The Damascus Connection

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

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The Damascus Connection

So there i sat on the mountaintop at Baalbek. My prospects-and my cash-dwindling, and my visibility growing uncomfortably with each passing day. After all, how many times can you study the ruins? So after making one last sweep of the rug market, and another tour of the Temple Of the Sun, i set out to find another connection. Shortly after lunch i went over to the cab stand and chose a driver that looked amenable, using whatever psychic currency i'd accrued during my months of meditation and semi-silence.
From my diary: "We had a talk which resolved itself at his home, the house way out of town...any town...I was back to the era of the first Arab people who wandered the hills with mule and flock, or camel and tent...The afternoon wore on, slow. I was on top of my vibrational count. i kept it simple, smile...I made some worry beads out of something I happened to find in my hand..."
People came to visit at my friend Ahmed's modest house at the side of a country road. we talked, sipped tea. We had chicken dinner and talked some more. A hookah appeared and we sat under the stars and smoked. More people came. Somewhere in there a deal was made. i slept at Ahmed's house that night. Sometime after dawn i awoke. Another diary entry: "I wake up...my friend's beautiful daughter hands me a towel and I go outside to wash...the caravans already on their way. A boy runs to the house for water, the caravan moves on. The woman on the mule angles slow but steady until the boy begins to run after them, looking ahead as he rejoins..."
So it was arranged. After a breakfast of tea, sugar and bread we drove back to town, where i checked out of the hotel. We then drove back to Ahmed's place, where i packed 2.5 kees into my bag. Ahmed seemed to be in a great mood, even buying a colorful oilcloth for his wife's kitchen table. We then drove out to the bus stop where i watched my bag get heaved onto the roof, hugged goodbye, and then back down the mountain to the big city. Diary entry reads: "A tigress of a city. Old Arab section for miles on one side, the other side a bay velveted with hotels...light grey flannels, blue vicuna blazer and a white boat of some sort, say 100 feet and 40 passengers, that's the style..."

i took a room at the Omar Kayham Hotel, but money was getting short. i made a collect call to the Twins in New York, and waited for the money to arrive. Every day i took a long walk along the promenade edging the bay. The St. George Hotel had a busy yacht basin, the Phoenicia was an impressive white tower. Stopping in the Phoenicia's air conditioned lobby in hopes of finding a Herald Tribune less than a week old, i spotted a cool looking barber shop. It occurred to me that trimming my lengthy locks before going through customs might be a wise idea. It turned out to be an excellent idea. i walked out into the sun with one of the best haircuts i've ever received... Flash Foward: San Francisco 2005. While dining at one of my favorite restaurants ( Zarzuella) i discovered the host was from Beirut, and mentioned the great haircut i got at the Phoenicia Hotel. The host told me his father used to get his haircut there. Not only that, but when the hotel was rebuilt, after the wars, they went out to find the old master barber, and reinstalled him in his shop.
There are very few good haircut stories...

Baalbek Haiku: The water jug placed/ in the shade of the stone/ at the side of the road

Finally the wire arrived and i purchased a ticket on a charter flight from Damascus to Rome. The plane was due to arrive a 6a.m. Ironically, the bus taking us to Damascus, Syria, had to negotiate the same winding road that took me to Baalbek. Because we were all boarding an immediate flight, there was minimal border check in Syria. The flight was uneventful, and at 6 a.m. yawning Italian customs inspectors just chalked the bags without looking. i was home free in Rome...

Recommended Reading: Without Stopping by Paul Bowles