Natalie's First Foods

Natalie's First Foods from Aaron Faust on Vimeo.

Pictures from Jebel Qasiyoun

Earlier this month we went up to Jebel Qasiyoun, a mountain at the northwest boundary of Damascus which the city has climbed up as it has expanded outward. There are some not particularly fancy but very expensive restaurants at the top. They charge so much because of the views, which we took in while walking along the sidewalk in front of them. Here are a few of the pictures, from top to bottom: the Ministry of Awqaf (religious endowments) building, our neighborhood (Shaalan, we live just on the other side of the park) with the Four Seasons hotel in the background, the Umayyad Mosque and Old City, a mosque in the Muhieddin neighborhood on the side of the mountain, a panoramic view looking southward out at the city, some friends we met along the way, and the presidential palace at sunset.

The Exterminator

We moved into our new apartment last weekend. It has wonderful heat (unlike the exploding gas stove heater in our last place), is bright, and well-located. The move was easy, since we were moving a half-a-block from one furnished apartment to another. Almost as soon as we finished unpacking, however, we noticed a cockroach in the bathroom. It was small and not so terrible. We just killed it and moved on. That night we saw more cockroaches in the bathroom and the kitchen. No matter how many we killed, they didn't seem to go away. After two nights of dancing around cockroaches on our way to the bathroom, we decided we'd had enough, so Aaron complained to our new landlord. He gave us spray, which seemed to us like a band-aid for a broken arm, but when he came to see our roach problem for himself no cockroaches were to be found.

Yesterday, we noticed a congregation of cockroaches on the stove and kitchen counters. After some reconnaissance, Aaron discovered that there was a colony in the side of our oven. This morning, he went to our landlord (who owns the store below us) and demanded a better solution. The landlord promised to call an exterminator to take care of the roaches once and for all.

The exterminator arrived around 6pm this evening escorted by a boy who works at our landlord's store. I couldn't quite believe that he was the exterminator when he arrive because he looked so different from exterminators in the States. Generally, when I think of an exterminator, I think of a guy named Carl who works for Terminex, wearing a brown, one-piece jumpsuit with his name sewn onto his chest. His weapon is a can that he totes in his left hand connected to a long, metal hose, from which he sprays poison in his right. This Syrian exterminator arrived looking ready for a night out on the town. He wore black pants, had black, pointy dress shoes, and sported a collared, polyester shirt, with a grey swirly pattern on it. He carried a red carry-on suitcase from which he extracted what looked like a gun with a long, pointed nozzle. He used the gun to place little brown dots all over the stove, the kitchen cabinets, and around various parts of the bathroom. We made sure that the stuff wasn’t toxic for humans, which he proved by dabbing some onto his tongue. Aaron asked him some more about how the roach poison works. As I listened to the explanation I thought I had to be misunderstanding since I kept thinking I was hearing the word for sex in Arabic. It turns out I was right—the poison “attracts” the roaches (it’s from France), and then they eat it, die, eat each other, die, etc... We should be roach free within the month! Until then, there will be a bunch of horny roaches crawling around our bathroom and kitchen.

Anybody want to visit?

Our New Neighbors

Some of our closest friends here are a family of three—Molly, her two-year-old daughter, Ava, and Molly’s mom, Cathy. They live around the corner from us in the apartment that we are moving into next week, when they return to the US. The apartment is located on a busy street, lined mostly with fashionable clothing stores on the ground floor and residences above. When the shades are not closed, the view from the front window and balcony looks across the street into other flats. Over the course of their three months here, Cathy noticed beautiful paintings hanging in the apartment directly across from theirs, and she dreamed of going over to meet the painter to see his work. The opportunity finally came Tuesday when she caught the eye of a woman in the apartment. The woman waived, she waived back, and they introduced themselves by yelling across the street, eventually meeting downstairs to arrange a time for Cathy to view the paintings that evening. When we stopped by their apartment later in the day to discuss issues related to our moving in, she invited us to come along with her to help translate and meet our new neighbors.

The six of us (Molly, Ava, Cathy, Aaron, Natalie, and me) arrived at the apartment around 5pm. The stairwell leading up to the entrance was dark, old, narrow, dusty, and slightly dilapidated. The apartment couldn’t have been more different. A warm glow emanated into the hall, and the woman, with a beaming smile on her face, graciously welcomed us into her bright, warm salon covered in oriental carpets. Beautiful paintings lined the walls. She eagerly introduced us to her husband, Wadaah, and grandson, Fred (Farid in Arabic), who speaks excellent English because he goes to an international school and spends his summers in Canada. Wadaah, it turns out, is the painter in the family. After we admired his works and those of his friends hanging on the walls in his living room, he invited us into his home studio. There, he showed us numerous smaller paintings as well as a video on an exhibit he put on after the war in Lebanon in 2006. His paintings, he explained in Arabic, represent the people of Syria and humanity in general. Those not about political subjects were mostly of Ma'alula, a town an hour north of Damascus where Aramaic is still spoken. He then invited us to visit his main studio, about a fifteen minute drive into the northwestern hills outside of the city, where we could see his larger works and better understand his painting process.

The next morning, Aaron, Cathy, Natalie, Fred, Wadaah, and I, along with two of his artist friends, Khalil and Boutros, met in front of Wadaah’s apartment for the trip to his studio, which is located in the old town of Dammar. Aaron, Cathy, Natalie, and I rode in Khalil’s car while the rest took a cab. Once in Dammar, we wound our way through streets lined by low, grey buildings made of cinder blocks, as children stared at us through our car window. We soon arrived at the studio, which is on the first floor of an apartment building. It looked exactly as an art studio should look—with two big easels, canvases in various states of assembly, and shelves filled with perhaps 100 oil paintings. Outside, there was a small yard, where Wadaah does most of his work. Something about the yard’s reddish-brown stone wall and the barren mountains nearby reminded me of the art studios in Santa Fe.

Inside, we made the acquaintance of his two friends, whom he has known since at least the 1960s. The first, Butrous, was an English teacher at the University of Damascus who still paints in his Damascus apartment. He does mostly landscapes because they sell the best (in Islam, it is forbidden to make representations of the human form, so there is not much of a market in Syria for portraits). The second, Khalil, also a painter, makes his living as a restorer of paintings for artists, collectors, and galleries. He asked to hold Natalie, and I obliged. I was a bit wary because Natalie has begun to cry when she realizes that someone other than her parents is holding her. Natalie took to him immediately, however, reaching for his glasses, his moustache, and, to my slight consternation, his fake and missing teeth. After a couple of minutes, Khalil returned Natalie to me and started to negotiate with Wadaah to buy a long swath of canvas for a restoration project. After measuring and cutting the canvas from a large tube, they began to show us around the studio.



Wadaah brought out canvas after canvas of his works, including some really incredible oil paintings of Ma‘alula, Wadi Barada, and the people of Syria. Even though he is Muslim, many of his paintings display Christian symbols or subjects because, as he explained, the people of Syria are one. It does not matter whether one is Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, they are all members of the Syrian homeland. Before there was Islam, there was Christianity, before Christianity, Judaism, and so forth. Thus, religion doesn’t matter. It is the people who matter. Aaron and I especially liked the paintings of Ma‘alula. We haven’t been there yet, but it’s supposed to be one of the most picturesque towns in Syria, sitting at the base of tall, sheer cliffs. We have our eyes on at least one painting that we would like to buy. Wadaah has already offered to let us hang some of his work on our walls in our new apartment.

After a couple of hours looking around his studio and at dozens of his paintings, Natalie decided it was time to go home. She started whining and Fred decided that she could use some entertainment. We lay her on the couch, and he played her some Britney Spears on his Gameboy while we waited for a cab. Natalie calmed down immediately and even started wiggling to the music. Once the cab came, Cathy, Natalie, Aaron, Boutros, and I piled in, leaving Wadaah and Fred in the studio to put away his work and pack up a painting as a gift for Cathy to take back to the US (Khalil left earlier to get to work).

I’m looking forward to our move around the corner and to spending more time with our new neighbors. Wadaah has invited us to go with him to Ma’alula, and I’m hoping that Natalie and I can spend some time with his wife, practicing Arabic and possibly learning to cook Syrian food.

Here are some more examples of Wadaah's work, the picture that he gave Cathy and two others with him posing with Fred:

It's Not Really a Hotel

It's just...

 

The Most Efficient Day in Syria...Ever

It takes a long time to get anything done in Syria. Signing-up for Arabic classes at the University of Damascus in September, for example, took six days. When I initially showed up, I thought that I was ahead of the game, having dutifully done my research, filled out all the necessary forms, and brought photocopies of my passport, pictures of myself, and a notarized letter from the American embassy saying they had no objections to my attending classes. But no, after writing down my name and looking at all of my materials, the secretary handed me another version of the exact same forms that I had already filled out, but in a slightly larger font, and told me to fill them out again, at home, since I would have to come back in a few days anyway to complete the process. I then had to take a 20-minute taxi ride all the way across town to the AIDS testing center to receive a clean bill of health—apparently a common formality here. The test required more pictures and photocopies (there is a photocopy and picture store conveniently located next to every government ministry for the poor souls who didn’t realize they needed ten copies of everything before entering the building). It consisted of a “doctor” who took an infinitesimal amount of blood out of my arm with what, thank goodness, appeared to be a sterile needle. Beforehand, I asked him to wash his hands.

“Why?” he asked, looking perturbed.

“For health reasons,” I said. He rolled his eyes at the nurse and told me that I could go wash my hands if I wanted to. Then he took the blood and the nurse informed me that I should come back on Sunday to get the results (it was a Tuesday).

When I returned, I entered the testing center, only to be sent outside to wait with a group of about thirty very nervous looking people standing outside the window of an office that had a perfectly good, easily accessible door in the main hallway of the building. To get your result, you had to give your test receipt to a man who opened the window. He then disappeared inside to retrieve your paperwork. I knew that the test would be negative, but the suspense was still nerve wracking.
After finishing with the AIDS center, I had to take a taxi all the way back across town to the university. By this time I had decided to use a private tutor instead of enrolling. Still, I still wanted to get the money back that I had paid for the placement test. That isn’t common in Syria but fortunately they obliged. All of that running around, preparation, and waiting for nothing.

When I went to sign-up for our high-speed internet, I had a similar experience. What in the US would have been a phone call to set up an appointment with the cable company turned into a 4-hour odyssey to find an acceptable working ATM after I discovered that I needed more money for the modem’s security deposit (Syrians don’t have to pay). In our early days here, Rachel and Natalie got used to my “running out” to “quickly” take care of something only for me to return hours later, drenched in sweat, dehydrated, and starving because it was still 95 degrees and Ramadan. I was also invariably only half-done with whatever process I had started.

So, when Rachel, Natalie, and I headed over to the notoriously bureaucratic Immigration Ministry in Marjeh (Martyrs’) Square in November to obtain tourist visas, we prepared ourselves for a long-day. A friend told us that upon arrival you have to buy a stamp from a man standing outside wearing a vest. Although armed with this information, nobody stuck out on our way into the building, and no sign informed us of the necessity to buy a stamp, let alone from a guy in a vest, so we continued up the stairs toward the ministry’s main offices. A quarter of the way up, we bought a piece of paper for a few cents, upon which I wrote my name, birth-date, father’s name, mother’s name, and nationality—standard fare for government forms here. We then proceeded up into the chaos of the ministry.
Reaching the top of the stairs, we emerged into a narrow, dingy, dimly-lit hallway bustling with Iraqis, Iranians, Africans, foreign workers, a few westerners, and at least one Japanese student standing in lines and walking every which way with concerned looks on their faces. Men in military uniforms strode past, pretending not to hear the queries directed towards them.

Directly in front of us, we saw the room for foreigners and walked inside. The room was filled with desks crammed together with tall stacks of unkempt paper spiraling above the table tops. Immediately to our right, two soldiers sat next to each other smoking and talking against the wall with two desk lengths between them and the public. Occasionally, someone would hand them a form or ask a question. Without looking up, one soldier would grab the form or direct them, as they did to us, to the two people against the far wall—really a glass window with a door leading to another long, thin room with more senior looking officers in it and more dingy desks and stacks of paper. At one point, the guys in this room had lunch delivered to them and they sat and ate while everybody in line waited outside.

I brought the piece of paper that we bought up to a soldier writing in an enormous register behind a desk. Five people surrounded him, shoving their passports in his face. He told me to go to the man next to him, two desks away, sitting behind a computer. As far as I could tell, he had the only computer in the office. To get there, I had to squeeze past three other people and then wait in a short line before he grabbed our passports. After looking us up in his computer he wrote something unintelligible (to me at least) in Arabic on our paper and stamped it a number of times. Then he sent us to the man with the register.

The man with the register took us in front of a few other people who were waiting, perhaps because we had Natalie, and asked us what we wanted. We told him a tourist visa and he looked at me quizzically.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“From America,” I told him.

“You’re not Syrian?”

“No.”

“You’re father isn’t Syrian?”

“No.” Everybody in every country that I’ve ever been to in the Middle East thinks that I must be from there “originally.” When I tell them that I’m American they say, “Ok, yes, but where are you really from?”, either referring to their own country or somewhere in Europe, where they think all Americans came from. Only after they realize that not only was my grandfather born in America, but his grandfather too, do they accept that I’m really American. This guy let me off easy. After quizzing me a little about where I was studying Arabic he asked why I didn’t have a stamp on my paper and told me to run outside and get one.
I rushed down the stairs and out the door. Before I even approached the only man in a vest standing outside (no booth, sign, nothing), he handed me a stamp. I paid him 35 or so cents for it and ran back up the stairs. When I arrived, the man with the register wrote some more unintelligible lines on our paper, stapled our pictures to it, signed it, and put a few more stamps on it. He then told us to go upstairs to the “General.”

We dutifully went up to the second floor (third in the US) and were beckoned into a room by a man sitting behind a desk who didn’t look like a general. He read what was written on our paper and underlined the part that I think said the last date that we’d entered the country (and thus the time from which our 6-months-worth of tourist visas started from).

“McCain or Obama?” he asked. Obama had won the election the previous Tuesday.

“Obama!” we exclaimed.

“Good! Ok!” he said, looking pleased. He signed our piece of paper and told us to go next-door.

In the next office there really was a military General standing in a spacious, well-kept room with numerous awards and certificates sitting on the shelves across from his desk. He motioned for us to come forward and without reading our paper, signed it.

We then went back downstairs to the original office and back to the man with the big register. He told us to go to the man behind the computer who looked at our now filled piece of paper. He input something into the computer, stamped our paper another few times, and sent us back to register man. He stamped the visa into our passports and then wrote in “two months,” indicating that we’d have to come back to renew it after that time. He then sent us to another general down the hall.

We stood in line outside of his office and in a few minutes got to the front of the line. The entire time we were waiting he was talking very quietly and in an important manner to his secretary sitting next to him, never looking up at the people waiting in his office. The secretary would take your paper and give it to the general who quickly scanned it and then signed it himself before giving it back to the secretary who stamped it yet again.

At this point we were supposedly done. We had our visas, but we also had a piece of paper with at least seven signatures and countless stamps on it that looked like it needed to go in a tall pile somewhere sitting by a desk. In hindsight, it would have been interesting to take it with us and inspect all of the stamps. Instead, however, we took it back to the man with the register who looked a bit baffled as to why we still had this piece of paper. He took it from us, put it in a pile, and sent us on our way. Believe it or not, all of this running around only took about a half-an-hour, much less than the two to three we’d been told to expect.

On the way home we bought a space heater for Natalie’s room and got Rachel a chocolate croissant. After lunch, we went to a clinic that was able to order the rotavirus vaccine for us from Lebanon, had Natalie vaccinated, and bought a humidifier for her on our way back—all by 2 p.m.! Usually this amount of activity would take a week.

Syrians are notoriously good humored about the bureaucratic mazes they have to wind their way through on a daily basis. As an example, one of the episodes of a television program that we watch in our dialect class poked fun at the bureaucratic process here. The program consists of two men who engage in 30 second to a-few-minute vignettes parodying Syrian society. In one, the “smarter” of the characters exclaims at how much Syria has advanced recently, giving as proof his recent experience to get some sort of permission from an unnamed ministry. The process requires his going on at least five occasions to various offices over the course of a week or two. In each one, an official “punches just one button on his computer” and all the man’s data comes up on the screen in front of them. The officials then stamp his paper numerous times and make him pay small sums for various things, always sending him on to another office. Finally, he gets to the general director of the office who, after all he’s been through, denies him permission.

“After all that he didn’t give you permission?” his friends asks. “How have you benefited from all of this progress?”

“You see,” he says, “I then raised a ruckus and with the punch of just one button on the computer, all of my information came up onto the screen, and within three seconds they had thrown me out onto the street—with the punch of just one button!”

“Wow, how we’ve progressed,” his friend replies.

Natalie Loves the Word "Destiny"

Priceless.

Syria is Psyched About Obama

Every time we (or anybody else we know) go to Sale Sucre, a restaurant near our apartment, the wait staff gives us a free desert - usually a crepe - with a slogan written on it. Our friends, for example, once got "Sorry, 9/11." We were there shortly after the US presidential election and this is what they gave us:

Natalie Rolls Over

Natalie first rolled over a couple of months ago, but we missed getting it on film. Since then, we've kept her on her stomach on the floor for hours with the camera rolling until, finally, she did it again on November 17. Here's the footage!

I Do...NOT

Well, nobody said our time in Syria would be boring. Today’s anti-America demonstration six blocks from our apartment added to the excitement. We heard more of a ruckus than usual from our window this morning and turned on the Syrian news just in time to see live coverage of the 10,000 or so people who had turned out to express their dissent at the recent US attack at the Syrian/Iraqi border. It looked like most of the people passing by our window were high-school-aged kids who had the morning off from school for the demonstration.

I was a little wary of leaving the house to go shopping this afternoon, but Aaron’s Arabic tutor assured me that I wouldn’t have any problems. He was right. Natalie and I went to the souq as usual during Aaron’s lesson, and I actually understood more of the shopkeepers’ banter than before, as I bought supplies for the apple pies I plan to make tomorrow from Grandma Harriet’s recipes (one fruit and vegetable vendor was quite amused when I asked for 16 apples for the two pies—why not just get 20, he wondered).

The biggest event of the day, however, came later in the afternoon, as I was going to the gym. I always feel a little self-conscious walking through our neighborhood in my torn-up hooded gap sweatshirt, oversized t-shirt, and sweatpants. I don’t want to change into my clothing at the gym, however, since there is only one locker room for both men and women, and I never know if a man will be occupying it when I arrive, meaning that I can’t go in. We live in a very trendy part of town, with some of the most upscale clothing stores in Damascus, and kids who dress (or try to dress) as stylishly as possible. Thus, I stick out like a sore thumb most of the time, and especially when I’m going to work out.

Today, I left our apartment, and had barely made it one block before a man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties ran up to me. I recognized him as the owner of a store that sells baby clothing and supplies, from which we had purchased Natalie’s changing pad. In English, he asked me where I was from. Not wanting to deal with any anti-America sentiments, I told him Canada. He then asked how long I planned to stay in Syria. I thought I knew where the conversation was going. Aaron and I had been approached before by someone with similar questions, who wanted us to bring supplies to his uncle in the UK. I figured when I told him I planned to stay for a year, he would not ask me to bring anything to anyone. It turned out my response had the desired effect of avoiding any requests, but not for the reason I had anticipated. He looked slightly crestfallen at my response, so I asked him why he was so curious. He explained that he was single and was looking for a wife. This meant that he needed someone who planned to stay in Syria forever, not just one year. I had to keep myself from laughing as I explained that it wouldn’t work out not just because I would only be here for a year, but also because I’m here with my husband, to whom I’m happily married, and daughter. I thanked him, he thanked me, and I continued on to the gym, not quite believing that I had just effectively been proposed to, in my workout clothes no less!

My First Syrian Haircut

I’ve been apprehensive to get my hair cut here because everybody on our street is always dressed to the nines and has well styled hair. My frizzy fro had, until today, withstood the temptation to shababify, but it was just getting too long, and I needed a haircut. [“Shabab” is the Arabic term for young, unmarried men ranging from high-school age until their late-20s. It can be used to describe a large section of the Arab world’s unemployed and restless population; the fashionable crowd that struts up and down our street, hangs out in groups in the park nearby whistling at girls and groping each other, and the drivers of daddy’s car who zoom by us at ridiculous speeds barely missing most everyone around; or, as in the exclamation, “ya shabab” (O’ shabab, hey guys), which can be put before virtually any sentence].

What I didn’t expect was the spa-like experience that ensued. I walked into one of the barbershops closest to our house and sat down in the chair. My barber, or, as it turned out, stylist, started off routinely, using a number 3 trimmer to begin my customary blend on the sides. He did an excellent job, taking more time than the average barber in the US to make sure that everything turned out okay and there were no long patches or clumps anywhere. When he finished, he asked if I wanted a shave. I hadn’t picked up a razor in three or four days and was contemplating growing my beard out again, but I decided against it and asked for a full shave with a razor (as opposed to a trimmer, another option). He agreed and called over a young boy who was probably twelve or thirteen (a future shabab, it can be singular and plural). The boy proceeded to dab on a couple lumps of old-school shaving cream and then use a brush and warm water to smear it all over my face for a good five minutes. He then yelled to the original barber who came over and shaved me. Once the shaving was finished, the barber took more shaving cream and rubbed it all over my cheeks, neck, and the sides of my face up to my eyebrow level on the sides and just under my eyes. He then wrapped the back of my neck in a towel and called to another boy, probably a few years younger than the first one, who took me to the back of the room and washed my hair. When he was done, he motioned for me to dry my hair off with the towel and wash the shaving cream off my face.

Back in the barber’s chair, he rubbed aftershave on my skin and asked if I wanted gel. I don’t usually put gel in my hair, but I didn’t think the experience would be complete with out it. It was a good thing because it proved to be the coup de grace. My Syrian barber achieved something none of my American barbers—nor I—have ever been able to do: get the hair at the front of my head to stick straight up for more than a minute. Final cost for my shave and haircut: $5.44. The experience: priceless. I’m going out now to buy some gel.

Latta

Due to popular demand, here is a picture of Latta, Natalie's nanny. Her full name is much longer and too difficult to type or pronounce, so she's Latta to us. We've begun to adopt her expression for when Natalie passes gas: "She made a windy." It captures it well.

Dinner for Two

Our Syrian dialect teacher canceled on us tonight because her son is sick, so Rachel and I seized the opportunity while our babysitter, Latta, was scheduled to be here during the lesson, to go out to dinner by ourselves. Our other dialect teacher for our group class on Sundays and Tuesdays (we have three dialect teachers now, more on that in a future post) was raving about a restaurant in the Old City called Naranje during our last session, and we decided to try it out. We hopped in a cab, which dropped us off on Straight Street, so called because it traverses the Old City in a direct line from west to east through Souq Midhat Pasha, which we noticed has been restored since we were here in 2005. The new facades on the shops and level street are quite nice, but they lack some of the authenticity and character of the old, worn, rambling cobblestones and high sidewalks of the original. Still, they've done a great job.

After asking directions a few times to make sure we hadn't missed the restaurant, which was off a square that we had never been to before, we arrived. It's a beautiful space with a very high ceiling with fine tables in what looks like an old stone house. Although the place was empty downstairs, the host told us that all of the tables were reserved, but we could go upstairs and sit on the balcony. With its metal tables and cheaper chairs, the balcony lacked the ambience of the downstairs, but it had a view of the square and a large mosque, and it was nice to sit outside in what is becoming cooler night air. The waiter brought us menus overflowing with good options, and we decided on a chicken and rice dish that I don't remember the name of, some lamb kebab with eggplant and a sauce of pine nuts, onions, raisins, and various other ingredients and spices, hummus, and vegetarian kibbeh with spinach inside. Aside from the last dish, which was just okay and served cold contrary to our expectations, everything was delicious. We've had some good meals so far here, including at Shamiyyat, but everything has had the very strong flavors common in local "popular" food, which, if you like the flavor, makes it very good but not great; not the subtle blending of flavors in fine cuisine. Naranje was the latter-the best food we've had so far in Damascus, the bill coming to a whopping $30 for the two of us, including tip. We promise to take whomever comes to visit.

The evening reminded us as well of one of the reasons why we decided to come to Syria in the first place. The Old City, when it's not Ramadan or very late at night, with its plethora of colorful and aromatic shops hawking all types of wares, bustling streets, history, and vibrant atmosphere, was a lot of fun to walk around. We'll have to go back soon with Natalie when we have more time to explore.

Please Pass the Baby

Yesterday, we went to a nearby restaurant called Shamiaat with a friend. It’s one of the better places in our area that serves local cuisine. The meal began uneventfully. At first, Natalie was content to sit in her car-seat on the stroller stand. However, as soon as our lentil soup arrived, she decided that she was sick of playing with her frog toy from Aunt Karen and started whining (a recent thing—it’s not a cry, but more a shriek saying that she wants better entertainment). She was somewhat fussier than usual because earlier that day she had her four-month check-up, which included some immunizations. [The pediatrician is a nice, US board-certified doctor, whose office is nearby. He told us that Natalie is growing nicely. She is now 6.18 kilos (13.6 lbs) and 24.8 inches long.]

Just as Natalie’s yells started to increase in volume, they stopped. She had noticed the couple sitting across from us and was smiling at them. The woman, who turned out to be nine-months pregnant, held out her arms for Natalie, so I obliged. Natalie was very happy to hang out with them while we finished our soup. They continued to hold her after my shish tawouk (basically a chicken shish kabob with fries) arrived. Finally, however, she had enough of playing with the woman’s phone and their bread basket, and yelled for an activity change. I took her back, and Aaron and I took turns bouncing her and showing her things around the room. Yet, Natalie soon tired of this, too, especially when I wouldn’t let her pull the tapestries off the wall.

I thought I was going to have to take her outside so she wouldn’t bother the other patrons, but then a waiter came by. First, he offered a piece of candy with a shiny wrapper for Natalie to look at. When that seemed insufficient, he motioned for me to give her to him. I figured I might as well. I’d heard that it’s normal for people in Syria to pass their babies off to others. I had a friend who was once riding in a service (mini-bus), and a woman, without asking, handed her a baby to hold for almost a half-hour while she did something else. Another friend has a two-year-old daughter who she regularly allows waiters to entertain at a restaurant she frequents.

The waiter whisked Natalie away to the center of the room where some other waiters were standing. Pretty soon they had all taken turns playing with and entertaining her. Our waiter passed her off to another and he to another. I can’t imagine a group of twenty-something-year-old men in the States being so excited about holding a baby. Next thing I knew, they had brought her back to look at the kitchen and then to the cooler where they stored all of the colorful drinks. Natalie was delighted and completely forgot about the discomfort from her shots. We finished eating dinner, and then the waiters returned an excited Natalie to us.

As we walked home, Natalie still didn’t want to sit in her car-seat, but she was happy to relax in my arms after her adventurous night on the town.

Seyyednaya

Rachel, Natalie, and I left Damascus for the first time today other than our trip to renew our visas at the Lebanese border on Monday (more on that in a future post). We had initially decided to go to Bosra, the site of a supposedly spectacular Roman amphitheater and ruins. We got a late start though and didn’t feel like taking the two hour bus ride, so we chose to go to Seyyednaya, a majority Christian town (¼ Assyrian, ¼ Catholic, ¼ Orthodox, and ¼ Sunni Muslim according to one of the passengers in the minibus we took) on the side of a hill/small mountain with a famous convent (Of Our Lady Seyyednaya) that holds a portrait of the Virgin Mary supposedly painted by St. Luke. According to one legend, the Roman emperor Justinian ordered the convent built in the 6th century A.D. on his way to Jerusalem.

We got there by taking a taxi to a bus station on the outskirts of Damascus and then a service (minibus) to Seyyednaya. It cost one dollar for the three of us in each direction. On the way there, a man started talking to us in broken English, the same one who broke down Seyyednaya’s sectarian complexion for us. He’d been to “East Virginia” before (Virginia) to visit a friend or relative and really liked the United States. “Who do you support in the election?” he asked. I don’t usually like to express my political preferences here if I can help it, so I laughed and posed the question back to him. “I like McCain,” he said, “because he has a lot of experience.” He might be the only one in Syria. Most other people like Obama, he explained, because they think our willingness to elect a black person shows that we choose our leaders for their ideas and capabilities as opposed to other criteria. He then gave us a short lecture on the importance of democracy and freedom. As we entered the town he invited us over to his mother’s house (he lives closer to Damascus now) for tea or coffee. We hesitated for a minute and by the time we decided to accept, he’d closed the door to the service and we’d driven off. He didn’t seem offended, however, and we were hungry and anxious to get to the convent in any case.

The service dropped us off at the base of a long staircase leading up to the convent. We found a quick lunch of zaatar and tomato sauce fatair (small pizza looking things) and ate on the steps while a couple troupes of extremely cute kids (they looked they were in some sort of scout program) marched past us chanting songs. We then climbed up to the convent.

The convent was well preserved but otherwise relatively unremarkable, as were the views of the rather barren landscape down below. We walked around for a half-an-hour or so, Rachel fed Natalie, I changed her, and then we made our way down to the main road in the town and caught another minibus back to Damascus. Although the convent wasn’t much to write home about, Seyyednaya was pleasant, and it was good to get out of the city and take a short trip with Natalie as a trial run for longer future adventures.

A Close Call

Natalie just peed on herself while I was changing her, put her hand in it while I was cleaning up the mess, and then tried to suck on it. Fortunately, I succeeded in grabbing her hand before it made it to her lips. Now she's sucking on my wrist and...OOOOOHHHHH...she just spit up ALL over my pants. She's lucky that she's so cute and we love her so much.

Earlier tonight while eating dinner, we put Natalie in her car seat and stroller stand so she could sit at the table with us while we ate. She whined the entire time, indicating that she wanted us to pick her up. This a relatively recent development; nothing's wrong but she wants attention so she let's us know. The only thing that makes her happy under these circumstances is singing to her. So far she likes "Ole, Ole" and Monty Python's "I'm a Lumberjack."

Roll Over, Roll Over

Natalie rolled over on her own for the first time today. She’d been trying for a while, but could never quite get the mechanics right. This afternoon, she was on her stomach and managed to support herself on her left hand, with her arm straight, while leaning on her right forearm. All of a sudden she rolled over her right side onto her back, looking very startled. Aaron and I tried to get Natalie to reproduce it for the camera, but once was enough for her. We’ll try to post a video of Natalie’s new trick soon.

In other news, we began Arabic lessons this week. Aaron is working one-on-one with a private tutor on Modern Standard Arabic two hours a day, four days a week. We’re both taking two colloquial classes, one in a group, and the other privately, for a total of eight hours a week. We hired a wonderful Sri Lankan woman named Latta to babysit Natalie while we’re at our lessons. Other than Natalie’s continuing struggle against the bottle, all seems to be working out well.

Eid is for Adolescent

Ramadan in Syria finally ended last night. It ended everywhere else the night before last, but the Syrians apparently did not see the full moon until yesterday. This meant that today marked the beginning of eid al-fitr, which is the three-day holiday for breaking the Ramadan fast. The entire country is now on vacation, and the weather is behaving accordingly. Today was beautiful—in the seventies, with clear blue skies. We took the opportunity to explore Damascus. Aaron strapped Natalie into our Lascal baby carrier, and we began wandering towards the Old City.

With the exception of juice stands and a few restaurants and the convenience-type stores that pass for supermarkets in Syria, all of the shops along our path were closed until we crossed an overpass to get to the Old City. There, a number of vendors had set up shop, selling things such as juice, batteries, baby toys, and cigarettes (sometimes all together). With very few families or adults around, and the city's sidewalks and streets practically deserted for the holiday, their clientele consisted of what seemed like all of the pre-pubescent, middle-school-age boys in Syria. As we descended from the overpass, hordes of 11 to 15 year-old-boys (there were very few girls) surrounded us, bargaining for bread, toy guns, “fun stations” (pretty bad play station knock-offs), and knives.

Things got even more congested when we reached the souk al-hamideiyeh in the Old City, a famous covered market built by the Ottomans in the 19th century. It was like Never-Never land inside, with adolescent boys running everywhere, shooting off the toy pellet-guns they had purchased and shouting to each other as the vendors called out to them. To avoid the crowd we turned onto a side street and walked parallel to the main drag. As we went, a group of boys ran past, and a pellet from one of the toy guns deflected off of Aaron’s face. He was fine, although a little surprised and angry because the round came so close to Natalie. After a few blocks, we turned back into the souk right at the Bakdash ice cream shop. I was hoping to buy a cone of their famous vanilla ice cream coated in pistachios, but I didn’t have it in me to elbow through the swarm of 14-year-olds inside, pawing like a litter of gerbils to get to the one water dropper in their cage and pay the cashier. The Bakdash employees certainly looked amused, and a little exasperated. They're the fastest ice cream hands I've ever seen, and even they couldn't keep up.

Finally, we made it to the end of the souk and reached the Umayyad mosque, which was closed for the holiday. We then curved around, out of the old city, and walked back home. On our return, I realized that pretty much only foreigners like us were brave (or stupid) enough to compete with the throngs of teenage boys around the Old City. We still aren’t sure where everybody else in Damascus was today. Probably asleep or away on vacation. It will be interesting to see what the city is like when it’s not Ramadan and eid ends.

Natalie's Monday Night Dinner (9/30/08)

Natalie Studying Arabic

Natalie Auditions for Stomp and Our Apartment

For our first posting, we figured we'd give everybody some of the two things they have been asking to see the most: Natalie and our apartment in Damascus.