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Patience, persistence pay off with visit to Syria
To eat again
Someone advised me to not pay too much attention to maps while in Damascus, so on our first evening we decided to discover a restaurant, preferably one that served wine.
We picked our way through the narrow streets, avoiding young boys careening along on bicycles. Surprises greeted us throughout. A Roman arch stood around one corner, an ancient covered souk around another. We passed a tiny two-seater barbershop where a Koran shared a shelf with a jar of Gentle Facial Scrub.
Cats gazed at us throughout our walk. Some believe that jinns — mischievous or evil spirits — take the form of cats, so Damascus felt a bit haunted at times.
Locals were polite and friendly, but other Westerners tended to look away when we passed. This is the sort of place where tourists appear unwilling to speak to other foreigners, perhaps unwilling to admit that they don’t have the city to themselves.
Soon enough we found a place to eat. I later found out that Naranj, full of sleek, well-heeled Syrians, has the reputation as the best restaurant in the city, deservedly in my opinion. The fish was served on a bed of rice of rice flavored with a hint of what I think was saffron. A mild white fish, in a light sauce of chili, onion and cashews, lay on top. But dessert — a platter of 15 or so different dishes, all delicately flavored and not laden with honey and rosewater — trumped.
The next night we ventured out of the Old City to go to Shameat, where we sat at small tables and feasted on piles of fresh vegetables, meat, chicken rice and bread. Shameat, frequented by “regular” Syrians, does not serve alcohol.
Travel happens
I’m not a turbo-charged tourist, dashing around with a checklist of must-do activities. I prefer to let a place happen to me. Having said that, one thing a visitor must do in Damascus is visit the Ummayyad Mosque.
People of many faiths have worshiped in this spot since around the ninth century B.C. The complex in the northwest of the Old City has been an exclusively Islamic site for more than 1,000 years — around the time Damascus became center of the Muslim world.
For modesty’s sake, most foreigners and a few locals have to rent huge beige cloaks before entering. Visitors take off their shoes at the Bab al-Barid, or Western Gate, and most carry them throughout the visit. I made the mistake of letting a friendly local commandeer mine and check them into a shoe repository. I tried to ignore him politely as he pointed out different aspects of the buildings, which is divided roughly between a prayer hall and courtyard. Finally, I told him flat out to leave me and my companion alone. He stared at me with moist eyes before wandering off, doubtless in search of another tourist to ensnare.
Having gotten rid of my companion, I ventured into the prayer hall, where kneeling worshippers were scattered on vast red carpets. A small crowd sat around a man as he stood chanting in the center of the room. Around him, men and women exclaimed and struck their heads with their palms.
In the large courtyard, I gazed at the shimmering gold and green mosaics, apparently depicting ancient Damascus’ gardens, villas and fountains. But watching families enjoy a day out in the huge courtyard was the most fun. Young men leaned against pillars, women chatted and children chased each other across the limestone floor. It felt a little bit like a huge picnic, except without the sandwiches and Coke.
We eventually drifted out of the mosque and into a huge covered souk that lay just beyond the gate. The transition from awesome place of worship to bustling place of commerce jarred.
Though we had just scratched the surface, it was already time to leave Damascus.
We have vowed, though, to return to Syria and spend time outside the Old City and in the rest of the country.
Inshallah.
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