Syrian Memoirs

Subsequent to ploughing through the various obligated day long coffee visits, constant battles with what’s ‘done’ and what’s ‘not done’ and assortment of illnesses Syria seems to supply on every visit to make it to the hairdresser to have our hair pinned, curled and hair-sprayed to within an inch of its tortured life, we are then confronted with the stalking video camera nightmare and various elbow grabbing relatives attempting to ‘marry us off’ by thrusting us in front of it. Being ‘so English’ my sister and I often find this an awkward, humiliating experience.

As a child, a Syrian wedding involves being a bridesmaid or page boy, running around the swimming pool at the reception and drinking sneaky arak under the table with the cousins. As a young adult, people size you up in a different light. There exists a perpetual fear of putting a foot wrong in the presence of gossips, and a strong sense of obligation. It is terrifying.

Memories of bustling aunties who before a party would disappear into their rooms as nanny’s, cooks and cleaning ladies, reappearing in a waft of perfume and hairspray, superhero-esque, dazzling from head to toe, is an aspect of Syrian culture that used to amaze me as a child but now haunts and installs a sense of dread in me.

My Syrian escapades began at four years old. Visits to my paternal family normally coincided with the continual stream of matrimony, always taking place in intense heated conditions of summer in the days before air conditioning. At that age I was more aware of the impact the whole experience had on the senses. Sights, sounds and smells all felt extreme, pungent and completely alien compared to life at home in England.

These childhood trips tend to merge into a blur of heat, sequins, relatives, the smell of Turkish coffee, continuous kitchen clatter of pots and pans of my grandma’s or ‘tettas’ cooking, the loud cry of passing street sellers on donkeys, dusty floors, family gatherings on the balcony in the warm evenings and being allowed to stay up late with the grown-ups, singing and belly dancing along to my uncles accordion swathed in multicoloured, sparkling tack.

Hopping on the ramshackle bus to the swimming pool and discarding objects off the balcony was the highlight of getting together with all the cousins, a common interest uniting our various languages. One unfortunate episode involved a watermelon and somebody’s open window. Well, unfortunate for them, we found it hilarious! We were also always so amused by the Syrian disregard for health and safety “he carries his life in the palm of his hand’’ and the subsequent amount of freedom we enjoyed as a result.

Unfortunately the constant heat, hoards of loud cheek pinching relatives, eternal ‘bad tummy’s’ and lack of privacy during the teenage years may have made the experience overwhelming and tiresome and induced a little Syria hating in the hearts of my sister and me.

However, now I look back with nostalgia because the end of childhood in Syria follows the realisation that much of the ample freedom once taken for granted does end quite abruptly, and that intense suffocation was simply an aspect of the overwhelming Syrian hospitality, passionate warmth, family closeness and lack of inhibition, which can be difficult for the English reserve to accommodate.

Luckily my initiation at an early age made it a little easier for me than it was for my older sister and especially my English mother who was plunged into the deep end of the system with no prior warning or expectation of what was to follow.

Maturity has taught me the benefits of being part of this wonderful culture. It only took me 25 years to admit that I am privileged to be both English and Syrian, and as a result have been allowed to experience the best of both worlds.

Hidden Gems of the West End

On tip toes peering through the glass of his shop I notice my dad hasn’t arrived yet, so, nonchalantly, I stick my earphones in to meander down the large green staircase. There I’m faced with the familiar sight of the fish filled stream of the River Tyburn running through the middle of an ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ of antique shops. My iPod instantaneously lands on a piano tune and I find myself caught in a world on my own as I gaze into the cabinet display of knick knacks. Looking in at the old objects from past times, the scuffs and dents in them, each alluding to a story, the rippling piano in my ears seems to transport me into a different era.


It was early on a rainy Friday morning in London, and instead of getting off the bus at Notting Hill for my slightly mind numbing computer course, I had decided to do a bunk and stay on for a few more stops to buy my old school friend a wedding present from Selfridges down town.

But as the bus stopped outside I realised it was far too early to even consider entering the clinical branding and tight haired, imposing, painted lady land of a department store and that instead I’d far rather take the time to pay a visit to my dad at his work in Davies Street in the less aggravating , more dreamy surroundings of Gray’s Antiques Market.

Gray’s has become like a second home to me over the years. After his move from stalls in St Christopher’s place and Portabello Road, my dad was one of the first people to get a shop there when it was established by Bennie Gray in 1977. In those days he would also work as a hotel cashier to raise the investment while my first time pregnant mother would be on hand to help out in the shop and drive to collect the odd midnight auction deliveries to assist in kick starting the new business.

I have subsequently grown up surrounded by antiques and they have always had the effect of stimulating my imagination. There was the time when I held one of my dad’s antiques in my hand, a bible from the days of Chaucer, and it blew my mind. I was not only touching but could also picture a different existence so far removed from the one I have come to accept as my normality. Every antique has its own story to tell, and more importantly something to say about the way our ancestors lived, how we also should have lived if we were born at the same time. They can really help to put the things we consider important in our current world, into perspective.

When my dad arrives I sit with him in the shop. He makes me a cup of tea and offers me some peanuts in a plastic cup. While we are talking he pauses to answer the phone. He starts yelling about a post dated cheque that has been postponed. I think it might be time to leave, but this is apparently only a normal occurrence in the world of the antique dealing day, exemplary of the unpredictable income. When I ask if he would have preferred a more steady wage, before I can finish the question he bursts in with ‘NO’.

What a crazy idea.

The people in the Antiques world are interesting characters. As I’m there a few of them pass in and out, including the man my dad has just been shouting at, who seems non plussed as he helps himself to some peanuts. A friend of my dad’s, who has travelled from Syria is also there and grows excited as I talk about a new venture I’m planning, and offers his expertise to the project. His enthusiasm typifies a trait of those that enter the business.

Antiques dealers are by nature adventurous gamblers with high hopes and ambition and aren’t shy of taking risks in their lives, because the truth is sometimes they don’t know what they’re buying. They also have a bit of a romance about them as they appreciate art and craft. Unfortunately the world is also not short of its crooks, this is part of the gamble, including the fact that not every aspiring dealer becomes successful.

The younger generation start by collecting things of small value and grow from there. My dad’s first auction purchase was a collection of 3-400 books which he sold for £1 each. But, in all, the best dealers read a lot about history and art connected with the items they deal with so they can outsmart the other in recognising the value of an item. The game of wits is an aspect of his job my dad particularly enjoys!

Excitedly he tells me the story a man who outbid a representative of the Louvre at a Paris auction for an item valued at £3,000. The man had bid at £50,000 because via personal research he was the only person present who knew what it was actually worth, and sold it to the British Museum for £1,000,000 . A demonstration that even the most successful people in the game can get it wrong. It is, of course, this prospect of your average Joe landing the big fish that keeps the business alive. They all live in silent hope for that classic ‘Only Fools and Horses’ finale moment!


I enjoy chatting with the dealers but at the end of the day I had come to down town for a reason. I make my excuses and go off to choose a present for my friend. Foregoing the vast collection of vintage apparel and heading for the silver ware. I land on a 1900s silver matchbox to symbolise her new ‘match’ :) and have it engraved with their names and the date of their wedding at a niftylittle place in Bond Street tube station. When I get back to the shop the motley crew who have gathered inspect the object before announcing that I’ve got a very good deal. I feel very proud indeed, and am too beginning to appreciate the thrill of this unpredictable industry.

Can't get no sleep

London is a stressful place when it’s hot, and when there are deadlines burning up the rear.
What is it, a gene thing? My perpetual inability to grasp the concept of deadlines has probably shaved years off my life while I endure countless sleepless nights, unhealthy amounts of caffeine and frantic hair pulling. And there’s always glue involved, or a printer break- down. Yes ALWAYS a printer break-down usually in synchronisation that the t.v programmes keeping my sanity alive begin to ‘sign’ in the bottom corner and the birds begin to tweet tauntingly.
I had thought that in handing in my final dissertation after an ultimate 'double all-nighter' spent in club 24hr computer cluster with a life time supply of lucozade and carb, while fellow students slept under their desks or had mini freak outs as the printers decided to go mental, I was packing in my constant struggle with this nightmare, but no. I’m a self punisher. First thing I do after university? Sign up for an interior design course involving projects and more deadlines.
On Monday I give in the final interior design project in a swift handover to the adult education supervisor. It all seems a bit easy. I make a motion to take it back from the man, he looks at me confused and stumbles away. I’m just apprehensive to believe this is the end of it all. Because let's face it, it probably isn't.
The day that had seamlessly blended in from the night before had started quite badly. There I found myself again an hour away from the finish line, elbow deep in papers, ink, print outs, god knows what, and somehow I had to put it all together to form a legible 20 component project, and satisfy my perfectionist ocd. Irritated and gradually more and more stressed at anyone who dares make social contact with me, including the cat who decides to sit right on top of my sticky work, I’m hot, covered in glue, wearing clothes from two days running, and seeing spots, and it doesn’t help that our new neighbours have decided to call in the builders for the past two weeks day long incessant drilling.
Hours later it’s all over, I begin to feel very weird indeed. Drunk, almost. I’m due to attend a barbeque that night, but pass out on the bed instead and sleep right through.
I’d love to be organised, I’d love to be one of these Mary Poppins types who manage to keep it all together and still find the time to paint their toenails. I’m just not.

Oman adventure trips

There was a momentary pause before I bundled myself into the taxi today, just as I caught sight of the ‘stuff’ magazines neatly placed in the backseat holders. I should have guessed. By this point I had already named the driver Guiseppe, mainly due to his Greco attire of navy suit, oil slick locks and sunglasses on this overcast and dribbly British morning.
While bikini clad girls stared ‘seductively’ at me from their front page triumph, I began to stare forlornly out the window at the rain, reminiscing about the previous week's gallivants when I also had been bikini clad, hop scotching the boiling hot Oman beach sand, straight into the cool relief of the air con of the humungous German embassy with it's decor fit for a Disney princess.

It is not often that the opportunity arrives for a visit to Oman, less often to stay in an embassy residence, but my friend’s aunt had recently acquired the post of Omani German ambassador. Even without this added ‘extra’, for all those with an interest in the Middle East, Oman is definitely worth the comparative visit. First we had to cross our fingers for a week, eyeballing Eyjafjallajokull’s ash movements. Volcano permitting, It would be a feeble sixth in my ultimate bid to see all the Arabic and Middle Eastern countries of the world.



Oman’s capital Muscat is similar to its neighbouring Dubai in that it is brand new, slightly artificial and a confusing juxtaposition of middle-east and Starbucks culture. Unlike Dubai the expats aren’t the majority and the locals make an avid point to wear their traditional dress of white ‘dishdash’ and hat or headwrap at all times, be they gunning it down and overcutting people on the perilous roads in their brand new Ferraris, or hanging out in the hotel bar with a pint and a prostitute. I wouldn’t ask for a photograph, this never seems to go down well.

The architecture is a lot less masculine and overpowering than Dubai. Government laws placing limits on construction height serve well to protect the views of the area’s stunning mountainous landscape and although they are new, a real effort is made to maintain the traditional Gulf feel of the mostly uniform white buildings, with ogee arches, intricate stone carvings and stained glass windows, particularly in the embassy quarters. Further out of Muscat, houses surrounded by vast desert plains are more colourful... blues, greens, yellows, we even came across this entirely pink, Barbie inspired number.



Private beaches are available for a spot of ‘gawp free’ sunbathing, one of which, to our delighted boozy discovery, at night evolves every month into hosting a red bull sponsored, (albeit tamer) version of Thailand’s full moon event. No? Fancy a spot of culture? Well Oman has forts, lots of them, and old scribblings on the rocks are still visible from passing ships, dating as far back as the 1800s. This we saw in conjunction with a day of dolphin watching, which can be done by hiring a boat and a driver for a couple of hours for around 100 pounds in total (20 pounds each).

Other activities include off road driving through wadis or dried up lakes (prone to flash floods) and mountains for which you need a 4x4 and which nearly gave me about five heart attacks in total, despite our very capable driver. The latter is a good opportunity to get to the heart of Oman’s natural environment as well as to witness the oasis and mountain living. If you’re an outdoorsy type, this can also be combined with trekking and camping and if you like the company of goats, lots of goats, this is definitely one for you.



How I wish that volcanic ash cloud had managed to time itself just that little bit better to give us more time, and allow for less of those early starts in our valiant bid to cram all this in, as well as give us that extra edge on our roof top suntans, but alas it was not meant to be.
Now home, at least I have some gorgeous souq purchased trifles to make me smile as I shiver in my embittered ball of copious knitwear.






not to forget the uber cool tea cosy :)




Should you wish to learn more about Oman and gain a more in depth knowledge of it's personal face then perhaps read this blog written by a few local Omani women.

http://howtolivelikeanomaniprincess.blogspot.com/

Dubai high

I’m watching my feet as I avoid stones and darting crabs, blissfully enjoying the tepid sea water, the sun beats down on us and I take a moment to absorb the rays. There’s a shriek as my friend drops one of the shells she’s been collecting and a little hermit crab pokes his head out. It’s the most drama we’ve witnessed all week. I must say, how selfish of him to occupy the nice shell that WE want. This is the first time I’ve even seen a hermit crab.
Only a few days ago we were enjoying this life of easy leisure and counteractive therapy to England's recent grump inducing chill during a girly visit to an old friend from primary school who, to our gleeful discovery and unendless excitement currently lives on one of Dubai’s luxurious Palm Islands. Our lovely hosts do their best to help us get the most out of our short stay but the three of us are happy to just spend the majority our days soaking up the sun on our heat deprived bodies and wandering up and down the shore line along the Island’s leaves or ‘fronds’ picking up shells and rescuing washed up half-dead star and jelly fish. We also enjoy fabricating tales about the neighbours and observing their beaching activity, their outrageous garden decor, the endless happy paddling Duracel dog and the lone fat kid next door who just rolls about in the sand and constructs tents. After the longest winter Britain has seen in 30 years, nothing could be more ideal.

Dubai is famous for many reasons, its innovative architecture and construction projects, business economy, lavish catering for the high flying lifestyle, world’s tallest building, largest shopping mall. And the fact that it's all been built in a matter of decades. It’s a strange place.
I remember the last time I was there I went on a hunt to find some semblance of historical culture. My endeavours were fruitless and the trip descended into a resigned return to the shopping mall. It’s easy to see how one could lose concept of reality in a place where life is focused on the world of business, luxury living, the profits of success and activities of the wealthy expat. Old people are a rarity and so is natural beauty. This time round we made the retrospectively bold decision to take a walk and make our way to the grocers to pick up food, triggering alarmed and bemused stares from construction workers. It’s something people don’t really do there. It’s a city dedicated to the car, the flashier the better. Pedestrianism just isn't done, ok.
As we lay sunbathing one day, staring out at the Marina in the distance and helicopters circling ducking and dicing through the high rise buildings, someone remarked on their resemblance to fireflies, and in the heat of the sun my brain began to perceive Dubai as this strange sci-fi distortion of nature. The private beach we spent our days on was actually man-made, the sand we sank our toes into, which had an odd synthetic texture, would have been laid down by some kind of truck machinery. I’d imagine the various species of marine life must have been pretty confused and still somewhat peeved to be one minute residing safely far out at sea only to find themselves living within crevices of an Island of houses shaped to look like an infant's artistic vision of a palm tree. Since fishing is allowed on the Island, during one particular stroll we witnessed a man accidentally catch one of the many stingrays. When he pulled it inland to remove the hook from his mouth we were able to see the creature up close flapping its wings, which was as fascinating as it was distressing and symbolic of Dubai’s tireless interference with nature.
A staggering amount of money and countless bus loads of migrant workers have gone into the venture of creating the ‘ideal lifestyle’ with all human needs catered for, including an upcoming project to fit cooling pipes under the sand of one beach. A day at one of the many shopping malls could also be combined with a ski trip on real snow in its glass cased ski centre, or an idle gawp at a 30 ft fish tank filled with exotic sea life while you shop for overpriced wares in oversized stores. Everything is grand and large and designed to impress and outdo, the architecture itself is often awe inspiring and a testament to those who argue for the value of modernity and yet at the same time the sheer number of these buildings being constructed often renders them quite meaningless. The symbol of Dubai, the ‘seven star’ hotel, the ‘Burg al-Arab’ remains one of my favourites not only because of its aesthetic sail shape and its noble solitary presence out in the middle of the sea, but the extravagant way of life it has come to epitomise. Admittedly also because it’s gaudy light display and decorated interior allows for fond mocking of the ever amusing ‘taste’ of my fellow Arabs.
It is no secret that the Dubai dream is now in jeopardy. Projects are struggling despite a hefty investment from Abu Dhabi to complete the world’s tallest building, the now renamed ‘Burg Khalifa’ and remnants of the flagging economy are visible in the unfinished buildings and projects lying desolate including an unfinished frond.
One night we visited a cocktail bar with breathtaking views of the city. In between magnificent scenes of a fountain display and impressive beaming structures, large patches of dark in the brightly lit aerial landscape show where work has been abandoned. I wonder what will become of the Dubai dream since it has long been forewarned as a city in denial of its limited resources. Many years from now I can’t help but picture this place overspent, exhausted and deserted as the Emerald city in ‘Return to Oz’. Who knows, I suppose until then just like Brits making contact with the sun on their holidays, best to just soak it all up while it lasts.

The Bikram gang

I always thought I should have started to blog in Morocco, tales from there had far more entertainment value. There the general daily grind would include a variety of interaction and harassment from the locals ranging from the aggressive to the bizarre... mainly due to the strangely large population of mentally ill residents in the town where I lived. Which, when it wasn’t realistically rather sad, was incredulously funny. A one off special opera outburst from the local cheese obsessive and aptly named ‘dar al- fromage’ or ‘house of cheese’, as I was browsing away the hours of boredom in an internet cafe certainly added a little ‘je ne sais quoi’ to my day . It didn’t last long as he was dragged away from the doorway by two men before he could reach the second chorus, arms still dramatically outstretched. Another was convinced my friend from Birmingham was in fact the king of England, and refused to believe otherwise. Episodes like this gave me and the rest of the students on their year abroad something to write home about. Of course we had our awesome weekend breakaways from class to other cities, the beach, the country side, sleeping in the Sahara desert, skiing in the Atlas Mountains, beautiful sunsets watched from the roof of our amazing ‘Riad’ house. But, what really interested those at home were the arguing prostitute neighbours, daily fights, near death car experiences on rocky mountain cliffs by drunken taxi drivers, and the sometimes horrifying naked ‘hamam’ (public bath) exposures. I nearly missed out the ‘L’ in writing public there, which in fact would be a more accurate description of certain sights still burned into my memory. *shiver*

I never thought I’d come close to this type of experience back in London but funnily enough a visit to a Bikram yoga class in Chiswick last week, brought one of these ‘fond’ memories home. Apprehensive as I walked in, I selected their newcomers offer of £30 for 30 days and was directed towards the female changing room, where I was confronted by a number of naked bodies, everyone happily bending over and bumping into each other due to a distinct lack of space. Finding out that the shower was a communal box was not a highlight. I changed discreetly trying to maintain eye contact with the wall, not quite brave enough to join the ‘naked star jumping’ types, and made my way into the surprisingly large and populated hot yoga room, which could have benefited from an air freshener or two, I’ll be honest. I lay down to soak up the heat. ‘This isn’t too bad’ I thought. Our instructor, filling in for his wife, was a happy ‘zen-ny’ chappy who directed the class through his microphone, the sound of which reverberated from the four corner speakers of the room giving his voice an empowered ‘god’ like quality. Then the heavy breathing began and I got scared, twenty minutes into the class I was more afraid of fainting or worse, puking, in public. En mass sweating and intermittent feelings of nausea and dizziness may make you wonder why one would enter such an activity... If you do go make sure you DRINK WATER.... but 90 minutes of class later I was sold.... after I had a chance to taste fresh air again I felt revitalised, warm (for a change) and had NEVER been so ravenously hungry in my life, go metabolism go! Just a month left before the bikini beckons, of course I’m going back.