Discovering my own Arabian Night

Wandering around arguably the oldest inhabited city in the world, I feel as if I have been transported back thousands of years, into the enchanting tales of One Thousand and One Nights. I feel the stories in every cobblestone and the deep perfume of olive oil and laurel hanging in the air.

In a musty store I cradle an innocuous looking lamp. The proprietor’s bright eyes twinkle at me in the near darkness as if sensing the images in my mind; an enormous purple turbaned genie with golden shackles squeezes himself into existence in a puff of smoke to grant my every desire.

This is Aleppo. It is our final destination in Northern Syria and I separate from my travelling party to explore this ancient city and lose myself in my own imaginings. In the old city, a labyrinth of covered alleyways forms the souk (marketplace) and pierced domes drop slivers of light onto the cool ground.

Being on my own I am an interesting target for the hoards of poets who ply their wares and I allow myself to be flattered and drawn in. As I enter the tiny entrance, the store unfolds and extends far into the heart of the souk. Reams of carpets line the walls like the flags of a thousand unknown nations waiting to be explored. I am fussily seated on stacks of cushions and offered limitless cups of hot, sweet tea in fluted glasses. I watch the constant flick and drop of carpets, each intricate thread and pattern described by the poet in his lilting verse half English, half Arabic. I was taken aback by the genuine hospitality; like arms flung wide open.

Extending good hospitality is more than just a nice gesture in Syria - it is a matter of honour and a sacred duty. This generosity and spirit originates from the Bedouin people, descendents of Abraham and nomads of the desert, who have always lived in an environment dependent upon each other’s hospitality in order to survive thirst, hunger, and sudden raids or enemy attacks.

The poet invites me to the Caravanserai of a local Syrian artist with the promise of a stunning collection of artifacts and textiles. Eagerly I accept and I am led in a procession through the covered backstreets of the souk. I lose all sense of direction but am happily lost in my own mind; each carved yet unpretentious door opens to yet another steaming tale; portals into sagas of love and forbidden romance a la Sheherazade.

One final corner and we reach our door. I am ushered through a short passageway and welcomed into a simple stone courtyard; softened with dappled sunlight, cool despite the stifling heat outside. An elderly custodian of the home mysteriously appears in a doorway bearing a tray laden with fresh dates, pistachios and juices of lemon and mint.

So begins my Arabian night.