The much talked about, but little blogged, portion of my Middle Eastern experience was in Syria. Which is a shame, because I don't think I can convince everyone I know to visit by just repeatedly telling them how nice everyone was, how beautiful everything was, and how delicious and cheap the food is.
Seriously, if you go, and only interact with shawarma cart operators, it'll be worth it.
But anyway, here's the much delayed photographic evidence that I was in Damascus.
We departed Israel via an absurdly short flight to Amman (for the sake of passport entry stamps). First off, Israeli security is ridiculous. I was flagged for having a Syrian visa in my passport, and they asked a bunch of questions to suss out the exact nature of Josh and my relationship, as well as exactly how Jewish each of us were. Racial profiling much? The Syrians at least treated us like generically white people.
From Amman we took a small car (with five people) to Damascus. At the border, our burly Arabic-speaking driver kept close watch on us, directing us and the border agents as needed until we cleared with record time. Anyone getting into Syria needs their own burly Arabic-speaking driver.
We drove through lots of desert and agriculture before getting to Damascus itself. When I go back, I'll want to check out the suburbs, and see more than just the core of the city. But from our vantage point, the rest of the city looked like any other city (with some old building scattered throughout, of course), and the old city in the center was the real attraction.
The old city part of Damascus is just this enormously dense maze of alleys and small buildings. There are clearly more residential and more commercial parts, but they blend intensely. You think you're in a residential portion, and then there's a spice shop, etc. The entrance we regularly took was covered, except for the tiny sunlight illuminated pockmarks. Josh explained those were delivered by the French upon their final exit from the city. Good job, French.
The souq survived and is flourishing. And after a short walk through one of the busiest markets you'll ever see, you arrive in a courtyard. Ummayad Mosque!
I threw a fit because they let Josh in, but insisted I rent a cloak to cover myself from head to toe. Poor Josh suffered through fits like this at least twice a day.
Josh bore this nuisance well, and in the kind of act that will only reward him by raising my expectations, we had dinner on a rooftop near the mosque. The call to prayer came somewhere while we were gorging on hummus.
The next day we just wandered through architectural and historical wonders. And more hummus.
A painting at the old train station.
"President" Bashir was everywhere. Even watching over the Internets.
A fresco outside a bathhouse:
Overall, we essentially just looked at stuff, ate, and tried to stay cool. It was fabulous. And the people were so incredibly friendly. A couple at a restaurant invited us over to talk for hours. A shopkeeper gave me a piece of candy for being American. Another man proudly rattled off every American state he knew, and when I told him I lived in California, responded "your governor is the Terminator!". Another man responded "very bad police, LAPD."
But the best interaction with a local was this guy, Charlie:
Charlie is Lebanese. He was a translator for the US Navy back in the day. As a result, his English is that of a US sailor in the 50's. Charlie is hilarious. If you're ever hailing a car to Amman from Damascus, look for the one-legged, 68-year-old, Lebanese man cursing "Jesus Christ" all the time.
Next up - Jordan!
