Anna in Istanbul

“Where from?”

Michael and I are experimenting right now. When asked, as we invariably are, where we are from, we’ve taken to switching up our responses. Do we say “New York City”? “America”? “United States”? “Canada”? Earlier on the trip we had a discussion of the different words for Restroom–W/C, washroom, bathroom, toilette, etc. Each word-however slightly different-ends up sending such a different message about who you are and where you are from. So when our regionality/nationality is asked–how do we respond in a way that will illicit the best response?

Here’s what I’ve found:

“New York City”–everyone loves the city. Everyone has an uncle, cousin, friend who lives somewhere near it. Post Sept 11th, people are generally pro-New Yorker if only for the NY Crusty-but-Benign spirit

“America”–assumes some united front, like France or England, it carries with it some cultural baggage. I don’t particularly like using America even through it seems semantically insignificant.

“The States”–in the same way that “America” suggests some united front, the States presupposes independent states both politically and culturally. If NYC isn’t an option, I’ll go with this.

“Canada”–Okay. I know. The travel-tip-cum-stereotype of the American donning Canadian flags while globetrotting is a bit ridiculous. BUT at least 1/2 of this travel pair is Canadian so I don’t think it’s too bad. If the conversation progresses past “Where from?”, I’ll normally qualify my nationality with being a duel citizen. It’s a bit of a security blanket. Although liberal Americans can say “please don’t hate me, I didn’t vote for him”, being Canadian is even more distancing from US Politics as if we are subtly saying “We know. They’re the noisy neighbors downstairs.”

Anywho–back to real travel.

Jordan-Syria!

On our last morning in Jordan, the Palace Hotel messed up our transport (read: did not arrange it despite constant pestering). After spending the morning in a fruitless search for the Simit Man (guy who sells bagel-like bread to be eaten with a bag of spices from a cart on the street), we parted ways with Laura and set out of the bus station sans real travel plans. Luckily, we found a wonderful Taxi driver who took us everywhere and went in to make sure we could find a ride to Damascus. At the Abdali bus station, we learned that the buses were sold out and our other option-a private taxi-would cost an estimated 90 dinar (roughly 115 dollars). Having no other choice, we made our way to a private taxi service only to be pleasantly surprised at the asking price of 12 dinar. We gladly accepted, tipped our taxi driver well, and waiting until the end of the prayer service in the nearby mosque to set off for Syria.

We ended up in a car with a driver (who looked oddly like Alan Cummings) and two Jordanian men. I got to sit up front for the first time this trip and I spent most of the time reading Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul, looking out the window to stave off reading-induced motion sickness, and returning to reading (read, wretch, repeat?).

At a reststop just shy of the Syrian border, we got out and wandered around through the most bizarre shop I have ever seen. It’s nice to know that-like death and taxes-sketchy reststops along desolate highways are a cross-cultural constant. The television was tuned to a religious station on which five hijab-clad, ~10 year old girls sat in a semi circle, Qu’ran in lap, singing verses one by one in a slightly – falsetto. As I tried to ignore the soundtrack of the television, Michael pointed to a creepy set of baby dolls including “Bi Bi”–a white, plastic toy baby with its head rolled to the side and mouth agape as if it was mid-scream.

Back in the car, we made our way to the heavily armed Jordan/Syria border. We waved goodbye to the smiling teddybear face of King Abdullah II to be greeted by the weirdly-Neck/Head-ratio-ed President Assad of Syria. Portraits of political leaders are everywhere in the Middle East. Thank god we don’t have that in N. America because I do NOT want to be looking-as attractive as they are?-our politicians plastered on every surface.

The two Jordanian men helped us quite a bit through the complete chaos of immigration. We had our Syrian visas already so getting approved was essentially an issue of pushing our way through the “lines”. Michael was feeling a bit out-of-sorts so I channeled my inner baboushka and elbowed my way to the front. At one point an older woman tried to push in front of me and I placed myself squarely in front of her. (Okay. I know this sounds harsh because I would always let an older woman cut in any other situation but ‘lines’ are completely arbitrary in Jordan and being obviously foreign makes it hard to actually get anywhere in them). For the rest of the wait, she kept her hand in the small of my back and kept flicking me. Otherwise, the process was relatively painless. We finally got back in the taxi and sped off into the Olive tree-speckled desert landscape of Syria’s southern border.

Interestingly, everyone we saw in the reststop also crossed the border with us. We were a strange caravan, indeed.

We arrived in Damascus and made our way to the Sultan Hotel-popular with hardcore backpackers and international excavation crews. It’s lovely and we recommend it whole-heartedly (thus far, mind you).

We spent all of yesterday (and are currently) wandering around the Souq (maze like markets) surrounding the Umayyad Mosque (built in 704 ad) in Old Damascus. We are two of few tourists but despite our conspiciousness, we haven’t been accosted nearly as much as in Egypt.

Damascus is much more compact than Cairo and much more lively than Amman. I love it. I could live here in a heartbeat. The people, the smells, the snaking alleys and back roads draped in ivy (and sometimes even bougainvillea); it’s no wonder the myth goes that Mohammad, while standing on an nearby hill, refused to enter the city of Damascus because he only wanted to enter paradise once; when he died.

We met up with a dear old friend of mine, Ailya, who has been conducting research in a town about an hour outside of the city. We exchanged some travel tips-including our advice for her impending stay in Cairo.

Upon returning to the Sultan Hotel last night, we noticed two women checking into the hotel. They both had British accents and presented very masculinely (read: pretty butch). Michael and I are hoping we run into them again so we can ask them how they have found traveling in the Middle East as individuals who do not adhere to gender-presentation norms. In a country where homosexuality is categorically illegal, how do travelers do it?

One last note: For every sketchy person we have encountered on this trip, there have been 5 absolutely genuine and helpful people. Whether it was giving us tea while we waiting for the private taxi driver to return from the mosque or the two Jordanian men who helped us through Immigration, it has been truly wonderful to meet and speak with such caring individuals. I bought a few paintings from an artist in the Damascus market and, during our talk, the artists brought up a great point. He said that it was so important for people to come to the Middle East (especially places like Syria) to meet people and understand that the stereotypes and misinformation propogated by a good majority of mainstream media and politics are completely unfounded. These areas are not populated by zealots, rather by kind, open, and wonderful mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children, grandparents and everything in between.

Well, you’ve gone and done it–said “crusty but benign.” Your friends are rolling their eyes, but the Mumster is smiling. Good comments about the real people you meet–from Harlem to Havana, Detroit to Damascus, 99.9% of people are just hard working folk trying to make a living and take care of their families. Glad they’re reaching out to you–and you to them.
loves you…

Comment by The Mumster June 15, 2008 @ 11:49 am

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In the not so distant future, when I’ve given up all hope of femininity, have cut my hair off, acquired a british accent in the hopes of feigning intelligence, and am traveling through the land of my father, muhammed, I’ll let you know how my gender presentation is received. Although I’ll probably take the easy way out and just don a burqa.

Keep up the good work!
Salaam

Comment by but WHICH ONE? June 15, 2008 @ 3:45 pm

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Personally, I was expecting “being my mother’s pushy daughter.” But maybe that’s reserved for your stories that involve stalking?

Comment by Maddie June 18, 2008 @ 4:17 pm

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