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.

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!!!

Hymens For Sale

It might come as a surprise to many but hymens are not unique to the human species. Due to similar biological evolution many female mammals, including chimpanzees, elephants and whales retained theirs as well. And no, there is no embedded wisdom or ultimate truth behind the existence of hymens more than their functional role of preventing infections in young females from external sources. There is as much intended purpose behind a hymen as there is in the persistent presence of the appendix in humans in general and nipples in men in particular. That dealt with and out of the way let us address this very interesting and hot topic (might be wet and messy as well).

I first read about artificial virginity on my favorite blog Suffonsifisms written by Isobel . Global Voices' own Hisham also linked to the same subject written in French by the Moroccan Blogger Mounir. In her post titled Artificial Virginity then in Furthermore…as if it wasn’t bad enough, Isobel addressed the subject matter with understandable dismay. She realizes of course that in many paternal societies the dominant males have conspired, due to their own mental impotency, against women and degraded this fold of mucus membrane to the same low level as their fecal honor. She is much nicer than me though and more restrained. The hymen per say is a worthless remnant of less hygienic times. It's a dirty little bugger at best but certainly cleaner than the minds of men who obsessed over the right of women to have an active premarital sexual life. In false pretense they will argue that men too should abstain from having sex outside wedlock. However, since they have impenetrable hymens covering their brains they truly believe that there is a divine message here. Accordingly, a man's sin might go unnoticed and forgivable eventually but not that of a woman. “شرف البنت زي عود الكبريت ما يولعش الا مرة واحدة” A girl's honor is like a matchstick. It can only burn once. When a girl ruptures her hymen she becomes fair game for the chimps in her family or tribe. Executing her to preserve their honor still goes on in many parts of the Middle East (and elsewhere) in what is miserably known as Honor Killing.

I am neither advocating nor opposing premarital sex. It is simply nobody's goddamn business. What a man or woman chooses to do with his or her own body is entirely up to them. Screw traditions, morals and customs on a collective basis. They matter to you, very well instill them in your own children. When they become adults they have the right to choose whether they want to remain chaste and pure till they get married or not. Your moral role as parent, father be it or mother, ends when your children reach adulthood. More importantly, you and I have no right to condemn the sexual behavior of others. We see something we do not like, we can shut up and mind our own boxers or undies.

A man's honor deserves better than to hide inside the underwear of women. As to this clever new $15 Chinese device and which is primarily used to emulate virginity so that an idiot of a man never finds out whether "his" woman had her “cherry popped” or not before him I only have this to say: such archaic cultural apes deserve nothing more, nothing less, than an artificial hymen to make them feel like real men. I am glad to add that it is already on sale in Syria.

Xie Xie Zhong Guo, “Thank You China”. I cannot wait for your next invention, an artificial brain in the shape of a dildo. Perhaps this leading Egyptian scholar can stick it up where the sun never shines and dies of an orgasmic fit.

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

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.

Sea Side

Ah, Abu Fares, truth be told, I have not been your way in a very long time. With this piece I was pulling on memories of the distant past as well as some accounts from friends. I would be so happy to travel there one of these days and I would definitely let you know if I was going to be there. I needed a little vacation…so I took one in my mind to one of the prettiest areas of Syria.
Is it going to be another G&A? Well, Abu Fares, I have a proposal for you. How would you like to collaborate on a fictional tale that reflects life in the area – continuing from where I left off? I don’t know of anyone better to write about this beautiful part of the country. It might be kind of exciting to see what we can come up with. What do you say? I would hate to be presumptuous, but I think our readers might enjoy it.

Mariyah (responding to my comment on her post Sea Side)



Over a period of eight months, from October 2008 till June 2009, Mariyah mixed fiction with fact and romance with resilience to create faultless white, bronze, gold and black pearls and wore them in a string around her supple neck. She then sprayed the exquisite beads with the perfume of her boundless imagination and conjured the most endearing fairy-tale on the Syrian Blogsphere, The Story of Ghassan & Alexandra.

Anyone who knows me well enough surely realizes that I'm not the romantic type, or so I would like to believe. But as my hair becomes whiter and thinner, my mind and soul get younger and greener. When I read Mariyah's first chapter of her new work Sea Side and after she invited me to co-write it with her I can't but express my absolute delight and elation. I am honored dearest Mariyah and I look forward an entertaining and sweeping flow of a spontaneous plot. As we follow our uncharted storyline we will be startling each other even before we surprise our readers.

Sea Side will appear in alternating episodes written by Mariyah and Abufares on Mariyah's Blog. She has already started the journey with a breathtaking introduction which had captivated me at least and made my heart leap with joy at her offer. I invite you all to join us there for an undetermined stretch of time. Ahhhh, the never ending stories by the sea… by Mariyah's side.

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!

The Story of Abeer

The following is a letter I received from a girl I named Abeer. She wrote to me in Arabic and asked for my help. After her permission, we agreed that I should translate her words into English and post her letter on my blog for every single reader to have an open discussion. Whatever you might think, please feel free to join in through your comments. I might at any point butt in but I'd rather keep my peace for as long as I can.
Abeer, thank you for trusting me with your story. I wish you the best.


Dear Abufares

I hesitated before I chose how to address you “Azizi: Dear” or “Ammo: Uncle” but then decided that you are so young at heart, I'd better drop the “Ammo” least I make you upset.

You see you are about my father's age and I'm young enough to be your daughter. I'm a 21 years old girl from Damascus. I can write in English but prefer to express myself in Arabic, especially now. I have been reading your blog for almost a year. My boyfriend, and let's call him Jad, introduced me to your writing. I think I have read everything you wrote but I particularly like your posts about love, women and life in general.

The reason I'm writing this private email to you is because I'm seeking your advice. You might find it ridiculous that a total stranger asks for your help. But you wrote that you are a fool with a lantern and I so hope that the light you are shedding can show me the way.

I come from a good family. I am a very pretty girl and I'm not saying that out of vanity. My beauty, however, doesn't bear directly on my “tragedy”. I grew up with Jad, our neighbors' son. We played and studied together. There was no beginning to our love story. We were in love ever since I can remember. We kissed on the stairs and the balcony. We made promises to each other and kept them. Our lives evolved around each other. He never made me sad. He never said a harsh word to me. In turn, I never gave another boy a second look.

My father is a very wealthy man. He is highly educated and had lived a good part of his life abroad. My mother too (was) a very open minded woman and studied at the university of Damascus. We moved to the suburbs a few years ago and live in a very nice villa. Through the years my parents always knew about Jad and me. They never openly talked about him but his father was a good friend of mine. That is until my father became too important (in his own opinion) and too busy with making more money and their friendship withered with time. My mother was a normal intelligent, attractive, educated and entertaining Damascene woman until she turned into a self-righteous one who attends religious lessons and hosts them in the villa once a week. Her “friends”, I think, brainwashed her and made her such a boring and meaningless woman. Suddenly, the most important part of her life became her Hijab. Shopping and acquiring weird “Islamic” fashion became her obsession. The whole universe, suddenly, became centered around her hair. She has regular hair like everybody else but it has become such a precious asset it needed to be hidden from everyone because that is what Allah wants.

She removed her wedding pictures from the salon and living room. Her photo holding me and my brother on the beach in Lattakia was the centerpiece of the entire wall. It disappeared. Beautiful memories wiped out because her hair showed. My brother, one year younger than me also became what I like to describe as a Muslim Crusader. Life is defined around his going back and forth to the mosque for prayers. My father apparently didn't change that much, or so I thought at first.

Slowly, I became the focal point of my mother's and brother's attention. Who am I talking to over the phone? Where was I? No, I can't spend time with my friends in Damascus. Yes, I should wear the Hijab. Certainly I must pray five times a day. How did my mother change from being a compassionate woman to a ruthless robotic idiot is something I will never understand. I succumbed to their whims for about one year and wore the Hijab. I just kept thinking how stupid I was. How stupid my mom is. Didn't she grow up in a regular family? How I dress, whether I have nail polish, the perfume I wear became the nightly dinner conversation. My father was updated on my situation and he constantly frowned and expressed his disbelief at my unacceptable behavior.

Only Jad kept me sane with these crazy people. He told me to take it easy and that my parents only want the best for me. But deep inside, I knew him better than that. He is a very smart and sensitive guy. He has crossed the line of being a puppet to the ingrained traditional and religious mores of our society. His father is a wonderful man, intelligent and well read. I remember when I was a little girl how much both my parents enjoyed his enlightening company.

I am in my third year in the university (Economics) and 2 months ago over lunch, very casually my mother announced with pride and satisfaction that a certain young man, the son of a certain old man has asked for my hand in marriage. His mother, a friend of one my mother's inner circle of religious women was the matchmaker. I couldn't believe the ensuing discussion between my father, my mother and my brother about me, about my future, about the need to wear the Hijab again because it is not open to discussion with the suitor's family. My father. My own father, the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle and how to swim on his back, the one who bought me all these little dainty miniskirts from his travels, the intellectual who sat by my bed and explained the importance of education and work when I get older and the same man who held my hand and looked straight in my eyes one day and said that I should not live to need to be married has been transformed into a mere shadow. A hypocrite parrot bargaining and debating my future with my mindless mother and my fanatic brother.

I told them that when I decide to get married I will never consider anyone but Jad. Since then, my life has turned into a living hell. I'm no longer allowed out of the house. My family has taken away my liberties and my humanity and turned me into a 21 years old slave. They are going ahead with their planning and scheming and the engagement/Kitab/marriage ceremony is looming inevitably closer. Did I mention that the idiot who wants to marry me already made several remarks about what he likes and doesn't like about me, what I should keep and change in my character and personality. He came over for several visits with his family. Although I would probably spit in his face if he asks to be alone with me he has shown no interest at all in talking to me in private so far.

It's becoming harder and harder to sneak a talk with Jad who would be leaving to Canada by the end of the summer. He has asked me to go with him and there is more than one way I can do that. I already have an open visa and he is a Canadian citizen. I'm certain that I don't want to waste my life with someone I cannot even look at. I'm also convinced that I will never love anyone but Jad. At 21, I'm forced to make the decision of leaving Syria never to return.

What do you think Abufares?

Abeer

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.

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.

The Fellowship of the Scotch

We met in a bar in old Damascus. He introduced himself as Nabil, an expat visiting home for the first time in five years. “Would you like a cigarette with that Scotch”, he asked, sitting on the next stool. We were almost touching shoulders in the noisy and crowded joint. “Well I’ve quit, but thank you anyway. Actually, I never smoked more than one or two cigs a day and only when I drank” I replied. “My name is Abufares”, I extended my hand. He had a strong and confident grip. A very handsome sexagenarian with wavy hair brushed back like the mane of a white stallion. He had deep blue eyes, beaming with intelligence and vitality. A man equally at ease in a board meeting in a western capital or in an undersized jam-packed bar in the oldest city in the world. “Have we met before? You’re not a Shami (a Damascene), where are you from?” he stared intensely at my face. “I would’ve remembered you if we had. I’m a Tartoussi”, I said. He smiled big time: “Then let me buy you a drink and let’s meet now.” I accepted but insisted that we alternately buy rounds. He graciously agreed and… and there was something in his demeanor that told me that we’re in for a long and out of the ordinary evening.

He drank straight Chivas 18 while I stuck to my Black Label on the Rocks. Despite the loud music, the hot chicks wedging their bodies in between us to order their drinks and even an unusual grab of my butt by a nymphomaniac Métis with exotically scented firm breasts shoved up my face, we talked and maintained our compelling dialogue for hours. “Are you sure you want to listen to my blabbering instead of getting laid with that woman there?” he bemusedly asked. I raised my glass to his, “I’ve given up on that as well”, I laughed as he roared in a fit of hilarity. Then he cleared his throat, looked solemn for an instant and said: “I am here for a woman Abufares.” He seemed to be probing the depth of my eyes for an internal reaction. “Ah, cherchez la femme”, I exclaimed.

Nabil’s plane landed in Damascus airport at 7:00PM. He has reserved a room in one of the finest restored hotels in the old city which he had discovered through the Internet. He owns a large apartment at Al-Malki but didn’t want to stay there. He checked in, showered, got dressed (rather elegantly yet very casually) then walked the alleyways in search of a drinking hole. “Aren’t you tired?” I asked. He disregarded my question and brushed it aside. “I’ve slept well from Toronto to Paris. And I miss Damascus so much. And I need to drink. And I was lucky to run into you. You seem like a good listener. Do you want to hear my story Abufares?” I grinned: “You’re here for a woman Nabil. There’s nothing I’d like to hear more.”

I’ve been living in Toronto for the last twenty three years. I left Damascus in 1986 when everybody was immigrating to Canada. I had a very small shop in Salhieh selling men’s clothes with a partner. I sold my share, packed and left in a fortnight when my petition was accepted. My pregnant wife wasn’t thrilled but she and my baby girl came along anyway. I have two daughters now; Nagham is twenty five and Sahar twenty two. We didn’t own a house back then. We were renting in Barzeh. I left Damascus for a woman I lost and I return now to try to win her back.

Oh, I love Canada. It’s my home now. It’s a beautiful country, amazing scenery, wide expanses, plenty of opportunities if you know where to look. Nice people from all over the world, hardworking, fair, nonviolent in general, merging up agreeably and forming a colorful society. Nagham got married last month to a Palestinian doctor. He’s a good guy. Sahar is engaded to a young man from Damascus. I knew his father back when we were still here. I knew of him that is, a jerk from one of the fine old Damascene families. I was a nobody here you understand. May be that’s why I left. I mean my father was a high school teacher, very respectable, very honest, but you know how it was in Damascus. Well from what you’ve been telling me it’s even worse now. People tend to value your money more than your integrity.

I lived with my wife and daughters in a beautiful home in one of Toronto’s finest suburbs until we divorced three years ago. My wife and I had our separate worlds. We shared the same large space of course but we had nothing in common. She changed over there. She became more independent, which is good for her, and lost all interest in us. Well, I did too and had more affairs than I care to remember. We never really loved each other but cared and were respectful of our relationship in the beginning. She is twelve years younger than me and she eventually continued her college education. Then with all the money I (We)’ve had she was most comfortable when I was not around. She got half of everything I owned. That made her happy. It made me happier. In the beginning we were wary of what other Syrians thought of us over there. But once we’ve become rich enough we didn’t give a shit about them anymore. We moved to a different level. My wife, she has her own circle of affluent women. My younger daughter too, she’s so much like her mom. Nagham, no, she’s something else, so independent yet humble. Believe it or not, I’m like that. I’m a very simple man who happened to have worked his ass off and became very rich.

On a hot summer day in 1980 a young regular customer entered my small boutique in Salhieh with his even younger sister. Hala was twenty two. I was thirty one. She was wearing a light summer dress with short sleeves and a floral pattern with purple shades. Her brown soft hair was gathered into a bun. She was so white, almost pale. She had wide brown eyes. Eeehhh (sigh) after all these years I can still picture her as if she’s walking in right this minute. She was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and the summer heat made her cheeks blush and her arms glisten with a thin film of perspiration. I showed her brother what he had asked for but I was absolutely mesmerized. I kept stealing glances at her and she finally caught me. Let me tell you this, I was a very handsome young man and I could sense that her blushing had nothing to do with the heat anymore. The shop was cool with the air conditioning running full blast. My store was so small it didn’t have a fitting room and her brother was in between us as I was thinking of a way to reach her. I took one of the plastic bags with the printed name of the store and with a pen drew a circle around my phone number for her eyes only. I wasn’t sure whether she saw me do that or not. She didn’t show any reaction and minutes later walked out the door with her brother. Then she glanced over her shoulder and ever so slightly I saw her smile. She didn’t call until the next evening and when she did it took us five minutes to fall in love.

For the next two years we stole our precious moments alone. We loved each other with total abandon away from her parents’ watching eyes. We knew that I didn’t have a chance being accepted by her father if I asked for her hand. She came from a very wealthy family and as far as her father was concerned the highest I could aspire for was to be a driver for them. Despite our extremely slim chances, I went to him and after waiting for over an hour was admitted to his office room. It took me less than ten minutes to get kicked out. I was humiliated and threatened. I was told that if I ever contemplated, if I ever dreamed of approaching Hala again I would simply disappear.

I was devastated. I couldn’t see or talk to her again until I learned, a couple of months later, that she had been sent to France or Switzerland. In less than a year she got married to someone worthy of her damn father. Her wedding was a legendary show of extravagance and wealth, so I’ve been told. The son of a bitch who married her was even richer than her old man. Kess Ekht Hal Balad! Can you believe that? We were ripped apart because I was not worthy.

I lived my remaining few years in Damascus and eventually got married too to someone from my class and mediocrity. I’m the youngest in the family and the only one who did not go to college. We never had anything in common, my wife and I, except class and mediocrity. Well she did go to Damascus University for a couple of years before quitting and that made her more educated than I am. Something she kept reminding me of for years, especially after she received her degree in Canada.

I followed Hala’s news from afar. After I became rich, and believe me I’m so goddamn rich now that half of the filthy moneyed in Syria would love to work for me, it became much easier to gather all the information I needed on her. She too has two daughters and lives in Al-Malki. Her husband, although very wealthy to start with had been working as a pimp for some Saudi Sheikh and became even wealthier. That should tell you something about the good old families in this time and age. Some of them don’t mind carrying the towel if you know what I mean.

I was here exactly five years ago when I ran into Hala at the Sheraton. She was attending some social affair with a bunch of siliconed and botoxed women trying to appear half their real age. She stood out like a princess among the bitchy hags. When she finally got on her way out to leave, I followed her to her car. As she was getting in behind the wheel she saw me standing there. She hasn’t seen me in over twenty five years. I have seen a few of her photos during that time. She stepped out, almost hypnotized without ever blinking. Her eyes were still wide and enchanting, her face the most beautiful in the entire world, her body compact and perfectly proportioned. She placed her hand on the top of the open door and I covered her fingers with mine. She hesitated as if she wanted to withdraw her hand but did not. We just stood there looking at each other then I told her that I still loved her the same way I loved her when she walked in my Salhieh store. I could feel her emotions rushing to the surface while she struggled with the lid. “I’ve never loved anyone but you Nabil but I can’t…” She withdrew her hand to get back in the car again but I grabbed it this time and brought it to my lips. “I’ll be back Hala, even if I had one day left in my life. I’ll be back for you.” Tears swelling in her brown eyes were the last I saw of her.

Well Abufares, Kasak, the son of a bitch, her husband died four months ago. I knew about it since and I have been patiently waiting. Tomorrow morning I will go to her and ask her to marry me. Do you understand now why I miss Damascus so much? Why I need to drink? Why I was lucky to run into you? I have never told this story to anyone until now, now that I finally hope to be with Hala again. Twenty five years of our lives were robbed from us, just like that, because a selfish man thought that I was not good enough for his daughter, because our entire culture permits such inhuman atrocity. I’ve been waiting for tomorrow for twenty five years Abufares. I will give it all up for her. I will live in this hypocrite shithole if she wants me to. We will go together to Canada if she accepts. I will move to Afghanistan just to be with her. Tell me Abufares, how do I look? I know she still love me. I’m sure that she must be thinking about me right this moment, but how do I look?

“She will find you irresistible Nabil, I know she will”, I convincingly said. He beamed at me with that overwhelming smile of his. “Bartender, get us another round”, he called. We were virtually alone with the man behind the bar. Almost everybody else had left. There was a couple making up in a corner. Our fresh drinks were brought and placed in front of us unobtrusively and in a fraction of an instant so that our drinking wasn’t interrupted at all. He seemed to be assessing me before he asked: “Tell me about you my friend. What’s your story?” “Ahhh, mine is too complicated to tell”, I managed to say before we burst out laughing like a pair of youngsters with their life, full of promise, ahead of them.

Happy Mother's Day

A few days after March 21st, when Mother’s Day is celebrated in this part of the world, I lost her. That was ten years ago. I remember the last thing she told me very clearly, as if it happened only last night. She had spent the last few days of her life mostly unconscious. She would wake up, open her eyes briefly and repeat the same phrase over and over then pass out again. “Don’t let them take my ring away from me.” She was of course referring to her wedding band as she was worried that after she dies the golden ring will be removed from her finger as per religious tradition. She was an avid believer in the afterlife and keenly practiced her spiritual duties. Yet she was even more devoted to the love of her life, my father. Her last thought, her final worry, her ultimate wish on the face of this earth were to keep his ring with her forever. And we made sure she did. My farewell memory of her was of her feet. As soon as she passed away I knelt by them, I held them in my hands then I kissed them and cried for a long time.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the breathtaking women out there and please cheer up. I’m not going to embark with you on an emotional story. I was merely introducing you to the first love of my life, my mom.

From word of mouth, I know that I was a naughty kid. My fascination with women came very early on in my life. When I was still in kindergarten and my mom had her morning guests for a Sebhieh (a morning get-together for women where they drink coffee and eat chocolates and sweets) I would sit in the middle of the room underneath the larger coffee table. I would scan the legs around me and locate the best looking pair and train my sight to get a glimpse of laced panties. How exciting it was, especially if one of the guests was skinnier than the norm for those days and pretty. I continued with this hobby of mine until I was too big a boy to be allowed to stay and listen to the women talking. But I didn’t have to worry much about it as by that time Lillian became my school teacher. We’re talking about the late sixties; the miniskirt was the revolutionary vogue of the time. Lillian had long and supple legs and she often wore very short skirts. She had great boobs as well and one of my favorite blouses was a tight one she wore and which seemed to be begging for mercy. Her hair brownish and permed, her eyes shaded with immaculate mascara and her large loop earrings contrasted beautifully against her sinuous neck, she was the reason behind my choice of sitting in the front row in class for the only time in my scholastic life. We sat in pairs on the wooden desks but sometimes, when my stars were perfectly aligned, the boy next to me would stay at home sick. Lillian would sit on my desk facing backward and I would be mere inches away from her sensuous body. She would occasionally catch me staring in awe at one particular schwerpunkt of her anatomy. She would flick my ear, look at me straight in the eye and order me to “stop what you’re doing right now.” She would then resume her teaching, the remains of a faint smile at the corners of her lustful lips. That’s how it all started and that’s how it still is. Well, of course, I don’t sneak looks beneath women skirts anymore… unless they were climbing a flight of stairs ahead of me and their legs happen to be remarkably graceful.



I will forever be in love with women. In fact it’s this love in me which makes me tense when I come face to face with the mindless men who believe that they have the right to hold the slightest control over them. But that is an entirely different subject, one which I plan to go into sometime in the near future. For now my only intention is to celebrate Mother’s Day in my own guileless way as an eternal picaro. Happy Mother’s Day to all! I will always love you.

Pillow Talk

A few years back an Italian colleague was visiting Syria and we traveled together on business to Aleppo, Homs, Lattakia then eventually Damascus. We had nothing to do on our last day before he was to fly back to Venice and I offered to take him around and show him the ageless beauty of the oldest capital in the world. Francesco asked me if we could go shopping and although it was, and still is, one of my least favorite activities I was delighted to help. He was a great travel companion and I pleasantly inquired about what he had in mind. “An oriental dancer (belly dancing) costume,” he told me, his eyes steady and unblinking. I swallowed hard yet kept smiling reassuringly. How in the hell was I going to overcome my acquired modesty and actually ask someone where to buy one of the most sensual pieces of feminine attire, I pondered covertly. I called a friend of mine, a very pretty Damascene girl I once knew and posed the question. “Now that you’re in your 40’s you’re getting kinky aren’t you Abufares?” she laughed teasingly. Despite my long-time familiarity with her I still felt awfully embarrassed. “It’s not for me. I mean I’m not buying it. It’s for my friend Francesco. I mean he must be buying it for someone…”. “Relax, my old friend. You probably don’t know that it’s customary for young Damascene brides to have at least one oriental dancer outfit among the most intimate apparel of their dowry? And, Abufares… I have several myself”, she divulged in the daintiest of tones before we finally hung up.

We walked along the long covered Souk of Hamidieh, Francesco and I. My friend had assured me that they were sold everywhere. All I had to do was ask. I finally summed up the courage and entered a small boutique where nightgowns and other womanish stuff were on display. The store was attended by a twenty-something year old guy. I whispered my request self-consciously. I needed to repeat my question three times before the asshole yelled at the top of his voice in the general direction of a narrow staircase that led somewhere up: “Majed, please show this gentleman our fine collection of dancing outfits.” “It’s not for me…”, I started… but he was already busy serving two veiled clients. Francesco and I climbed upstairs. My face was red with the blood of shame; I could almost feel the tips of my ears burning. I was so desperately embarrassed. “Ahlen wa Sahlen Eyouni (welcome)”, Majed beamed at us. “What do you have in mind? Classy or trashy? A high quality masterpiece or a cheap costume? We have everything from SYP500 to 100,000 a piece ($10 to $2,000)”. “It’s not for me…”, he wouldn’t even let me continue. “So what if it is for yours, man? Alhamdu Lillah (Thank God) we’re not doing anything wrong”. Francesco ended up buying a sexy purple translucent outfit. Majed had to get him from a high shelf behind a smaller size bra since apparently Graziella’s boobs were a little on the diminutive side.



For the last three years of my life I’ve been blogging and reading blogs. My browsing preferences have continuously shifted further and further from the mainstream of the Syrian Blogsphere. There are a dozen Syrian blogs out there which I will continue to read no matter what. Their authors have become enduring friends of mine. I’ve met a few of them and I would love to meet the others. I sporadically read additional blogs depending on the topic of their recent posts as they appear on Syplanet. But unfortunately, instead of finding more interesting reading material with the proliferation of Syrian bloggers the number of what I find captivating had remained constant. The most recent trend is annoying to say the least. People who are deeply committed to a cause, just or not, tend to be boring and really get on my nerves. In that light it’s understandable why I can’t get along with sternly religious folks. They are too serious to take seriously. Granted, they are free to express themselves as they please but they can eventually become a pain in the butt with their righteous persistence.

Not only was I seeking more intellectually stimulating content than the current vexatious craze of religiosity but I also am in dire need to be entertained in this day and age. Life is difficult enough as is. Many of us work and toil to make ends meet and at the end of the day are too exhausted to actually go anywhere. And, when you live, like me, in a small city where very little ever goes on, the internet is our widest window to the rest of the world. Naturally enough, I started my hunt on Syplanet. Are there any new and interesting blogs out there which I have somehow missed or not taken notice of? Don’t Syrian bloggers write anything interesting other than politics, religion or, like me, about nothing at all? I narrowed my search and concentrated on blogs written in English and started randomly clicking on the Syndicated Blogs list. Orchard Blossoms & Moonshine! What in the hell is that? I read the About Us section and became intrigued with the brief yet fascinating depiction the writers chose to present to the rest of the world. Upon further investigation I learned about the myth(s) of Nikkal and Yarikh, two Syrian gods of old. No sooner than I started reading through the blog than I realized that it had to be read from bottom to top. Nikkal and Yarikh are, according to the grapevine, two lovers who are writing to each other and do not mind if the rest of us read their story. I blame them for one thing though, they are not writing enough. I hope they are doing well together.

One thing naturally leads to another, which brings me back to the beginning of this post, not oriental dancing per say but the realm of the erotic. Why do we work so hard on hiding our emotions, feelings, yearnings and longings? These two lovebirds, Nikkal & Yarikh, have one link on their blog roll: Pillow Talk. I clicked expecting to find another romantic or poetry oriented blog but I was in for a huge surprise. Fantasia, as she chose to call herself, is without a doubt one of the most sensual women I have ever read (and seen judging from her personal photo). I have no idea where she’s from. She doesn’t write Erotica, she breathes it in and out and makes it morph into something so wholesomely decent while concurrently being so lewdly amatorial. Obviously she started this blog only recently but she intrigues and excites me beyond reason. She just feels everlasting. She is a woman, the real woman in every woman out there if given the chance. How much more pleasant this world of ours would be if everyone could innocently enough convey Fantasia’s message. No shame, no remorse, no regret, no guilt, no fucking nonsense. We are highly evolved beings that strive on love yet in the course of our infant civilization we have managed to muddy our purity with culpability. We invented religion initially to provide solace and comfort to our restless souls but soon enough our own creation spun out of control and took command of our consciousness. For no reason whatsoever, for no fault of our own we accepted that we are guilty until proven innocent. We had to work so damn hard all of our lives to appease the God who had created us without even giving us the option of not choosing to be born at all. We had an exam to take and that is the only course our lives were meant to follow. Love/Sex became the primary target and the absolute taboo of the religious institution.

Even for me, a man who has broken free out of this vicious guilt trip a long time ago, I was still somehow trapped within the layers upon layers of shame and ignominy. I couldn’t buy an oriental dancer outfit without being senselessly embarrassed. Blogging has helped me a great deal into coming to terms with myself. I now fully accept that I am what I am and it’s the most gratifying feeling any sentient being could ever achieve. It doesn’t matter how old you are, whether you are married, whether you have children, whether you are a professional, whether you are content, whether you are lonely or not. All that matters is to feel the freedom of being alive and conscious without preconditions or limitations.

Thank you Fantasia for showing me that Erotica could be more virtuous than hypocrisy and certainly much more fun. Keep on writing please and make this world a better place to live and love for all of us.

Link to Pillow Talk

Until You Came Along

I have been running away from myself, eluding a personal confrontation in the midst of crowds or when perfectly alone. Even in the moribund moments between the vitality of cognizance and the languor before sleep I am hesitant to bethink my desperation. Time fleets by unwary eyes whilst dreadful little is changing over the years. Finite grains in a sand clock glide down uninterrupted… interminably. No divine hand shall intervene to flip the contrivance upside down when all the jots of my life are heaped at the bottom. I will go like those before me. No chance for an honorary encore. My legacy trivial once I lose my grip on consciousness for the very last time.

From Monet Woman with a Parasol

Until you came along.
You filled all the desolate places, the forgotten corners, the inaccessible paths, the neglected memories and the forsaken dreams. I am a man who had trekked by the halfway marker before you egressed from the dense fog, who had crossed the point of no return while he waited for someone like you to give him the kiss of life… to rain precious water over his barren desert. I count the seconds for my time with you. I sip it leisurely like a consummate cognac… watch it cleave to the transparent walls of the glass, feel it permeate my skin… cherish it imbue my core then impregnate the marrow of my bones with you… ravishing you.

You are my untold past and my days to come.
The sparrows that abandoned the hills with the advent of fall. The stunning women who had made love to me on white satin sheets or in the back of parked automobiles. You are the children I played with. The friends I have lost along the way. The broken journey. The resolves never taken. You are the embrace I remember. My salad days sweetheart, my hopes, my inspiration, the purpose behind me, the warmth within, the light ahead. I lean on you blindfolded as you show me the way. I follow you to the end of earth, to the end of time.

You are my careworn present.
I long for your perfume. My lips hover over the nook of your neck. My nose snuggles beneath your ear as I explore the whole of you with the hands of my mind. I inhale your avalanche of bouvardia, carnations, freesias and lilacs. I suffocate without you in my arms, I go blind. I have to take you all in me as much as I need to be inside you. I pull back to gape at your enchanting face and lose myself in the turquoise lakes of your eyes. I miss you and scurry the few inches back like a fish gasping for water.

We hold hands and walk the sea, combing the crests of incensed waves, smoothing the wrinkles of time with relish and affection.
I long for you my darling. Come along.

Until You Came Along, a link to a beautiful song by Jeremy Allard

beautiful

“La bellezza è la somma delle parti per cui niente necessita di essere modificato,aggiunto o rimosso."

"Beauty is a summation of the parts working together in such a way that nothing is needed to be added, taken away or altered." Italian Impressionist Painter, Elio Carletti (1925-1980)

I first heard this phrase spoken in English by the character Cris Johnson in the American movie Next (played and produced by Nicholas Cage).

For years I struggled to beckon my thoughts to define beauty in such a perfectly exact, easily poised and brilliantly minimal sequence of words. I always fell long. Simplicity has proven a most formidable mountain to conquer and this is precisely why we can rant forever over the triviality of life and time but yield in saintly silence to the innocent laugh of a child or the mystifying summons in the eyes of a strange woman.

I sit on a solitary rock by my sea and gaze at the setting sun dissolving in the quenching quiver of the horizon. I comb my hair back with the tips of my fingers and roll my head toward the sky where flocks of hovering kites flutter their rainbow tails in the unseen salty draughts. Tethered to the hands of playful boys and girls, the kites sway enticingly with the wind. With their free hands the kids hold ice-cream cones and popcorn bags. Their blue jeans and colorful t-shirts soiled with dirt and chocolate, they laugh out loud in stubborn defiance to worried mothers, in blissful ignorance of things to come.


I am in love with beauty and I feel embittered that I can depict my feelings toward the generality or peculiarity of being with ease yet remain eluded by the most splendid manifestation of the universe. I flatter myself when I write about women as I definitely am not divine enough to add, take away or alter what they are. Women are such a perfect expression of substance, form and incongruity whether through creation or evolution. They are fragile, ferocious, intelligent, gorgeous, wicked, quixotic, sensible, giving and sparing at the same time. A man like that, even in the eye of a woman, is a deranged psychopath. I love that women surprise me with their predictability and hold me at bay while obliging my vanity.

I follow a creek upstream. The chirps of a lonely chukar partridge summoning his harem echo against the sides of the gorge. I step on a broken twig; the bird clears its throat and quiets down. Two surprised figures emerge from the thickets by the spring. The two young lovers might have been taking their eternal and private vows when I intruded. They shyly cross my path and I barely have time to detect the glistening reflection of the dusky sky running down their guiltless eyes. They hug again at a distance then fade in the dark and rife foliage.

The longer I write the more likely I am going to add to, take away from or alter what is simply beautiful. Hush!

The Businessmen Bullman

As my weary face stared back at me through the bathroom mirror I vowed not to make the strenuous round trip from Tartous to Damascus on a single day again. "I'm too old for this shit", I confided to my reflection a few years back.

The 250 km distance is divided in two major components and contains what is probably the most boring stretch of asphalt in the world. I have rarely in my travels encountered anything as depressing as the 150 km long reel of stark landscape between Homs and Damascus. It's of course in sharp contrast with the green heaving and cinematically picturesque Tartous–Homs segment. Once I cross Homs on my way back, my breathing returns to normal and my grip on the steering wheel relaxes by its own volition. I am closer to home.

A couple of times per year I break my own rule and I often end up regretting my sedition. As the pain shoots out omni-directionally from my stiff lower back I console myself that being stupid is part of the learning process. Be that as it may, I had to be in Damascus from 10:00AM to 5:00PM on a Wednesday. I also had to be in Tartous early the next morning. I had no choice but to exempt myself yet again. On top, I felt adventurous enough to perhaps commit another mistake. “Why not take the bus”, I thought, “Everybody does it, so why not me”.

It’s been a long time since I traveled in a Bullman in Syria. For those unaware, a bullman refers to a Pullman or a large bus. Arabs in general, including the majority of Syrians insist that there is no distinction between the letters B & P. They always substitute them with each other although they put a lot of effort into finally releasing the wrong P. As thus, a beautiful girl with a perfect body wearing a bikini ends up as a peautiful girl with a berfect pody wearing a Pikini instead. “Excuse me sir, can I bark near the bolice station”, asked the suave Damascene student to the American cop. “This is a free country”, Officer Jim answered, “you can bark anywhere you want.”

I have heard stories about the Businessmen Bus (باص رجال الأعمال), “It’s so comfortable you don’t feel it’s moving at all,” so I’ve been told. Instead of the usual 45 passenger arrangement, the businessmen bus of Kadmous Tours is equipped with 32 wide leather seats. It leaves Tartous at 6:30 in the morning and takes a little bit over 3 hours to reach Damascus. Along the way, it makes a stupid stop in what is called an Istiraha, a café/restaurant/rest area combination. These istirahas are almost always obscenely decorated and excessively grimy. The only advantage of stopping is probably the chance to take a bee, meaning a pee of course. A nasty ammonia smell permeates the dank air surrounding the restrooms corner and convinces me to hold it till I reach my destination. It would make for a very good impression to rush into the bathroom before I even exchange the necessary niceties with my hosts. With all these details vying for my attention I climbed the few steps into the coach and headed hesitantly toward my assigned seat.

In all honesty the bus was posh and clean from the inside. The leather seat was very comfortable and accommodating. I sat by the aisle and hoped that the next seat remains unoccupied. I had my laptop, I had an unread book, I had earphones to connect to my mobile phone and listen to my favorite music just as precautionary measures against a worst case scenario. The seats were quickly being taken and with each approaching unwashed mustached face I crossed my fingers and controlled my breathing so as to avoid an imminent anxiety attack.

-“I should’ve reserved both seats for crying out loud. There’s still time to change my mind and go home and take my car instead. I must …”

-“Excuse me, can you let me in please”.

I looked up and my glance turned into a long stare at the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen in my life. Green and shimmering like the leaves of an olive tree after the passage of a rainstorm. Tranquil, translucent and peppered by minute hints of hazel, her eyes meant to dint forever the inner walls of the most private chambers of the mind and soul. Hypnotized, I gave her way and was immediately awarded with an olfactory attack of a rainbow of sweet and exotic fragrances. She had just stepped out of a scented bath and her, still damp, curly hair brushed against my left ear as she eased her way into the seat.

“Good morning”, she smiled.

“Ye2berni your morning”, I silently replied.

As soon as the driver took the final exit out of Tartous and released the reins of his machine I turned and said, loud enough for her to hear this time, “ I have a laptop, a novel and enough music to occupy me for the next 3 hours if you so choose. But I rather spend it talking with you and enjoying your company. It’s your call.”

- “My name is Lama and there’s nothing I'd like more than a nice and entertaining conversation judging from the way you introduced yourself,” she quickly replied with a gorgeous smile on her face.

Her pearly smile and jade eyes won me over in a minute. There’s no point in hiding anything. “I’m abufares. I’m married. I have 3 kids although I don’t wear a ring,” I blurted out as I beamed at my own reflection swimming effortlessly in the calm pools of her eyes.

We talked for the next 4 hours, mostly about her. She is a civil engineer in a public sector company on her way to the ministry in Damascus. My quick calculations betrayed her age at around 28. I learned about her childhood, her college years, her work and her ambitions. I became aware of her tastes in reading and music, her personal assessment and outlook on life. We talked economy, politics, sociology and religion. She let me through a small window into her life and asked for my advice. We had coffee together in the Istiraha and neither of us showed any inclination to use the bathroom. I told her stories from here and there and opened up honestly to her gentle probing inquiries. When we ultimately reached Damascus she was already aware of my aversion to busses and my angst toward taxis. A car from the ministry was sent to pick her up and she would take me wherever I need to go. But eventually, and like all the good things in life, our journey through time and space was coming to an end.

-“You too have beautiful green eyes”, she said, “I’ve never enjoyed a bus ride as much as I’ve enjoyed this one.”

-“Are you by any chance returning to Tartous on the 18:30 bus later on today?”, I pleaded.

No, she was staying overnight at her aunt’s house. But we will see each other again, someday soon, she hoped.

I prayed!

Around 5:30 PM, I was walking the streets near the Omaya Hotel. I had a brief lunch earlier during the meeting and was looking forward a chocolate ice-cream at Apollo. I had a little time on my hand to kill before the dreadful ride in a taxi to Harasta then the return to Tartous on a regular (not businessmen) bullman.

As I glanced sideways before crossing the street I heard my name being called from a car right in front of me. A friend of mine, a sea master of a large tanker had just returned by plane from Amsterdam. His wife had waited for him at the airport earlier and they were leaving to Tartous now. I tried to convince them that I do not mind the bus ride but they would not hear of it. As the car sped up leaving the city behind, my friend really wanted to know how my bus trip to Damascus was.

-“It was a trip I’ll never forget”, I mused loudly with a big smile on my face.

-“I bet it was,” the captain said, “I bet it was.”