Easter Sunday

Today we cycled to the park in the Centre of Damascus and got the usual reaction to me being on a bike. I am not exaggerating to say I may as well be Lady Godiva for the mixture of horror, shock, appreciation and confusion it seems to cause in people.

At the park we cut a large, sweet pomelo on the grass with my rusty penknife. We laughed at the way I kept repeating ‘pomelo’ in between mouthfuls because I liked the way the sound rolled in my mouth.

I lay back feeling too hot and too covered up in my oversized white blouse and jeans and watched the light breeze blown poplar leaves dance and dapple. D and W discussed the situation, the rumours etc. D drank his Turkish coffee bought from man peddling it from a flask and in the background children played football and speakers Generic Cialis from around the park blared nationalistic songs. Without enough Arabic, of course, we are immune to the music’s influence.

Like the music in the park today, the politics here wash over us and sing an impenetrable song which themes our days. We are not really affected. We can leave. We will most probably. Evacuation plans are being discussed as I type and outside and in, life goes on. It’s possible that the streets are quieter. It’s possible that people are looking at one another suspiciously. Who knows what people are feeling?

What to pack? Will we be coming back to this place we had hoped might be home for a while?

I should point out we are safe. I’m really just trying to let you know the disparity between what it feels like to be here and what is going on around us, even though we cannot feel it.