I’ve finally got my rental contract, just in time for Iqamas, or residency permits, to take their place as everyone’s paper based boring topic of conversation. Getting my contract was immense. It involved being taken to a poky little office in Bab Tuma and being sat nestled between a bust of Hafiz Assad and a giant wedding cake while a bunch of men stared at my passport and argued how best to pronounce my name, while i stared at the painting of a man, who has to be Irish, sat with a bottle of wine.
This picture was familiar to me, as I’d spent quite a lot of the weekend in a bar that can sit about 8 called Abu Georges. Its clientele is about 50/50 locals and language students and the Irish man hangs in a prominent position.
The was a street music festive on Straight street, Friday night, and Abu Georges was conveniently located so we could hear the jazz from mushroom park and the Bazook playing from down the road at the same time. Despite being one of the few public spaces in Damascus that takes your money and doesn’t feel like an upmarket cafe, its the only one where the ‘no smoking’ signs are adhered to, so we sat outside in the warm night, watching the people weave in and out of the flow of taxis. It was good.
The Iquama situation is less good, in that i was supposed to get it today but they couldn’t find my passport. inshalla I’ll get it tomorrow, other wise I’m stuck in Damascus when Hellies hear