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!