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“I am America,” he said. It was not exactly clear
what my new Syrian waiter friend was saying, but certainly
it seemed quite positive. I had enjoyed his Sharma sandwich
so much that I ordered a second and our conversation began.
He was so excited – someone from America.
Sitting at a small table on a busy Damascus street
that night, I was receiving a grand introduction to Syrian
warmth and hospitality. And my stereotypes of Syria crumbled
a little more each day. It was that night and a few other
mealtime experiences, instead of the antiquity I had traveled
all that distance to see, which remain the most enduring memories
of my holiday last year in Syria.
My hotel’s dinning room, where I took my breakfast each
morning, was wonderful. From the third floor, it overlooked
a busy intersection of the city, where I could watch the world
go by, and try to understand the city and its people. The
waiter staff would address me as “Mr. Jon”, tend
to my needs and discuss the ancient ruins I was off to see
each day. My last morning that week, a few of them presented
me with two small decorative metal trays and said good-bye.
However, it was one of my dinners toward the end of that
week when I really learned the extent of their concern for
others. I wandering around exploring, and found a nice place
that was open to the street and near empty. They seated me
close to the back, but there was still a nice breeze, and
I was able to look out toward the always memorizing street.
My server was a man over sixty, slightly overweight, with
graying hair. He spoke enough English so that ordering was
not terribly difficult, but still made me wonder with a smile
what might come. A salad arrived, and later the main dish,
chicken kabobs – exactly the right food. Several vegetables
accompanied the kabobs, including hot peppers (which were
actually rather mild), that I was paying less attention to
than the meat.
The waiter passed my table several times going about his
duties, and soon he began granting me advice. He’d point
at the vegetables and make a small grunting noise each time
he passed – it had the sound of disapproval mixed with
caring. I was again a child in my Nanny’s kitchen back
in the United States. At first I made a half-hearted effort
with my vegetables, but this did not suffice in his eyes.
Every few minutes when he saw my plate, he became more insistent.
Eventually, he picked up one of the peppers ever so slightly,
and continued with the same sounds.
I ate every last one. |
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A souk in Damascus, Syria
The Ummayad Mosque, Syria
Jon has a career change in the Syrian desert
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Travel Writers: Dining in Damascus by Jon
Bird
