Letter From Syria, Vol. 2

I must be in Syria again: It took six hours for two Americans to be issued a visa at the border. The highways and roads are in very good condition. There are no Starbucks, Burger Kings, or Kinko's. My U.S. bank will not allow me to use the ATM at the "Syria International Islamic Bank," access my account online, or transact in any way. The vast majority of the police force (in a country where fifty percent of the population works for the government) is undercover. Most businesses have young apprentices working in them, and it sometimes feels as if the country is run by twelve year old boys--but not girls. In addition to the myriad spices, candies, nuts, teas, coffees, soaps, clothes, and handmade items, a shopper with a keen eye for deals in the souks can find a Santa Claus bustier, an armoire inlaid with genuine camel bone, and pickled pigs' feet by the gallon. There are almost no American tourists, and only a handful of Europeans and Asians. Multiple photographic reproductions of a man looking like a darker haired Larry Bird are on display everywhere--oh wait, that's actually Bashar al-Assad, president of the Syrian Arab Republic, and son of Hafez al-Assad, the former president. (Okay, fine, here is the official government photo of the Syrian president. Nearly two weeks in Syria has permanently seared the man's face onto my visual cortex.) It is impossible to be served a bad meal--except in Palmyra, an archaeological wonderland, but a tourist trap of the worst degree. The typical restaurant has thirty-five to fifty employees on duty per shift. A delicious, leisurely dinner for two could cost $15, a hotel room $22, a rental car $35 a day, and a handmade Persian rug $1,000. The Middle Eastern pop music blaring from car stereos is just as bad as the pop music at home, but the classic Umm Koulthoum and Fairuz recordings are wonderful anywhere, anytime. The most commonly heard English word is "welcome." People on the street loathe George W. Bush, and want to talk about it. They love Barack Obama, and want to talk about it. Nobody bothers to read the [government owned and operated] newspaper. Signs on the highway point toward Baghdad. The 19th century architecture reflects an air of modernity. Local lore has it that the landing pad for the second coming of Christ is right over there atop the Umayyad Mosque, and some say John the Baptist's head is buried over there under that wall. Low key, easy to miss historical plaques tell of events which took place before Islam or Christianity existed. When I nod my head "yes" people assume I am saying "no." The fruit is abundant, fresh, and complimentary after most meals out, and the coffee is thick as mud.

Yes, I must be in Syria again.