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Fancy Tea?
Mmmmmmmm. Smoke, sweat and lights, lots of lights. There I was, drink in hand, wondering how the hell I ended up in a club in Syria.
It all started out innocently enough. Our class organized a nice dinner in the Old City just to get out and get to know each other. Dinner came and went. Tea was had, gallons. Then some women organized a mission to find booty shaking. Sadly they got to be the masterminds and navigators of this doomed mission; as we wandered through miles upon miles of alleys. “Hey Ben wasn’t that our third right turn?” Nonetheless I was willing to give it a shot. I must confess the idea of seeing multiple western women in one location was appealing.
The dank subterranean club teemed with extremely drunk westerners and a few Syrian men there to gawk at the aforementioned. The combination of being in Syria and a low average age contributed to prohibition style drinking. The throbbing mass danced and sucked face going as fucking crazy as they well could. Living in Syria will do that to you. I would have been part of the rabble too had beers been less than five dollars.
500 pounds ($10) was the entry fee for your mind-fuck. At least you get two drinks with your ticket right? I had a JW Black or at least that’s what the bottle said. I don’t know what rotgut piss they’d filled it with but it was so horrible it prompted me to get a syrian beer for my next drink. Commence booty shaking.
Casualties
Sandra’s Camera
Eduardo’s Jacket (complete with house keys)
Charles’ self-esteem
As the lights came up I was in flight mode. No longer even resembling buzzed I was ready; but how to get home? Then Sandra, after coming to terms with her camera being stolen, invited some of us back to her place for hookah and arak. Being a decisive man I immediately seized this initiative of stupidity and away we went! We smoked and drank till 5:00 in the morning, which was really 6:00 because time changed. Sandra assured me and another that it was ok to crash at her place, they had two extra beds and her host family was Christian.
I was roused, head still floating in a cloud of smoke, at 9:30 by Sandra. “The family has invited you to have tea with them, you should come downstairs.” To refuse tea here is essentially the same as telling someone to go fuck their mother. So I, a clearly drunk westerner who slept in the same room as the girl under their supervision, stumbled to the table. There’s nothing quite as charming as talking politics with an Arab family at their table whilst intoxicated. I escaped an hour of interrogation later. I managed to win over the old man in the end and was invited back. Hopefully I’ll never have to take him up on that offer.
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