We arrived in Syria with no problems at all. To go from Amman to Damascus, you catch a shared cab and all drive to the border together—which means you better have your visa stuff in order or you will make some other people very angry! We were also fortunate to have taken care of our visas before leaving the US because it became clear from other backpackers that Syria has really cracked down on the practice of issuing them at the border.
Our driver had the glasses and temperament of Walter from The Big Lebowski, and was constantly losing his temper over such crimes as Dan rolling the window down to release cigarette smoke. I sat in the middle of the back seat between Dan and a shrunken old woman who barely moved or spoke the whole time. She just sat still, clutching a red plastic shopping bag between her knees and occasionally murmuring to herself. I was a bit freaked out until we made eye contact and she flashed me a wide, cross-eyed grin, after which I decided we were all right after all.
Suddenly the roadside and bumper sticker images shifted from portraits of the photogenic Jordanian royal family to portraits of the also-photogenic Bashar al-Assad. We entered Syria, got our visas stamped, and off to Damascus we went. We checked in at the Al Haramain, a popular backpacker hotel located in a charming house with wireless internet, terraces, and a creaky slanting staircase. The shared showers are in the basement, but the glorious water pressure more than makes up for that. After dropping our stuff off, our first stop was the Umayyad Mosque, which is one of the most important mosques in the world. As a female tourist, I couldn’t go in until I had stopped by the “Putting On Special Clothes Room,” where I was lent a shapeless brown robe with a monkish hood. Dan’s first comment when he saw me was, “You look like a Sith lord!”
I admit I took pleasure in the fact that some male tourists were also required to wear “special clothes”—those who showed up in shorts were forced to don shapeless brown skirts. The mosque reminded me in many ways of the churches and monasteries I have visited, especially because it too serves as a hangout in addition to being a place of spiritual activity. Families sat in the shade beneath beautiful paintings, rested against cool white columns, and watched yelping children chase soccer balls across the shining courtyard floor. Inside, a husband and wife chatted to each other across the male-female dividing line while their young child crawled back and forth between them. We also got to see the tomb of Saladin and a shrine that purports to contain the head of John the Baptist.
Afterward we strolled down the Straight Street, i.e. the “street called straight” where Ananias finds Paul and cures him of his blindness in Acts. It is now lined with swanky shops and restaurants, and is one of the places in town where, much to our delight, it is possible to buy beer. Because good Muslims completely abstain from alcohol, the Christian quarter in Damascus has become the “fun” zone where you can drink a beer or two and feel a bit mischievous while doing so. Some vendors play up this naughty/fun element, waggling their eyebrows at you and offering alcohol with wicked smiles.
My first night in Damascus also marked my first attempt at carpet shopping, which is fun even if you don’t really intend to buy a carpet. Once you see a shop with attractive carpets visible in the windows, you go in and are led to an upstairs or back room where the real games begin. The salesman lays out carpet after carpet for you, while you hem and haw and try not to seem to desperate when you see one that you like. Tea is brought and there are discussions of how long it took to make those lovely carpets by hand, how meticulously the wool was dyed, and how each piece is the loving work of craftsmen from faraway lands. You will inevitably be complimented on your excellent taste (and of course in my case it was true). I was very fond of a rich orange rug from Iran, but the price was steep and it wasn’t “the one.” Maybe next time…
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