Dramatis Personae

Hi everyone,
I’m trying to think back to what seems like ages ago, when I was fresh off the boat/plane and first exploring Damascus. Most of you reading this will hopefully have gotten that first long update email about my hostel. I wish I could upload pictures here but the internet here is slower than the tortoise we painted last night for the fourth of July (his shell now blazes red white and blue). Anyway, in the interest of trying to update as much as possible, I’ll leave out that information, except I’d like to make a list of the relevant cast of characters so you can keep up with the many names I’ll be throwing around.

Hostel Residents:

Jennie Nevin
-Loud American from Connecticut living in Room 3. Eats too much hummus, and likes to climb the rope ladder for fun (especially in heels). Currently the only hostel resident who can blow smoke rings from a hookah.

Raymond:
-Omniscient Palestinian Australian Syrian owner of the Damascus Hostel. Likes to pull up his shirt and rub his belly. Wirey hair, short, easy laugh. The “R” in the phrase “JAR it,” which is the damascus equivalent of “google it.” Just.Ask.Raymond. Example of usage: “Hey, where do you think we could pick up some ping pong balls?” “I don’t know, why don’t you JAR it?”

Julie:
-Raymond’s lovely Australian wife. Likes to go to the post office to watch the employees, whose tight uniforms allegedly show off “their lovely bums.” Calls Peter her “dervish son.” Suggested throwing toilet paper over the walls of the hostel to decorate it, just for fun. Just finished writing her first book, and is now incorporating various goings on at the hostel into her second. Curses the Australian education system with sailor-like gusto. Mother of five children.

Nasr:
-Has the longest, skinniest legs and arms of any human being I’ve ever seen. Flaps said limbs wildly when distressed, which is usually after hearing us speaking colloquial Arabic. Resident self-designated professor of fusshha (“classic” arabic). Calls this our “great opportunity” to speak fussha, and fights with Khalid (see below) when he teaches us colloquial. Corrects our grammar enough to keep us humble. Almost done with engineering school and wants to hit medical school next. Shuffles and slides around the hostel, presumably because it’s difficult to lift his feet when they’re so far away from his body.

Khalid:
-Manager of the hostel. Resident professor of Syrian a3meeya (“colloquial”). Often interrupts our english conversations and claims that one or more of us cannot understand english and that it is necessary that said people be spoken to in Arabic (this results in our conversations dissolving into slow and halting exchanges in broken colloquial). On my third day, sat me down and looked into my eyes and said, voice heavy with meaning, that I had “great energy.” I laughed–me? energetic? what news! “No,” he said, leaning towards me. He meant “Energy.” Taqqa. Lifeforce. Midi-chlorions, or whatever those things in Star Wars are. Colors, Karma, etc. I stared at him. “What?” I asked. He took my palm and looked at it. “Yes,” he said. “See this line here? Great energy. Much force.” etc. etc. This went on for a while, and I got more and more incredulous by the minute. He told me that when he’d picked me up from the airport, he hadn’t needed to even look up to know I was there. “You walked around the corner. I was sitting reading the paper. I felt you. I looked up, you remember? No sign, no calling out your name… I just waved at you. Weren’t you curious how I’d known it was you?” “Yes,” I replied, “but I kind of figured it was because I sent you two pictures of myself a week ago.” He looked hurt. “But they were blurry!”

Two days later, Khalid grabbed me and had me sit next to him on the couch. “Wait a moment,” he said. I waited. He answered the ringing hostel phone and, pinning it between his shoulder and ear, used his free hands to place his cellphone in the crook of my elbow. “Hold it there,” he mouthed, “and focus.” “On what?” I whispered back. “Anything important!”
I focused. I thought about my old horse Bounty, remembered what it felt like when I rode him bareback the week before, laughed in my head at how fat he was. Khalid hung up the phone and looked at me. “Sill focusing?” he asked. I nodded.
Suddenly, the phone in my elbow began to vibrate. “My love must be a kind of blind love/ I can’t see anything but you… shoo be doo be doo waa” sang the phone. I opened my eyes, and saw Khalid smiling smugly at me. He leaned in and, in a slow and meaningful tone, said “See? This song… not on my phone. I’ve never heard it. You made it. What were you thinking about.” I stared. “Um… my horse.” Khalid looked put out. “But wait!” I said, scrambling to rescue the situation. “That song? It’s ‘I only have eyes for you.’ That’s the first song I ever sang with my singing group. And I guess it’s the first song I ever sang in front of an audience.” He looked extremely pleased.

When Peter came to live at the hostel, Khalid sat him down to talk about prices of rooms. I walked out of my room and, seeing them sitting next to each other on the couch, misinterpreted the nature of the meeting. “He has taqqa too, right khalid!?” I exclaimed, glad that someone else was occupying his psychic attention. “Can you see it on his palm?”
Khalid looked up, confused. “Taqqa,” I said. “He’s energetic too, like me. We’re both pretty hyper, right? haha.” Khalid stared at me. “Taqqa? Energy,” I tried again, lamely. Khalid smiled. “oh, Peter? No, not really. Just you.” Poor Peter.

Peter Damrosch:
-Fellow Yalie. Apparently Taqqa-less: hides it behind a veneer of friendliness and a cheerful up-for-anything attitude. Begged me to bet him $10 that he couldn’t grow a beard. Brought his Ukulele, and dreams of learning to play “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” Has seen every movie ever made, and can fully quote the Princess Bride. Has interesting opinions on sesame seeds, frilly toothpicks, and slides, all borrowed from Mitch Hedberg. 

Nora:
-University of Chicago student from Dirty Jersey. Beautiful, brilliant, clearly the most composed and studious of the rowdy American crew. Likes James Brown and actually does her homework. Can lay the smack down in terms of Arabic verb conjugation; it’s amazing to see what she can do with a hollow verb and 14 pronouns.

Mohammad (aka “Kill”):
-British/Iraqi, fluent in colloquial but lacking above-mentioned conjugation skillz. Enjoys Marlboro lights and teasing Nora. Has many brothers and sisters with lovely names. Has stopped responding to his own, though (it’s hard out here for a Mohammad). Finished 4 years of university and is now a licensed opthamologist (can you imagine graduating from college with actual skills?). Diagnosed my eye (the chalazion on my eyelid), making him the second person I’ve met who knew more than DUH (Yale’s health services) about what was wrong with me.

Maria:
-20 year old strawberry blonde Swedish rockstar. Speaks better English than all the rest of us, knows more about American culture than all the rest of us, speaks better Arabic than the rest of us, has spent more time in Bosnia and Sudan than the rest of us, and hasn’t even gotten to college yet. Will have probably conquered the world by the time she graduates.

Non Hostel Residents:

Isabel:
-Fellow Yalie. Pretty, sweet, smart, sophisticated, independent, trilingual and dedicated as hell to the study of Arabic. Lives in a homestay to further said goal.

Meranda:
-Short-haired, fiery, sarcastic, wry, opinionated, smart, hookah-master, UChicago lass. Lives with two more Mohammads and an Ahmed in an apartment nearby.

Merrit:
-Baller. Despises people who like “networking.” I want to be her when I grow up.

Shana:
-Bold. Beautiful. Kieran for Kongress.

Various other characters will be introduced in later posts. Will try to get pictures up as soon as I can!

xoxoxs
Jennie