Part II: Damascus
There are no driving lanes. Seatbelts are for foreigners, and horns are anxiously tapped like piano keys-- either to indicate a friendly "comin' through babe" or simply just to advise cross traffic through a four way intersection that the driver is approaching with reckless disregard, and aims to misbehave. Approaching a sparse stoplight, the cars eventually settle in on cockeyed "lanes," each vehicle swerving into an awkwardly formed structure reminiscent of a third grade lunch-line.
Off the main roads, a labyrinth of alleyways is saturated by pedestrians and snaking autos, as the tourists cling to the walls like Spider-Man, tucking their toes to avoid the expertly maneuvered vehicles. Damascene drivers are extremely talented; if not for their pinpoint depth perception, feet would be shattered and elbows would be dislodged hourly.
The streets and most public spaces are, in their own right, Boyztown. As dating is socially unacceptable in conservative districts, public displays of affection are reserved for tourists, and in those circumstances, ill-received. Because women rarely work or socialize in common areas, the streets become a classic all-out Dude Fest, reminiscent of a Frat party, minus the alcohol and scantily clad sluts.
The heavy weight of male dominance in the streets leads to two inevitable results: firstly, the occasional uncovered woman gets entirely too much attention, being undressed by dozens of sexually frustrated eyeballs on each daily walk to the Souk, and secondly, hot man-on-man affection.
It is illegal to be gay in Syria. A homosexual would, according to local lore, be slapped around by the Military Police and then released after brief imprisonment. However, the social norm is for close friends or confederates to traverse the streets arm-in-arm or holding hands affectionately. The contradiction of social acceptability between Sham and Indy is frustratingly asinine; in Sham I cannot take my love's hand in the market, but I can cuddle with ugly men, should I feel inclined. Regardless, if word spread that when I held my ugly compatriot's hand my inseam stirred to a shapely bulge-- I would get the 'ol Rodney King; social acceptance, militant intolerance. In Indianapolis, the same recourse would lead to social dejection (by some) and militant apathy. Our judgment of their judgment is unreasonably judgmental.
