Helmi Habbab - Master of Calligraphers

In the fall of 1977, while waiting for admission at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, I enrolled at the College of Fine Arts in Damascus University. I knew that my tenure was only temporary, and that I would leave as soon as the paperwork was completed and my visa issued. Yet, the four months I spent there, from September till December of that year, make up for one of the most spirited periods in my life.

Courtesy of Old Sham

The building where the College of Fine Arts was housed was far removed from the main campus of the Damascus University. In fact, it was located at one of the peripheral roundabouts, in a more or less residential area. The photo above was taken from the Fine Arts building itself, and this is exactly how I like to remember Damascus, not the subsequent mutation and eventual aberration. Although I was neither talented as an artist, nor serious as a student, I did get up to my elbows in work. I took Drawing, Sculpture, Advertisement and Calligraphy in my first and only semester there, and somehow managed passing grades in all of my projects and even excelled in one or two.

It was a time when Fine Arts students were reputed to be the Bohemians of the Damascene academic realm. For all I know, it may still be the case today, assuming there remains any semblance of academia amid the mayhem and destruction. University students had not yet succumbed to the systematic eradication of individuality, which ultimately defaced younger generations into mere bricks in the wall. The cafeteria on the roof of the building was city-renowned for its avant-garde atmosphere. We were the envy of Medical, Engineering, Law and every school out there. Green with jealousy, the brainy nerds consoled themselves with the conviction that nothing good would come out of us, libidinous art students. We were indeed good for nothing bums, but who needed purpose, when we had all the fun.

I lived at my aunt's in Azbakieh, at the end of Baghdad Street, (about a mile off to the right, in the photo above). I remember waking up early in the morning and walking to college, clumsily carrying my supplies and tools with a lit cigarette dangling between my lips. I also remember being among the last to leave in the evening when Saber, the doorman, had to lock the place down. The Fine Arts building was the center of my universe, and I spent every waking moment there, either in class or on that unforgettable roof.

Although those were endearing times, I haven't thought about them in years. I lost contact with everyone, and I have no idea what had become of my friends. I remember Majed, Mona, Haifa and Maha as my closest buddies. I remember Salma, the gorgeous petite, and the way she played with her ponytail, as I sweet-talked her in vain. I remember the doorman whom we called Ammo Saber; some of the teachers, pretentious and sincere; but I mostly remember Master Helmi Habbab.

Damascus University Sign by Helmi Habbab - Courtesy of Ayman Haykal

Helmi Habbab (1909- 2000) was honored with the title of “Master of Syrian Calligraphers, شيخ الخطاطين السوريين” in 1997, upon reaching his 88th birthday. I believe that Mr. Habbab is the best modern Arabic Calligrapher, a claim a few critics would be able or willing to challenge. I was disheartened when I found so little information about him online, which was mostly in Arabic. This, of course, is not a shortcoming of his, but rather of an unavailing Ministry of Culture, a knavish government, and a corrupt media machine that’s only good at fomenting, feeding and fostering a cult of personality.

For scholars and historians, interested in the Art of Calligraphy, Helmi Habbab is a household name. An astute observer can find the artist’s great work in many parts of Damascus, among which is the sublime calligraphy at the Othman Mosque and the uncounted official placards and signs on public buildings and institutes. I was first introduced to his work years before I had the honor of meeting him in person. In the early 1960’s, Syrian Television started its daily programming at 5:30 PM with the National Anthem, followed by fifteen minutes of Quran reciting. The heavenly voice belonged to Sheikh Abdul Baset Abdul Samad of Egypt. The calligraphy on every cascading tile was always signed in Arabic, at the bottom left corner with a dot-less Helmi.

 http://www.albayan.ae/sports/1190114538720-2007-09-28-1.794064

The sexagenarian man with the white hair and goatee entered the small auditorium and it instantly rippled with a Mexican wave of silence. He was known for his sternness and zero tolerance for the follies of smart-ass students. But, he was also known for having a soft spot. He loved them, young and pretty coeds, and took advantage of the fact that he was hard of hearing. He would lean very close to listen to them when they talked (he taught me that trick). Thirty seconds after walking in, and having secured our absolute and undivided attention, he started with a story.

I was an apprentice in 1933 when I was commissioned to calligraph the giant sign on the main facade of the Khoumassieh Company building. I used a special wooden pen with a long thin handle and a 40 cm (16”) round tip. While propped on a scaffold, I looked down and saw a group of French dignitaries standing in silence and observing. Although I didn’t appreciate people looking over my shoulder as I worked, I wasn’t exactly sitting at a desk in the privacy of my study. Eventually, I climbed down and was immediately surrounded by the Frenchmen and their Syrian interpreter. “Mais monsieur, vous êtes un artiste!” exclaimed the fat one, as he vigorously shook my hand. The interpreter faithfully translated the short statement, uttering the word “artiste” in French for lack of a synonym in Arabic.
“You and your mother are the artists, you dirty French Pig.” I yelled back and almost clubbed him with my giant pen. The interpreter and a whole bunch of people, who appeared out of nowhere, had to restrain me until the gendarme arrived. I did attack a French citizen, and this came with at least a jail sentence. It took awhile, and a lot of persuasion, from good-willers to convince the visitors how and why I was so offended and infuriated by being called an “artiste”. After all, for us Arabs in the 1930’s, and up until today, the only artists we know of are the showgirls working in nightclubs and cabarets. This is how most people would look at you, young boys and girls if you don’t make a name for yourselves. So if you’re not absolutely sure you love the Arts and are ready to make sacrifices, you don’t belong in the College of Fine Arts.

Some time between Christmas and New Year, I saw my professor Helmi Habbab for the last time. He was sixty eight. I was two months short of my 18th birthday. But in the span of a few months, we have become good friends. I had told him about my intention to travel to the United States to study to become a City Planner, something he personally considered as a heroic undertaking on my part. He grew up and lived all of his life in Damascus. Traveling across the ocean tickled an unrealized dream that he buried deep in his heart. He encouraged me and gave me valuable advice. In return, I treated him with utmost respect and reverence. My buddies couldn’t understand how I, known as one of the most jocular kids in college, and Master Habbab, known as the strictest and most serious of professors, could have stricken such a formidable friendship. He thought the world of me and took me for a son. He was a father figure, who taught me that no matter how fatuous I was, I would always honor my teachers and mentors.

In April of 1978, and in response to a letter I sent him from America, Helmi Habbab calligraphed his reply on a sized paper. He used a bamboo pen and Chinese ink to scribe his words of encouragement and wisdom on what became my personal treasure. I don’t think I deserve most of the praise, but I’m honored nevertheless. I owe him a tome of gratitude that would take a lifetime to put down on paper or on a screen. My handwriting, like my calligraphy, are still mediocre, but despite the many ups and downs, I would’ve still made him proud of me. I fared well in America but always kept Syria, the one he taught me, in my heart. Rest in Peace Good Master. When our true history is written, your name will be calligraphed in letters of gold.

Sgian Dubh

I woke up with a jolt, gasping for air. Where am I? I couldn't tell. Sparks flew, as the burning wood crackled in the fireplace, then hissed and sizzled. I was hot, my skin was burning. I kicked at the covers and took my pajamas off and threw them away.

Never in my life had I set foot in Scotland. Oh, how I longed for the Highlands in an inexplicable, almost salmonlike obsession. There it was, undeniably imbued in my bone marrow, an arduous crossing that would land me there one day. I would hike uphill, across formidable terrain, with rocky peaks and broad precipices, until my lungs would scream for mercy in the confinement of a finite ribcage. I would sit down as close as I dared near the edge of a cliff and breathe the unsullied air.

I heard the tings from afar. The bellwether led the climb, followed by a flock of a hundred sheep. A black and white border collie ran the flanks, keeping a tidy queue along the narrow path. A fair shepherdess of seventeen or so, wearing a dress of white wool, pranced with a gamesome gait until she saw me. She hesitated for a moment, her red hair whirling in the wind like a fire on a lighthouse from centuries past, before she bravely resumed her walk. The collie’s ears perked up. It assumed an undaunted stance and wedged its way between its mistress and me. I slowly rose, took my tam off and in a friendly tone addressed the lass. Latha math, I said in Gaelic. Good day. I had no idea whence the words came from or what they meant until they were uttered.

Latha math, she replied, Co às a tha thu, coigreach? Where are you from, stranger?
I come from a distant land. I think I’m lost.
Dè an t-ainm a th'ort?
Abufares of Tartous
Tha mi toilichte do choinneachadh. She was pleased to meet me. Is mise Fionnaghal. A bheil an t-acras ort?
Hello Fionnaghal. What a beautiful name you have! Yes, I’m hungry indeed.

She signaled for me to follow. Not more than a mile ahead, beyond a bend, we started to descend. By dusk, we reached a village where the smoke rose from the chimneys of houses built of stone. A younger boy, carrying Fionnaghal’s genes, greeted us and took charge of the flock after exchanging a quick word with her. She led the way to a row of single story homes and came to a stop near a quaint blue door. She pushed it open and ushered me in. A big man sat behind a table near the fire. Fionnaghal introduced me to her father. He stood up and met us halfway across the room. He welcomed me with a huge grin on his face and asked me to join him at the table. Once little Dàn corralled the sheep and came in, dinner was served.

We ate Cullen Skink and Haggis, and the old man and myself drank a single malt made in heaven. I entered this house famished and cold, but now I was full and warm. We talked the night away, Fionnaghal’s father instructing me in the history of the Highlands, while I told him of my wounded country. Around midnight, he apologized for having to go to bed. He had to leave early in the morning on an errand. He carried Dàn, who had long fallen asleep, and wished me good night.

Fionnaghal transformed the sofa into a bed and fed more wood to the fire. "This will keep you warm for the night", she said. It was her brother’s turn to take the flock out tomorrow. She’ll prepare coffee and breakfast and pack enough food to carry me through the day. She left the room long enough for me to change into the flannel pajamas her father had brought. The trousers were ridiculously large and I had to hold them around the waist to keep them from falling. She folded my kilt and waistcoat and neatly placed them on a chair. My washed shirt and hoses she hung by the fireplace to dry.

"Where’s your Sgian Dubh?" she asked, alarmed. I admitted that I didn't have one. A Sgian dubh (prounced Skeen Dhu) is a Scottish flat edge knife or dagger worn in the top of the right stocking (hose). It literally translates to black knife (Dubh: black) and (Sgian: knife). In darker, more treacherous times, it was worn concealed under the armpit as a backup and secret weapon, thus the double-meaning of Dubh (black or concealed). I couldn’t but marvel about the fact that Skeen meant Knife in Arabic too. Fionnaghal brought me out of my reverie. "You can’t wander around alone and unarmed", she said, sounding like a worried mother. She went into her room at the back of the house and returned a minute later with a folded silk hankie. From within, she produced a beautiful Sgian Dubh. Standing close, I could smell the earth scent of her hair and skin. I was transfixed by the blue of her eyes and the red of her lips as she tucked me in. "You need to rest for the long walk tomorrow", she whispered. Gently, she lifted the pillow underneath my head and hid the knife there.

Promise you always keep it near you.
Mesmerized by the moment, I did.
She kissed my forehead and lulled me to sleep.

I woke up with a jolt, shivering in a pool of sweat. When am I? I couldn't tell. A feeble glow remained as the last log crumbled and fell dead in the fireplace. I was naked and cold. I desperately fumbled in the darkness underneath my pillow until my fingers came in touch with the familiar shape of the Sgian Dubh. I sighed, then closed my eyes and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

Lured by Vampires

On a late Tennessee afternoon, after riding an ophidian road that slithered for a hundred miles and reeked with the smothery heat of August, I leaned my motorcycle on its kickstand and walked toward a fountain. I was in a pleasant little town, whose name had long been erased off the blackboard of my memory, and whose main square was flanked on four sides by an array of retail and souvenir shops. The gurgling of the water, mixed with the chirping of house sparrows lazing in the shade, reverberated against the spire and the walls of an olden church. I soaked my bandanna then wrung it above my head twice or thrice, drenching myself, and abating my body heat below torment. Finally, when the leaves above quivered with a light breeze, I wrapped the bandanna around my neck and went for a walk.

Small bookstores and petite women allure me, offering me no means to escape. I could spend a lifetime in or with them, so it was ineluctable that I got drawn toward a senescent storefront, where behind a pane of glass, inscribed with the name Lilith, a tiny silhouette arranging books upon the shelves briefly appeared like a fleeting chimera. The door creaked before a chime betrayed my ingression. “I would be with you in a minute,” her drawl came in sweet and soothing, making me long for nightfall so that the whole world would fall silent and only the echo of her voice remained.

She was short and sweet, in the way dreams are. “Can I help you find something?” She smiled, and my knees went weak. I couldn't tell if it were mere fatigue or the blue of her eyes that made me walk toward a wooden chair and sit down without meaning to. She didn't seem to mind and her smile didn't waver. I told her what a beautiful place she got, looking around me and admiring the crowded rows of used paperbacks and leatherbound books. She busied herself with a huge pile on a cart while I kept my gaze fixed on her every move. My lower vantage point offered an even more dazzling look of her subtle curves. I didn't want to be anywhere else.

I had coffee with Lilith and an engaging conversation that day, and left at sunset with a gargantuan book from her bookstore. It was the one she had read last. When you're haunted by words and you keep turning pages long past bedtime, think of Lilith. That's what I have of her, a dedication on a blank page that I follow with my fingertips whenever I bring a new addition to my collection and place it not too far from Lilith's book, The Historian. Every time I read a horror novel or watch a scary movie, and whenever I hear of vampires or get myself entangled in a television series about a covenant of the nocturnal blood sucking creatures, I think of her. I remember Lilith with sweet affection, although her true legacy was to entrap me in the genre of the macabre forever.

Then a week ago, another enchanting petite, according to her own description of herself, surprised me with an out of the ordinary request. My dear friend and one of the most elegant bloggers ever, Isobel of Suffonsifisms, sought my opinion. “I'm writing a post on my blog about vampires and was wondering if the legend had any Levantine roots.” She too had read The Historian, by American author Elizabeth Kostova, and is a self-confessed vampirical buff. We agreed that we shall both post concurrently on the subject while leaving each other to his or her own devices. Since I believe that everything after humanity started in or near the Levant, I had no doubt in my mind that I would find evidence in the distant past of our land being infested with thirsty blood sucking fiends and monsters, or at least one. I was right.

Lilitu, the grandmother of all vampires, was a Sumerian demon who made her first appearance around 2,000BC. Her name was found on a clay tablet in Ur of Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq). It came from the Akkadian words lil and itu. Lil (Leil) still has the same meaning in Arabic: night, while itu translates into female entity in the Akkadian language. Lilitu, the female being of the night, lived in the trunk of the Goddess Inanna's sacred tree of life in the city of Uruk on the Tigris river. A dragon dwelled in the roots, while a horrific Zu bird nested in its upper branches. Inanna was saddened because her hope of making a throne and a bed for herself from the tree couldn’t be fulfilled. King Gilgamesh came to her rescue and uprooted the willow tree, killing the dragon with his sword. The bird flew off to the mountains while Lilitu, the spirit of the tree, as she was also known, barely escaped after destroying her own home. She made it to the wilderness where she fed on the blood of newborn babies and pregnant women.

The old testament, the first plagiarized work of fiction, picked Lilitu's story and changed her name to Lilith. I was dumbfounded when I read the name. Lilith came from the Babylonian Talmud, where according to Jewish mythology, she was a demon who fed on the blood of children. She made her maiden biblical appearance in Isaiah 34:14 among a list of animals. Later on, between the 8th and 10th century BC, Jewish folklore spiced up the story with the usual religious misogyny. Lilith was Adam's first wife, created with him, at the same time and of the same earth, by God. The legend sank deeper into infamy in the 13th century in the tradition of Judaic mysticism. Lilith left Adam after she refused to become his subservient. Instead of returning to the Garden of Eden as ordered by God, she mated with archangel Samael. Fed up with her defiance, God, and upon the incessant pleading of Adam, made a second wife for him. This time, however, he created Eve from Adam's ribs so she would forever be his subordinate. The animosity toward women in monotheist religions is as bewildering as it is disgusting, but Lilith, daughter of Lilitu and the free spirited woman who refused to play second fiddle to a psychotically insecure Adam, is the mother of vampires. More incredible still is the fact that some biblical scholars dispute the Sumerian origin of Lilith. They have fallen victims to their own perjury. They would, if they could, erase any mention of Lilitu and try to rewrite history into one that is void of the splendor that preceded monotheist hegemony.

Bram Stoker's Dracula, a Gothic horror novel written in 1897, maimed the original beautiful legend of a night creature, who was branded as a demon by the Sumerians and as a slut by the Jews simply because she defended her right to an alternative lifestyle. This is how I actually feel about many historical and almost all theological villains. The mediocre work of the Irishman didn't even manage to stir the imagination of Victorian England. It was discovered, however, some years later by Hollywood, and we all know what happens when American producers get their hands on a potentially sensational blockbuster. Fact and fiction were thrown together into an otiose oven and  Vlad III (1431-1476), of the House Draculesti, Prince of Wallachia and a national hero of his native Romania, was posthumously transmuted into a vampire. Lilith, my Lilith, suggested that I might be tempted to investigate the Turkish/Muslim connection in The Historian, a more refined and elaborate piece of writing on the prince who was the inspiration behind the character Count Dracula. She was fascinated by Vlad the Impaler, as he was known to foe and friend, and by the region of Transylvania, where the alleged story unfolded. Isobel asked me if there were any trace of the legend in Turkey and the Middle East. She thought that the book must have stirred my curiosity. They were both right of course. The Historian intrigued me and haunted my nights, although I have deeply conflicting feelings about it.

As a thriller, the book is brilliantly written. As a historical novel, it is drivel. As much as I enjoyed the plot itself, the fact that it hijacked the pasts of real people and circumstances and turned them into lies offended me. I am an avid fan of Historical Fantasy, where the author chooses an undisclosed location in Europe in the Middle Ages for instance, and creates his own parallel universe. But to select actual historical figures, such as Romanian Prince Vlad III and Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II and twist authentic events and battles, and counterfeit the course of history in the hope of making a box office hit movie is too unctuous to digest. It is as slimy as the historical plagiarism committed by religion twenty centuries earlier. In the words of Paul Barber, a research associate at the Fowler Museum of Cultural History in California, “Vlad Drakul was a figure in Romanian history whose only association with the vampire lore is that Bram Stoker named the character Dracula after him..., and by being associated with vampires — even if only via fiction — Vlad Drakul has become the only figure in Romanian history that Americans have ever heard about. If the Romanians began to make movies portraying George Washington as a ghoul, we would know what they feel like."

The legend of the Ghoul, well established in the Arab World, was documented in One thousand and One Nights, a collection of Arabic, Persian, Indian, Egyptian and Mesopotamian folk tales, and traces back to the Abbasid's golden period of Islam between the 8th and 13th century. The Ghoul is mentioned in several compilations of oral folklore in the Arabian Peninsula and the Levant during the Jahiliyyah, which immediately preceded the birth of Islam. The monster was credited with drinking blood and cannibalism, it belonged to the Jinn and was commanded by Iblis (Satan). The Ghoul is a significant historical vampire, although it came with different attributes according to local variations. There are male and female versions of the Ghoul that manifested itself as a hyena, a giant, a humanoid, an ogre, and even a dragon. However, the legends I am aware of, and despite of their diversity in details, lack a clear sexual context, perhaps as a result of Islamic prohibition. I didn't find any account of Turkish vampire lore originating in the 15th century to lend any credibility to the pop-cultural Dracula simply because it doesn't exist. Vlad III was a formidable enemy. He had slaughtered tens of thousands of Ottoman troops over the course of several campaigns. To them, he was a ruthless killer, thus when he was finally captured, Mehmed II had his head cut off and brought to Constantinople both as proof and a trophy. No garlic to ward him off, no splashing with holy water to make him cringe in disgust, no wooden stake through the heart to kill the undead. A fine edged scimitar severed his head and killed him instantly. The Ottomans were relieved. The Romanians had their national hero. Centuries later, Hollywood had a ball.

The tremendous popularity of the recent Twilight Saga, originally a novel written by Stephenie Meyer in 2005, both as a television series and as a movie trilogy, attests to the genre's attractiveness, especially to younger people. It also signifies a divergence from the shallowness of Dracula lore. Vampirism possesses a primitive erotic quality and these newer depictions addressed this aspect in a more lucid form than the false modesty of Victorian literature. In a moment of passionate abandonment, biting a sexual partner's neck and drawing blood may be a manifestation of the natural. I am aware of the mating rituals of various mammals, cousins of ours, and in particular of felines. The biting of the neck is an integral part of courting, foreplay and consummation. I can faintly see a taut hair separating love from possessiveness, desire from craving, longing from thirst, and I embrace the carnal appeal of a lustful bite and the lascivious hint behind a twin drops of red blood. Vampires spoke to our sexual repressions from the very beginning. Lilitu was the holy whore of the Sumerians. She brought erotic dreams to men while they slept and appropriated their semen. Gilgamesh chased her into a nocturnal life of exile in honor of a more "righteous" woman, Inanna. Lilith was a tramp, who disobeyed her husband and didn’t let him take her in the missionary position, which apparently was the only one that suited his ego. God punished her by sending three of his angels, hitmen really, to kill one hundred of her offspring a day. The fall of these women was instigated by sick male chauvinism, the hallmark of Religion, which demonized sex and continues to until this day. But they were beautiful and independent women, grandmother and mother, and no man, dead or alive, could ever change that or take it away from them. Vampires, like witches, were daring women who said no to repressed men with uncouth beards.

I turned the first page of The Historian over and listened to the beguiling handwritten scrawl as it morphed into Lilith's sweet soothing drawl from years and miles yonder. There was something about Lilith's smile back then that I couldn't quite fathom, attractive but daunting. I closed my eyes shut and suddenly remembered how tight my bandanna felt around my neck and the tingling throbbing in my jugular vein when I had a glimpse of her sharp canines. I shook my head to clear the vision and tried to return to the here and now, but a chilling flashback bore through my bones and my skin tingled as if a legion of aunts crawled over every square inch of my flesh. Elena Gilbert's biological mother in the hit television series The Vampire Diaries was Isobel Flemming. She was turned into a vampire at her request by the evil Damon Salvatore. But there was something else, even more disturbing, lying just beneath the surface of my consciousness. This blogger Isobel has Scottish ancestry in her blood. I choked, almost swallowing my throat, at the thought of blood streaming over white skin. There was this... this witch, Isobel Gowdie was her name, who was tried in Scotland for witchcraft in 1662. Her confession, allegedly without torture, shed a grim light about the deeds of her coven and made her one of the most famous witches in Scottish history. Visibly shaken, I nervously clicked the About Me photo on Isobel's Suffonsifisms blog. A charming woman with short hair smiled back at me, seemingly innocent yet foxing. I stared hard at the woman's face, then at her teeth... Nah, it couldn't be! It's just a coincidence, I told myself, it’s only my imagination gone wild in the dead of night.


Note:
Lilitu, Lilith and the vampire lore have been extensively researched and studied over the centuries. Online, thousands of articles are available for the interested reader's perusal, and they vary from the mediocre to the excellent. The bibliography listed below is in no way all inclusive. These are some of the sources I used in writing this post but I must admit that I may have omitted years of sporadic reading on the subject. While I barely skimmed the surface of three thousands years of vampirology, my intention was to stir your imagination.

Something to Sink my Teeth into
The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, 2005
Lilith in the Epic of Gilgamesh
Alphabet of Sirach
Wikipidia Lilith
Bram Stoker Dracula
Wikipidia Vlad the Impaler
Dracula: The Vampire & the Voivode, a historical documentary (movie)
Wikipidia Mehmed the Conqueror
Wikipidia Ghoul
Wikipidia One Thousand and One Nights
Wikipidia Jahiliyyah
The Vampire Diaries
Isobel Gowdie

Staking Claims: The Vampires of Folklore and Fiction
Twilight Series
Paranormal Arabia: Lilith, a legend of the defiant female
Wikipidia Vampire Folklore by Regions
Dracula the Vampire and the Voivode, movie documentary

Year End Riders

This is a short story I wrote in the last week of December, 2012 as a Christmas present for a dear friend. Originally, I posted it in 13 daily installments on this blog, then once done, I edited it one last time and posted it in whole on a separate page.

It's also available for free download as a PDF file for your private and offline reading pleasure (or pain).

Happy Free Year. May it be a better one for all.

God's Land (Part II)

2nd and final part of an account of a road trip across the USA

Day 4 September 14th, 2012 Powell, WY to Keystone, SD 400 miles / 640 km
I woke up the day after Yellowstone shivering under a blanket of melancholy. I got behind the wheel and wondered what else on the long trip ahead could rapture me like this primordial world. Powell, Wyoming was a small town in the middle of nowhere. The hardships of a failed economy had left their markings on the decrepit buildings and the empty main street. I wanted to stay there a bit longer, for what I didn't know, but my father, a doctor who knew the secrets of the body and mind, had more sense left in him. "Come on! Let's get going", he patted me on the back, shaded his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and took an early nap.
The morning was young when we started an incredible twisting climb up the Rockies, passing 8,000 ft / 2483 meter to unmarked heights. We were crossing the continent's backbone from the American Northwest into the Midwest. Once we reached the crest of our ascent, I pulled to the side. We both stood in awe watching the wild country we were leaving behind, perhaps never to see again. Our descent into what remained of Wyoming was no less spectacular with repeated short stops to cool the scorched brake pads. By midday we traversed the state line as the landscape changed into the rolling Black Hills of South Dakota.
I started drooling over the wild Buffalo Burger I'm going to eat in the little picturesque town of Cody. We reached it in the afternoon but unfortunately the BB Cody's Bar and Steakhouse, highly recommended by my friend, the old biker, didn't open for business till 5:00PM. Too hungry to wait, we decided that we'd better hunt for food somewhere else. We punched in Mt. Rushmore details on the GPS screen. "Take us there Connie. Give me your shortest route."
The next hour was the part my father would never forget on this trip. Connie, faithful to my wish and trying to please, led us on a dirt road across dense woods. Dad swore that we would be lost forever and that nobody would find us. The trail was narrow and bumpy, and as we left a whirlpool of red dust behind, we were getting further and further from the scarce civilization in that part of North America. While the good doctor lost all hope, I was impressed by Connie. Erotic fancies of being stranded in a forest with a bored Scottish housewife distracted me, when all of a sudden the car emerged on an uncharted intersection with a busy highway. I braked hard and sheepishly smiled at my dad. "We made it", I gulped, but he wasn't in the least impressed.
It was written in the stars that we should have buffalo meat for dinner. Five hundred yards down the road, we pulled into the parking lot of the Powder House Lodge where we ate our fill and enjoyed the hospitality of the friendly owners, almost at the foot of Mt. Rushmore. Under the gaze of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln I contemplated the irony of America. Universal suffrage was gained by stripping children of lesser gods of their freedom and desecrating their land. Despite my admiration for these four men, whose actions had shaped the future of the United States and the rest of the world, I couldn't help but stand on the side of the Lakota Sioux tribe and other Native Americans who view it as a grotesque and most offensive monument. Mount Rushmore was once called “Six Grandfathers” by its original inhabitants. Ah, the inequity of a history written by the winners.

Day 5 September 15th, 2012 Keystone, SD to Albert Lea, MI 504 miles / 806 km
We had to finally get on the interstate after days of meandering two-laners and picturesque country roads. I saw cows, hundreds, thousands of them, on both sides of Intestate 90 as the Toyota shot straight like an arrow along a one dimensional course. Occasionally, I chanced upon a pair of deer or a small herd, a sight that eluded my napping old man until our final destination. I reckoned that there's enough corn in South Dakota to feed all the cattle in the world and the people who ate them. Hypnotized by the vastness of the country, I jumped the airways from one country music station to the next to stay alert. Goddamn it, I should've worn a cowboy hat, I drawled under my breath in my southern accent. I pressed hard for 250 miles / 400 km before my first piss-stop and second cup of coffee of the day and a Premium Bacon Ranch Salad with Grilled Chicken at McDonald's.
No sooner than we finished our light meal and joined the highway again, we crossed into Minnesota. I wouldn't be exaggerating if I say that there were as many wind turbines in Minnesota as there were cattle in South Dakota. It was a crisp day with a steady quartering tailwind blowing from the southwest. The giant propellers ceaselessly spun as they must've been doing since they had been erected there in the vastness of an endless sea of green. Minnesota resembled a pubescent maiden to my licentious eyes, capricious yet shy, a compromise between the titillating savageness of the Wild West and the vestal celibacy of the heartland. Somewhere in Minnesota, between Fairmont and Albert lea, I felt that my voyage of discovery was nearing its end. I was getting closer to the familiar territory of the Great Lakes. This 5th day had been a test of endurance as we covered more distance than any other, and for the first time since we left California, I started glancing at my watch.

Day 6 September 16th, 2012 Albert Lea, MI to Merillville, IN 430 miles / 688 km
There is a high point and a low one on every journey we undertake. Skirting the Chicago Metropolitan area and driving on the Illinois tollway system was by every mean the zero level on an otherwise perpetual high. It was a slap on the face that brought us back to a fallible reality. We endured heavy traffic and road construction for 8 steady hours. We couldn't even stop for a bite to eat until we reached Indiana. I couldn't believe how far removed I felt from the Chicago I lived near in the past and loved with all of my heart. It was like meeting a mistress after many years and discovering that she was a man after all, a transvestite who tricked us into believing that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
However, a remarkably sexy woman, gift-wrapped in a white towel and wet out of the swimming pool, did greet us in the hotel lobby in Merrilville, Indiana. Both my dad and I were impressed by the cordial reception and thought that it may be a good idea to stay there for a few days. I had a splitting headache after the difficult drive and our hostess suggested that a dip in the indoor pool might be just the right thing to unwind the tensed muscles and ease the pain. Instead, I opted for the well-equipped gym, overlooking the pool area. Getting back to civilization does come with a mixed bag of curses and blessings. Pumping iron after a long spell of inactivity proved to be exactly what the doctor ordered. As for the other doctor, my dad, he enjoyed a friendly chat with the deeply tanned innkeeper, after she got a chance to put something on that is. Quite an adequate consolation prize after a long and tough day.

Day 7 September 17th, 2012 Merillville, IN to Hermitage, PA 396 miles / 633 km
Staying clear of large cities in Ohio, I adjusted to the rhythm of using the highway with other vehicles. After endless miles of trickle traffic, we joined the rushing flow of a steady stream of cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes. Driving there was a full time job that required concentration and undivided attention. My vision of the outside world was reduced to a narrow band ahead and to the sides. We talked less, dad and I, and when we did it was mostly cold facts about the here and now. It was only noon but I was already dreaming of my bed for the night. We reached Hermitage, Pennsylvania at 5:15PM in a light drizzle under frowning skies. After a whole week of incredibly gorgeous weather, a cold front caught up with us at last. The forecast called for a downpour in the morrow and I knew that it was going to be quite a finale.
Our room came with a small window to the back and it opened on a beautiful clearing in the woods. With the last rays of sun seeping through the drenched treetops, I could discern a shed with a tin roof and an outhouse, relics from a past that is still the present in many parts of the world and certainly in Amish country, USA. I've ran across the Amish before on several occasions and they never impressed me as being in any way strange. To me, they were like the millions of deeply religious people of all faiths who chose to follow their own paths and to the beat of drums they alone could hear. What sets them apart, perhaps, is how they distance themselves from the hubbub of secular life. I have mixed feelings, however, about their children and those of others like them. I don't think it's fair to grow up confined in a bubble floating on an ocean of tempting possibilities.

Day 8 September 18th, 2012 Hermitage, PA to Princeton, NJ 381 miles / 610 km
It didn't stop raining for a single minute all day long as we crossed Pennsylvania from one end to the other. When the visibility dropped down to zero I tailgated a truck for hours on end. Parts of the Pennsylvania turnpike were flooded and the driving conditions became appallingly dangerous. I did, however, think it fitting to end our journey under such circumstances. Except for one or two disappointments, this had been a journey of a lifetime for me. The fact that my father was my travel companion, roommate and buddy for a whole week, extended this exceptional experience through an endearing dimension that is beyond my wildest dreams. We never got a chance until this trip, dad and I, to be alone and to share every moment of our daily lives. At 4:45PM I switched the ignition off and handed the car key to a lady at the Hyatt Regency in Princeton, New Jersey. "Of all my travels", my father said, "this has been the most memorable trip ever. Thank you son."

Epilogue April 13th, 1971 Wyoming to Tartous 41 years & 5 months / 15,130 days
I finally understood how people I've never met before recognized, the moment they lay eye on me, that I'm his son. For years, I've been called the “Doctor's Son” in Tartous and the surrounding villages, and although it never discomfited my ego to live in his shadow I finally realized what a huge compliment it was to be called so. I would do anything to age as gracefully as he has, to stay as sharp and focused when I'm in my eighties like he is. He passed his looks to me in his genes, his joy of living and love for women. I always thought of myself as a low maintenance man, but the time I shared with him made me realize that he's practically maintenance free. Ever since mother died, he demanded very little attention and dedicated his life to the wellbeing of his grownup children and theirs. I hope I can be the father he was and still is.
I held his hand and helped him walk over that shaky wooden bridge across one gully in the continental divide. As the ancestral spirits of disenchanted, disadvantaged and deprived Native Americans silently patrolled their lost land, they must've wondered about this odd couple of a father and son, treading gently down the worn paths like shadows from their own distant past. I leaned on the railing and stared at our reflection on the surface of a small pool of the bluest and clearest water on the face of the planet. There we were in a lentil field hunting for quails. He led with his manly gait while I tagged behind, walking as fast as I could to keep up with him. He signaled for me to stop then pointed at Wardo, a black pointer, standing motionless with one front leg hanging in midair like a statue made of ebony. Take your time. Follow the bird with the barrel of your gun until you can't hear its wings flapping anymore then gently squeeze the...” The quail broke cover and flew like a fireball with Wardo hot on its trail. It banked to the left and cleared the edge of the field, accelerating to maximum velocity. I could only hear my heartbeats drumming in my ears then my own gunshot.
“That-a-boy!” My father beamed with pride. “Thank you Baba.” I replied, 41 years later.

God's Land (Part I)

An account of a road trip across the USA

Day 0 March 11th, 1985
Behind a cloud of blue smoke and the amber glow of whiskey, the man cleared his throat then spoke in a jaded voice, made hoarse with the passage of time. “There's no place like it in the world," he said. "Things you would've not imagined exist. Spectacles beyond your grasp or mine. It's God's Land there and only He understands how beautiful it is.” The old biker didn't even look at me. In fact, he wasn't talking to anyone, but I was within earshot. He introverted deeper toward the recesses of his memory, taking another hit and one more swig before he drew a faint smile on one corner of his mouth and closed his eyes. In the mirror across, I saw myself standing on top of a mountain peak, scanning the white-capped Rockies all the way to the Rio Grande. Over my shoulder, a bald eagle rose slowly from the abyss below. It came close, very close, then hovered barely beyond arm's reach. The black feathers on the trailing edge of its wings fluttered like fingers playing an invisible flute. The winds whistled and sang, wrapping me with a white shawl made of zephyr and picked me up on the crest of an updraft. My waist-long platinum hair lead the climb as I darted in the air. The eagle, shrieking in ecstasy, followed in my wake. I saw what God sees and I understood. Someday I wanna go to Montana.

Day 1 September 11th, 2012 Porter Ranch, CA to Reno, NV 445 miles / 712 km
It was 10 o'clock when I picked up the car from the rental agency. A white, almost brand-new, Toyota RAV-4 was to be our ride across the continent. Dad was waiting for me out in the street by the mail box. He was as excited as I about the adventure awaiting us. He looked younger than his years. An open mind and a heart of gold makes him as much a son as he is a father to me. I was going to show him the America I haven't seen yet. We fussed over the road atlas and the GPS, the bottles of water and the candy bars, the peanuts, the crackers, and the potato chips, then we waved goodbye to the familiar house at the end of a cul-de-sac and got on our way. At precisely 10:30AM we left Porter Ranch, California behind. Our final destination on this cross country trip was Princeton, New Jersey. Never one to follow a straight line from A to B, however, I headed toward the American Northwest. Who knew when the next opportunity might present itself, if ever? Montana was two days away and I could hardly contain myself. Instead of following the clearly visible road sign ahead, the thick line on the map and the frantic British female voice of the Garmin, I passed the early exit to Interstate 5 and drove in a northerly direction over a high bridge. Dad objected at first, but I assured him that I won't let Connie (that's the name I gave to the owner of the sexy GPS voice) control me. “I'm running away from it all dad. When we get lost she'll help us. As long as we're temporarily disoriented, but heading in the right direction, I am in charge”. We took Hwy 14 through Palmdale and Lancaster toward the Edwards Air Force Base. We climbed through a path splitting the Eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains in two and zoomed by the Sequoia and the Yosemite National Parks among several others. We only made a couple of stops on that first day, one around midday at a rest area to stretch our legs and another for a late lunch at Carl Jr's in Bishop, California. We opened the door to our hotel room in Reno, Nevada at exactly 7:00PM.

Day 2 September 12th, 2012 Reno, NV to Twin Fall, ID 599 miles / 958 km
Although a whole week went into the planning of our road trip prior to departure, we decided that we should pick our next day's destination every night and make the corresponding hotel reservation. We also agreed that I should drive for an average of 8 hours if we were to make it in 8 days. We both wanted our last day to be the shortest one as far as driving time was concerned, kind of a safety net to have if we were to encounter any forced inconvenience. We got in the car and started our day a little later than we would've liked, at 8:45AM. "It's OK though", I assured dad. "We have no appointment later tonight, nor for the whole of next week". The Sierras we crossed the day before brought us to higher elevations. Although we had beautiful weather throughout our trip, except for the last day, the temperature did drop significantly from the suffocating heat of Southern California. We mostly drove across the northern Nevada desert until we reached Idaho. There, our world changed and my heart told me that we were getting closer to where my eagle soared. I turned off the AC, rolled the windows down and drove through the wide welcoming streets of Twin Falls, Idaho at 5:50PM. We both still had too much energy to drain in single beds. I quickly looked online for nearby attractions and found that Shoshone Falls were 6 miles away. We rushed back in the car and headed there for a short walk to the falls and a gorgeous sunset. I was successful in navigating away from larger cities throughout this trip but if I had to pick a city I felt I could spend the rest of my life at then Twin Falls, Idaho would be it. I didn't meet a lot of folks to pass judgment, but with a nature like that and with beauty abound all around them they'd be fools if they weren't the nicest people on earth.

Day 3 September 13th, 2012 Twin Falls, ID to Powell, WY 430 miles / 688 km
I only saw 19 miles of Montana but I finally did. When I walked out of the car at the western entrance of the Yellowstone National Park in a little town called, appropriately enough, West Yellowstone, Montana, I went through a profound revelation. There I was, a man with an 8,000 years load of guilt, standing on a land that, until less than 3 centuries ago, had only been seen by its native inhabitants. In this incredibly short span of time, they were decimated by a rising civilization that hasn't developed a conscience yet to feel guilty. My mind drifted to Damascus, Syria, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world (although the bastards are trying to kill everybody there and put an end to the record). How many generations, races and creeds trod along her narrow alleys, breathed her jasmine infused air and quenched their thirst from the Barada River? How many conquerors had been conquered by her charm? How many rulers had been ridiculed by the Damascenes and brought down to their contemptible worth? How much longer would it take history to belch the memory of these thugs and spit them out in the gutter where they belong? The passage through Yellowstone calmed me down and purged me from the sin of peaceful resistance. If I lived to be a thousand years old, I wouldn't experience a more enchanting place. Alas though, instead of days of wandering in these forests and nights of stargazing, we had to abridge our visit into hours. I was dwarfed by sacred mountains, bullied by a fearless bison, swept by the flowing river and drowned in the blue of a majestic lake. Millions of trees stood tall before the white man set foot there and showed me the puniness of man, any man, of any color or faith. Yellowstone permeated my bereaved soul with the cries of warriors slain in sacrifice for a holy land, God's Land.

(to be continued)

The Quest for the Perfect Americano

I needed a whole week to recuperate from the lingering jet lag. I couldn't sleep at night and I was groggy all day. I gulped sleeping pills at bedtime like popcorn at the movies but they didn't help much. Evidently, Desynchronosis (a wimpy nomenclature used by physicians) is more pronounced when traveling West to East. It is suggested that it may take the human body one day per each time zone to fully recover. I proved it.

Among the researched and proven remedies to expedite the restoration of the body's circadian rhythms are Melatonin, light therapy, fasting and Viagra. I just couldn't see myself lying back on a chaise longue, sipping a drug-infused beach drink in direct sunlight, while going hungry and boasting a fantastic …you know what. Instead I busied myself reinventing the perfect cup of coffee. I'd wake up full of zest at 2:00 AM with a buzz in my head or sleepwalk in the late afternoon like a zombie and trudge toward the kitchen where I'd lock myself. I must've concocted a few dozens cups of muddy crap before I finally made my Nobel Prize worthy consummate Caffè Americano.

I am a creature of habit. During my extensive traveling years in Europe I always ordered an espresso and nothing but. I had my first one in Venice in the year 2000 and since then I have all but abandoned Turkish coffee and other freakish manifestations of an otherwise godly beverage. For 12 years I lived with the conviction that I'm drinking the best cup of coffee in the world, a Lavazza Espresso, made with my own hands using a low-end machine. I was right of course. Nobody makes a better espresso than I do. But until then, I hadn't tried an Americano yet.



This past summer, however, and every time I am in the United States, a decent cup of espresso is simply unattainable. Dr. Frazier Crane might've known precisely which trendy Seattle café served the ultimate espresso but I'm a southern boy who's never been to Seattle. Even if I were to live in Point Barrow, Alaska for the rest of my life, I would always be a naturalized Cajun from the bayous of southwestern Louisiana. Speaking of which, Louisiana boasts the best damn American coffee in the continent. Community Coffee of New Orleans is second to none, and yes that includes Canada, so Canucks stop shaking your incredulous heads. You could only imagine my surprise when I found out in 2010 that Community Coffee is not sold nationwide in grocery stores. For the 8 years I lived in Lafayette, Louisiana (1978-1985) and drank Community Coffee every morning I had no idea that it was a regional brand. Fortunately, you can order it online anywhere in the world today and if you're into American coffee I strongly recommend it.

But wait! I totally went off-track and forgot to tell you about my first encounter with a Caffè Americano. It was almost as good as sex, perhaps better. You may learn about my epic driving adventure, crossing America coast to coast, in my next installment on this blog, assuming of course you don't kill yourself or go insane after reading this one.

I picked a McDonald whenever possible for my scheduled and emergency piss stops along the way. Although I never ate there, they offered free Wi-Fi and surprisingly excellent American coffee. But on my final day, driving in torrential rains through Pennsylvania, it eventually became unsafe to go on. Visibility was close to zero as I took an exit into the unknown and got off the highway. I drove into a little town with a main street, a few decrepit buildings and nothing else. There might've been a church there too since I thought I saw a spire behind the foggy glass of the general store/coffee house I was forced to use for shelter. The petite (short really), blue eyed, extremely sexy waitress came over to my table and asked me if I like a cup of coffee. She had a brilliant, beautiful smile. Her lips were... Oh forget it! I took my eyes briefly off of her face, regretting the wasted moment and pretended to read the laminated menu left on the table. Under coffee, the word Americano stuck out and in order not to lose another second not looking at my waitress' gorgeous face, I mumbled: An Americano please.
”Cream and sugar?”
“What? Honey!” I almost replied, before realizing that she was asking me a question.
“Yes please. A little bit of both.”
She was gone but I was content, knowing that she'll be back. I also got a chance to stare unnoticed at her ass. Oh my! I never imagined a small package packing so much punch. A spankee if I've ever seen one. You know, as in..., what in the hell am I talking about? I told you how torturous this jet lag has been, didn't I? I'm still suffering and under the influence.

She brought my coffee and went back behind the counter where I could see her. I think it was the slowest cup of coffee I ever drank in my life. And the best! I felt terrible when the meteorological conditions were safe enough to drive again. Dad, my travel companion, wanted to get back on the road and he literally had to pry me off of my seat. I can only relive the experience, I thought, if and when I make my own perfect Americano.
Which I finally did!

Ingredients and Glassware:

Cream or milk, and sugar as per your preference (optional)
The best beans or ground coffee you can get your hands on
Your favorite cookie
An espresso machine
A teaspoon
A porcelain creamer (to warm the cream or milk in the microwave)
A porcelain cruet (To bring the water to a boil in the microwave)
A fancy China cup (capacity 2 ½ cups of espresso) or your favorite one of comparable size.



Preparation:

• Turn on the espresso machine ahead of time to warm the basket, the holder and the heating plate sufficiently. Make sure the China cup is warm enough before pouring the coffee into it. I found out that most home espresso machines lack the ability to produce very hot water so using a microwave becomes a necessity.

• Warm the cream or milk (1 or 2 teaspoons) in the creamer (microwave for 10 seconds). Take out.

• Boil exactly one full small espresso cup of water in the cruet (microwave for 1 minute)

• Fill the single basket generously as if to make one strong cup of espresso but instead of stopping halfway as in a normal espresso, make it long (lungo) approximately 20 seconds. Pour directly in the warm fancy China cup. You begin this process when the time left on the microwave screen shows 25 seconds before you take the boiling water out. Perfect timing is everything.

• Pour in the boiling water slowly over the edge of the fancy China cup that already contains the espresso (equal amounts espresso and boiled water). Make sure to pour the water as near to the edge as possible in order not to disturb the crema. Pour in the warm cream or milk the same way, then add sugar and stir gently.

This is exactly how to make the perfect cup of Americano. Any deviation from my instructions will produce a mucky coffee soup. No pain, no gain, and this is most certainly true in any beverage or food preparation. Trust me on this one and thank me later.

I woke up this morning and went through the ritual. She came out of the fog and asked me what I'd like to order. I didn't waste no time looking at no menu. As long as she's standing there in front of me and before she disappeared I looked straight into her blue eyes.
“A Caffè Americano please. Cream and sugar.”
“Would that be all?”
“Not really, but I'll decide on my next move when you come back.”
She walked away then, with a smile on her face and a sway of that exquisite little butt of hers.
Good morning everyone!