Easter party, old Damascus.

Although Easter is over, people are still celebrating. My discount, old-city, gorgeous hotel is packed with revelers who apparently didn’t get a chance to party last night. No sleep for the non-partakers. The hospitable hotel owner invited me for a drink, despite me protesting weakly I needed to do some work. So I sat with him, watch another crowd of energized people take to the dance floor, no inhibitions.  Nightclub lighting and fake fog transformed the normally antique-looking dining hall. The party is apparently 120 people; yesterday was  300+.

Loud music, sultry music, silly western pop music, 80s music (no Fatal Eclipse), but a broad mix, which seems to please all. Whistles, cheers, claps.

“I used to have more than that, every night,” my hotel-owner-friend says. “Tourist groups would arrive first, till about 8 pm. Then the locals came, till 3 am. I’d plea with them, ‘please, go home, we need to sleep.’ But they’d stay on. This is Syrian life.”


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