Al-Mina Street

I often write about a Tartous that is no more, about a time that treads on the fringe of anamnesis. I might be a nostalgic old dude but I am neither bitter nor grumpy. I simply miss a past that is far too beautiful to be laid to rest then forgotten.

Until the 1980's Al-Mina street was the crown jewel of my city. I was born right there, where I planted the red arrow on this photo dating back to the early 1960's. It was taken from the roof of the Awkaf building looking north. I remember every single building in that photo, a few of which still stand after almost five decades.

The Roman port, which was later obliterated, is visible right across the street from my home by the sea. So is the open field we called Al-Bayader with a tin roof cafe that was the compelling gathering place for all the Tartoussi men in the evening. During the day it served as playground for us kids. We played ball, rode our bicycles and made up games of unimaginable simplicity. Women with their children strolled down the long street as ice cream vendors carried their big thermoses on their backs and roasted corncob outcriers pushed their colorful carts with blazing fires.

There was a short-haired pointer dog in almost every house down the street. Men and boys hunted year round. Game birds were abundant and lunch invariably included quails, thrush, shukkar partridges or doves. Anyone who did not own a felucca had a fishing rod. A small piece of dough was all the bait needed to catch the most magnificent specimens of Buri fish. Sure they sold lamb at the butcher shop but red meat was something reserved for special occasions and shunned at in our everyday Mediterranean diet.

Less than a handful of cars cruised the sleepy town. The mayor had an automobile of course and so did the doctor. There were three or four taxis people shared to go to Tripoli on a jaunt or to travel to Damascus for an overwhelming need. However, the streets of Tartous were teaming with Vespas, Lambrettas and bicycles. Oh, and we had quite a few tumbors (wooden carts pulled by donkeys or mules) which adequately fulfilled the roles of delivery trucks and utility vehicles. As a kid I never found a compelling reason to venture beyond Al-Mina. Inland Tartoussis, those who did not live on the front row facing the sea, came to us instead. Everybody knew everybody else. Everyone had a nickname and it was used to call him by. The houses of the rich had more rooms than those of the less fortunate but there were no significant visual clues setting people apart. A wealthy person who took himself seriously stood to lose most. Nobody liked him and all the money in the world could not buy him an ounce of respect.

During summer break and unless a kid was sick he rarely stayed at home. Our parents had no reason to worry about us. We were always to be found somewhere by the sea. Most of us learned how to swim before we could take our first steps. We were obviously as safe outdoors as we were inside our own homes but it was much more fun. The visible thin line in the background of the picture is the foundation for the northern breakwater of what later became the Port of Tartous. We went there, searched for and found Batlouness (mussels) on the submerged rocks. We would spread them on a piece of discarded tin, collect splinters of wood from ill-fated boats and cook them on the spot. They provided more lunch than any raucous kid needed to keep him going for the rest of the long day and they were tastier than the fanciest restaurant in the world could ever dream of presenting.

I grew up there, on that stretch of road. I wore high rubber boots in the winter and an orange parka over my  uniform. A ten-minute walk due east put me in school but I never followed a straight course. From a distance, I shadowed the girl next door to her school, just in case some backland lad was fool enough to cross her path. I also gazed at her cute little butt in the tight Foutouweh Khaki pants every single step along the way. I had my first kiss on the roof of one of these buildings. Her cheeks turned red when we kissed and her lips tasted of strawberries. We both trembled as I gathered my courage and cupped her breast. It was smaller and firmer than a crunchy apple and infinitely more scrumptious.

In a trance, I stare at the frozen moment captured in this old photograph. Phantasms from my past flicker on a screen in my mind. The laughter of the dead echos against the walls, memories of those who sailed West shimmer on the facades and the twinkle in the eyes of my remaining companions reassures me that it was all real, that I am neither bitter nor grumpy. We had all known better times... on Al-Mina Street.

Sea Side - A First Novel

Artwork by Joseph Matta

I've been on a journey of self discovery for the last nine months. It all started in July 2009 when one of my favorite bloggers and my dearest friend Mariyah posted a simple and beautiful entry. For those of you who are not familiar with Mariyah, she is an exceptionally gifted writer from Damascus, who over the course of twenty six episodes told the story of her parents in the form of an inspiring and heart warming fairy tale. I asked her then if this “Sea Side”, as she called it, was going to be another Ghassan & Alexandra. Instead of giving a straight answer she invited me to join her in co-writing a story with the backdrop of the Syrian Coast. How could I ever say no to a beautiful lady like Mariayh?

Privately, however, I felt a little awkward. I've never written anything longer than a few pages. I've never written fiction. I've never written with another person. Yet my deepest desire had always been to write a novel someday. My problem was not one of lack of self-confidence but rather of lack of time. It's not an unfounded excuse on my part. Some people may indeed function better under pressure but I was not wired like that. I write when I'm happy, or at least unconcerned about the outside world and the mundane necessities of every-day's life. Had I been self-sufficient enough not to work yet to bring up three children in the best possible circumstances I would've not minded an early retirement from “employment” to devote my time to reading and writing. Mariyah's invitation was in no way a challenge but the motivation I lacked to give it a shot and thus our journey began.

We alternated in writing subsequent chapters while we maintained a disciplined routine. We published a new episode every Friday and we did not consult directly or agree in advance on a plot. Our story weaved its own way through our words and the four main characters were developed in almost real time. The fact that neither one of us had control over the flow of events meant that a high degree of unconscious mental coordination and an unspoken synergy have to come into play. We continued to surprise each other while enjoying ourselves to the fullest. I had never partnered with anyone before on a creative process and now that it's finally over I want Mariyah to know what a joy, what an honor and a complete emotional and intellectual alleviation she had brought me.

Sea Side takes place in and around Tartous. It's a romantic love story at best, something I never expected or anticipated that I might write someday. But to say anything less than that I'm very proud of it would be an understatement. This is the ever elusive first step and I took it after Mariyah extended her hand and led the way. Now I know for sure how much I want to write and I will unearth every bit of time to do just that.

I have to thank you Mariyah for being my companion by the Sea Side. I already miss Yazan, Yasmina and Youssef but I'm going to miss Amar most. Your words made her unimaginably beautiful while mine only mirrored your charming writing and elegant style. If I ever publish one day the writing of Sea Side will remain my most cherished memory of all. It is after all my first novel.

If I may Mariyah, I am going to ask you to do me a little favor. I want you to write, at your own time, a short story and grace my blog with it. This is of course an open invitation, with the key for you to keep. Come by any time and write here without even letting me know beforehand. Not only once but a hundred thousands times and more. My blog is your blog now and always.

Mariyah and I have set out to have fun but we ended up with much more than we bargained for. Accordingly I have to also thank our friends who commented there on Sea Side and kept us company for 38 consecutive weeks. No matter what our humble effort into writing our first novel turned out to be we have both gained your friendship. How in the world can I be happier?

Links:
Sea Side Story
Ghassan & Alexandra
Mariyah's Blog
Mariyah's Invitation

Quattro Stagioni

Staying at the right hotel is the dividing line between a successful business trip and a memorable experience. When traveling in Europe my temporary residence is often a four-star or, occasionally, a five-star business hotel as close as possible to the venue where my meetings are to take place. I usually follow the advice of my hosts and when they offer to handle the reservation themselves I normally agree. These hotels are quite comfortable and provide efficient around the clock services. They and most of their clientele are sadly soulless though. I'm not always fortunate to run into a Fenella after all. Sigh!!!

On my third trip to the Netherlands over the last year I have learned my lesson well enough not to put my fate in the hands of efficient secretaries. Despite the inconvenience of changing accommodations for one night only I find myself opting for this choice more and more. The hell with the business suit and tie, the hygienic room in the middle of nowhere and the bar full of boring stiffs who talk only about work even when drunk. On my last night in a new city I'm moving my ass out of there in search of a cozy little place either in the heart of things or away from the screeching silence of the business environment.

March has been one of those months for me where I lived off my suitcase. Well, it's no longer a suitcase in the real sense of the word as I have become very apt at traveling light. I can handle any four or five-day trip now with a single carry-on and instead of waiting for my luggage to arrive on a maddeningly slow carousel I can have a head start on my first beer.

I spent a wonderful evening in the buzz of Amsterdam and a relaxing walk through her back alleys followed by a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast at the Avenue Hotel on the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal Straat in the center of the city. After a brief interim in Tartous I found myself in Venice with one last free afternoon and a rainy sky. I had worked out of the port of Venice for two days and I really looked forward my alone time in a small suburb of Mestre called Zelarino. This is not the first time I stay at the Antico Moro, a three-star hotel built on the original structure of an 18th century palace owned by the Foscari Family and it hopefully won't be the last. I really relish the privacy and the placidity it offers after a couple of days of hard work. I waited the rain out in my pleasant room and listened to it tap-dancing on the shingles of the vaulted ceiling. Then I went out into the night and walked along the deserted main street to the sounds of bells from the chiesa di Santa Maria Immacolata. An hour of brisk walking changed my mind about not having dinner but all I could find were small ice cream parlors and the ubiquitous Italian cafes. I sought advice from the night clerk and he was rather surprised that I was asking for a good place to eat.

“This way prego.” I followed him to the back of the small lobby where he opened a door and I found myself stepping into the fantastic Sotto il Sogno, Pizzeria e Ristorante. The waitress asked: “Would you like meateh, fisheh or Pizza?” Since I was only familiar with the last one that's what I chose. Now don't get me wrong, I like a good pizza. I always thought that I offended my Italian colleagues and friends when I told them that the best pizza I've had was in Chicago. Accordingly I stopped saying that completely. They are sensitive those Italians you know and they take everything personally. I also never gave justice to Italian beer simply because, apparently, I was always taken to the wrong places.

I sat alone at my table facing the wood fired oven and watched the tall and skinny chef handling the dough. I always assumed a good cook must be fat, or has a full waste line at least. Very wrong assumption, I'm glad to admit. And, not only did this place look terrific but lo and behold they had a beer menu. I ordered an amber Rurale Birra. The waitress warned me: “But it is biggeh!”. I simply smiled at her and said: “Certo ... So” (Sure... I know).

It didn't turn out to be that big after all, a mere 750 cc any healthy boy like me should easily gulp down with a pizza. And, Ahhh, that brings us to the real stuff. I ate the best Quattro Stagioni, well really the best pizza ever, anywhere, anytime.

As I went outside for one last walk late at night, the buzz of Zelarino was no less magnificent than that of Amsterdam, a fitting end to a long stretch away from home. Did I mention that the beer was goooooood? Well it was and I can't wait for my next visit. When the petite waitress tells me that “it is biggeh the beer” I will answer, again with a grin on my face: “quindi si prega di fare loro due ” (Then please make them two).

Random Play

My dearest friend Isobel tagged me in a most attractive way. Her blog sits on the very top of my favorites list. Problem is, she doesn't write often enough, kind of like me. Children have their own ways of distracting their parents and I guess this is the major reason why she's sparse with her posts. Recently though, she's been on a roll. Ever since she discovered that she is the direct descendant of a beautiful Sioux Princess she has become a rather prolific blogger producing one great post after another on an almost daily basis. Among the thousands of her adoring fans I doubt that there is anyone more loyal than me. To read Isobel's Suffonsifisms every day is a perennial dream of mine. I only hope she continues with this pace least I and her groupies suffer from the consequences of a severe withdrawal syndrome.

Her tag could not have come at a more opportune time for another reason. Lately, I've been uninspired, plain and simple. I have returned home early Friday morning after four days of work in Rotterdam and one of play in Amsterdam yet couldn't sum up my thoughts to put together a coherent post on my blog. Thing is, I'm moving again in a couple of days, on another business trip. However, unlike what many creative people advocate (I'm not implying that I'm creative) that they perform best under pressure I'm not like that. Work is unavoidable labor rather than an enjoyable vocation as far as I'm concerned. I'd rather be doing any of a hundred things instead of toiling my ass off, including crochet and knitting. Oh that reminds me of this miniature crocheted coat I saw in a storefront in Amsterdam. You know, it's a woolen cloak to keep the little one (Willy) warm on cold Dutch nights. "Little" being a figure of speech and totally relative to a coat worn by the human owner of the penis. Since it's on display it could only mean that there are buyers for this stuff. Now, and just for the sake of argument, if a girlfriend or a kinky wife buys a crocheted coat for one of her man's most important attachments I can see the humor in it, weird but haha funny in a way. But what if some jerk actually buys himself or more precisely his little one a crocheted coat? I see him in my mind standing naked in front of a mirror, shivering in the cold while his member is warm and happy. I should've got it in beige might be running through his mind, hands on hips, swinging his torso left then right. Next time I'm in a meeting with a bunch of boring stiffs I will try to guess who among them might be wearing a crocheted coat underneath his suit. It will certainly make my time flies much faster. They will wonder about that smirk on my face and it'll only prove enigmatic to them. He must know something about the stock market that we're not aware of, they might reckon, or he's on good terms with the CEO. Oh how unsettling a smile could be if timed correctly!

You guessed right, Amsterdam was loads of fun. I spent my last two hours in the hotel lobby engaged in an absorbing conversation with a charmingly classy woman. Unreachably gorgeous, she was. Her words very much like her looks were simply beautiful.

That brings us back to Isobel and her tag. What are the first 16 songs you get when you hit the shuffle button on your MP3 player? And here's my answer, this is what I listened to this morning on my iPhone, while I was working :-)

1.    Bridge Over Troubled Waters – Simon & Garfunkel
2.    Subhan Allah - Fanaa Chand Sifarish
3.    She – Charles Aznavour
4.    Awakher el Shita' – Elissa
5.    L'eté Indien – Joe Dassin
6.    Tell Your Mama – Norah Jones
7.    Open Arms – Journey
8.    With or Without You – U2
9.    Something in the Way She Moves – James Taylor
10.    Betiggy Sirtak – Nancy Ajram
11.    Avant De Nous Dire Adieu – Jeane Manson
12.    Suleima – Malek Jandali
13.    Runnin' with the Devil – Van Helen
14.    Fallin' – Alicia Keys
15.    Jai Ho! (You're My Destiny) – A. R. Rahman & The Pussycat Dolls
16.    Biestehi Habibi – Elissa

Thank you Isobel for thinking of me and for the beautiful inspiration behind this mediocre post of mine. Thank you dear readers for reading so far and, if you have the time, tell the rest of us about your random list of songs. You can of course write about it on your blog or in the comment section of mine.

Echos from Ugarit

"This song is for you"

In 1929 a peasant plowing his field 10 km north of Lattakia (Syria) unearthed a strange looking stone in an area called Ras Shamra. He immediately informed the authorities but little did he or the rest of the world know then about the magnitude of his discovery. French archeologist Claude Frédéric-Armand Schaeffer(1898–1982) spent the rest of his life excavating the site. Ugarit was found.

Ugarit was an independent Canaanite kingdom that reigned over the eastern Mediterranean in the 18th century BC (3800 years ago). The Phoenicians, descendants of the Canaanites, built great palaces, temples and shrines in Ugarit between 1450 – 1200 BC. But most importantly they built libraries. They ruled the sea with their strong ships made from the cedars of Lebanon and became the greatest naval power in the Mediterranean and Aegean seas. They traded silver, gold, textiles and ivory with coastal cities, Egypt and Mesopotamia. Ugarit had a population of 10,000 before she was destroyed and burnt down in 1200 BC by the Sea Peoples whose origins remain a mystery for today's scholars.

It is in Ugarit, among the thousands of tablets found within the walls of her great palaces and libraries that the first Alphabet in history was discovered by Schaeffer. Evidently the Canaanites and their descendants the Phoenicians realized that human speech consists of a finite number of sounds. They simply enough created a symbol for each of these sounds. Well not really that simple as it took civilization 2000 years to achieve this feat. All subsequent phonetic languages (i.e. Hebrew, Latin, Sanskrit, Aramaic, Arabic, Greek, etc.) utilized most of the original 30 symbols or letters. I find it interesting that the root of the word phonetic as per modern English dictionaries is considered Greek (from phōnētikós from phōneîn to speak). Is it really? Why stop there? Where did phōneîn come from? What was the name of those people living on the Eastern Mediterranean (in today's Syria and Lebanon)? Phoenicians :-) How convenient?

There was one more discovery of unimaginable consequence found in Ugarit. An unearthed clay tablet, one among the multitude, took a while to decipher. Not because it did not stare at archeologists straight in the face but because of inherent biases even in scientific pursuit. Finally in 1974, Anne D. Kilmer, professor of Assyriology at the University of California at Berkeley and after five years of hard work was able to interpret the cuneiform script as the lyrics and musical symbols of an Ugaritan song dating back to 3400 BC. The discovery revolutionized music history completely for it moved backward in time the first notated piece of music by 3,000 years. The origin of Western music is not the 400 BC papyrus which contained the Greek Euripides' play Orestes but a much older religious hymn from Ugarit.

Malek Jandali is a Syrian pianist who lives in the United States. He was born in 1972 in Germany and was raised in Homs, Syria after his parents returned to their hometown. He received his early schooling there and graduated from the Arab Conservatory of music in Damascus. Mr. Jandali is an accomplished and daring musician who has won several international awards. His greatest achievement, however, is the release of his 2008 album, Echos from Ugarit in which he rendered the first notated song in history with his eloquent piano. It took such an exceptionally inspired Syrian to remind the world of a simple fact of life: It all started in our backyard, a mere one-hour drive from where I am sitting right now listening to the oldest song in the world being played by a Homsi with an unlimited talent.

Below are Youtube, and download links to Malek Jandali's Echos from Ugarit.




Download Echoes From Ugarit

References:

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,911121,00.html
http://www.arabamericannews.com/news/index.php?mod=article&cat=Artamp;Culture&article=1025
http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P2-3857985.html
http://www.syriagate.com/Syria/about/cities/Latakia/ugarithistory.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malek_Jandali
http://www.malekjandali.com/

Dutch Mills

Was it meant to be that way, to invariably fall in the arms of a new city only deep in the night? In the small hours of Monday I stepped out of the train station in the center of Rotterdam. She shuddered at my sudden appearance and defensively grabbed my throat with a bitterly cold hand. I pulled my collar high around the neck, squinted into the wind then walked north in search of a taxi. She relaxed and apologetically let go. "You're late", she said under her breath, vapor rolling with her words and disappearing instantly. Remnants of Christmas ornaments and lights shined and blinked for no one but me as the snow covered sidewalks were left completely deserted. Whoever celebrated here were gone, hiding within the comfort of quaint small apartments. If they were sleepless tonight and looked from behind their wide un-curtained windows to the streets below, they would see the shivering shadows of naked trees and the hunched figure of a lonely traveler seeking a warm bed.

I stared at her as the cab gobbled the chilly asphalt. So young, she looked, racy, tempting and in vogue. Rotterdam was completely destroyed by the Luftwaffe on May 14th, 1940 and rebuilt from scratch thereafter. Her modern skyline caught my eye and tickled my fancy. I have never met any city so adolescent and tempting like her before.

The steamy jet of water washed the dust from the lengthy traverse off of my body but did not bring solace to my mind. I was weary and tired and only a telepathic whisper, a sigh of relief, emanating from within brought sleep to my eyes. I dreamed of nothing in the short time I rested before my day began, before the next seventy two hours heartlessly kept me awake and on the run.

I was able to take short walks in between meetings. After the mutant tepid winter of the Levant the subzero temperatures felt imperative to my biological calendar. Memories from the distant past danced in my head. It had been a long time since I lived in such a cold place, yet the images were hopeful and alive. I longed for a frost that turns warm in the holding of hands. I saw our footprints in the snow, large and small entwining, crisscrossing as we hugged and swayed in a slow amble along a white path.

When it was finally over, the work, we dined in a superb seafood restaurant on the River Ijssel. Vitor, an epicure with a kind heart and a priceless sense of humor from Galicia and I sat across the table. Amid laughter and good food he talked lovingly of his homeland. I have learned more about what Spain is and is not that evening than I had from reading the many history books once upon a time. We drank a silky Caiño Blanca harvested from near the Minho river in Galicia, he told me. We talked of fish and wine, of La Coruña and Rotterdam, of the folly of men and the eternal beauty of women. Well past midnight we rode through the  countryside toward Schiphol airport near Amsterdam. As the sparse old Dutch mills stood silent in the dark modern ones turned incessantly in the wind. The forty five minute drive passed in the blink of an eye as the good times always do. We hugged for an everlasting minute in the lobby of yet another hotel. "Be safe my friend Vitor", I said. "See you in March, God only knows where, dear Abufares", he replied.

I did not have sufficient time to lose myself to slumber. Instead I tossed and turned waiting for icy take-offs and landings and a tiring drive home in the rain.

"Sleep well and hold me tight", I dreamed of the words kissing my forehead then capering down my face.

"Goodnight", I closed my eyes and floated in an azure womb of adoration unbeknown to the mass of desperate men. I did not stir a muscle for the next fourteen hours.

Good morning World, I am back in Tartous.

Nights in Copenhagen

Once I was young and green I had a one night stand with the city of Copenhagen and this is where my plane landed last week. Twelve hours after I closed my front door in Tartous I found myself sliding the plastic key in the door slot of a hotel room in the center of Copenhagen. She and I acted like total strangers and did not recognize each other at all. I was exhausted as I dragged myself to the shower. I stood there in the corner, my hands touching the dark tiles, my forehead pressed firmly to the wall. Hot water cascaded down my body washing away the dirt and grime but not the craving and longing. I made it to bed, to the welcoming embrace of the white sheets wrapping my body. I gave up in total surrender, I truly needed to sleep.

At exactly midnight the sky over Copenhagen was ripped apart by a succession of explosions. From behind foggy eyes and a blind mind I cussed under my breath. What a fuckin' time and place to start WWIII. I'm gonna die in the arms of a foreign city even before we had a chance to make love. The celebration faded out and the fireworks ended. Locals and strangers left the streets and jumped in beds in pairs or alone. There might've been a few who found solace in an orgy judging from the hyaenic laughter echoing in the night. Why not, enjoy it lads while it lasts.



I couldn't sleep! I witnessed the dark of night being slaughtered by daylight and found myself walking at eight o'clock in the morning with the herds of the corporate world. Like cardinals convening to elect a new pope, doors were closed shut behind us for a twelve-hour meeting. Sandwiches were brought in as if they were contraband narcotics. We ate in silence and haste. In between the bottles of soft drinks and water, fresh juices and milk I spotted a solitary bottle of wine. Was it brought in by mistake or did my guardian angel have pity on me. The last five hours went by almost painlessly. I truly needed to drink.

I wasn't the only one in that bad a shape. A few of my comrades felt the same. We joined forces and raided the hotel bar for a nightcap. Little did we know that we would stay there deep in time. So deep in fact I didn't quite see the feasibility of shutting my eyes for an hour or two before the next start of a business day. So I went on, walking the same street as the day before at eight o'clock in the morning, crossing the Tivoli Gardens and climbing the stairs of the historic building, turned convention center. We convened again behind closed doors; Copenhagen on the other side of the window remained a mysterious woman, untouched, unloved by me and by thousands of walking zombies in the world of business.

The day ended just like the previous one. I was giddy from the bottle of white wine I found again and hungry for the food I couldn't touch. The same bunch of desperate men walked the cobble stoned streets seeking a bite and a drink. We found ourselves in MASH, Copenhagen's finest steakhouse where the night was young and a river of Australian wine freely flowed. We satiated our carnivore genes with giant pieces of scrumptious meat and gulped the red intoxicating elixir. The talk was engaging. Who would've thought that a bunch of suits and ties would consume the night with banter about the meaning of life instead of spreadsheets and presentations? Alas, we work like beasts of burden for five days a week to squeeze our lives into an infinitesimal ball of joy and watch it go up in flame on a Saturday. Then like God, we rest on the Seventh, dreading the coming week, and the one behind, then the one after.

Less than two hours into slumber the alarm went off. It's time to down another cup of coffee in the lobby downstairs then to take a taxi to the airport. Twelve hours later I was turning the key in my door lock in Tartous. I let the water washes away the dirt and grime, the craving and longing remained untouchable. I threw myself in bed and lost consciousness. It was raining when I woke up.

“How was Copenhagen,” my kids asked?

“I really don't know. I never saw her.”


During my insomniac time in Copenhagen, I listened to Nights in White Satin. From the distant past (1967), here are the Moody Blues.



Nights in white satin, never reaching the end,
Letters I've written, never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed with these eyes before.
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore.

'Cos I love you, yes I love you, oh how I love you.

Gazing at people, some hand in hand,
Just what I'm going through they can't understand.
Some try to tell me, thoughts they cannot defend,
Just what you want to be, you will be in the end.

And I love you, yes I love you,
Oh how I love you, oh how I love you.

Nights in white satin, never reaching the end,
Letters I've written, never meaning to send.
Beauty I've always missed, with these eyes before.
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore.

'Cos I love you, yes I love you,
Oh how I love you, oh how I love you.
'Cos I love you, yes I love you,
Oh how I love you, oh how I love you.

Breath deep
The gathering gloom
Watch lights fade
From every room
Bedsitter people
Look back and lament
Another day's useless
Energy spent

Impassioned lovers
Wrestle as one
Lonely man cries for love
And has none
New mother picks up
And suckles her son
Senior citizens
Wish they were young

Cold hearted orb
That rules the night
Removes the colours
From our sight
Red is gray and
Yellow white
But we decide
Which is right
And
Which is an Illusion

Paradise

This post is dedicated to my friend JGM, Kassak Habibi


A little before midnight my buddy called and asked me if I could join him on a short hop to Zgharta, Lebanon in the morning. He wanted to visit a friend recovering in the hospital. We might grab a bite to eat if you want to, he said, Ehden is not that far away.

I haven't been to Lebanon since October of last year. I feel terrible how a fucking barrier blocks my freedom to cross the “border” between here and there. What a bunch of idiots on both sides. What filth, hypocrisy, shortsightedness and bigotry make me wait in line to be in one of my favorite locations on the planet, a mere hour and a half drive away.



Ehden's Paradise is the number one restaurant in the world serving Mezza and Middle Eastern Cuisine. I'm not an idiot to accept the words Lebanese or Syrian Mezza. I have evolved far too much to be such a Levantine Chimp. There's no place on earth where every bite you swallow, every sip you gulp, every breath you take is as good as it is in this northern Lebanese village. Paradise has been my favorite hideaway since the first time I set foot in Ehden, well over twenty years ago.



We made it in the late afternoon to Paradise. The wide terrace seats a comfortable thousand hungry patrons but it was almost deserted. There were far more waiters milling around like busy bees than there were people sitting behind tables and eating. We were greeted near the entrance by the maître d' who assured us that we would still get the best food and service despite our late arrival. What was it all about, I asked. This is one of the biggest nights in Ehden, he said, Sabah Fakhri is here for his annual one-night appearance.



For those readers who don't know who Sabah Fakhri is and in order to make it easier for them to comprehend and grasp the importance of the event, this is a man who is considered by over 200 millions of Arabs as Our Pavarotti. Well, wait, I need to elaborate further. Pavarotti, rest his soul, was one of the greatest of all times no doubt, but he could have found a cozy place to sit in his heydays in the shadow of our 76 year old veteran singer. Sabah Fakhri is the greatest performer alive. In 1968 he sang for 10 hours without a pause in Caracas, Venezuela to the adulation of thousands of expatriate fans. This world record remains unbroken.



The evening was sold out, of course, weeks ahead. We consumed the heavenly Mezza slowly and deliberately. No Kass of Arak could taste remotely close to the way it tastes in Ehden. In the late heat of this July afternoon all around the Mediterranean, the cool air at 1,500 m altitude took us to another reality. This is indeed how Paradise would be like one day when we bite the dust and are sent by default there. There is no man on the face of this earth as good as me, I mused, content in the knowledge that someday, this could all be mine forever. A renewed and spirited hubbub behind caught my ear then my eye. The owner and the staff were greeting someone very special who, just like us, had come fashionably late for lunch. It was none other than Mr. and Mrs. Fakhri who had just checked in in their hotel and came for a quick bite to eat. They were accompanied by a Tartoussi guy we knew. As they walked close by, our friend waved hello and said to the old man: “These guys came from Tartous to see you tonight”. We had to stand and shake hands with the legend. He expressed his happiness and gratitude for our taking the trouble to attend his performance. When our friend knew that we didn't even have a reservation he fixed it in an instant. You will join me on Sabah's table, he assured us, as he hurried and joined the superstar.



I only had what clothes I was wearing. Not a toothbrush! Not even another pair of boxers to change into. Yet we managed to buy the essentials, find a great room in a hotel nearby and took a long nap before the endless night ahead. I was only missing one thing. I needed to call someone, as my day and night, my whole life past or ahead of me wouldn't be what it was meant to be if I hadn't done that. When I reluctantly hung up, my smile was larger than my face. I knew that it'll be a night to remember.

How can I explain what Tarab is to non-Levantines and North Africans? It's almost a futile attempt since Arabic is the only language with the right vocabulary to convey this state of mind. Sabah Fakhri is the master of Tarab without any shadow of a doubt. As thus let me try to make a fool of myself and fumble with an attempt to explain.

كل البنات نجوم وانت قمرهم
All the girls are stars and you...
Their moon you are

Tarab is a state of musical rapture. The lyrics, the music and the voice conspire together to put the listener in a unique mood of oriental sensuality and worship, lust and spirituality, seduction and chastity. Tarab is when you reach a mental point where everything around you is beautiful. The plate of fresh fruits on the table with drops of dew forming on the grapes and melons, the dark of night and the velvety flow of wine down your body, the numbness of complete sensory satisfaction, the touch of the wind on your cheek, the swaying ass of the girl dancing nearby, her erect nipples, the perfume on her belly in your nose, memories of love making, a mental orgasm, a voice from within,... floating in a womb of pleasure, your long scream at last with an uncontrollable Ahhhhhhhhhh, this is Tarab.



In the Paradise of Ehden, Sabah Fakhri brought us, all one thousand and one of us, into a land of one thousand and one Arabian nights for five consecutive hours (1:30AM till 6:30AM).

خمرة الحب اسقنيها، هم قلبي انسنيه
عيشة لا حب فيها جدول لا ماء فيه

The wine of love let me drink
Burdens of hearts let's forget
A life we live void of love
Devoid of water, a barren creek

I woke up at nine o'clock and headed back, across the fucking barrier to Tartous. On my way around the park in the late evening I was suddenly assaulted by the taste of fruits on my tongue, the long shadows of the night and the stream of wine gushing in my soul, the stupefaction, the caress of a breeze on my skin, a beautiful woman's butt, her breasts, the smell of her tummy, my going in, my inescapable climax, my own voice inside the tunnel, my last scream..... Ahhhhhhhhhh, Paradise.

Realm of the Damned

On a late summer afternoon in a hotel lobby in Athens, I sat waiting for the heat of the day to abate before I stroll alongside the marina. I've been going there late in the day to hear the harmonious sounds of a sail catching wind and the gush of bleeding froth from the scarred face of the sea. Relaxing in a corner, I was watching people go by. Eager fresh bodies coming to Greece to bask in the sun and laze on her sandy beaches. Tired long faces burdened with the insipidity of personal lives or the stink of business deals gone rotten. The banal display of emotions and the happiness and misery of total strangers filled me with a foreboding loneliness. I have learned a long time ago that I am most lonely when I am in the middle of a crowd. However, I have come not only to accept but to embrace my solitude as a trusty friend and entertaining companion. My eyes were deciphering the flickering images and sending them to my brain, saturating it like a sponge with forming notions. I was ripe to write. A seemingly innocuous apparition can trigger an avalanche of words. A sexy and rotund butt for instance would toss me in bed after midnight. I would strew the words into an improbable script, wrap it around my nakedness and scribble it in between the folds of the white sheets. Yet wickedness has its own iniquitous way of stirring me as well, of shaking me up considerably and forcing me to venture into the realm of the damned. And, this is the turn my mind took in Athens.





The sliding doors split open admitting a whiff of suffocating and sticky air into the cool lobby. In walked a man of the cloth, a thirty something years old Greek Orthodox priest, dressed in mourning black from head to toe, beard uncouth, eyebrows hawkish and ugly features wreaking of oppression and hoariness. He eyed the patrons haughtily half expecting them perhaps to kneel in reverence and servitude. I was, I suspected, the only one who took notice of his presence and in no uncertain way he was aware of that too. He stood in the middle of the vast hall waiting for something to happen.





Does he have an appointment with God, I wondered. Well, there was a bunch of cute North American chicks with supple white legs and full swaying breasts gathered in one corner. Take a look Hideous Father, may be something would stir under that sooty robe of yours. Or what about the middle aged couple there, huddled so close and holding hands, afraid of wasting a single moment away from each other. Perhaps they can teach you a thing or two about the love you never knew. Nah, my day was destined to be ruined completely when an older bowed priest followed in. The wear and tear of years have turned his hair and beard into one giant white broom. The miserable sexagenarian hurried without vacillation toward the repulsive younger cleric then.... then for God's Sake bent down and kissed his hand.





God's obsession with robes and uniforms and his distaste for nudity and permissiveness are fascinating and intriguing divine aspects to my humble mind. What went wrong after he created us nude and sexy and made him change his conviction? Why does he want women to dress like sacks of potatoes and men like idiots? What about his fetish with hair? Why does he insist that women should cover their heads?





What if a woman shave her hair? Does she still have to hide her scalp? Is the top of her head too erotic for innocuous men not to get wild and ejaculate in the middle of the street? But most importantly is the question about the differences and the common ground between all the major religions. Why do they vary so much in the definition of the divine being to the point of being fully contradictory to each other while they, by and large, agree about oppressing women, limiting sex, rationing pleasure and forbidding certain practices? Was it an inherent design fault that slipped the mind of God? Didn't he consider that a woman's butt might prove too attractive to a horny man? Was woman in her present glory and allure an unfortunate accident? Did he intend her to be a utilitarian reproduction machine, a closed Dodge Van of a sort, but instead ended up with a Red Hot Ferrari?





These questions and many more were never in fact directed to God by me. They are, however, intended for the dimwits who have been meddling with our ethos over at least the last two millennia. As I disgustingly observed an older man bowing and kissing the hand of a younger one I couldn't help but reminisce that the Greek Orthodox are not the only ones promoting hierarchy and advocating the inherent favoritism of God. The Catholic Church is notoriously imbecilic in its public and secret practices. Jewish Rabbis and Muslim Sheikhs (and now as if we didn't have enough tomfools the new wave of Muslim Sheikhas: Priestesses even if they vehemently deny being so) are as guilty as their Christian colleagues in their thirst and quest for earthly power on account of their special ties with “upstairs”.



A gentle westerly wind stirred the leaves in the trees of Athens as I walked by the marina. It was still quite hot and muggy but the young men and women knew how to undress properly for the weather. They gingerly exposed their suntanned bodies for the seagulls, the boats and for me to see. Some of which were pretty hot babes but amazingly I didn't jump anyone. I stood at the edge of the breakwater watching the sun disappears behind the masts. It took the Greeks a little longer than their European neighbors to give their religious establishment the finger. How many years before the raucous wave crashes on our shores, I wondered. Not too long I know, for the winds of change are steadfastly blowing.

Suffonsified

My mobile's alarm blasted at two o'clock piercing the still of night and robbing precious sleep from my weary eyes. Bewildered, I slowly lifted my upper body on an elbow. I had gone to bed well past midnight but suddenly I remembered that I had a car to ride, two airplanes to board and a taxi to drop me at a hotel in Martigues. Eighteen hours later, I leaned on the reception counter of a small hotel in the south of France.
Oui demoiselle, je veux rester pour quatre nuits chez vous.

The summer sun lingers in the sky of France well past its usual day-shift of lower latitudes. My biological clock completely out of sync, my laptop rendered useless after a fatal system crash on the flight from Damascus to Paris and loneliness creeping up on me I descended the hill on foot and headed toward the docks of the small town by the sea.



I scrounged frantically for a discarded cigarette butt on the pavement and sidewalks. No city could be so clean, no place more serene. Seagulls flew overhead sending shrieks echoing against the brilliantly colored walls of quaint houses. A loose sail fluttered in the wind while a couple of hands worked feverishly to quite it down. I could taste the salt on my lips, I could taste hers in my reverie. Moored boats wobbled on the troubled surface of the canal, straining against the ropes. The creaking of wood longing to sail was too painful to hear, too realistically disturbing.
-Where would you go old sport, I asked the heaving and battered launch, if you had the choice?
-Anywhere, it pleaded silently in my head, just set me free and let me drift.




Restless, sleepless and mindless I brought back Prufrock, my PC and travel companion to life. The night died in my arms. Its last memory was of my ecstatic eyes beaming out of my tired face. Connected at last, I was craving to read.

Fares, my pride and joy, the reason I am called Abufares after all had started posting in Arabic on his blog “Superkid Chronicles”. How can I ever convey my feeling of elation about the fact that he's writing. My nine years old son, Abumaher, is perhaps the youngest on the Syrian Blogsphere today. He had only posted twice so far and I've already commented with words that betrayed my fatherly bias. Still, I needed to take a look at his virtual space again and feast my mind on adulation and hope. I am in love with people who write. I always was. And Fares, my flesh and blood, is writing.

The neat office where I was to work for the next three days was thrown on the shoulder of a mountain. It stood sentry to the estuary which led to a lake somewhere further east. I met people who became my friends, for life. We shared bread, butter and plenty of wine. The sound of our laughter drifted in the breeze toward the piers. We exchanged toasts and stories of our cities by the sea, always by the sea. For it had brought us together, seamen who would rot and die in the dry blandness of the inland. What is a woman if her hair is not weaved with seaweed, if her armpits do not taste of the salt that keeps us old mariners afloat? What of her thighs if they don't froth with zest to the tiding of my call? Her piquant breasts a safe harbor for my head where I close my eyes and still can see.



Mariyah's 26-episode story of Ghassan & Alexandra burned my second night and handed me safely to the morning sun. I would really like to find a way to tell you and myself how much I like Mariyah. Since she dropped anchor on Syplanet she had become my fantasy ship. When I sit on the outstretched rocky wharf of the corniche in Tartous her writing washes over my head and shoulders, cleansing my heart and soul. I gaze at the curved horizon and wonder about the straights she's crossing. Be tender on her Oh Goddess of the Sea and bring her smooth passage until she takes shelter while the storm withers away. Dawn crawled from beyond the hills, invading the dim corners of my room. Finally, I dosed for minutes dreaming of the intoxicating scent of Mariyah's prose.



On a concealed terrace not far from the marina half a dozen tables were laid in the shade of a giant Eucalyptus tree. I had my lunch there day after day. My hosts, perfect gentlemen, treated me like the indubitable ambassador I was to their tranquil shores. I never sampled a more toothsome cuts of entrecôte or a more divine côtelettes d'agneau in my whole life. Ah, les Français, I forgive their snobbish repute though I have only basked in their unrivaled hospitality and generosity. The twin bottles of Rosé kept us company and lulled our senses, reinforcing the simple verity that we were one family across the Mediterranean. The clinking of flushed goblets reverberated among the patrons. Salut mes amis, à votre santé.

Gabriela writes from Lima, 8000 miles away. Ever since she graced my blog with her first comment I took an immediate liking to her. I know that I will meet this intelligent, spirited and beautiful lady one day. I have no doubt. She will either come to see me in Tartous and I will walk with her through the narrow alleys of the old city or she will guide me in the Barranco district of her enchanting city. Gabriela writes inimitably in Spanish, a language I have always loved and vaguely understood. I translate her post on Google first and swallow the shabby English just for the sake of getting the general meaning behind her words. Then, I slowly sip her Latin spirit and get dizzy on her dainty melody and rhythm. Seis de enero is the blog of my lovely Peruvian Lawyer. I can't wait to be in Lima, to get in trouble then have Gabriela bail me out. She stayed with me on my third night and didn't leave until she got her message across. You can't spend your whole life traveling without going where you always wanted to. South America is a dream on hold, Gabriela reminded me.

Whenever I walked the streets of Beirut a personal unsolved mystery followed in my footsteps. Who was she and where did she come from? Evidence of her oriental paternal pedigree was abundant as traces of Islamic arcs, Arabian nights and Byzantine bells could be discerned on her slender body. Yet her mother remained behind a veil until I landed in Marseille. Ahhh, the full realization, the overwhelming sense of Déjà Vu . No wonder so many Lebanese call France their mom. Just take my word for it dear neighbors, it was never France, it was Marseille only and all along. We sat in that most famous of restaurants on the beach of the city. We were late for the topless volleyball chicks, my hosts apologized. This is where the fabled bouillabaisse de Marseille is prepared. My friends and I surrendered to the maitre who promised to take good care of us. He brought forward a glass of Pastis for me when he learned about my fondness of Arak. Then in the spirit of White we drank some of the best wine the south of France had to offer. Growing up by the sea and being raised on its scrumptious fruits all of my life I finally had to take my hat off, Chapeau bas a Marseille. A fish, if given the choice, will ask to be eaten in a bouillabaisse in Marseille after it dies and goes to heaven.



I gingerly climbed the stairs to my room on my last night in Martigues, satisfied beyond explanation, absolutely, perfectly, completely suffonsified. Only Isobel can do justice to the fleeting hours of bliss before I pack again and move. Suffonsifism has been my best kept little secret for quite some time. The apparent simplicity and effortlessness this gorgeous woman puts into her writing is mind boggling. Her posts are often short and to the point. How can she, I wonder, say it the way she does. How can she be so suffonsified and make me, a man behind a small screen halfway across the world, come to grasp the full meaning of her blog's name? I have never read anyone like Isobel. I very much doubt that I will ever read anything remotely parallel. I tiptoed through her lines, paused at her comas and came to full stop at her periods. Her divine music rushed through my mind, her priceless humanity escorted me through the blind twists and turns of a long tunnel where there was light at the end. I stood there in awe, not daring to blink for fear of missing a minute detail of her beauty within me, not believing that I went on for four nights sleepless in Martigues, forever suffonsified, and ever!

A Woman Named Paris

I didn't meet any women in Paris but dreamed of mine with the outbursts of warm sunshine and the falling drops of rain. She was there on the wide avenues and narrow streets, sipping a glass of wine in a café with a red facade, leaning on me and crying of joy in front of the Nike of the Samotrace and holding my hand with every step I made along the cobblestones.

Paris isn't a city for a lonely man but I was not alone after all. My father and I were on a private vacation for a whole week. We were joined by my sisters and got to spend such precious time together. Yet in moments of elation, in instances of edification I was haplessly solitary and I missed her by my side terribly.

I came back three days ago yet I'm still living out of my suitcase. The last month or two seem to have been a perpetual trip. I called Fares today from my hotel room in Damascus. He was surprised that I'm not home. He didn't even know that I had left very early this morning. I'm sorry Son, I'll make it up to you tomorrow. The problem is that I've been suffering from PVDS for the last couple of days. Ah, PVDS, that's Post Vacation Depression Syndrome. I'll be very surprised if such a psychological condition doesn't exist. Well, I know I have it in chronic form. Every time I return from a vacation I get utterly depressed. In fact, I was feeling so down yesterday I wrote it on my wall in facebook, a site I wholeheartedly despise. Why am I still there, I myself wonder. I honestly don't have a straight answer. It's one way, I guess, to break the isolation imposed by space and time. A few of my dear friends even got worried about me and I thank them for that. Don't mind me please as I have an indestructible spirit. Falling down becomes a sweet memory once we're up and running again even if we were let down by someone close. I feel sorry already for privately blaming a friend who couldn't defend herself. I withdraw everything she never heard. She was probably acting in what she thought was the best interest of all concerned.

Back to Paris... Ahhh, what can I write about her! She's a beautifully sexy woman in her early forties. Elegantly dressed, hair swept up and clipped at the back, alluring blue eyes, a string of pearls for a smile, a seductive cleavage with small bouncy boobs, a firm butt, perfect legs, tiny feet and pedicured toes walking down the Champs-Elysées with a wake of perfumed dreams lingering in her trail. I've been privileged to meet her finally after the other European cities I visited over the years. Apparently, I've saved the best for last as there isn't any other place that can even come close. Paris is indeed center of the world, splendor of civilization, cradle of democracy, defeater of monarchy, fortress of resistance, gallery of arts, salon of literature... and satin-sheeted wrought iron bed for lovers. I can't recall all the intimate places I touched in her. I had a whole week, seven days of uninhibited love making and I'm glad I've somehow covered every little exquisite spot of her naked body.

Disconcerting how my mind seems to be jumping all over. Bringing seemingly unrelated matters together in one single post. Am I really writing about Paris the city? Am I hallucinating after my depression? Am I celebrating my recovery? Am I for real or am I only babbling senselessly. I mixed a woman with my sadness, a kid with my friends, betrayal with my apology, Paris with my love making in the hope of reaching the truth. I needed to do that, I had to pick up the pieces before I can smile again. Once I start smiling my heart pumps happiness in my bloodstream. And I just felt it, after eluding me for thirty six hours, echoing around my ribcage, my heart is bursting with a fit. My lungs, my belly, my ass, every cell of my body taken by surprise, swept away with contagious laughter. I'm me again.

Paris

Hands

I woke up at 4:42AM, three minutes before the alarm went off. I showered quickly, drank my espresso, ate a cookie and went downstairs to the waiting taxi. Normally, the trip to Damascus drags forever but the two hours and thirty minutes drive to the airport flew by so fast I couldn’t believe it when I found myself in front of the terminal. I checked in, a good time ahead of my flight and waited indifferently in the boarding area. I had The Great Gatsby with me, a gift from a dear friend, but saved it for the flight just in case I needed a distraction. Sure enough, the plane was full of babies, nervous mothers, weary looking men and a wild bunch. It always amazes me how aviation, the most regulated industry of all, permits the airlines to provide travelers with such ridiculously uncomfortable seats. All airlines CEO’s and airplane designers should be forced to sit for the rest of their lives in these miniature stools. I endured the ordeal like a sardine in a tin box while the two passengers I was stuck in between snored all the way to London. F. Scott Fitzgerald provided me with a much welcomed escape.

Heathrow is not an airport to be enjoyed. The mammoth structure of terminals is too spartan to exude any sense of creature comfort. I was relieved when I was finally able to walk out in the cloudy English sky. The series of meetings I was to attend was held in a business hotel not far from the airport. I stood patiently waiting for the shuttle bus to take me to my final destination with a group of worn-out travelers, one of which stood right next to me, totally oblivious to my presence. From behind my foggy eyes I took notice of her deep blue ones, of her elegant stance, of her small body, of her proud breasts, of her curved butt, of her shapely legs, of her manicured toes but most appreciably of her sculptured hands.


Normally, any man in my position would notice and appreciate these minute details. But when a single woman is endowed with them all the perception turns into a sort of passion of such a nature that it feeds upon itself. I just had to keep looking. Oh My God, she is gorgeous. There is no way on earth that such a tranquil beauty is not matched by a splendid and formidable mind, I thought. I went even further in my private musing; this woman must be a poet, an actress, a novelist, an artist of a sort, a … doctor?

A hematologist she turned out to be. We checked in together, a different clerk handling each. "Welcome Dr. McDonald", I heard hers say. For the first time since my twenty minutes journey with the most gorgeous doctor in the world started, she glanced in my direction. "And you’re here for the Shipping Meeting Mr.…. Abufares", my clerk smartly yet unnecessarily announced. Oh, damn it, I cursed under my breath. There she was, a specialist in the disorders of the blood no less, attending a conference with internationally distinguished specialists from all four corners of the globe while I was to spend the next two days with a bunch of ex-seamen turned penguins in business suits. I didn’t mind the washed out sailors. As a matter of fact, they were the jolly lot in the group. What I dreaded most were the business suits who had never wetted their feet.

We walked together to the elevator, the good doctor and I. Like the true gentleman I wanted her to believe me to be I gave her way first. "Thanks", she said. Her voice sounding more like little birds giggling and making love than an ordinary human voice. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her hands all the way up. I mean, there I was, in a six by four confined space with a woman that defied description and all I could stare at were her hands. She must’ve thought that I was the timid and shy type. She wouldn’t believe that despite her astonishing beauty I chose to be infatuated with her hands. We emerged from the elevator and headed in the same direction. The corridor stretched on and on forever. I was walking a step behind and her butt swayed left and right with perfect rhythm. No, she was not joggling nor jiggling. Her butt was merely quivering under the comfortable khaki cotton pants. She then came to a stop in front of her room door and I did the same in front of mine. They were across from each other, our doors, our rooms. I fumbled with my plastic key as she did with hers. She dropped hers on the floor as I dropped mine. We bent to pick them up and we couldn’t keep the insouciant façade any longer as we both burst out laughing. She was one second faster than me in opening her door and as she disappeared with her bag behind it our eyes met then... The last I saw of her was the crimson polish on her nails… on her pulchritudinous hand.

I showered under a stream of deliciously hot water. The fluent spray fingered my neck and shoulders, the small of my back, my thighs and legs like a pair of expert hands, Doctor McDonald’s own hands. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the tantalizingly arousing reverie. Only if we humans were truly transparent, I reflected. How different the world would have been if our emotions and feelings were extraneously projected for all to see. I tossed and turned in bed as I always do on my first night in a new one. The mattress engulfed my body like a warm womb while the pillows swallowed my head with comfort and delight, yet I could not sleep. The two hour time difference didn’t help either and no sooner than I had a shut eye than the clock brought me to tomorrow.

She came in as I was having breakfast. She was dressed in a stunning suit that made her unreachably good-looking. From the distance, I was fascinated with her calves. They were white and slender and led to her unbelievably attractive feet. I could glimpse her pedicured toes while my scrambled eggs waited then got cold in my plate. She sat not far but she obviously hadn’t seen me. I watched her nibble her fruits of the morning and drink her milk. Oh, how she drank her milk. Then as graciously as she walked in she stood up and left the room. I fumbled with my napkin, fork and knife but was already too late.

The morning session dragged on and on. I struggled to keep my eyes open, I resisted with all my force a complete brain shut down until with the mercy of God we were granted a 15 minute break. I didn’t want to leave the meeting room at first but then decided to step out and have a change of scenery. Coffee and cakes were served near the entrance and next to the shipping throng there stood a group of well dressed hematologists, mostly men, peppered with the presence of a few stylish women. My doctor stood on the side speaking to a colleague, smiling ever so mystifyingly and holding a cup of something in her hand. I walked toward her as if drawn by a magnet. I only wanted her to see me walking toward her and she did. I can smile mysteriously as well I wanted her to read in my eyes and I was egotistic enough to believe that she did.

The rest of the day ate me alive. I was burning to get out of the room. There was an enclosed swimming pool I noticed earlier with an open bar. I went craving a glass of Scotch on the Rocks but there at a corner table she sat alone. She had already changed into something more comfortable yet no less tasteful. She saw me all the way from afar this time and didn’t even attempt to hide her smile. I was a few feet away when she said at last: “You know I have seen more of you since WE got here than I saw any of my colleagues in the conference.” “Did you see the guys I’m spending my time with?” I asked. “I‘d better keep running into you or I will lose my mind.” She extended her hand smiling: “I’m Fenella McDonald,” she said, “and you are Captain …?” “Hands”, I replied, “Abufares I mean.” I held her hand in mine and thought of distances stretched across thousands and thousands of miles, erased, nullified, annihilated by a mere touch.

“Would you care to join me,” she asked. I did and the gloomy weather of London turned out to be much more bearable after all.

Lost Village

"The digital revolution changed us forever. We take many of the modern amenities and conveniences for granted. Man has all but become a slave to technology. The onslaught of the drastic changes brought about by this new age is calamitous in scale. Yet in all disasters there’s at least a sole survivor:
Om Al Tanafes Al – Fow’a."

I didn’t write this uncanny introduction on my own. It’s rather my translated version of the prologue to a 27- episode Syrian comedy show called, appropriately enough, Day’a Day’aa (Lost Village). The name of this place is Om Al Tanafes Al-Fow'a. The series started airing a few months back on Abu Dhabi Satellite Channel before other TV stations tagged along. It gradually picked momentum and in due course gained phenomenal success all over Syria. In the coastal region in particular, Lost Village has gathered a huge following of fans. Its key to success and humor lies in the fact that, and for the first time, it uses a local form of Lattakian dialect. Even the Tartoussi neighbors, who inherently abhor the atrocious Lattakian tongue, fell in love with the show.

Ass'ad and Judi

Now let me clear a couple of important matters. The show itself might prove irrelevant as far as my non-Syrian readers are concerned but please bear with me and don’t get disheartened yet. I promise to make it up by taking you on an interesting journey. Then I have to mention the critical reviews, which by and large, were all inauspicious toward the show. Too vulgar, crude, weird and provincial sense of humor, they claimed. However, we all know for a fact that by and large most critics are botched writers, painters, poets, chefs or artists. At a certain point in their creative careers they failed to stop taking themselves too seriously which is perhaps the only road to brilliance and originality. Instead of creating they reverted to passing judgment on the creativity of others. They became, for lack of a more decent word, bitter assholes who can’t grasp the beauty of minimalism.

Lost Village was written by Dr. Mamdouh Hmadeh and directed by Al-Layth Hajjo. Om Al Tanafes Al Fow’a is a small village in the amazing and picturesque countryside of Lattakia where time had stood still. The few inhabitants of this miniature rural community all play central roles in the show. However, the main two characters are Ass’ad and Judi (played by Nidal Sijri and Bassem Yakhour), two friends-for-life whose knowledge of the outside world equals that of mine in rap music and cubic painting. Gergos Jbara, Zuhair Ramadan, Toulay Haroun and Abdul Nasser Saraqbi are members in a cast of extremely funny actors who had perfected the Lattakian dialect up to a very suspicious extent.

It must come as no surprise that I felt awfully itchy not to go and take a look at the location where the show was shot in its entirety. Om Al Tanafes Al Fow’a’s real name is Al Samra (The Brunette), a tiny village at a 9 km distance to the west of Kasab and a couple of hundred meters south of the Turkish border. This is certainly the most stunning place in all of Syria. I have been around Al Samra on a few occasions before. Twelve summers ago, in the company of three biker friends, I camped in the thick forests of the region overnight. It was like a homecoming for me, except that now this forgotten piece of heaven has become a household name all over the country.

We left Tartous on a Friday morning and made it to Lattakia (90 km to the north) in a little over 45 minutes. Then we headed in a northeasterly direction climbing steadily up the mountains. Driving through endlessly gorgeous orange groves at first then through denser and denser hills covered with pine, fur and laurel trees we reached Lake Balloran.

Lake Balloran

We parked on the side of the road and feasted on the beauty of the scenery with hungry eyes. Further ahead a simple handwritten sign with the word عسل (Honey) grabbed my attention. I rolled the window on the right side of the car down and the smell of fresh Mana’eesh Bi Zaatar and Bi Jebneh (Thyme & Olive Oil pies and White Cheese Pies) assaulted my passengers’ and my nose. The fire in the Tannour was blazing and the attending woman beamed at us with a huge smile and kind eyes. We hurriedly aborted the car and took refuge on a table in the outdoors under a whicker cover.

Tannour

This place, like a dozen or more on the way up, is family owned and operated. Abu Ali brought the tea service while his wife Om Ali, helped by one of her young daughters, prepared the pies. It was a once-in-a-lifetime memorable breakfast with food that defies description, hospitality that rebels at logic and goodness that betrays a deeply ingrained generosity. These folks might be economically classifiable as poor but for the life of me I have never met a more loving couple, a happier bunch of kids, a more spectacularly functional family or a richer group of people in their dignity and sufficiency.

Mana'eesh bi Zaatar

After I had my fill of pies and tea I walked into the Dekkan (one room in the house transformed into a small grocery store) and asked Abu Ali if he still had any honey for sale. He brought forward a dusty 1 kg jar, the only one left, from a higher shelf behind. "This is the last one of the season", he confessed. "It’s pure Ajram Assal" (عسل عجرم Heather Honey from the Genus Calluna). He produced a straw and dipped it ever so lightly in the open jar. “Here, try it. It’s untouched by humans”. “No Abu Ali, I don’t want to. There’s nothing around this land of yours or beyond to add to your honey which won't make it even better”. He gleamed at my words of compliment and trust and, unasked, reduced his price. “You’ve made my day with your words, "Abu… Shou Bil Salameh" (the father of whom may I ask)? “Abu Fares min Tartous”, I replied as I proudly pointed a finger toward Fares, who was joyfully playing like a freed bird amongst the trees. “You still have to try it though,” plunging that straw further into the honey jar. I swear to you dear reader, not even Nancy Ajram could’ve tasted as delicious as this Honey Ajram. My eyes rolled upward to heaven in ecstasy.

Kasab

An hour later we resumed our ascend to Kasab at 1725 m altitude. The sky was impeccably blue and the air chilly and crisp. A man was tending a fence and I asked him for directions to Al Samra. He replied with a delightful Armenian accent: “Everybody is going to the Lost Village today, what’s wrong with you people!” Yet he smiled and showed me the way.

Day'a Day'aa - Lost Village

The road was narrow and steep. We were descending fast into a …. valley. A valley unlike any I have ever seen before. Two mountain peaks loomed off to our right and left and sloped sharply to meet each other at a little distance ahead where their feet joined in the azure sea. The mountain to the right was in Turkey while the one on the left and the road itself belonged to Syria. The scene was breathtaking and I had to pull to the side again. We brought our collars higher around our chins and stood mesmerized and awestruck. The cold seemed to be that of another planet. The sun peaked at her zenith but even she seemed to be burning ever more cleanly.

Moukhtar's House

The first house from the show was a little further down the road. It was the Mekhtar’s house, Abdul Salam Al Beeseh (played by Zuheir Ramadan). There was a row of cars, bumper to bumper, parked on the side and people roaming the road, like us, enthralled by the eternal beauty of this magical place. We walked by each of the familiar houses with a quiet throng as if on pilgrimage to another world. My dad, my sister, my wife, my son and I felt elated. Deep inside I was worried though. What could become of this secluded and forgotten village with the constant offensive of tourists like us? I silently prayed for the natives and their good earth not to lose what has become so rare and precious. I prayed that they don’t drop their innocence for another way of life which has already proven ephemeral and pointless.

Ass'ad House

We had a great yet simple lunch at a restaurant called Al Rabwe on the outskirts of Kasab then made it into the town center by sunset. My passengers wanted to do a little shopping in this mostly Armenian town. From previous visits I knew of a wonderful shop where local items, hard to find anywhere else, are sold. Kasab is most famous for special delicacies and her Laurel Soap, which they have perfected into a fine art. Their soap is prepared with olive oil and laurel leaves in its most plain form. However, a huge array of various blends are produced and sold. I ended up buying laurel soap with rose water, with honey, with flower essence and with musk. My olfactory sense was at a total loss inside this store. We also bought Zaatar (Thyme), Rahat Holkum (Loukoum), Malban stuffed with walnuts and pistachios, herbal tea and spices.

Laurel Soap

It was only fitting for such a wonderful day to end on a sublime note. We drove back in full moonlight and although I was eager to get home as quickly as possible I didn’t push hard. Images and aromas of the good food we brought danced in my head for a quiet dinner. The warmth of a scented bath with a thousand floating laurel leaves beckoned at me. I made good on my reveries once I got home and slept to dream even beyond.