As a foreigner numbed by Cairo’s constant pace, clatter and change, I had forgotten some of my romanticized images of the changeless East.
Souks filled with ancient trinkets, shopkeepers proffering cups of tea as they wheedle a higher price, winding alleys and Turkish baths. Edward Said may roll over in his grave, but all of us, even Middle Easterners, sometimes long for the perfume and incense of Orientalist fantasies.
These days, you can find such places in old Sana’a in Yemen, Nizwa in the mountains of Oman and Damascus.
For a Cairene, Damascus (the Shaam as it is called by Syrians) is the most accessible. Note to American Cairenes: if you, like I, do not possess a Syrian visa (you can only get them in Washington), just show up on the border and wait. It might take four hours, it might take eight, but eventually they will get permission from headquarters and let you across. The border crossing has a well-stocked Duty Free, and an incongruous Dunkin Donuts.
A kind taxi driver offered to give me a lift, as my own ride had abandoned me five hours before. He drove me for free all the way into Damascus, about an hour from the border. I shared the cab with a Syrian and an Iraqi, (the genteel driver was Lebanese). After a hearty round of jovial Bush-bashing, they dropped me at the alley containing several of the Shaam’s best-loved hostels.
The Al-Haramein is an old rambling house, its open courtyard still adorned with a stone fountain. Offering co-ed or single rooms, the staff has seen everything under the sun, but will warm up if you’re intent on making friends. Which, traveling alone, I was.
However, I soon found a traveling companion. Unlike Oman and more so than Yemen, Syria is a prime destination for young vagabonds traveling on a shoe-string: Canadian backpackers, Aussies on their year abroad, and, apparently Russian photographers. Although much of the Shaam is thoroughly enjoyable alone, taking advantage of one of the old city’s lovely restaurants and sampling Syrian or Lebanese wine is, I believe, far more enjoyable with a friend. We supped on delicious Syrian hot and cold mezzes and sipped on red wine in Elissar.
Wandering the city alone was almost lovelier though. While walking alone I was beckoned to by numerous shopkeepers on Straight Street who seemed more interested that I drink their tea than buy their wares. While visiting the bath Hammam El-Sheikh Raslan, a group of large and friendly Iraqi ladies included me in their gossip, (after sitting naked with them in the baths, it was odd to learn that they wore full abaya and hijab, and some even the niqab).
Highlights: semolina ice cream from Bekdach in the Hamidieh Market; ornate and energetic tamarind juice sellers; the stunning Umayyad Mosque.
After such delights it was difficult to return. I’ll have to return when Cairo starts to feel too familiar and I need a bit of Oriental spice.
