Surfing

I've been out of it... Blogging that is, among other things.

Work surrounded me, trapped me in and overwhelmed me by its utter persistence and futility. I was fed up with the whole work ethic crap. We were naturally built to have fun, you know, like eat, sleep, make love then eat and sleep some more. Some bastards came along the way, maniacally obsessed with control and psychotically enticed by the prospect of turning everybody's life around them into a miserable and grim existence and... and they managed to fuck it up for the rest of us. Feasting till we drop on our backs was deemed inappropriate behavior. Climbing trees to find a solid branch for an early afternoon nap became a waste of time. Spotting a sonsie female while drinking from a spring and jumping her turned into "a thou-shalt-not". Chains were conceived and forged, taboo, religion, labor, military, slavery and ultimately capitalism took over, brutalized our ingrained indulgence and sodomized our innate wantonness. With the rise of civilization came the demise of man. And woman of course.

So I decided to take a vacation.

Humanoid Hemorrhoids

If you wanna soar with the eagles don't fuck with the chicken (a Wise Dude)

I had a week to forget and I will. Over its course I had suffered from mild and acute pains in the butt. I had to talk to, and even smile at, some people whom, under normal circumstances, I would totally ignore. I have also turned a blind eye toward  lost souls hiding behind bitter words, too Gallus gallus domesticus to be fucked by me.

My perception of freedom, my own, has changed drastically the day I became a father. I constantly remind myself that I have to accommodate, accept and tolerate donkeys with suits and ties for instance. Yet, I will never cross the line to hypocrisy and my patience has been tested to the limit.

Only yesterday a dear friend wrote to me: "This is a dirty, dirty business..." In real life and online it's becoming increasingly true. However, we have to accept that evolution is far from perfect and that imbeciles are an unavoidable but necessary fact of life. We have to thank them for if it were not for them we could've never shined in the first place.

I want my kids to grow up and spread their wings on their own even if it means that I'll lose some precious time. It's like being young again in that stage in life, without all the sex. I can practically do whatever I want to if I remember what it was. Most importantly there will be no stopping grumpy old me when I run into a humanoid hemorrhoid, again: "Rub some Preparation H on your ugly face and get out of here you chicken shit." Then to Mildred*, as tender and soft as my wrinkled skin looks and feels: "Bring me my goddamn dentures and the prunes... Then sit in my lap you sexy old hag!"

*Who's Mildred?

Quadrennial Anniversary - a disgruntled tartoussi

A few readers have expressed their discontent over my predisposed beautification of Syria and the untainted image I strive to paint in my writing. On the occasion of this blog's fourth anniversary I admit that they are partially right. Although I am not in a perpetual state of bliss and satisfaction I tend to not elaborate on my dislikes. I am simply stingy when it comes to the expenditure of mental energy on my aversions. I would rather talk, write and cerebrate about life's pleasures rather than its unavoidable maladies.

That we cannot freely and entirely express ourselves here is a well-known fact of life. However, when mushrooming zealots seek to stifle freedom of expression and rowdily promote a fake carbon copy of a traditional and devoutly pious Syria, one which had never existed, it is high time I lash back. On the popular level, their extraneous brand of petro-Islam was sanctioned by an innate feeling of resentment and bitterness toward the dark years of the Bush administration and the whorish demeanor of Israel. Our religiously driven addicts took advantage of the prevailing frustration and sense of helplessness and earnestly pursued their social and political assumptions and ambitions, which incidentally nestle perfectly within the neo-cons' and the Zionist overall master plan for this region and the rest of the world. The writings were all over the wall and if left unchecked they would stop at nothing short of transforming Syria into a mutated Saudi mongrel.

There are over twenty-two millions of us Syrians as per latest available statistics, thanks to a government that continuously looks the other way, if not encourages us to breed like rabbits, and to an ecclesiastical gang-raping of native Levantine culture. In 1977, when I took my Bakaloria exam, the population of Syria was around eight millions. We have increased by a whopping 275% in 32 years, we have reduced green and forested areas to a third and we have decimated the chances of younger generations to find and pursue a better future. Being alienated from a West that treats them with suspicion and lured by a well-funded canonical machine our youth have but a limited number of options to choose from. Slowly but surely a bony temperament, buried in an alien and dusty past, beckons as a viable lifestyle.

My daughter is in 9th grade. This is a very significant point in the lives of fifteen-year-old Syrian students as they have to take a national exam (Brevet) which affects their academic fate. Excellence is measured by how much they remember word by word of the archaic curriculum. They are discouraged from making decisions or voicing opinions. Our educational system emphasizes total subservience and uniformity and represses creativity and divergence. Among the various subjects they have to memorize by rote, two in particular stand out for not only negating one another thus making them a total waste of time, but for being absolutely absurd as instruments to measure scholastic attainment. Teenagers, the age of budding roses, carry the dual burden of "learning" National Socialist Education and Religious Education (Muslim or Christian). "Scientific thought defeats ignorance and outdated traditions, frees us from all forms of awkwardness: Economic, social and cultural and rids us of illogical and indisputable bigotry.” Quite a brilliant quote from the National Socialist Education book, isn't it? Then how about these gems taken from the introduction of the Islamic Education textbook about the purpose of the course: “The presentation of scientific material in a simple manner and detailed explanation in order for students to memorize it... Relying on scientific sources in order to prove the selected scientific material.” Our children are being taught the value of the scientific method by failed national socialists and science by a moronic clergy.

Nonsense and idiocy are riddling our daily existence and I have never been blind to them. Every once in a while when I feel overwhelmed by the obnoxiousness of the emerging literate crowd I strike back. This is the voice of a secular humanist from Tartous, a simple man walking the once enlightened and bustling street, turned silent and bereft in these times of parasitic noise and groveling babble. This blog is about my Syria, the way it was and the way I want it to be. I will continue to write about the good life and the delicious food of the Levant, the rich history and the swaying butts of our gorgeous women, the music, the mountains and the sea of a Syria that is far too modest to flaunt her beauty for the rest of the world to see. A princess once told me (Yes, there is a princess among my readers) that if it were not for me she would have never heard of Tartous. If that is all I have done in four years, I am satisfied that I have done enough. There still is plenty to come from this old tartoussi troubadour in the times ahead. Just stay tuned, Your Highness... and the rest of you.

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

Five O

 

1960's
The Scar

In the aftermath of the six-day-war a long trench was dug in the middle of an open field near my home by the sea. More like a scar, it measured a hundred meters long by two meters wide. We kids went there and played War in the afternoon.
"Tatatatatata," we roared back and forth, reproducing the cracking reports of machine guns. When we all died, I climbed out with muddied pants and sand in my hair and rode my bicycle frantically across the gritty breadth of the field. I sped over the pebbles raising a storm of dust in my wake all the while keeping a watchful eye on the gaping wound in the ground. I pulled to the edge of the asphalt and braked hard in a sweeping arc. I stood up, removed the sticky underwear wedged up my ass and gathered my courage to jump to sea side. I pedaled as furiously as I could. The wheels spun in the air over the ditch then made contact, an inch or two short. I plunged forward hitting a sharp protruding stone chin first. The gush of warm blood sprinkled the earth through my fingers. I staggered then fell. Human voices faded in the background; the light of day dimmed then was swallowed by darkness. Minutes later I regained consciousness and winced in pain.
“How is he doctor? Please tell me how he is?”
“Don't worry Abu Tarek¹. He's a tough kid.” My father reassured the man who carried my limp body to him and continued stitching my chin.
I still have the scar.


1970's
New World
I stared at the masts of ships disappearing below the horizon. Seagulls shrieked above, soared with invisible drafts then vanished. A crowd of ancestral spirits prattled in my head, nudging me and pulling at my sleeve. You should leave, they called, it's time. Streaks of lightening cast short-lived shadows on the high walls of dead-end alleys. I bid farewell to the life I knew, hunched over against the cold drizzle and walked away.
It was raining in Louisiana too on my 18th birthday but this time I took my clothes off and let the deluge wash my dehydrated skin. Nobody is right, I found out, but we might be all wrong. I absorbed this realization like a Porifera² left to die in the sun. I pitied the wasted youth of my generation and those yet to come for not facing their days and nights with decisions and indecisions.
We spun the bottle: Truth or Dare?
"Truth!"
"What do you want to do with your life?"
"I want to fuck the universe till it screams." I was drunk, when I said that, or stoned. I think I was both.

I never got around actually doing that but I did kiss it... and it moaned.

1980's
Daughter of Astarte³
She was having a hard time breathing as I held her tiny body in my arms. There she was a part of me outside of me for the first time. I stayed all night by the NICU.

"Get some sleep." The doctor who stitched my chin twenty years earlier said and patted my shoulder.

He reassured me that she'll be alright in the morning, not because he was certain but because he wanted to as much as I did.

"Her name is Ebla" I said, "after the great Syrian city that proved that the whole world is living a big lie."
"Give me the pleasure of naming her myself." My father said. "She's Diana, goddess of the hunt and of the moon, daughter of our own Astarte."
I sat for hours on end near Diana's cot waiting for her to wake up. Then one day she rode my motorcycle on the winding mountain roads and on my back in the same house where I was born. She changed me forever. She made me a father.

1990's
Losing
"How long?"
"A month. Two at most." Dad replied.
I spent the next four weeks with her. She told me a story everyday, except that they kept getting shorter. So did her days as she slept more and more until she never woke up.
I missed my mother, my storyteller, my friend, my fan and idol. She was my rock in times of need, my lighthouse in the storm, my laughter and tears. I lost her.

2000's
Falling in Love

I was a late bloomer. I had lived my entire life in the shadow of a paradox, etherized with the void of being and the timidity of acceptance. I fell in love… with life, with the morning sun and the silent passage of the moon across the sky. I embraced time and distance at last. I fathomed the “seemingly” predetermined motion of the heavenly bodies in the sky, the toil of ants underground and our human voyage. As I passively rode the rapids down the river I had a change of heart. I found a low hanging branch and held on to it. There is a beautiful ait upstream, a little further back. I do not want to be anywhere else.
That eventually the torrent would sweep us all became irrelevant. I swam against the current to reach my island or die trying.

Five moments in time, mind-picked from the fleeting decades of my life. I am 50*



¹ Abu Tarek, my neighbor, made the best Knafeh in the world. He passed away ten years ago.
² Porifera: an animal phylum comprising the sponges.
³ Astarte: Syrian Goddess, grandmother of all the subsequent Greek and Roman Goddesses of fertility, sexuality and war

* 50: Coming up this week.

Trapped in Hope

"We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it”

Tennessee Williams

“There was a power outage at a department store yesterday. Twenty people were trapped on the escalators.”
Stephen Wright

“People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.”
James Arthur Baldwin

“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

“No man knows when his hour will come; As fish are caught in a cruel net, or birds are taken in a snare, so men are trapped by evil times that fall unexpectedly upon them”
The Bible

“Worry compounds the futility of being trapped on a dead-end street. Thinking opens new avenues.”
Cullen Hightower

“Sometimes I feel that I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body - which actually works out pretty well”
Author Unknown

“With relish and delight, you continually bite at the bait; you are trapped, you fool - how will you ever escape?”
 Sri Guru Granth Sahib

“Love comes to those who still hope even though they've been disappointed, to those who still believe even though they've been betrayed, to those who still love even though they've been hurt before.”
Author Unknown

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”
Albert Einstein

“In all things it is better to hope than to despair”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“Hope is the dream of a soul awake.”
French Proverb

“Hope never abandons you; you abandon it”
George Weinberg

“Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope”
Author Unknown

“Hope is not a dream but a way of making dreams become reality.”
Author Unknown

“Dum spiro, spero (Latin), "While I breathe, I hope"
Latin Proverb

P.S. You might of course deduct that presently I have nothing to say, that I am totally unispired. Well you are absolutely right

"I am trapped in hope."
abufares

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.

2009 according to a tartoussi

2009 is almost over. It started brutally enough with the massacre of 1,400 Palestinians by Israel and it is going to end with the decision makers of the free world still looking the other way. Not a single "democratic" country dares accuse Israel of being as atrocious as Nazi Germany. Statesmen and stateswomen disagree on everything: health care, welfare, the environment, military spending, prayer in school, immigration, same sex marriage, China and global warming but not about Israel. What a bunch of wussies! Ha! This is as far as I am willing to talk dirty politics in a bar or to write on my blog.

Personally, 2009 has been a great year as I have finally came out of my intellectual closet. I had my doubts about religion for as long as I can remember. I have chosen to keep my skepticism under the lid purposely so I do not upset others, many of whom I really care about. But then one day, I stopped being comfortable. I can accept being whatever to anyone but not a hypocrite to myself. To actually believe that we are lucky, chosen, blessed and special because we were born to a certain religion is the biggest lie we can teach our children. I put an end to that once and for all. Whatever I was by virtue of birth I am a secular humanist by virtue of choice.

I also took sides on several issues this year, at least on my blog. Syria, cradle of civilizations and birthplace of human folly and genius, is as colorful as a rainbow. It has always been a land of multiplicity where people of different faiths and cultures coexisted in peace and harmony. It is inimitable in its unique social fabric. The streets of Damascus and every other city contain a human assortment of opposites not to be found anywhere else. From the modestly clad to the sensually provoking, men and women of divergent cultural backgrounds walk side by side. Ours is a secular and pluralistic country where people have historically kept their religious beliefs to the confines of their homes. Generations taught subsequent ones to imitate them, to carry on their values and mores but to accept others for who they are. The new wave of religiosity is as alien to our Levant as the state of Israel is. Over the many centuries of conflict and struggle for political and social control no singular doctrine held power but ephemerally over this land and her people. Any attempt to restrict our diversity and garb us with desert gowns of ignorance, austerity and sameness will fail. I will side with anyone or any group, whether I agree with them or not, in their quest for freedom of choice and expression as long as they do not intend to curb mine. I am equally against men and women wearing burqas in airplanes as I am against them going inside houses of worship naked. The sexual preferences of others are their business and their business alone. Any self righteous hypocrite who denies them this basic right whether by terrorizing them with divine text or through imposing his or her twisted sense of morality cannot be trusted as a potential partner in the democratic process. They are the usurpers to watch. They are as bad, if not worse, than the prevailing variety of psychopaths ruling most totalitarian countries in the world.

 

I am comfortable with people and happy in my solitude. In 2009 I sought my lonely moments of privacy with unbound relish. Before being a hardworking man, a good neighbor and a law abiding citizen, even before being a husband and a father... I am me. “I came to this world alone and alone I shall leave.” If I do not enjoy the silent sounds of my thoughts or laugh at my own jokes, if I do not smile for her eyes only, if I cannot maintain that space that is utterly mine, how can I ever bring meaning to my life? What kind of person will I be to all the others if I am not myself to me? When I write “out loud” I do not intend to impress. I write mostly to a soul mate who is beyond the grasp of your imagination or my gift for words. For as long as I can remember I considered happiness as a vague and unreachable concept. Only idiots and non-sentient mammals could ever claim such state, I thought. This year has proved me wrong. The moment I realized that happiness is not an end by itself I became happy. No time is more important than today. Nostalgia adds a second dimension to the linear flow of time as memories bring solace and sweet compassion to our burdened minds. But only hope makes our lives worth living and dynamically happy. It is this third dimension that most people are missing and it is exactly what I have found in 2009.

I will continue to write out loud. I appreciate every single reader of this blog, whether she agrees with my choices or not. I am thankful for those who comment and criticize as long as they maintain common courtesy. I am honored by the many friends I have made over the last few years through blogging and who have been nothing less than inspirational. I still have no message to give. I do not blog to change others but to remain me, despite all. 

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas
To all my friends
To my dear readers
To You!

Chambermaids

With our best wishes for the holiday season. Cheers!!
Ingrid and Joanie

It was a glorious Sunday in December in a beautiful European capital. I took the train from the airport and arrived at my hotel a little after 9:00PM the night before. I removed my clothes and toiletries from my suitcase and neatly arranged them in the closet and on the bathroom vanity. The room was small but cozy and comfortable, with an oak desk set in the corner, a comfortable Corona chair not far from the window and a palatial bed taking most of the remaining space. I took a quick shower, dressed warmly and walked aimlessly in the light snow in search of a place to eat.

My meeting was an all-day affair on Monday. Normally this type of business trips gives the traveler very little chance, if any at all, to unearth the treasures of his destination. I was lucky, however, not to have found any available seat on the Sunday flight and had to fly 24 hours before. I had the whole day free to myself to roam and discover the city.

I woke up early and refreshed. The snow had stopped falling overnight leaving the streets below thinly veiled in white like a pretty bride on her wedding day. There was no point in shaving my beard and it is absolutely unnecessary here to disclose my toilet habits for the innocent reader. Suffice it to say that I decided to have breakfast, hop back to my room (well to use the bathroom) then go out on an unguided and unplanned tour. Oh the delicious smells of food and coffee in the morning. Whenever I am traveling my capacity to eat, especially breakfast, is quadrupled. Business hotels are almost deserted on Sunday mornings but that did not stop me from having a hearty meal of eggs and sausage, croissants and cake, fruits and cereals, bread and cheese and coffee and tea. More than an hour later, I felt like a happy blimp ready to take on this dazzling and promising winter day. I took the elevator back upstairs for one last call of nature.

A housekeeping trolley was left unattended near my room and I had to squeeze myself between it and the door. The moment I stepped in, my eyes took the nonsensical scene instantly but it failed to register properly in my brain. There they were, two plump chambermaids half-naked on my bed in , shall I say, a very compromising position. I felt candidly sorry for my interruption since they seemed to be caught up in a moment of rapture. I vividly remember the wobbling breasts, or was it only one, of a reddish buxom in her late fifties. Her sweetheart was younger and a tiny bit smaller but was indubitably doing something with her mouth when I chattered the moment. Her lips were frozen in an expression that wildly ranged between appetence and disbelief. They both froze in time and space and stared at me.

“Please, don't mind me at all. I just need to pick up something. Well, come to think of it, I really don't need it right now.” I blabbered, honestly meaning every word. “I shouldn't be back till the afternoon. Please stay and have a good time.”

As I was leaving, my eye fell on the minibar. I opened it and took a sharp look at its content. There it is! I took out a half-a-liter champagne bottle and two glasses from the top. I apologetically approached the night-table by the bed and placed them there quietly.

“My treat, ladies. Have a nice day.” I strolled through plazas and alleys and wandered by a river. I had a generous lunch with a bunch of happy folks under a huge tent. Beer and wine flowed freely on our table. Most were lonely people just like me but that did not stop us from feeling like we were lifelong companions. It was an unforgettably perfect day, nothing less than what my luring and flitting ménage à trois deserved.

My return flight was scheduled in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. After a long day at work, interrupted briefly by a light lunch and concluded with a fancy dinner, I returned to my room late Monday evening. A box of chocolate, a bottle of Champagne and a short Thank You note, signed by Ingrid and Joanie, tickled me pink and kept me delightfully warmhearted.

My two lovely chambermaids still remember me. And, they sent me a Christmas card!!!

A Letter To My Teacher

Dear Doctor Wooton

Finding then reading your email late last night brought me such an immense pleasure. It must be nearly impossible for you to remember me after all this time. In fact, it's been twenty eight years since I sat in the back of your class. As my teacher, I must let you know how you influenced at least this one student of yours.

I was a City Planning major at USL. American Literature was a required course and I approached the prospect with predictable trepidation. English was not in fact my second language but my third after Arabic and French. I was a twenty-year-old Syrian student who came from a small city by the sea and who dreamed of going to college in America. I was also an ordinary reader of modern Arabic poetry and translated mystery novels when I took your class. Within weeks, and thanks to you, I was transported to an exquisite world of words, one which I never willed to leave since. I had my true revelation when you introduced us to "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. This poem changed me forever and through the years I must have read it hundreds of times. It evokes the same sense of awe and humanity in me today as it did back then.

Halfway through the course, with straight A's in quizzes and the midterm you announced that: "Abufares is exempted from taking the final exam with a well deserved A." I was the only foreign student in that room and you had no idea what your recognition had done to my self-confidence back then.

I later pursued my Master's degree, became a Graduate Teaching Assistant in my department and enrolled in a Writing course of yours. I chose to translate four poems by Nizar Qabbani (1923 -1998), the most influential Syrian poet of the 20th century, into English. In your notes on the side of one of my papers, you scribbled something like "read, read, read..." and I have not stopped reading till today. Then once, during a short discussion we had after class about "imagism", you asked me to attempt to write a few short poems. I remember only one as I have lost all of my papers and bits of my memory with the torturous passage of time.

To My so-called Aunt Dolly

twenty-two years separate us
but between your lips and mine
when we kiss
years are crushed
and they die

Almost three decades later and after the few hundreds of "English" books I have read, "... after the cups, the marmalade, the tea" and when I was finally able to momentarily free myself from the burdens of labor and every day's obligations I started my blog. In reply to your question about my writing career I still do not have one but that could change one day. I waded through my first words on this blog and continue to derive delightful fancy from my interaction with readers. A few months ago I took my first plunge into fiction as a co-writer of an online tale by the name of Sea Side with Mariyah, a most inspirational woman and a beautiful writer beyond my meager words. I would be thrilled if my English professor of old chooses to take a look at our story, not for the sake of vanity but rather as a token of appreciation on my part for what you have taught and instilled in me.

Thank you Professor for writing to me. I am honored.

Yours
Abufares

In Love with a PC

I bought my first computer, a Timex Sinclair 1000 in 1982. It had a membrane keyboard, Black & White NTSC output, a whopping 2 KB of RAM and weighed in at hefty 12 oz. Since then, I have never been caught alone without a computer. If I am not mistaken, the laptop I'm caressing with my fingers right now is the 9th I've had in the ensuing 27 years and she is the first girl in the bunch.

At my age one would assume that I should be making more sense than to genderize machines but I have always looked at them as personal friends. I have started my blog on a Toshiba Satellite laptop. We became very close over the last few years and I have entrusted him with all of my secrets, big and small. Yes, he's a boy and he has a name too but as of late he's been sick and started showing his age. I knew that he's not going to last forever but it was so hard for me to think of, simply, putting him to sleep. Recently he made two visits to Damascus and Aleppo for maintenance. When my hopes became very slim of his full recovery I started my online search for a new laptop. A good friend of mine suggested a MacBook Pro. I was really tempted but remained hesitant. I was never attached to Windows per say but I did find the Mac aficionados a little on the wacko side. Their loyalty and fierce defense of their platform and operating system were too much for me to come to terms with. Besides, I have a love/hate relationship with my iPhone already and didn't think I can handle the pair of them. You know my iPhone reminds me of a show dog rather than a good field pointer. It's beautiful to look at and pet on a couch but it wouldn't stand a chance in today's demanding work environment. The Apple milieu lacked that real world feeling to me and whether smartly or not I opted for a Windows 7 machine. After several days of searching I found exactly what I was looking for and a week thereafter she arrived from Dubai. An HP DV3 13.3” beauty with embedded patterns on her dark blue skin. It was love at first sight and so far I'm truly impressed with the stellar performance of …. (yes she already has a name of course) and Windows 7 in general.

My private online time is a significant part of my life. I say that without apology or regret. I'm still using three PC's (1 desktop and 2 laptops) for work and play. However, with the arrival of my new HP I made a wise and long overdue decision. I moved my personal stuff strewn here and there and entrusted her with all. Will I enjoy the travel of her keys and the touch of her screen when my fingers dance over her body? Will she appreciate the words I type for all to read and my most secret thoughts for her eyes only?

This is our first blog together and we're already dancing to the tune of love!

Perched On My Rock

My mother told me that on the night I was born a storm of freakish magnitude hit Tartous putting the fear of god in the hearts of her people. The little town was ravaged by torrential rains and strong gales. The power went down and all hell broke loose. Psychotic lightening raped the sky with lunatic vehemence, quavered then climaxed in deafening rolls of thunder. Tormented shutters flapped on hinges in agony and moaned. The wind howled in between the alleys chasing genies deep into their holes. Rain drummed on tin roofs in a sadistic crescendo. Thunder bellowed threatening to disgorge the earth beneath. The sea pounded the beach a hundred meters from the room with a view to the sea, spitting its froth on the window. It roared above them all with deafening anger: “Be quiet!”, then I cried.

As a toddler I sat all day in my playpen on the balcony facing the sea. That was the only way to keep me content, my mother's bedtime story went on. Browsing old black and white photographs, I see myself swimming by the age of four. I have no recollection of my first steps nor of my earliest plunge. I do know, however, that the passage of years did not change me in the least. I still run away from it all and stare at the sea with an insatiable hunger and a profound thirst. Even in the dead of winter, when only a fool with a lantern roams the beach, I am there perched on my rock.

One thing about Tartous which made it different from all the landlocked cities I lived in is the expanse of her horizon. I remember an early trip to Damascus when my mother and father were traveling abroad and had to leave me at my grandparents'. I searched for the horizon but could not find it and I was afraid. How did they live within walls of mortar and shadows and not suffocate? Where did they escape to when their world closed in? There was no salt in the air to breathe. They did not sweat nor feel the caressing fingers of a westerly breeze cooling their bereaved souls. No sail carried their cravings to foreign lands. No ship horn wailed in the dark of night filling their minds with vocal scenes. Did they ever dream while they slept or did they barely live, fearless of getting lost at sea?

I have counted my days and ways by the ensuing tides, my spirit rising and falling with the imminent swell. I spread my wings and soared with the seagulls above. I let go, drifting, till I turned into a far-flung spec then disappeared. Time, being left without me, panicked. It gathered its hours and minutes and scurried beyond the mountains to the east, waiting for me to reappear.

I fell in a waterspout, morphing with the distant ripples. By dawn, they made it as breakers to shore. I climbed on my rock, naked and strong. I filled my lungs with mist and walked the desolation. The cowardly time, finding courage in my return and eager to please, asked me when I wanted to go.

I slumped in my bed, where I was born in my home by the sea. My nightly voyage left me invigorated and alive. I shut my eyes not to sleep but to see you closer. And I did.

October Rain

Nightly wind puffs
From the mountains swirled
Carrying sickly leaves
Far to the sea
A moist breeze stirred the chalky branches
Under the dolorous stare of a meeker sun
Old Summer wheezed its last breath
Mercy-killed by an October cloudburst
At long last
Rain washed the dusty roads
Cleansed taint souls
Brought the life back to me
A forlorn survivor
Of dog days melting in potholes
Burdens of happiness gone
Less dispirited but longing still
For a downpour to sweep me away
To carry me to a place
I only knew in dreams
to make me whole, to paint me green

By my window a world goes by
Young mothers with babies stroll
Their potbellied men buying groceries
Teenagers smoking addiction
Lean on cars
Lovers running out of space
Watched by solemn eyes
People stuck in stranded schooners
Tilting to starboard, capsizing
Drunk drivers, intoxicated by chimeras
Of heaven and hell
Growing beards, wearing robes
Beautiful women covering up
mentally raped to submission
Generations turning bitter
Shaming us with heavy guilt
A smile gone from the face of a child
Raised to obey not to question
To live in the shadow of fear
Suffocating his original urges
Bringing them to their knees
Giving up, letting go
Too early of his dream

It is October
My month to draw Arak and
Store the wine in barrels
I walk by the sea in a cool zephyr blown
Through the lips of enchanting mermaids
Their faces, their long hair and pink nipples
Disappearing then appearing
Through the oily surface of my sea
By the outcrop of rocks at the end
of the desert road I sit
my heart leaping away catching
A loose rope trailing a steaming ship
Mind soaring with seagulls high above
I fear for them what they trust
For they cannot see what I see
Beyond this place I have grown
Further than the end of time
Way above what they are
What they will ever be
I am flying I am free

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

Blogging Week Against Anal Orifices أسبوع التدوين ضد البخاويش

A few of us Anglophone Syrian bloggers decided at long last to catch up with our Arabophone brethren and start a week of blogging against something. Except that we couldn't agree on what we collectively hate. You see we are neither organized nor do we have an agenda for days to come. We're just a bunch of casual and unceremonious guys and gals (almost all of us but not quite, looool) who couldn't jointly come up with one idea for our week. The best we could muster is for each to declare his or her own war against their own demons.

I chose to attack Chauvinistic Vainglorious Hypocrite Puritan Prudes (AKA Assholes)



1.There are men who think they are inherently better than women by virtue of their sex. I don't like them.

2.There are men who walk a step ahead of women believing it's only normal due to their twisted sense of morality or their sick understanding of modesty. I don't like them.

3.There are men who discuss the attire of women. How they should or shouldn't dress. What they ought to cover and what they are allowed to reveal. I don't like them.

4.There are men who boss women around and who strongly believe its their god given right to do so. I don't like them.

5.There are men who hide the names of their mothers, sisters and wives as if it's shameful and dishonorable for the names of “their” women to be revealed. I don't like them.

6.There are men ashamed of their own bodies and who consider the body of “their” women as their own property. I don't like them.

7.There are men who want to change us all to fit their own idea of right and wrong. I don't like them.

8.There are men who see in black and white, in shades of gray at best. I don't like them.

9.There are men who are convinced they are always right, no matter what. I don't like them.

10.There are women who agree with these assholes. I really hate them.


Participating Blogs:

• Ana Sourie Blogging Week Against the Consumption of all Beans 

اسبوع التدوين ضد استهلاك الحمص والفول

• Levantine Dreamhouse Blogging Against Fossilized Thinking 

التدوين ضد التفكير المتحجر

• Dubai Jazz A Week of Blogging Against Tribalism

اسبوع التدوين السوري ضد القبلية

• Tajreed Blogging Week Against Hypocrisy

• Ral Blogging Against Narcissistic Personality Disorder 

التدوين ضد اضطراب الشخصية النرجسية

• On Olive and Sake Blogging Week for Moral decay

اسبوع التدوين للإنحلال الأخلاقي

• Syrian to the Bone Blogging Week Against Assholes

• Suffonsifisms Blogging Against the Production, Release and Circulation of Hot Air

• My Chaos Blogging Week Against the Inferior Looks to Stray Cats

اسبوع التدوين ضد النظرات الدونية للقطط الشاردة

When I Need You

In the summer of 1977 shortly after my National Bacalaureat exam I attended my first dancing party in Tartous. These were extremely rare events in my little town by the sea back then. Boys and girls went to single-sex schools like the rest of Syria with the exception of a handful of private ones in Damascus and Aleppo perhaps. Not many years later that had come to change and by the early 80's of the 20th century Tartous implemented co-ed in all of its public schools and remains today the only Governorate in the country without any single-sex learning institution. We've sure moved way ahead of the pack and we're proud of our mindset here on the coast. In fact, despite the relentless waves of marauding Wahabi Islamists pouring over our shores, we Tartoussis, in our majority, stand in defiance to the dull and lifeless coveys desaturating the kaleidoscopic social fabric of Syria not through confrontation but rather by clinging to our traditional Mediterranean way of life. We still master the art of taking it easy and the rest certainement à la tizi.

That night, I asked the prettiest girl in the party to dance with me to what is perhaps one of the greatest love songs ever, When I Need You by Leo Sayer. The song went on that year to top the charts on both sides of the Atlantic (the UK Singles Chart and the US Billboard Hot 100).

Last night, thirty two years after that dance, a breeze blew from the west cooling down the lingering heat of the day. There were folks walking by, young lovers holding hands and this tartoussi  riding his bicycle on the corniche late in the evening. I was enjoying the silence and engrossed in my private thoughts when I decided to listen to some music. I picked a List I call “Soft” on my iPhone and drifted with the tantalizing flow of easy listening songs. The mood was ripe for a daydream (eveningdream is more like it) and right in the middle of it, When I Need You came along.

To lovers all over, this one for you. To the woman who's more me than myself... May I have this dance my Princess?



When I need you
I just close my eyes and I'm with you
And all that I so want to give you
It's only a heartbeat away

When I need love
I hold out my hands and I touch love
I never knew there was so much love
Keeping me warm night and day

Miles and miles of empty space in between us
The telephone can't take the place of your smile
But you know I wont be traveling forever
It's cold out, but hold out, and do I like I do
When I need you
I just close my eyes and I'm with you
And all that I so wanna give you babe
Its only a heartbeat away

Its not easy when the road is your driver
Honey that's a heavy load that we bear
But you know I won't be traveling a lifetime
It's cold out but hold out and do like I do
Oh, I need you

When I need love
I hold out my hands and I touch love
I never knew there was so much love
Keeping me warm night and day

When I need you
I just close my eyes
And you're right here by my side
Keeping me warm night and day

I just hold out my hands
I just hold out my hand
And I'm with you darling
Yes, I'm with you darling
All I wanna give you
It's only a heartbeat away
Oh I need you darling

Writers: Albert Hammond & Carol Bayer Sager

Ramadan Karim

It will be extremely difficult for those who judge a book by its cover to understand my relationship with Ramadan. For interested readers they can always find more about "Ramadan according to a tartoussi" here and specifically here. I have already posted 14 times about it so obviously it must carry certain significance to me. Perhaps most interesting in our unique relationship is that first, I feel the passage of time with the advent of this synodic (lunar) month and second, I have in a way succeeded, on the personal level, to humanize the mystic aura of the experience.

My intention is to write recipes and food related posts on my blog for the next 30 days or so. I might, of course, change my mind at any time but it would be a good idea to sit back, enjoy and talk about food. While getting in the mood allow me please to wish each and everyone of you a Ramadan Karim. You know how Christmas is Merry and Easter is Happy! Well Ramadan is Generous (Karim).

I hope we work on eradicating the disparity between the rich and poor so that the wealthy don't feel that they are doing the needy a favor with their alms.

I hope we become free to live the way we choose to and liberate our minds from the vice of judging others.

I hope we believe in ourselves enough not to wait for miracles to happen but instead work out butts off to make viable wonders come true.

I hope we come to terms with reality, cherish the physical world and see the inherent beauty of the universe with wonderment and joy not in awe and fear. ex nihilo nihil fit.

I hope we never lose the impulse to learn, the will to travel and the urge to discover the unknown.

I hope we reach the point when no one believes that it's worth dying or killing for a cause.

I hope that no man has to toil for bread, no child sleeps unfed and no woman is coerced in bed.

Ramadan Karim

August

August wears me down. It always had. It always will. This year I have been dreading the month long before it knocked on my door.

It's not often that I'm home alone. But in a time when everybody needs a little vacation I had no option but to stay behind. Kids, more so than the rest of us, must grow up loving August. There would come the day eventually when the burdens of life will make them change their minds. The telephone cried in the quiet room.

-Heard you're alone!
-I am.
-What do you say we share a drink and be alone together...

I picked a shirt in the dark, slipped into a pair of jeans then drove toward the sea. I rolled the windows down and opened the sunroof. No air was coming in. Tartous closed on me as the whole world was too tight around the neck. There was a long line of parked cars on the boulevard as I brought mine into an empty spot. What were they thinking about, these ungodly machines? I stepped down, pushing a button on the key chain and crossed the street pweep, pweep into heavy silence.

Underneath the 900 years old vaulted ceiling men and women sat behind tables. Oblivious to being, they stared at walls, imaginary and real. What makes us believe we're that different from the cars parked outside? Waiting, isn't that what we're all doing?

In desperation we draw the last card, the company of others. We hugged, tapped shoulders then slumped into padded chairs, men tired of the long summer.

Ah my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears:
Tomorrow! Why, tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.*



The bleak day turned brighter with the flow of the amber Scotch. My heart sighed while the welcomed numbness took over. My thirsty soul gasped with glee. Talk followed echoing through the valleys of the minds. I fancied a Scottish fairy tiptoeing toward me. She came to a stop and knelt by my side, took my hand in hers, kissed the tip of my fingers then brought the back of my hand to her cheek and whispered in my ear, you'll be alright my...

The chagrined notes of a solitary Oud drifted in the air then a sweet voice rose from the dungeons of a tormented soul. My fairy smiled down at me, repressing a solitary tear at the corner of each eye. She ruffled my short hair then vanished in thin air.

Gayyeen li'ddunia ma na'raf leh
wla rayheen fen wala Ayzeen eh
Mashaweer marsouma l'khatawina
Nimshiha b'ghorbet layalina
Yom Tifarrahna wi yom tigrahna
W'ehna wala ehna arfeen leh
W'zayeh ma guina.. guina
W'mesh b'edena guina**

We came... we don't know why
Where we're going to or what for
Paths drawn for our feet to tread
We follow them estranged in the dark of night
Paths of joy one day then of deep hurt tomorrow
We still don't know why
But we came
We never chose to but anyway we came

-Come on man … don't lose me.
-Cheers!
-Cheers YOU.





*From Rubaiyat Omar Khayyam (1048-1123), translation by Edward FitzGerald (1809-1883)

** Min Gher Leh Mohamad Abdul Wahab (1907-1991), performed by Taher Mustafa

Dowload Min Gheir Leh

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.