Where the Sidewalk Ends

Ever since I moved into my apartment, I've been using dial-up internet, which is far more reliable and faster than the miserable connection in Beirut. The only problem is that the Syrian government forbids access to blogspot.com (and probably a number of other sites as well). However, when hooked up to a wireless connection in a posh cafe as I am now, I encounter no limits to my movement through the web. Sure, the Bryan Adams does get tiring, but I've learned to forgive him. HA.

The city is in Ramadan mode. Shortly before sunset, everyone floods the market in Sha3lan, hoarding bags of tamarind juice and plaques of sabara, or cactus fruit. At maghreb (sundown), the muezzins take over Damascus, and the wind kneads the layers of adhans into polyphony. Then, streets empty; shops close; and people eat. By eight or nine or so, the fluorescents and the neon are blaring, and the sidewalks teem with gelled teenagers in pseudo-D&G.

With the exception of the mosques, there is a dearth of venues in which people can gather. Cafes, restaurants, bars, and clubs are especially hard to come by. Unlike Cairo and Beirut, the very structure of the city limits association. Consequently, sidewalks, streets, and parks--all monitored by lazy soldiers playing with their cellphones--become the major arenas for socializing.