Damascus and Beyond

Well, I think I have managed to ratchet down my stress level a few notches since I at least have my passport back in my possession. If anybody out there can tell me why exactly getting a train ticket can prove so difficult I would love to hear it? This is how I spent the past two days. Going twice to the station with one of the non English speaking hotel guys who the reception lady refers to as “the boy”, he’s probably my age, and sending “the boy” once on his own and still I have no ticket in hand. I reluctantly let him take my passort this last time while I paced, fretted and chain smoked back at the Hotel Baron, waiting and waiting and wanting only to scream into my pillow. My imagination running wild while I envisioned him disappearing with my passport to sell on the black market. Anyway, eventually he returned and I do susposedly have a reservation for the train to Turkey on Tuesday morning. I really hope this works. Apparently there is only one human in the entire universe who can sell me this ticket and he seems to make his own schedule and is never there when “the boy” goes to buy the fucking ticket. I wonder, pray tell, why one of the other ticket guys can’t do it? Any ideas? So I’ve pretty much wasted the past few days sitting around the hotel worrying about this and as a result I just want to leave the country and go on to the much more organized Turks. I suppose a more Zen like attitude may have helped, perhaps I should have shrugged, chanted Om and gone off to shop in the souk and not worried about the ticket. But I didn’t Blanche. There is a price to pay when traveling in non touristic countries. And there are not many tourists here. And even among them I feel I am a bit of an unusual case. Single female, middle aged, non Arabic speaking. I see the slight look of confusion flit across faces when I mention these things. I can see their minds working, wondering just why I am here. Always I am asked where I am from and I say American even though I don’t want to and everyone says “you are welcome” but am I really? One funny little man claimed that we were great friends because he was a Kurd and he wanted to hang with me and take me all over the old city of Damascus. He truly seemed excited and I felt kind of bad but I had to tell him “no thanks”. He was just a wee bit weird and I just didn’t want the company. I think my expectations were very high based on the consistent glowing reviews from the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree website. Adjectives like warm, friendly, hospitable, helpful, ran through my head until I realized I just wasn’t feelin’ the love so much. More accurately the Syrian’s are just people. Some are very friendly and have been helpful, mostly they just look at me with no expression. I don’t feel they can compare with my beloved Turks who I feel are much friendlier. Maybe it’s just my own personal experience. Maybe it’s my hair. I haven’t been able to do a thing with it. This country puts the Urb in urban. I have never seen the likes of this traffic and the way they drive and what nerve it takes to cross a street. I would veer off the main drag but don’t want to be hopelessly lost. Last night as I plunged through a mini traffic jam to get across the street to my hotel this asshole actually tapped my leg as I passed in front of his car. I don’t know if it was deliberate. Everyone just steps out into the street to get across and amazingly they seem to manage it just fine and without looking the least bit flustered. Wee tots without an adult in sight play by the side of the road in villages as cars whiz by overtaking, horns blaring, routinely turning a two lane road into three. The patience required to walk down a busy street, and they are always busy, I don’t think these people have homes as they are always out, is incredible. Anybody who know me knows I walk fast and now I am forced to shuffle and be constantly on the look out for a break in the human traffic in order to get ahead. Chicago at it’s worse is a cake walk in comparison.

I just had to shove a cockroach off the computer table. I think they are here for the pastry shop downstairs. I will not be getting any sweets to go. Before I got here I spent three days In Hama taking tours in the area. There are some really old and well preserved sights around here and sometimes there is nobody else there. On my tour to Palmyra I got taken advantage of by a local guide. I thought he was part of the package but found out later he was not. Also, I am sure he overcharged me. Abdul, my driver was a sweetie though and stopped at some ladies house so I could tinkle and afterward she offered us tea. We sat out in front of her house and I noticed the tea table looked suspiciously like a chunk of ancient column. I pointed it out and though nobody spoke English they both understood and laughed. I think anybody with a pick up truck or large car trunk and a couple of beefy guys could have their own ancient column tea table as this stuff is all over the ancient ruin sights and there are no fences or anything. I rode a camel at Palmyra and really enjoyed the brief ride on my handsome white steed. 1950’s era cars are everywhere and for my day trip to the Dead Cities and St. Simon’s we had one. The shocks weren’t the best on the bumpy roads and it was hot, and my companion Myra wasn’t feeling well as she was getting over being sick. Many of the guests at my hotel in Hama were suffering with stomach problems. Poor things. One guy was in bed for three days. Abdullah from the Riad Hotel said they got sick in Palmyra. Apparently Palmyra has a bad rep with the locals for scam artists and unhygienic cooking practices. I was so glad he told me not to eat anything there. I accidentally celebrated my birthday on the ninth and brought a bottle of wine back to the hotel which I shared with Abdullah and his parrot Abuddah. The saucy wench liked the stuff. Abdullah offered me some Swiss “chocolate” that he recieved for his own birthday a few days earlier. It was wrapped in saran wrap and I cut off a piece and popped it in my mouth only to realize it was soap. I thought it looked a little weird. Abdullah was so apologetic, but it was funny. He kept saying over and over “I thought it was chocolate, I put it in the refrigerator.”

Well, I think I will say cheery bye. Thanks for all the comments from those who chose to do so. It’s nice to know that people are reading and nice to hear from friends when you are alone in a very foreign country. I guess I will now go out and get some dinner and hopefully I will not be served everything that is on hand in the kitchen. Some restaurants don’t have a menu and just tell me what they think I should have. Yesterday the reception lady said to tell them not too much food, and I did, but I got too much food. It was delicious, but I couldn’t eat it all and I hate to waste. I took the leftover wine, water, and fruit and also asked for the box of kleenex which doubles for napkins in this country. Ever try to wipe sticky, greasy fingers with kleenex?

Bye for now, with love, Anita

P.S. Did I mention I am sleeping in Charles Lindburgh’s room at the Baron? Lots of folks stayed here over the years. It is my kind of place. It really looks like it hasn’t changed at all since at least the 30’s. It’s almost 100 years old. Threadbare, lumpy couch cushions and I cracked up at the dusty travel adverts that are hanging behind the bar. Nobody is trying to decorate vintage, it’s just that way.

Tags: Travel

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