Syria, 2010

A year ago right now, I was in Syria. And I loved it. OK, by the end, you’ve seen one Roman ruin, you’ve seen them all. (Syria is FULL of Roman ruins. Really — that Roman empire was BUSY.) But the people of Syria? We got on famously. Everyone wanted to buy my iPhone and feed me dates and cakes. And the falafel…THE FALAFEL. I was in heaven.

Getting to Syria was not easy. I learned the hard way that there is only one Syrian embassy in the world that is set up to grant Americans visas to Syria. Perhaps not surprisingly, it’s the embassy in Washington DC. But when you’re living in a foreign country — like I was at the time — you don’t think about these things. You just go to your local embassy.

I have a new friend in Washington DC. His name is Hassan. A gruff man of indeterminate age, but familiar with all things Federal Express. Hassan got me my visa in about five days after the Syrian Embassy in London told me, “Six days? Six days for BRITISH. Not Americans. For you? Six WEEKS.” Hassan, if you’re out there, you’re awesome.

When you read about a country and everything you read says that it’s the “Junior Varsity member of the Axis of Evil,” it’s hard not to expect the worst. We took a public bus from Jordan to Syria and I apologized in advance to all the people on the bus for being American. I was sure that immigration was not going to be nice to me and that everyone else’s visas would clear before mine.

But Syria couldn’t have been nicer. (Hence the photo of the kitty kat in a Syrian rug shop.) I showed them all my paperwork and within two minutes, I had my entry stamp and I was off. (I won’t even get into how this compared to my entrance/exit from a neighboring country that shall remain unnamed.) The only other American on the bus was stupid enough to take pictures as we crossed the border. (Dudes…never ever ever take photos at a border crossing. Really. Never.) Him they apprehended immediately once they saw the glint of his iPhone. What saved him? The guy that was going to take him away remembered him from three years ago, when he had been a student in Damascus and had to register with the police. (Oh and how I so wanted to tell the officer that my fellow American was from BYU and what that might mean.)

The president of Syria — President Bashar Al-Assad — is 45 years old. He was studying to be an OPHTHALMOLOGIST. Yes. An EYE DOCTOR. He was the 2nd son of a dictator, destined for a life of educated leisure abroad. Until his brother crashed his Mercedes on the way to the airport.

Assad also likes the Internet…many a Syrian explained to me how President Assad promotes computer clubs and the Internet. (You might know from my other posts that my running joke in Jordan and Syria was the number of times I ordered my dinner, only to be asked if I wanted wi-fi with that.)

He was supposed to be the nice one. The normal one. The Western-educated one with the Western-wife. I don’t even walk to talk about what I see on the news right now. Because I’ve been to Homs. I’ve eaten their pastries. (Delicious.) And it all just makes me want to freaking CRY.

The odd thing perhaps for some of you…As a Western woman, I felt unbelievably safe in Damascus. I had brought all these long skirts but saw plenty of Christian women and young girls wandering around in knee-length skirts and tight jeans so I made the switch. In contrast to my time in Italy and Greece and even walking home from work here in Chicago, no man bothered me. No whistles, no cat calls, no odd looks or touches. Nothing. So I would buy popcorn (or ice cream) in the souk and wander up and down the lanes for hours, alone. As you do.

Ah and the HUMMUS. Seriously — Syriously, Syria — the HUMMUS. I could die happily in Syria, stuffed with falafel and hummus.

I am not much one for politics. I judge the people by the people — and the food — and not the government. Any country where I can buy a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in an alley for next to nothing…well, I must have hope. But then I remember…all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

Krak des Chevaliers is one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen in my entire life — and I think I’ve seen a lot of things. Plus I’m not into sightseeing. A Crusader castle, it is studied the world over because IT IS STILL INTACT. Architects everywhere come to study its construction. If you ever do make it to Syria — if ever this craziness ends — I highly recommend an evening in Krak. There’s a hotel across the hill that does a mean roast chicken. The chickens are from up the road, they make the cheese themselves, and the olives come from their own trees. Heavenly, really.

I’d also recommend the souk in Aleppo, where you can stuff yourself on olives and dates and all sorts of other fantastic treats. Truly lovely. Then you can buy some of the famous soap. Get some for me, because I do love the way it smells.

It’s hard for me to shut the door on Damascus. Even the taxi drivers were nice.

I would also like to point out that it was *not* difficult to obtain wine in Damascus. There are a number of Christian liquor shops. Although no one wanted to sell me Syrian wine. “Wwwwhhhhyyyy? Why do you want Syrian wine??? Don’t you want some nice red wine from…maybe…LEBANON??” Cracked me up every time.

In Aleppo late at night, the streets are full of taxis and the traffic never stops. It’s hectic and crazy and I nearly got run over on more than one occasion. (Sometimes, by donkeys.) But I loved the cobblers and the soap makers and the perfumers and the guys with nuts and dates and God knows what else but it was all delicious. I loved Syria. I want to go back. When it’s calm and normal and no one is shooting anyone and instead people are arguing about the best falafel or the best tablecloths or the best roast chicken.

This is a post that says nothing important. I loved Syria. I still want to love Syria. It was only a year ago that everything was so calm and so happy. I hear the hotels are empty now…the tourists have fled. One can only hope that the tourism lobby is strong enough that it is able to break the craziness in some respect. It’s a country that should be seen, after all. But not at this price. Not now.