Syria—well, Damascus—doesn’t feel like a place ready to come apart at the seams just yet. The mess of swish new cafes and expensive clothing stores, the shiny new cars and a general air of confidence belie the rumors of fraying domestic security and an unhappy economy. Maybe the feeling is deceptive. The flash is largely restricted to Abu Roumani and Shalaan and is mostly fueled, they say, by an influx of unclean money from Lebanon and Iraq.
It was raining yesterday when I went out to Jaramana, where many of the million or so Iraqi refugees have ended up. Taxies splashing through the pothole-lakes and vegetable dealers huddled unhappily on the sidewalk. A few big 4X4 taxies with Iraqi plates, piled high with plastic wrapped bags. Nobody had heard of Hajji Hussein’s, which was apparently Zarqaoui’s favorite kebab stop in Falluja until the Americans flattened it and it’s proprietor relocated to somewhere in Damascus. Not that I spent a hell of a lot of time asking after it. Between the rain and the serious looking men in cheap leather jackets and white socks, my sense of adventure was damped. So back to the very civil pleasures of Bab Touma and Abu George.
I’ve posted a few pics on my flickr site.
That *is* a great dive bar. It is, in my humble opinion, the best place in Damascus to drink cold beer and listen to a bunch of old drunks badmouth the Asad regime — with you not really listening to what they have to say but instead in awe of the 1972 Playboy Centerfold hanging on the wall and how it has managed to stay there this long.