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