Coffee and Shisha

I sit down in the cafe, and suddenly, Damascus feels like home. The covered out door area has
small circular tables jammed up against one another with groups crowding around them, passing
shisha pipes and sipping tea and coffee, some puffing away on cigarettes. I'm waiting to hear the
old cry of 'Coffee Up' and be sent rushing back to do the barristas bidding, but of course, this isn't
Melbourne, and I don't work here. And the coffee that I sit down to order is no Skinny ¾ Latte, but a Turkish coffee, ground with cardamon, brewed with heaped spoons of sugar and served black in a macchiato sized glass.

I'm feeling confident, ordering, 'Ah-wey, min fud-luk' and pointing at the pipes. The waiter replies in perfect English, 'You want Shisha?'. And I nod.

The coffee arrives, the pipe shortly after it and I take a sip of the thick black brew. Delicious. The
waiter comes round with the cast iron tub of coals and lays three small chunks on the perforated
aluminium foil. I fit the disposable mouthpiece and take a long inhale, exhaling sweet smoke into
the air.

The cafe is right in the centre of the walled Old City- I can see from the walls of the Mosque that I have almost come full circle, having spent hours wandering the labyrinthine streets of the Souk Al Hamadiya for at least two hours, gazing in awe at the walls of shimmering fabrics, the sacks of
vibrant coloured spices and windows displays draped with intricate jewellery. This cafe was the
first I had come across, in amongst the shwarma and felafel stalls and the pastry shops.
I pull out my guide book and my scrap book of arabic vocabulary, and the couple next to me turn to me, pointing at my shisha, saying , 'Very good, very good'. They seem surprised to see a single
western woman going solo on the shisha with a cup of middle eastern beverage in hand.

They ask me where I'm working- and tell them that I'm not living in Damascus, just passing
through, and that I arrived only this morning.

Daoud and Ellmar are father and daughter, from the north-east where Syria borders both turkey and Iraq. They live, 'Right on the line'. Ellmar tells me that Daoud is her father, 'But he is also my friend. Very friendly man.' Daoud in turn replies that his daughter's name means,'Whisper', not in Arabic, but in the ancient language of Syria, still spoken in remote parts of the country.

We chat a little about the city, and Ellmar gets up and shows me her sandals. 'Do you like them?'
she says, and, after the tablecloth shenanigans I am cautious, but reply, 'Yes, they are nice.'
'You can buy them' , she says, then tells me the name of the shop which I forget before I have time to scribble it in my book. She points in the direction of the main covered area of the Souk, and I doubt I will find ever the shop, which is a shame, as I realise that these leather sandals are exactly the same as the pair my grandmother bought me in Crete nearly ten years ago, that I wore and wore until the leather straps that cross around the big two broke in two.

Daoud places another order with the waiter, who also replaces the coals on my pipe then disappears in side. He quickly returns and presents Daoud with a glass of opaque greeny yellow liquid.

'You want try?', asks Ellmar, and I dare not refuse the famous Syrian hospitality, taking a sip of the steaming tea. It is at the same time sweet and salty, the liquid thick in my mouth with a familiar yet unplaceable taste. It is called Kamoon, Daoud tells me, made from something ground like pepper, and the taste comes to me.

'Coriander!' I say, and the couple promptly offer to order one for me, their treat- but I politely refuse. I could not have drunk a whole cup!

When the afternoon breeze turns chilly and I have finished my ah-wey I decide to abandon my
shisha, so I pay, and wander back in the direction of the City Centre, turning right at the top of the stairs behind the Mosque compound.

And there I see an old man in a shop window, surrounded by handmade leather sandals. The exact style I want is there, so I enter and point, saying, 'Saba'a wa thalateen', my shoe size.
They are a perfect fit, and I don't even bother to haggle with him. He could have charged me way more than AU$9 and I would have sentimentally outlayed the cash. Even if I see the same pair for half the price in Turkey, I will still be glad to have bought them here in Damascus on the advice of a kind stranger.

It's too cold to wear the sandals back to the hotel, so even though I am keen to wear the leather in I put my sneakers back on and put the sandals in my bag.

I head back the way I came, to Al-Rabie Hotel without looking at the map- the streets outside the old city are much easier to negotiate, and I once again marvel at the men on the street hovering over bowls filled goldfish, who recognise me, the photographer from earlier in the afternoon.

They say 'Ahlan wa sahlen', you're welcome, and I smile at the warmth of the people in this city.