أرض الكوابيس

I somehow interrupted the story of the other day- that travelogue to the unexpected- just to refer to the disappearance of my favorite pasta brand back home. Memory-work proceeds multiplied, because it is the full and personal field where the roads cross, the sights merge, time shifts and where a tiny particle of information may create gigantic shadows.
But, voila, we now crossed the borders and in the nice cloudy day we drive to Damascus. There is no hotel reservation anymore, as you remember. No Meridien, no Damascus International, no Venicia, not a thing. So, the suggestion was to try our luck on the airport way, where the rumors suggested luxury. The distance should not scare us, since the car was available. BUT BELIEVE ME, eventually IT SHOULD. Before long, we reached the area of the International Damascus Fair, some 18 km from the city center, and here it stands: like the late samples of Socialist Grandiose Architecture, Ebla Cham. A huge lobby, surrounded by the internal balconies decorated with wood, that they create the impression that you entered the Scala, in Milan. Nice... We asked for the price, they offered the unbelievable amount of 190 USD plus tax per night. Thanks to what we ambiguously call "Luck", a Jordanian group (part of it actually) has just arrived and, since we happen to know most of the travel agencies in Amman and the guides, this polite young man offered to help us out and to book through his agency. We got the nice, big, warm, nicely painted and decorated room for half the desk price. Great. Then we decided to go to the center, to "Kamal", for a late lunch/early dinner. And by that time we discovered the reality. The streets of Damascus work as the challenge of Labyrinth. Easy to enter, difficult to find your way out: the signs are unbelievable, they are placed at enigmatic locations, and the highways go to thoroughly different directions in case one commits a small mistake. Plus heavy traffic, plus people going the wrong direction and ignoring the traffic lights. After forty minutes we reached, after two hours we went to have some coffee, after two hours and a half we discovered that we were attacked by what is described as "travelers' diarrhea" . Rushed back to the hotel, another fifty minutes, dramatic pressure, agonized moments :). By 8:30 p.m. my friend was sleeping peacefully exhausted from the adventure, the early start of the Eid day and the driving. I went down to the lobby to realize that the huge place is haunted. No one was there, except the waiter, and the night shift guys of the reception. Where could I go 18 km away from the center, under a 15 m long chandelier?
The next day started smoothly: The crowded and, at places, under restoration covered market, Bab Tuma (thank God we did not buy anything except chestnuts, you will know why) , Costa Cafe at Four Seasons. Then we thought why not to go up to the mountain Qassyoon, to admire the night falling onto the city... This was uttered by 5:15 p.m. and we started driving uphill. By 5:40 we were close to the TV antenna, under snowflakes, something so Christmas-like, so I suggested we should drive back. and indeed, we were operating a U-turn when we heard the double scary explosions: the two left side tires had been cut like rose pedals at a sharp edged pit in the middle of the road. The spare was unavailable. So we hastily parked and started going down on foot, under snow. The area is a military zone, due to the presidential palace which is located nearby. Close to the main street we eventually found a taxi, he gave us a lift to a tires' shop (the first day of the holiday not many shops are open anyway) and then we started trying
to find a reasonable solution. In order to replace the tires, one should go up to the mountain to pick them, to put the new ones and, then, to fix them again on the vehicle. Mmmm, you can imagine at what prices, and every time we were moving up and down the owner would discover a previous mistake so the cost would climb higher and higher. How did we go up? By a '70s car, with a 70 years old driver. What did we find there? Around 5 soldiers and an officer setting the poor vehicle under siege. We explained, they checked, they showed interest and care indeed. I kept wiping all along the front window of the '70s car so that there would be some visibility left for our driver. It felt like Karate-Kid 1 exercise. We finished around 9:40 p.m. frozen and poor.
The coming day, we bought few fruits and some cheese and we started driving back. Again some late donations, again some rally from one desk to the other. When we saw the smiles of King Abdullah and late King Hussein, on the borders, we definitely felt better, and we enjoyed the fact that we would have many conclusions to draw in the days to come.
What is Maktub? It is having your left side tires finely cut while your spare is useless and you forgot your tools kit. And many other things...

أرض الأحلام

In English, in the newspaper ad, the brand name of the company was translated as "Dreamland". Which is precise in terms of translation, and so contradictory in terms of connotation. Consider this note as a sketch about the function of destiny, whenever it decides to become grandiose and to prove the humorous root in the universal manual of use. A single event may shock us and leave the impression of a tragedy, while sometimes the succession of unfortunate events that they unfold themselves with the density of nice 19th century prose, may give a fully comical sense.
So this أرض الأحلام (Dreamland) is or, rather, used to be the name of a well established travel agency in Rabiah, Amman, which accommodated the dreams of many Jordanian families and individuals, and of some ex-pats like myself, especially during the occasions of the somewhat longer breaks, during the lesser and the major Feast, the birthday of the Prophet, the day of Independence, the Labor's Day, the Islamic New Year, days like these... For me and my closest friend it has become a ritual in a way to travel to Damascus during these memorable days, in order to divert a bit the iron hand of identical routine days. Damascus is close to Amman (some 200 km), the old city is great, the Wall Gates are plenty, the food is heavenly, Ghrawi chocolates are just an achievement in the kingdom of cacao, the visa process for me is quite simple. Good reasons for making an easy decision or not?
On the other hand, if one decides to book his/her room upon the arrival to the city, this may cost quite expensive. The Syrian normal hotels offer small rooms, very standard-type-of-thing. Therefore, the easy solution is to book through an agency. They have good offers, plus one avoids the hustle of negotiating with taxi drivers. Plus the fun of sharing moments with Jordanian families, the details of behaviour. I have learned pretty much this way and became conscious of even more. My favorite hotel there is Teshreen, which is adjacent to the Stadium of Teshreen: it is not grand, but very warm, with well sized rooms and it forces you to walk to the various locations of interest without tiring you out. I always fight back my friend's tendency towards luxury, but this time I decided to succumb, let us make it a bit shiny with the Meridien option, which is conveniently located next to our favorite coffee shop. This temptation/weakness brought us to the Dreamland.
The second part unfolds in front of the agency, on the first day of Eid Al Adha, from 6:30 a.m. till 7:40 a.m. in front of the locked premises of the agency, expecting for the bus. Only one family (two elderly parents and their 20ish son) was there with their luggage. Gradually we face the truth. A third participant comes to check if the rumours were true: He heard that the owner of the Dreamland collected all the money and rushed to his own dream somewhere in Turkey, fleeing the country. "It was on the News"... Many people, heading to distant destinations lost considerable amounts of money, unlike us who lost no more than 120 J.D. each. We gave a seat to the family to Al Abdali to get a taxi to Damascus. They were decisive and did not want to let down their son, who would travel for the first time abroad.
The facts: The Dream-broker collected some 93,000 J.D. as they said. The guarantee of the office was approximately 75,000 J.D. Hence, for the modest amount of 18,000 he destroyed his name, he harmed his family, frustrated many people who even took loans for their trips, and spoiled the reputation of the tourist business in Jordan. The brother of my dear friend Malik lost the same way his honey moon arrangements and quite a lot of money...Things get cheap at some point, more frequently than they should.
I said, the Sibylla of Shadows: "Well, it is irritating and funny. But let us stay for the Eid in Amman." Ala'a, my friend, insisted on fulfilling the dream. So, there they are the two guys in the car, driving to the borders, crossing with difficulty the borders (bureaucracy is an international phenomenon), giving eidiyyeh (=special treat- money- on the occasion of celebrations) to various Syrian customs' employees, rushing from one stamp to the next. Keep these in mind, and I will elaborate on playful Destiny next time.

scene at/from a feast: chewing on tradition

roz, jamal, snobar, kheimeh, theory

Orientalism is a whole and interdisciplinary perspective of the West. Said said (I mean Edward Said said, hehehe - this could be a good start for Derrida's fireworks) almost all that is needed to comprehend how biased, authoritative, simplistic and utilitarian is the reading of the close "other". I recall though with a kind of thankful melancholy the excellent work of Elli Skopetea, Orient's West (He Dyse tes Anatoles) about the ways that the West was perceived in the Near East, basically in response to the orientalist approach (check,for instance, http://www.historycooperative.org/journals/ahr/105.4/ah001218.html by K.E.Fleming and http://www.historein.gr/vol1_rPentazou.htm by Ioulia Pentazou). It would be so interesting to her to watch the last day of the conference on Discourse at U.J. And who knows, perhaps restless minds of her kin follow the announcements of conferences and spend some moments watching and enjoying in the infinity of eternal time. I f , i say I f , i could invite here from the frigid lands of her heavenly archive, I would tell her "Elli do not miss by no means professor Nafiz Shahin" (min ton haseis, tha haseis). And then we would look at each other in sparkling joy, eyes of an amused comprehension.

I do not want to make things cryptic; here is the story: Last Thursday, at around 9:40 a.m., in Amman, this aforementioned wise scholar illuminated us with his announcement under the title "Cross-cultural Bias in Language Teaching Textbooks. Is it there?" Great God! Some of these local scholars are bright I guess, because they are the ones that they do not use manuscripts or PowerPoint presentations; they just open their mouths and wisdom showers all of us at the hall. His title did not reveal exactly his point. The point was that the textbooks of teaching/learning English as a foreign language are produced with the sole intention to insult the local culture, to undermine cultural values, to corrupt the Jordanian youth and, in few words, to achieve a fatal blow on Islam. The textbooks talk about girls with mini skirts, about wine glasses and just lead young people go astray. The professor after 7 minutes started wondering whether he should give examples or not, since he had plenty in his bag (he did not bring any finally because he did not want to expose them: to expose whom, for the love of the Almighty? authors that live in New Zealand and Minneapolis??? I do not believe they would mind. And anyway the bag seemed empty to me, with the exception of his cigarettes packet.)

He would like to teach Islamic English, where Big Ben strangely resembles to Burj Al Arab, and the House of the Parliament is a reflection of the Omayyad Mosque in Damascus. He hinted to the fact that he is member of the censorship committee, protesting in a way that this kind of textbooks forces them to work hard and to reject books despite their willingness to be open and welcoming. I WONDER: will he dare to give out this oral masterpiece in written form? Will it be published in the Acta of the conference? In that case, I will photocopy it and will use it as a wallpaper for my room of impressions.

Apropos, along with my theological set of beliefs, coincidences prove the Divine Presence. It was this very person that invited me with some 5 months of delay to deliver my paper on contemporary Greek literature at the University of Applied Science last December. Thanks to the Dices of Destiny it was the same day that I had to organize the Greek Day at our University.

Ok, I chose the funny aspect, because I remembered the playful eyes of Elli Skopetea. But there were very useful parts as well: Prof. Kiki Kennedy Day spoke gracefully about dreams in islamic literary texts. And Irma Ratiani from Georgia used the anthropological notion of liminality in studying the practice of literary production.

Ho Ho Ho

I officially proclaim myself "Flu the Second, the Meek", have the flu, rule by flu, avoid cigarettes for the flu.

Enshallah, nobody else gets it!!! Just avoid me.

A short play

This can be the sketch for a short play-
It is about amateurs: people in power, people in surprise and people in blindness.
The place: a building of administration- the huge reception hall like a covered atrium. Security guards in brown. Huge frames with prior and current royalties. Let the light be plenty, because of the time of the day, it is 2:20 afternoon, and everything will be accomplished within 40 minutes. -Second interior: a partly worn out office of the Head of the administration. On the tea-table, small glasses of tea, with considerable amounts of sugar.
The persons: A small group of old ladies from Greece, all with interesting signs of having kept thrones of noteworthy authority in their lives, marked over their faces. Let us say- full professors. A man in power, wearing a beautiful silk tie, relaxed by habit and profession- can be an ambassador. Another man in power, tired with black circles under his eyes, with an almost whispering voice. Can be an academic. A somewhat younger guy, in a gray suit, trying to be pleasant to all except himself. Can be a puppet.
The story: The delegation arrives a bit early, trying to make as much time as possible, since the host kept for the previous few days deminishing the time of the meeting. The host comes late. Only the panicing secretary tries to keep things going, apologizing every three minutes. The task is to offer competent young people opportunities to continue their postgraduate studies or research in Greece, in fields that could be decided during this meeting. Soon they discover that there is no interest. Something is mentioned about the difficulty of the language. And if the the studies are following the european standards. Ignoring the fact that the particular country is part of the EU since 1980, so that it is self-evident that it complies with the set standards. During the last five minutes, the key person, a clever academic, arrives, but it is late already. Everything is postponed, till further notice. (Thank God my other scholarship program is not affected by the mock epic.)
Scene: "I have watched the development of Greek Studies since day 0, and I have to mention that if we collaborate with 4-5 embassies, yours is among them. We are thankful.": It is something said so frequently that becomes what we call in literature locus classicus. Three ambassadors have heard it already. Memory is a tyrant, and this is why it gets weaker with time. What we consider a curse, may be a blessing.