A diamond in Damascus

You never know when you’ll find a truly good person.   

The other day, I took a taxi downtown.  Bumping along, the driver and I had the usual conversation I’ve come to expect here: between his limited English and my scraps of Arabic, we discussed his hometown and family, my country, the beauty of Damascus, what’s happening in the country.  At an intersection, he gave an Iraqi beggar some coins.  We continued.  By this time we’d established that his wife was from the neighbourhood where I live, which he seemed to regard as sufficient for a relatedness of sorts.  He grew paternal as we neared my requested destination.  “Why go here, enti?  Yanni, last week so much trouble…you are alone.  No foreigners now.”  He looked at me with concern.  I've taken a lot of taxis, and am usually ready to battle through sudden price hikes and amorous advances; but this man did neither of these things.  I felt relaxed; I liked and almost trusted him, though he had a disconcerting habit of turning to make eye contact while driving.  I assured him I’d be ok, gesturing outside to the sleepy neighbourhood.  He pulled over while I counted out my money.  And then he did something that floored me: he refused to take the fare!  I protested and tried to push the coins into his hand, but he shook his head.  Ahlein, he said, you’re welcome.

Then he was driving away, waving, with a new passenger.  I walked around for ages afterwards, trying to preserve the feeling. 

Whoever you are, Mr Taxi Driver, I wish you and your family the very best.  Maa’salaameh.

Damascus

Enti – you (to a woman); Yanni – well / like / you know; Ahlein – welcome; Ma’ salaameh – good bye / God go with you.

Prada, patchouli, desert and Dune in Amman

Along the highway from Amman to Aqaba

I've mentioned that travelling has become a challenge lately - which makes it all the sweeter when visas, permits, and flights finally come together.  I boarded a plane in Damascus earlier this week, and as I stepped off in Amman, Jordan, I felt a layer of tension peel away.

Amman isn't exactly known for its cultural richness, but it has its moments.  The city, built almost exclusively of creamy white stone, covers a series of hills and wadis.  At sunset the effect is of a gleaming futuristic movie set...until you notice Bedouins grazing their sheep in stony fields and vacant lots.  Amman strains with all its might to be modern, but the shepherds and their humble tents and shacks remind you that this is actually Jordan.  

This trip was largely for work, but I did get to the Dead Sea briefly, so voila:

Public beach, Dead Sea

I'm a little shocked by the number of gigantic resort hotels have sprung up around the Dead Sea since my last visit.  Their high walls lead right down to the sea, to keep the locals out, and their massive desalination systems are draining the local water table at an alarming rate - the Dead Sea is visibly receding.  The overall effect is not encouraging - massive corporate fortressess lined up along the shore, a few rather pitiful attempts at competition by private individuals, and the odd camel herder trailing his animals through vacant lots.

I visited the public beach, where men ventured into the viscuous water while their wives watched from plastic chairs on the shore.  Tourists plastered on medicinal mud and posed, floating about with their newspapers held aloft, feet in the air.   The newest addition to the scene was a concession selling burkinis.  And bikinis!  To each her own.

I probably would have been a little downhearted about returning to Damascus this evening had it not been for the excellent perfume selection at the airport duty free.  It's almost worth checking in early, in order to have more time to sniff.  The sales staff are mercifully laissez faire.  It probably helped that my first act was to snatch up an Amouage mini set (more about that in a future post).  In any case, they gave me a sheaf of testing strips and let me do my thing.  I pottered along, revisiting old acquaintances and considering new ones. 

Prada Candy - this has been getting glowing reviews, and I guess I can understand why.  I've never liked caramel as a taste or a smell, and so will never really enjoy this.  My enthusiasm for the Prada line is somewhat muted...the fragrances always seem to be well-made and tasteful, but I so far I have never felt excited about them.

Tom Ford White Patchouli - I like trying the Tom Ford line, since you never know what you're going to find.  It seems to veer from one extreme (bowl-you-over Black Orchid) to another (Neroli blah), and it produced - and then discontinued - one of my all-time favourites, Velvet Gardenia.  This time I wanted to try Violent Blonde, but someone had stolen the tester.  Grr!  That left White Patchouli, which I have tried a few times in passing.  This time, the opening minutes fairly blew my hair back - "whoa, brightness and patchouli!"  The effect was a bit like that grating, fizzing sensation you experience upon emerging from a night club, blinking, ears ringing, and the start of a hangover creeping on.  Well, it was at least interesting.  I put the testing strip in my pocket, to revisit later.  Unfortunately it turned into a musky mess. 

Dior Dune - I sniff this every time I see a tester.  I don't know why I never buy it.  Well, I do: it's expensive and it's everywhere, and an ex-friend use to wear it...  Still, I kinda love it.   So strong, and so elegant.  I'm especially fond of that silk-at-the-seaside quality.  I'm not sure it helps me 'discover my inner self', but after all these years, Dune still gets me.

Photos: my own.

Substantial airs and Love, Chloe

When you've been cooped up for months in a beautiful, historic city, and then you escape for a weekend - to another historic city - your first priority is not to visit a cultural site.   This weekend in Cairo, I went shopping.  In a mall.

Citystars is your typical middle eastern mega-mall: several floors of western mainstream and Arab chain stores, all sandwiched between food courts, supermarkets, and a cinemaplex.  I gave in to the "binge and purge" impulse that rises like a dragon every time I go on leave - swooning at the sight of new clothes and shoes, roaming freely along perfume counters and cosmetics displays.  It was pure pleasure for about 3 hours.

After that, I remembered how I hate malls, and how utterly boring and repetitive everything tends to be in chain stores.  Somewhere in between, I picked up sensible socks and a few bottles of perfume.

Now I'm back at the hotel, recovering.  I understand why city residents like to go to the desert to unwind.  I'd say Cairo is on a par with Lahore when it comes to air consistency.  I say 'consistency' instead of quality because what you breathe in these cities is so far off the scale as to be in a different category: it is substantial, nearly visible, touchable, perhaps even audible.  There are certainly notes.  The Cairo formulation features exhaust, smoke, food, sewerage, and, notably, commercial perfumes.

Perfume is everywhere in the Middle East.  Gardens usually include night-blooming jasmine and scent-rich roses. Shops pipe in air freshener.  Boys on the street sell stalks of tuberoses.  Cafes encourage customers to smoke aromatic nargileh, even indoors.  And there are perfume and incense shops in every neighbourhood, catering to all purses.

Since moving to Damascus I've realized that the decants I brought from North America just don't work.  Dior Homme teamed with jeans and sweater is fine in the Pacific Northwest, but it doesn't fly here, where everyday life is utterly urban, and gender roles are strongly defined.  When going out here, it would be difficult to be overdressed or over-manicured.  For women, heels - especially at night - are high, and perfume is feminine and sexy.

I will probably never commit to a full Damascene makeover - tattooed eyebrows remind me of Star Trek.  But it is a pleasure to be able to wear perfume every day.  My choices for work must be demure, it is true; but still, Parfum d'Ete and Eaudemoiselle are a change for me.  They far more feminine than my previous regulars, and have worked well through the extremely hot (45C+) summer months.  Now I'm casting around for cool-weather options.

I liked Love, Chloe when it came out, but considered it to be for the pink-shirt-and-cashmere woman - in other words, not me.  But the great thing about expatriate life is that it allows for self-reinvention.   And now it seems Love, Chloe isn't such a reach.  It's dressy without being uptight; floral but not frilly; sweet with some sophistication.  I don't normally like strong fruit notes, but here, sunny apricots and rice powder radiate a soft warmth on crisp, arid days in Damascus.

Photo 1, of sunset in Cairo, is mine; photo 2, courtesy of fragrantica.com.
NB: Nargileh = shisha / hubbly bubbly; Habibi = my dear

Cairo time!

I love travelling, especially at short notice.   There's nothing more thrilling than deciding, in a moment, "I'll just go."   But that kind of spontaneity is a challenge these days.  There are all sorts of permits to apply for in advance, and as often as not, one of them is not granted in time.  After several failed attempts, I have learned not to build up too much anticipation, in case it all comes to nothing.  But today - 'hamdolillah! - my passport was delivered, all stamped and stickered, I scurried out to the airport, and onto a flight to Egypt.

After sleepy, dusty Damascus, Cairo is overwhelming.  An endless sprawl of concrete, mosques, churches, and traffic, traffic, traffic.  As we came in to town from the airport, the taxi driver shouted above the Arab pop, "Always traffic!  But is ok, I like driving!  Is fun!"  And it was.  I wound down the window and let the city air in.  A spectacularly thick stew of charred exhaust fumes, dust, food, jangling horns, and the evening muezzin flooded into the cab.  "Ok I smoke?" said the driver, aimiably offering the packet to me.  He lit up, letting the smoke splay out behind him; it made little difference.  We skidded onto a curb to avoid the snarl of cars ahead, then bumped down onto an exit ramp.  "Look now!  This bridge to Tahrir Square.  Fantastic!"

My initial impression of Cairo is that it's dirty and chaotic; but there's also an energy that I've been missing.  People are not afraid to look ahead, to say what they think.  There's something tremendously exciting about a country sorting itself out after a revolution.  So while the air smells like Bulgari Black sans the Bulgari, this place is still a breath of fresh air.
And it's the setting for one of my favourite movies of recent years - Cairo Time.

Yellah!

The Scent of Damascus

Roof of Umayyad Mosque, in the Old City, Damascus

It's been a long time.  Several months ago I moved to Syria, and plunged into an entirely different life.  I'm here for work, but also to live; really, I came to experience something new.  In case you haven't noticed, I tend to gravitate to places that other people avoid.

I first came here in 2007, on holiday.  At the time, I was living in Pakistan, and considered a week in Damascus a precious treat.  O, to walk in the dusty streets of the Old City!  O, to drink a glass of wine in public!

Syria was peaceful then, and Damascus was bustling with commerce and life, especially at night - crowded shopping streets and souqs, cafes hazy with the scent of nargileh and fresh jasmine, and nightclubs offering live music from around the world.

This is not a political blog, and I intend to keep it that way.  All I will say here is that life in Damascus is not what it was.  The city is still calm, and I can walk around on my own, even at night.  The jasmine bushes still billow over the walls of the great houses, filling the air with almost visible scent, and it's pomegranate season.  But the bustle is gone.  In the souq, I feel lonely for the old crowds.

More and more shops are closing down, or keeping shorter hours.  Most of the foreigners have left.  People keep their heads down and live quietly, as if this is the new normal.  At the same time, we are all holding our breath, wondering what tomorrow will bring.  As the months go by, the effort of maintaining a calm demeanor leads to a kind of exhaustion.  I went to my neighborhood pharmacy the other day to get something to help me sleep.

"Everyone is asking for the same thing these days," says the pharmacist, laughing sadly. "I'm running out of stock."

He sold me a bottle of children's cough syrup.  It smells like blackcurrant cordial, and does the trick.

In the old city, business owners greet customers with the same elegant Damascene hospitality as always, but now when I step into their shops, a terrible guilt sets in, for I know I may be the only customer they will see that day.  Even if I am merely browsing, I still buy some little thing, just to express support.  This inevitably brings on more hospitality, a flurry of tea and sweets, a fresh bloom of guilt. My pockets end up full of treats.  Luckily there are many beautiful things here, and I have the time to enjoy them.

In support of the artisans and vendors in this wonderful, ancient place, over the coming months, I'm going to devote this space to the art, perfume, spices, food, soap, and carpets of Damascus.  Enjoy.