We got up pretty late this morning and took breakfast in the hotel. We were staying across town, by the antiquated Damascus train station. Trains still run from here, up through the Barada Gorge. But not in the winter-time. We had a good lie in and then went to check into the El Haramein hotel in Souq Saroujah. It was a beautiful day and the sun was shining in bright, fresh, blue sky. Merryl was a little less fatigued this morning, however it is not an easy thing to go from running around frantically to being relaxed and in holiday mode. You can often end up ill if you are not careful. So we decided to just have a chilled day exploring the city and not doing too much at all. This plan, it transpired, extended over nearly two weeks; it was pretty cool as Damascus is an amazing city and it was so cool watching Merryl fall in love with it.
Marcus met us at the hotel. We had a lot of stuff to grab from Merryl, books, booze, clothes, and cables. After which we headed out to explore. As it was a Friday nearly everything was shut (in Arabic countries Friday and Saturday are the week-end). However we decided to take in the old city once more. But first we introduced Merryl to fresh juices and falafels. Followed by a chai and a nargile.
...we are winding our way down through Bab Touma Street, behind the citadel. We are on on the ubiquitous lonely planet walk and are already pretty knackered. The first stop was a cafe where we had a Nargile. Merryl is not used to them and is pretty spaced. Our feet are killing us from walking but there is so much to see and do. We have followed the main alley, lined with creeping vines and shuttered windows. Shops selling clothes, music, and jewellery are on everyside. Music is blasting out from a shop to our left. I don't recognise it but the lyrics are in Arabic. We strike south away from the main street and down toward straight street. Chaos has curled herself around the Roman archways at the east end of the ancient decamanus. The road is rent asunder due to maintenance to the street. People, cars, and bicycles are trying to make there negotiate their way through the mess. We abort the walk and head back to the Ummayad mosque. At 5pm this evening there is an Arabic storyteller. We are hurrying excitedly to catch him when I spot an elderly European man sitting on the side of the street. His long legs are drawn up to his ears and his head is bowed, almost in reverence. I bend down beside him and tap him on the shoulder. "Hello Per!" I venture...
We got little further the first day than looking around the old town. We managed to have a good look around the old city and the souq. It is quite a walk through the to the Great Mosque, but a very pleasant one. We bipped and bopped around the shops, introduced Merryl to the joys of the nargile, and took it very easy. The old city, once past the mosque, becomes a winding labyrinth of streets and alleyways. Trying to negotiate using a map is pointless [interestingly enough, most Muslim people do not read maps. Or know the names of streets by name. Getting a taxi is so much fun]. From here you can choose a number of different routes. You can head north-east to Bab Touma, and the Christian area, or south to Straight Street. Or you can keep heading east until you get to the old city walls and work your way back along the north wall into the fruit markets, the second-hand stalls, and the restaurants and hamams.
We are sitting in an Arabic restaurant in the old town. we are upstairs seated just away from the balcony. It runs all around the top of the restaurant on three sides. Below us, a raucous noise is rising up from the tables below. There is a Sudanese award ceremony taking place for students studying in Damascus. We have been seated near the wall and Per is trying to get us moved so we have a view of the banquet below. The waiter keeps feigning ignorance, but
Ammar, the Iraqii gentlemen Per knows from his hotel, intervenes on our behalf and explains in Arabic. The waiter tells him the tables are reserved. Per tells him we are going to leave. We are immediately relocated. We are sitting for some time waiting for food. The waiters are all preoccupied with the vast and hungry crowd below. Marcus is chatting with Per. Merryl is practicing blowing smoke-rings, and bilious clouds, of sweet smelling tobacco is drifting past me. I am chatting with Ammar. Adjacent to us a Damascene family are seated. The father is trying to plug a laptop he has brought with him into a power socket. Two waiters are stringing the cable over the walkway. They are struggling with comic expertise to suspend it over the aisle. It topples under the load. The awards have stopped below and a allegro tempo'd song strikes up. Someone is singing. A young girl from the family adjacent stands up on her chair and begins a hypnotically vogesque dance to the music below. Our food still has yet to arrive. I turn to Ammar and say "Why is it you can't still return to Baghdad?"...Most of the next couple of days were spent this way. We hung out in the old city. Taking in the sites and sounds of Damascus, whilst Merryl adjusted to our pace. Which, to be fair was doing pretty much nothing at all. [Travelling for a long time has a wonderful affect on your attitude. Nothing really gets you stressed. Nothing needs to be done in a hurry. You experience a wonderful feeling of deceleration. Like the world is slowing down. In reality you are just shaking off the rat-race coil. So many people have remarked on how relaxed we are and are surprised we are the age we say we are. Most of this, if not all, is due to the fact we don't have to work for a living. Stress is the product of a working life. You really don't need anti-aging cream ladies. You just need to quit your job.] In the evening we headed out for a meal in a restaurant. It was very good and very cheap.
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