1/17/2010- Damascus- Old City

I wake up feeling somewhat refreshed, but not very good about anything else: I don't want to stay inside, but I don't want to leave, either. I don't want to starve myself, but I don't want to get ripped off. I don't want to isolate myself and not see anything, but I don't want to deal with anyone. Anyone. Not unless I can figure out how to to communicate with them. And I haven't yet.

Went to breakfast; met a young British couple, claimed to be journalists, I would guess that's a pretty incendiary occupation to declare in this part of the world. More power to them. It was good to speak to people I could dependabley understand at least. Of course they gave me a few horror stories that gave me pause to consider remaining in my room for the rest of my stay here... but only a short pause. Not gonna bitch out that easy.

Back to the room. It was recommended that I get an early start: I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want to do anything. My hotel room is tight, but the bed is comfortable; I've got a view of the back alley and the grey concrete buildings immediately outside, but I've got 12 foot ceilings inside. I've got a 20 inch plasma screen tv, but the only channel I can understand is the BBC World News, and it plays the same damn thing over and over every 30 min. After spending a while studying up on my Arabic it starts feeling like a prison. Outside feels like a wolves den. I'm damned if I do, and I'm damned if I don't, I'm not ready for any of this, but if it's all the same, better to try wading into this raging river of distrust, angst, and indifference- not to mention cars, people, and more people-Damascus is jammed. They drive and walk, merge, push, and squeeze anywhere they please, with little regard to anyone else. Worse than anywhere I've been, and I've been to New York. They're polite out there. I love New York.

I'm hungry. It's noon. Need to eat. Don't want to deal with this shit. Gotta do it, no choice really. So I find a hole in the wall vendor slinging felafal, seems to be well populated by locals, good sign. I've made notes of what to say. It pays off. I get a felafel and a bottle of water for SL 50- $1. A small victory. This hazy sunny day suddenly looks brighter than before.

Old Damascus is pretty much the one big tourist site in Damascus. It is big. It might be the closest thing to experiencing life in the early 2nd millenium (1000AD and up): Narrow, twisting streets lined by walls of houses. Some of them have been converted to hip little restaurants and cafes, wouldn't have minded trying one, but didn't want to get ripped off again. I know I gotta try living one of these days, whatever the cost, but not ready yet.

The main entrance is through the Al Hammidya Souq, a long covered street lined with merchants selling all sorts of different shit in tiny little holes in the wall. Got hasseled by one old man trying to convince me to see his warehouse where he keeps all his daggers he has for sale. OK buddy. Not a good pitch.

Al-Hammidya street takes you directly to the Ummayad Mosque, what I understand to be the second or third most important Muslim Holy site in the world. Foreigners are allowed a tour of the courtyard- couldn't find the ticket booth. I could peek in- children running around in their socks chasing one another, giving the marble tile floor of the courtyard a high glossy shine; and I could just catch a glimpse of the gold flaked and colorful tile mosaics covering the crowning edges of just about every wall and and column of the place. I've got another day. I'll find out how to get in later. I did ask. I couldn't understand any of their directions, there weren't many other tourists around to charge admission to, and no one would explicitly show me. You just give up after a while.

So like I said, the Old City is full of twisting and meandering streets bordered by high walls. And if you go deep enough you can actually find yourself alone in the middle of the city. After the mess of humanity in the Souq, around the Mosque, and just Damascus in general, it's an incredibly liberating, relaxing- maybe cathartic- moment of calm, peace, and tranquility. And I never felt unsafe. I don't know how these people really feel, but they don't seem to want to hurt me. And I'm not going out of my way to piss them off. So we've established a firm middle ground.

Walked around for hours in there. Hit up a shwarma stand down on Martyr's Square, about a quarter mile from the hotel. The Arabic works. No question, it really helps to try and speak the language. They'll speak back to you in English. They know you just barely know what you're saying. Either they appreciate the effort or they just don't have time to deal with you, so they charge you SL50 and you're off with your Arab hot dog, happy as a pig in slop because you're fed, and you didn't suffer for it.