Disorientalism

I was attacked this morning by my aunt’s showerhead. I’m back in the US and it’s strange to have such strong water pressure. I’ve also been showered with questions about Syria, swathed as it is in so much misinformation here. Did I have to wear the hejab? It’s difficult to explain how much I miss the bars full of students in the Christian quarter of the Old City or how wistful I felt when I read (via facebook) that my friend “Found Christmas in Damascus complete with American teeny-bopper pop music being blasted in the Zeitoun Church courtyard, lights galore, free Milo, the church (military-esque) marching band renditions of ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Angels We Have Heard on High,’ tarateel [hymns] and Midnight Mass .”

It’s hard to describe the ambiance of Saif wa Shitta, a bar typically filled with expat Italians. The name means “Summer and Winter” and the owner told me he chose it from the lyrics of a Fayrouz song. One of the last nights I was in Damascus I went to meet my friend there. The place is loud, made of old timber, cinderblock, and arched wooden door frames. The small space is filled with wooden tables and long benches like a Viking tavern, but a Viking tavern with free wi-fi. As usual, I was drinking wine, working on my laptop, and talking with the attractive Syrian who owns the place.

Speaking Arabish (some combination of English, Arabic, and wine), I discovered he was 26 and I did a double take. Whoa. My age? I have a type, and it seems to be the older than me emotionally intelligent gentle but sarcastically critical intellectual. It was hard for me to judge this guy, my age, with our not-quite-shared-language. He offered me a cigarette and a giant plate of spaghetti, which was hot and delicious and on the house. The sauce, like all sauces on everything that’s not traditional Syrian food, tasted like ketchup.

“What is this on your jeans?” he asked me, pointing to the chlorine that I had spilled on them while cleaning the bathroom (read: trying in vain to unclog the perpetually clogged toilet). He flattered me by saying, “Oh, it’s okay, it’s moda, fashionable…lots of girls, they are having this on their jeans intentionally…or like this,” as he made a slashing gesture at the cloth above the knees.

Someone at the long Viking tables was practicing the oud, then suddenly the rowdy crowd burst into  singing “Ring of Fire.” The attractive owner tried in vain to get them to quiet down. “Is it always like this?” I asked him. “No, not always, but right now I have to make sure to keep the noise down because now I’m fighting with my neighbor, an American man, he’s an old man and he’s, he’s fucking selfish man.”

There was a football match on TV, fast Italian being spoken at the table behind me, and a laptop on a bench in the corner, with a screensaver that read “Fucking Technology.”

When I walked out of the smoke filled tavern into the winding empty streets of the Old City I paused on the cobblestones and listened…it was absolutely quiet. No one was awake. Only the creaky wooden balconies stretched out into the space above the street.

I walked farther and got into a cab. The driver had long hair. As the car sped off past the old gate of the city he turned on the radio and the Eagles’ Hotel California played softly. I smiled in recognition of the song and he noticed in the rearview mirror. He received a text from a friend and started laughing uncontrollably. I watched him try to text back and drive at the same time and I smiled when he got a response and laughed more, because I know the feeling well. He cranked up the music, almost as loud as it would go, and we both sang along quietly to the song, my off-key notes fortunately drowned out by the volume. The streets were empty as we drove past sahat al-tahrir, or liberation square, and the large fountain in front of the National Bank. No one else was around as we sped past the low green light of the mosque by jisr al abiad. I don’t know why that area is called jisr al-abiad, or white bridge. There is no white bridge; no bridge at all in fact. Apparently there was a bridge a long time ago. The name has remained but the bridge is gone. The cab stopped at a red light and the Eagles sang, “This could be heaven, or this could be hell…You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave….”