left behind on purpose, such as a Virgin Mary figurine that my aunt Sr Augustine had given me and half a bag of chocolates. ‘I don’t need it! You can have it.’ ‘Ah, because you don’t pray?’ She made the sign of the cross. ‘No.’ ‘Ok well you take it because you don’t have your mother and you know nobody. Take it.’ I took it.

Back in the car, back to the station, where my aunt had been waiting in the taxi that would take me to Damascus. The last few goodbyes and promises to stay safe and warm and full and happy and we were off. It took us a little while to leave Beirut as we stopped to pick up two more passengers on the way out (even though my aunt had paid them extra in my absence to take me alone), but then we were over the Lebanon mountains, into the Bekaa valley (stop for coffee) then up over the Anti-Lebanon mountains, down into Syria.

The Anti-Lebanon mountains look much different from the western range. They are the color of the red earth, rather than the green trees, and much more stony. It was a great way to start the trip.

Crossing the borders was no problem. A few forms, a few trips inside, a few stamps, and then continuing on our way. There is a no-mans-land between the Lebanese and Syrian borders and then the same process at the Syrian border, with a stop at duty-free shopping so one of the other passengers could buy cartons of cigarettes.

Coming down over the mountains I was impressed by the sprawl of Damascus. There are 4.5 million people living in the city, 3 times the size of Beirut. As we drove, the repetitive apartment buildings reminded me of driving through the Bronx. Then there were the crumbling concrete buildings.

So maybe my house here isn’t the magical Damascene house of the past (or at least how I imagined it to be), with an open courtyard and rooms around the side, with fountains and fishponds and birds chirping in the lemon trees. No, it is, unfortunately, more modern than that. But it is also just enough for what I need. Nothing too fancy, a super-sweet family that is happy to give me my independence but still treats me like part of the family, outside of downtown, my own room, my own door to the outside, my own key. My room is next to the bathrooms (one Arabic toilet, much like the Ghanaian and Japanese variety—a hole in the ground) and one Western, with a shower. The rest of the house is a small kitchen, living room with TV, formal living room / dining room, and two bedrooms for the rest of the family. There are 4 boys—one, Ihab, married last April (he works at a hospital in Damascus and operates the heart and lung machine in surgery) and lives 15 minutes away in the suburbs with his wife, one, Oubai, 28 working in Saudi Arabia in marketing research but home for the next month to study law, one 17, Ronnee, at high school in Maryland living with his uncle’s family, one, Farah, 13 living here. Oubai has been showing me around a little and helping me to do basic things like buy water, a cell phone card, find an internet café, find my university, the embassy etc.


The parents are very nice, the mother, Leila, speaks little English which is probably a good thing, and is a very good cook. After I arrived yesterday and had finished unpacking I ate zucchini (coussa, aka my mom’s maiden name), eggplant (bitinjaan) and red peppers (flayfley ahmar) baked with olive oil and stuffed with meat and rice. The father, Phillipe, is a lawyer, speaks better English and is very friendly and unassuming. He likes to teach me Arabic proverbs. So far the only ones I remember (and I only remember the translations) are “You eat like you love” aka if you don’t eat my food you don’t like me. And my favorite so far “The birds in my stomach are shouting” aka I’m hungry! We also had some interesting albeit slightly illogical conversations (due to the language barrier) about religion and law—he is Christian but because of his job he has to study shari’ah (Islamic law) in addition to Syrian law (secular) since religious law governs marriage, etc and the majority of Syrians are Muslim. He seems to be a pretty serious Christian, lamenting the loss of Christian faith in the US compared to the good old days of the founding fathers. Again, the conversations are not always easily followed, but interesting nonetheless.

Later in the evening their neighbors, a Finnish family, came over for dessert—sweet white cheese in a white gelatinous thing with sliced pistachios flavored with orange blossom water, homemade cake with carrot shavings in it (I preferred this one to the heavy sweet cheese) and tea, flavored with cinnamon. The Fins have been here since September, the husband is working as a doctor, and they were very friendly. It was interesting to watch them speak English with my host-family, as it is something like their 4th language (after Swedish, Finnish and German) and clearly not the first language either. The mother, Ingvar, said she teaches Iraqi women (there is a large population of refugees here) how to crochet in wool.

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Today I started the circuitous process of registering for my language class. First a trip to the language center to get the forms, then to the embassy to get a letter of recommendation/permission to study only to find that I am 10 minutes past the 8-10:30 visiting hours, then to the clinic to get tested for HIV (if foreigners are found positive they are deported, if Syrians are they are quarantined)—so tomorrow I have to go early to the embassy, to the bank to withdraw money to pay my tuition, to the clinic (near the house) for the results by noon, then back across town to the university to complete registration, with a placement exam on Thursday morning. Luckily the taxis are cheap (the most I’ve paid so far is about 70 lira, approx $1.50) and the busses are cheaper (10 lira, about 20 cents)—at least they will be when I figure out their routes.

For breakfast today, a delicious spread of white cheese, green za’atar, olive oil, honey, bread, olives and small eggplants stuffed with nuts and red peppers (makdoos). We had a big lunch with the oldest brother, Ihab, who came with his wife—Oubai had brought a big fish back from Saudi Arabia so we had it with roasted peppers and carrots and tartour sauce (tahini with parsley, garlic and lemon) and cabbage/parsley/tomato salad and green salad with beets. And for dessert big juicy sweet bortugal, oranges.

In the evening I walked with Oubai to Bab Touma, the neighborhood that most of the other Western students I emailed with before I left had advised I live. It is in the old Christian part of the city so it features older buildings and more ‘classic’ Damascene houses (many turned into bars and restaurants) and narrow streets, souqs, etc. On the way we stopped in shops (he was looking for a jacket) such as United Colors of Benetton and other familiar European chains. We bought ears of corn from a street vendor and later a chocolate croissant. I think if I had come to Damascus, as I was planning to, without a family arranged to live with and had to find a room to rent upon arrival, I would have preferred to be in a more student friendly area, such as Bab Touma. But it is only 15 minutes or so walking from the house so in the end it seems it is better that I found a family outside of these more expensive touristy areas yet can still walk to shop or tourist or meet friends (when I make them, inshahallah). We shall see.