Think of Syria now and you think of war. When I thought of Syria prior to teaching there in the summer of 2009 I thought of anything but. I pictured the bustling streets of old Damascus, Rapunzel-like minarets, glittering mosques burning in the fiery middle eastern sun, camels, markets and faded old doors. What I found was exactly that and infinitely more.

Seeking adventure and teaching experience anew I left my job in London, packed a suitcase, and accepted a summer school job for the British Council (BC) located in Damascus. When boarding the plane I had no idea what to expect…

Upon arrival I certainly did not expect to be hurriedly bundled into a taxi in the pitch dark of a sweltering Syrian night, driven in silence by a clearly irritated chain smoker through winding back alleys devoid of street lights, only to find myself and my suitcase unceremoniously thrown into a random unlit house in the middle of nowhere and abandoned. I had no food or water with me and by this point I was feeling physically exhausted, psychologically overwhelmed, slightly terrified and ravenously thirsty. I searched the walls for a light switch and managed to get my bearings. The scene that confronted me was both thrilling and worrying in equal measure. I was standing opposite a beautiful tiled fountain in a courtyard which opened to the sky. Huge leaves were scattered across the dusty floor; to my left and right were rooms, and across the other side were sofas, a large table, and a small TV mounted on the wall beneath a make-do ceiling. I tried to open the first door to my left but it was locked, it didn’t dawn on me at the time that someone could be sleeping inside. I made my way to the other room and found it empty, dusty, stiflingly hot, and alarmingly devoid of air conditioning. Realising I couldn’t possibly sleep in such airless, panic-inducing heat I dragged my suitcase up the staircase which I spotted near the front door. The one vacant bedroom I found was equally as suffocating. By then I was utterly shattered and had no more energy for clear thinking or further exploration. So in desperation I went back downstairs and decided to sleep on the sofa beneath the stars. My body was drenched in sweat, my mouth and throat were painfully parched, my eyelids heavy, and my mind was lost somewhere between the romantic exoticism of my new surroundings and the sheer horror of the situation. Before morning came to my rescue I was abruptly awoken, though not even aware that I had been asleep, by the sound of someone shouting at me. I soon realised, however, that it was the early morning call to prayer! It was one of the most beautiful experiences I have ever had. The sheer volume combined with the intoxicating rhythm and echo of the voice was simply unreal. I was totally enraptured. Though still semi -delirious from dehydration and exhaustion I quickly fell back asleep with a serene smile upon my face. The next thing I heard were birds singing on the tiled fountain behind me and I soon experienced the thick dusty air and blinding sunlight of my first morning in Damascus.  And that is how my summer in Syria began.

The first few days were an anxious, chaotic blur of getting to know my two fairly unpleasant housemates and the other, also fairly unpleasant, summer school teachers while becoming familiar with my local area and the way to and from the BC premises. For some bizarre reason myself and three other teachers had been housed behind a market street in a religiously conservative part of the city called Bab al-Jabiya (Gate of the Water Trough), one of the seven ancient city-gates of Damascus. This meant that upon leaving for work every day I had to run the gauntlet of hostile-looking, staring, glaring, scowling men. I often reflected upon their rancour and inferred that to them I was a) a woman, b) an uncovered Western woman exposing a little naked flesh, c) a non-Muslim, and d), on top of all the above, a smiley, unperturbed, seemingly-confident  independent woman. Nonetheless, once I got used to the stares I thoroughly enjoyed walking through the market streets taking in the sights and sounds which mainly consisted of animal carcass detritus, stalls with luscious fruit and vegetables, and small saucepan shops. The walk also consisted of sporadically hopping over bloody puddles and dodging the tooting, fume-belching motorbikes and occasional taxis trying to squeeze through.

The teaching was wonderful. A wide variety of levels and a wide variety of people. There were students from all over the Middle East, business men, university students, a few Africans and a few housewives. I remember teaching a Saudi student who, though very pleasant, engaged and respectful, for approximately eight weeks never once looked directly at me. When we conversed in class he would simply focus his gaze on a nondescript area above my left or right shoulder. Should I have been flattered that to look upon me would have filled him with overwhelming desire, or be cross at the absurdity of it? I settled on feeling baffled and amused. I believe he was also a fellow, among others, who considered women’s lower arms to be sexually titillating, hence why, according to them,  it was advisable for us teachers to cover our limbs completely during Ramadan. However, being in Syria during Ramadan was generally unproblematic. Non-Muslims could happily go about their business as normal, unlike in Oman, where I taught for the BC in the summer of 2015. There teachers had to hide behind screened doors to eat or drink, and where even chewing gum or sipping water in public was illegal (not easy in 40+ degrees heat). I very much respected the attitude of one Syrian boy who said something along the lines of: “teacher, please drink in class, we must be tempted and learn to fight it.” Indeed, isn’t that the whole point? To surround yourself with all manner of devilish temptations and through will alone, conquer them, rather than avoiding all encounters with temptation and actually fighting nothing. So all due respect to the Muslim contingent who observe Ramadan in the West.

Syria, as I experienced it, was a relaxed, easy-going, tolerant, happy place to be. Of course, this was a surface impression. I had no real understanding of what it was like to live as a Syrian, and no clue whatsoever of the bubbling political volcano that would rise to the surface in such catastrophic horror only a few years later. Crime was low, people didn’t lock their car doors  – a sign of a civilised society or perhaps of a brutal police state where being involved with the authorities, in any capacity, could have terrifying consequences.

People of different faiths, and no faiths, lived side by side. Cliché but true. Alcohol, clubbing, dating, holding hands – all were permissible. This doesn’t sound particularly radical but in most parts of the Arab world, then and now, such things are not acceptable. It was also a country where women were visible in public and for the most part were not openly harassed as a matter of course. By contrast, in Jordan, Libya and Tunisia, for example, when walking the streets of major towns and cities, I would see only a small number of hijabed women moving uncomfortably between the hordes of men and overpowering maleness. As a foreign woman I was not only noticed and glared at, but sometimes on the receiving end of unpleasant suggestive looks and gestures.

Only on two occasions in Syria did I experience anything seriously untoward. Once, as I was strolling at night with a friend through the beautifully lit-up Al-Hamidiyah Souq we encountered a flasher. He followed us and kept randomly appearing in dark alleyways, but it was more amusing than anything else. The second time was in a taxi. Whenever stopping  at a traffic light the driver unzipped his trousers and began playing with himself. At first I was in shock and wasn’t sure he was actually doing anything as he continued to converse with me in sensible conversation, but once I realised that he was doing it I made the bold move of leaping out of the car at the next set of lights. I then found myself stuck in a random suburb of Damascus with the dilemma of choosing another taxi to step into. From then on I chose older taxi drivers who never appeared interested in me or interested in such shenanigans. Luckily I never had a repeat experience until six years later in Oman. On that occasion the taxi driver in question kept turning round to manically shout hotel room numbers at me while touching my knee and somehow managing to negotiate the Muscat traffic. Ten minutes later, shaking and in tears, I arrived at my destination. I was told that it was a very rare thing to happen and that during Ramadan unlicensed Bedouins replace the usual taxi drivers.

Whatever the reason such unwelcome advances and male behaviours are often a reality for women in the Arab world. In my view, the sexual repression of Islamic countries is profoundly hypocritical, pitiable, sad and more humiliating for men than for women. There has to be something deeply wrong with societies and religiously inspired moralities that overtly treat women as sexual prey and whose male citizens find exposed female arm flesh sexually alluring. Regardless of rights, religions, cultures and norms, I have always found predominantly Islamic countries to be inherently sex obsessed. Be it overtly in public spaces, by subtle averted gaze, by generalised misogyny, or in the form of the Islamic clergy who creatively construct a thousand and one bizarre rules surrounding the sexual act, and what they consider constitutes appropriate, usually female, moral conduct. Tiresome on one end of the spectrum, violent and abusive on the other. I cannot help but conclude that perhaps at its core, Islamic ideology has an intense fear of women. A fear of liberated female sexuality, for sure. In such countries sexual desire, so often controlled, repressed and maligned, inevitably rises above the surface and manifests in a myriad of strange, dysfunctional and often unpleasant ways.

One way to navigate the unwanted interest from men and the male gaze, of course, is to hang out with them. And this is exactly what I did, about a month into my stay, in the shape of my Iraqi student called Ali. Like me, he was new to Syria and we got chatting one evening during a class coffee break. During the next few months we explored Syria together, while he dramatically improved his English, and I learned to enjoy having his driver pretty much on call!

Together we travelled all over Syria. We visited Krak des Chevaliers – a sprawling medieval Crusader castle, the magnificent Roman Theatre at Bosra, The Umayyad Mosque (which contained the tomb of the legendary Saladin and also according to legend, the head of John the Baptist) explored palaces, museums, mountain caves( including Mount Qasioun fabled for being the place where Cain killed Abel), sipped iced coffee in beautiful cafes, visited countless quaint restaurants with hibiscus trees and courtyard gardens and, in contrast, a few times we dined in the largest restaurant in the world known as Damascus Gate Restaurant. Situated just outside the city it cost approximately £40million to construct (possibly something to do with all the fountains, waterfalls and plaster copies of Palmyra) and had at least 6000 seats! Ali would always smoke a hookah pipe and we pretty much always ate the same kind of thing: grilled meat, chips, hummus sprinkled with pine nuts and pitta bread. On one occasion, after finishing a meal in a pretty restaurant somewhere random, Ali became violently sick. His driver managed to get him to the nearest clinic where he was put on a bed and instantly poked with numerous needles until the vomiting subsided. It was interesting for sure…the panic and then the procedures. Medical adventures (other peoples I hasten to add) in foreign countries are always fascinating and insightful. In Asia and the middle east, at least, access to healthcare always seems far easier than here, and far less formal. Turn up and get treated seems to be the general idea.

Exploring new places with Ali wasn’t limited to weekends either. A BC summer school adult teaching timetable usually consists of starting work around mid-afternoon and finishing late in the evening. Perfect for me because I could indulge my ideal lifestyle of reasonably late nights and leisurely lie ins. So, for about two months it seemed like every day was one fabulously long Friday night! Weather wise it made sense too  – stay tucked up watching DVDs and lesson planning under the air con as the midday sun blazed outside, then quickly brave the heat while battling to work, teach, and then hang out with Ali and go adventuring in the sultry Syrian nights.

Possibly the most memorable experience of my time in Syria was the day Ali and I visited the ruins of the ancient Semitic city of Palmyra. We set out early as it would take nearly four hours to get there and we had decided to make it just a day trip. We soon found ourselves on long, straight, dusty roads with nothing to look at except passing lorries, sporadic rundown petrol stations and large signposts to Iraq. We got stopped at some point at a checkpoint and Ali had to show his papers. It got hotter and hotter the closer we got. Outside become dustier until the barren bleakness started to soften into a more sandy hue. Three hours in and we were in the desert. The air was thick and the sunlight, piercing. Unlike the pristine gold of the Libyan Sahara, the Syrian desertified interior was more stark…more like a landscape of powdered dirt and stone than fine yellow sand, more reminiscent of middle eastern backdrops of war, than childhood fairy tales. But still it was beautiful and I felt, at that moment, extremely far from home. We spent the day drifting from temple to tomb, meandering between towering columns and fallen pillars half buried in dust. Aside from the heat I vividly remember the ferocious wind. I never expected the desert to be windy, I always imagined it would be hauntingly still, silent and breathless. Before beginning the long journey home we drove to the foot of the 13^th century Fakhr-al-Din al-Ma’ani Castle which menacingly, but romantically too, overlooks the city from atop a high, almost volcanic looking, hill. It was breathtaking and one of those ever so precious moments when you know, unequivocally, that this is one of the stand out moments of your life.

Of course, I didn’t spend all my time with Ali. That summer I was also lucky enough to meet a lovely Lebanese girl called Vivian. We met through the BC, I believe she wanted to meet a native speaker to practise her English with, and we instantly became good friends. Her family lived in a hilltop suburb of Damascus with absolutely spectacular views of the city. We would meet for coffee, go shopping, spend time being silly in her house, and sometimes go on longer daytrips. I have wonderful memories of travelling with her and her youngest brother in the back of a small van, Mahmoud lying on watermelons and happily posing for photographs. One time we had lunch in this strange little garden which had the most magically beautiful pink damascene roses, tall pomegranate trees, old broken chairs, rusted swings and a pack of weathered playing cards scattered across the grass. It was a burning hot day and I recall the image of dirty red hearts and laughter followed by a barbecue picnic at the side of a busy road. This happy day is all the more happy and poignant when I think of what happened to Vivian’s lovely family during the civil war, what unspeakable horrors befell two of her sweet, gentle brothers. When you know people affected by war it isn’t just an abstract nightmarish TV news broadcast, a passing thought or something that happens to other people in other countries. It is all too real. For Ali too. He used to jump at loud noises and take medication for anxiety. He always maintained that living under the Saddam regime was far better than what came after.

Although I dreaded the hours of lesson planning in a staffroom bristling with competitive hostility and suspicion, one redeeming light arrived in the shape of a new teacher, Ian, a late arrival who turned up unexpectedly one evening in our house. Ian soon became my surrogate brother and he was to make hanging out in the British Council offices just that little bit more palatable. Some evenings Ali would come round with pizza and he would help Ian with his Arabic. We three would sit at the large table in the courtyard watching the ants strolling in single file past the fountain, or on occasion watch a random film on the little fuzzy TV above our heads. It was on that TV one morning that I heard the news that Michael Jackson had died.

I turned 31 in Syria just a few days before I left, and just a few years before the whole country would crack and burn and change forever. The landscapes, the students, the friendships, the adventures and the struggles all melted into one long blisteringly hot beautiful summer. Most of all I remember Ali, who I never spoke to again, and Vivian – in the garden with the dirty hearts and perfect roses, and the beautiful city of Damascus with its crumbling houses, old doors and shadowy alleyways that have since fallen into dust.

Could there be a more memorable, more exquisitely beautiful opening to a film than: “I had a farm in Africa…I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills…” with a haunting echo of sadness over the word ‘Arfrica’, delicately whispered by the comfortably familiar melodious tone of Meryl Streep plausibly delivering a soft Danish accent? Before one minute has passed we have already been treated to an array of cinematic riches including the music of Mozart gently rising from a safari scene, aerial footage of a biplane and a steam-powered locomotive gliding above and across the lush plains of Africa. Before two minutes are up we move from a snowy, wintry Denmark to a dusty, colonial Kenya in the 20^th century.

We already know this woman will leave Africa, we know she is haunted, that she is heartbroken. Once the words ‘Sydney Pollack’ appear on the screen we can be certain that the film unravelling before us will be nothing short of a romantic epic perhaps equal only to The English Patient or Gone With The Wind. The unromantics of the world need not venture beyond a minute, they will gain nothing from the approaching feast of film almost three hours long. The opening section, with credits rolling and an evocative score by John Barry slowly gathering pace against the stirrings of sorrow, has already sealed the fate of the viewer and the status of the film itself. Words falter, description fails, we are now captivated, lost….somewhere in Africa.

A beautiful film is a piece of art that has the power to change you forever, be it through influence, information, or pure inspiration. This film wins out to the latter, for what Venice does to the traveller, Out of Africa does to the film lover. It moves, stirs, enchants. Such films transport us to other worlds, other times. Just as imagination creates the story for the reader of a book, so too in films we bring with us a narrative, we bring with us our own lives, dreams, torments and truths. Once introduced to Karen we will either empathise with her or else turn away. Dreamers will empathise. Those who have known exile from a country, society or even the self, will empathise. Those who yearn for adventure in foreign lands, those who can’t help but romanticise the world, will empathise.

Released in 1985 and inspired by the life and autobiography of Isak Dinesan; the film won 28 awards including seven academy awards, testament to the fact that films of this grandeur are not made every day. Interestingly though, on certain film review websites the film has scored remarkably low, citing ‘excessive length and glacial pace’. I for one, once submerged in a film of such grace and beauty, would want it to go on forever. Such contrasts in experience, taste and perception also bring into focus that precarious line between entertainment and art. Without delving into excessive diatribes upon modern day cinema and filmgoers, too often today artistry is side-lined to immediate dramatic impact and thrill; the slow, soft focus, dreamy subtlety of sweeping epics are considered boring or overly sentimental. But there is nothing dull or sentimental about romantic love, especially when it ends, as it so often does, in tragedy. Love, for many, is the pinnacle of all human experience, the peak of pleasure and so too of pain. Out of Africa, like my all-time favourite film The Bridges of Madison County (also starring Meryl Streep), raises the eternal question of whether, in the words of Tennyson, it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

Still less than three minutes into the film we arrive in Kenya. The steam train moves from sunlight to shadow. The train stops. It is morning, it is hot, the African sun is bright. Carrying enormous tusks of ivory we are soon presented with Robert Redford, and a Robert Redford we recognise: laconic, dashing, seemingly an outsider leading an unconventional life on the margins of society. The story begins from the very beginning, and thus we begin our own cinematographic journey into one of the most beautiful films of all time….a saga that carries us ever so gracefully into Out of Africa.

“ The gorgeousness and wonderful reality of Venice is beyond the fancy of the wildest dreamer. Opium couldn’t build such a place, and enchantment couldn’t shadow it forth in a vision. Venice is above, beyond, out of all reach of coming near the imagination of a man. It has never been rated high enough. It is a thing you would shed tears to see.”

(Charles Dickens)

Lovers cannot compete with the beauty of Venice. I learned this early on having explored the city at various times over the course of my life with lovers both young and old. La Serenissima, humanity’s defining masterpiece, is the ultimate distraction from romantic love. Yet still lovers flock there as though in pilgrimage, as though being in Venice and in love will somehow elevate them, magnify their tender affections, transform sensual sentiment into something loftier, more profound, otherworldly. More often in Venice I have quarrelled with lovers than kissed. For Venice, drawn in exquisite watermarks upon the face of the earth is singularly unique, awakening in the mind a particular form of romanticised ardour. So herein lies the irony; despite its status as being the most romantic city in the world, when in Venice your only lover is Venice. From the very first encounter she leaves her mark upon you indelibly, multiple encounters merely deepen your affection, tie you to the city with both entangled dream-memories of her and new, fresh vision. Venice is a lover whose allure never wanes, whose loveliness never fades, a lover who will never leave, deceive, or disappoint.

To visit this Italian nonpareil is to experience an existential and intellectual climax. No other cityscape or man-made edifice can rival the brilliance of Venice. Her beauty is complete, thorough in its splendour, myriad in its sublime details, graceful as it is grand. No doubt part of its resplendence is the complete absence of the motor vehicle. As the world becomes ever more congested and polluted, Venice becomes even more a refuge from the absurd menaces of modernity. Daily battles fought against the onslaught of people, consumerism, capitalism, political misadventure, war, technological overload and noise, evaporate upon entering Venice. Through the slender streets, against the facade of palazzi and church and against the lap of aqua waters, footsteps echo, voices rise and fall, shadows stir. Timeless. The miracle of Venice is that she still exists, slipping from one century to another, despite the encroaching waters, despite the gradual subsidence. To experience Venice today is to step back into the past, to experience a living, breathing, delicately corroding history. When falling asleep within her walls the thick silence envelops you. A church bell may waken you or nearby shop shutters may pull you from dreams, but the lack of intrusion from the sound of cars makes being in a city in the 21st Century quite remarkable.

 “I wish I could give you an idea of the moonlight there, but that is impossible. Venice by moonlight is an enchanted city; the floods of silver light upon the moresco architecture, the perfect absence of all harsh sounds of carts and carriages, the never-ceasing music on the waters produced an effect on the mind which cannot be experienced, I am sure, in any other city in the world.” (Benjamin Disraeli)

Another notable difference which sets Venice apart is simply the scale. Many European cities have an old quarter where a particular area has been left unspoilt, left unscarred by the scourge of concrete, functional buildings and urban sprawl. Other countries may have their historic buildings intermingled with the new. Venice however, being solely navigable by foot or by boat, is entirely ‘as it was’ and feels never-ending. The statistics put this into perspective. The 177 canals separate the city into no less than 118 different islands linked by more than 400 bridges. This is dazzling and dizzying in equal measure. Venice is a labyrinth of fairy tale proportions. And this does not only apply to Venice per se, for the Venetian aesthetic extends to outer regions of the lagoon encompassing Murano, Burano and other hidden dominions such as Isola de San Michele, the island of the dead.

Without doubt the main draw of Venice beyond its history, beyond the art, canals, ornate bridges, picturesque vistas and absence of cars, is the magnificent architecture. Characterised by Venetian Gothic, Venice is a living fantasy of possibly the most elegant architectural styles ever created by man. Combining influences from a Byzantine and Moorish aesthetic and unifying them via a Latin Christian foundation, the result is nothing less than breathtaking. Situated in a lagoon and built atop a sunken forest of wooden piles made from alder trees, picturing what Venice looks like beneath the surface and reflecting upon its fragility and surreal genesis makes its existence all the more extraordinary. “There is no more magnificent absurdity than Venice. To build a city where it is impossible to build a city is madness in itself; but to build there one of the most elegant and grandest of cities is the madness of genius.” (Alexander Herzen)

Poets, writers, artists, musicians, philosophers – all have been captivated. No other place on earth can do what Venice does, can inspire like Venice inspires. Rome, Paris, Prague and Vienna, with their crowds, cars and little reminders of reality, fall dismally short. For Venice is a city of imagination and fantasy, experienced more in the mind’s eye and the oil painting than in the stark reality-jailer of the camera lens. The works of Canaletto are testament to this for many of his large vedute (known as capricci) depict a fabricated version of the city, with manipulated proportions, rearranged landscapes and fabled representation. He painted Venice partly how it was, partly how he dreamed it to be.

My own love of Venice began in the realm of image and imagination. As a child I had a few beloved books with quaint illustrations that conjured up the typical motifs of Venice: gondolas, arched windowpanes, shadowy palaces, caped and corseted buxom maidens and the pencilled silhouettes of menacing door knobs and mysterious carnival masks. I remember being fascinated by my friend’s large plastic gondola (which may have lit up) – tacky by today’s standards but intriguing for a child. Before I ever saw the city I was filled with thrill and excitement at the prospect of seeing it. It was always my dream destination until I finally went there as a university student, and then it became forevermore my destination of dreams. Since then I have visited Venice every few years and in all seasons. For a short period of time I taught English in the small towns of Rovigo and Bologna, where I would visit Venice on day trips by train, becoming familiar with her winding alleys and narrow canal paths. For me, there is nothing not to love about the city. Invariably criticism comes in the guise of a few choice adjectives:  overcrowded, touristy, expensive. In response I would say that despite the crowds flocking to the main sights and piazzas, despite the school parties, conflux of Asians taking selfies with selfie sticks and the unavoidable souvenir stalls, all one has to do is turn a corner, walk down a narrow alley, turn again, and you will find yourself both wonderfully lost and wonderfully alone. Very few tourists seem to stray from the main pathways, something I have never fully understood but have always delighted in. And yes, Venice is expensive, but perhaps rightly so.

One defining feature of Venice, hitherto unsaid, is the dramatic beauty of its slow, crumbling deterioration. Ruination, for me at least, has always been utterly romantic and the very height of refined, architectural splendour. It is a dying city. It is a city of death. Stagnant waters, stained walls fringed with moss and mould, broken plaster, peeling window shutters, eroding stone, the sinking, the flooding, the constant footfall  – all these things define Venice and only add to its grace, grandeur and singular exquisite atmosphere. Poets are reminded of mortality, painters, of time, dreamers, of reality, and lovers – lovers are made conscious of the inevitable passing of romantic love. To love Venice is to love decay. And herein lies another irony; that perhaps through such journeys into the imagination, through admiration of such ephemeral landscapes, through the aggrandisement of peeling plaster, things crumbling, through contemplation of the moribund and mystical visions that constitute Venice, we somehow embrace reality.

“You desire to embrace it, to caress it, to possess it and finally a soft sense of possession grows up and your visit becomes a perpetual love affair.”

 (Henry James)

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;

And was the safeguard of the west: the worth

Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

She was a maiden City, bright and free;

No guile seduced, no force could violate;

And, when she took unto herself a Mate,

She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reached its final day:

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade

Of that which once was great is passed away.

 

(William Wordsworth)