The St. Andrew's Ball

We left early. The champagne was tasty, but the St. Andrew's Ball at the Four Seasons last night did little more than confirm my disdain for expatriates, especially Americans and Brits, in Damascus.

I picked up my tuxedo from my aunt's house on Thursday afternoon in anticipation of my first Damascus ball, thinking Four Seasons + Damascenes + maziqa + dancing + open bar + Glam^3 = unforgettable. No one does Glam better than Damascus. No one. Except maybe Fergie.

The "chieftain" of the Caledonian Society, a hoary chum with eyebrows like ashen tumbleweeds, greeted us at the top of the staircase. His Lucky Charms shoes matched his kilt, and his Scottish accent rang with charming vigor. He directed us towards the saggy-faced lady.

"Table 31, Loch Lunaig," she said, dropping our tickets in the giant raffle tub. "Y'can see the tayble chart o'er dere." We glanced across the room past the dozens of men in kilts and marching band outfits and spotted--not the chart--but floating trays of champagne.

It's been ages since I've seen so many Caucasians. Where did all these expats come from? Where are they hiding in Damascus? I didn't see but a handful of Arabs. At first, I thought, "Duh, obviously, they'll show up at least an hour late." But I was wrong.

Thank the lord our table featured a bottle of Glenmorangie Scotch; otherwise, my friend Sh and I would have dropped dead of nausea. There were six Americans at our table, four of whom were teachers at the Damascus Community School. They looked and sounded like they had been plucked from their minivans in rural Nebraska and dropped in Syria. They knew little to nothing about this place and, aside from discrete comments about their cats who eat their scarves, had trouble conversing.

It was a nightmare featuring Laura Ingalls Wilder and friends. Remember those girls and boys from high school at Woodward who were so dull they just kind of blended into the background? Yeah, they were there, too.

After the British Ambassador's endless monologue about global warming (what the hell?!), the chieftain took the mic and invited everyone to the dance floor. The lead singer of the band, flown in from Scotland, proceeded to dictate dance instructions to the two hundred strong herd. When we saw the girl in the jester outfit doing a Scottish jig, we knew it was time to evacuate.