When the Hebrew Saul of Taursus experienced his revelation of faith on the road to Damascus, the city was already thousands of years old. I remember the story of the Apostle Paul being drilled into me in long-ago Sunday School classes; I find it hard to believe I will be visiting this ancient city in the present day.

On arrival from Jordan in a service taxi, I am promptly scammed. It's relatively harmless and the only time I experience dishonesty in 2 weeks in Syria, but it's still annoying to have a taxi driver insist his meter does not work, then charge 200SYP to drive approximately 75 seconds, pointing vaguely down an alleyway at my hotel.

In the backpacker corner of Damascus, the new city feels enveloped by the old. On an overpass bridge I see the crumbled citadel walls lined by a modern boulevard teeming with yellow taxis. In the Souk Sarouja area, where my hotel is located, the narrow lanes block sunlight and cram pedestrians on the sidewalk when cars pass. Here, the city noise dies away and children play in the dark arched doorways late at night. But just a few hundred feet from the dim tailor shops the alley hits a wide avenue head on, bursting with open space and sunlight, the loud chatter of merchants, honking taxis and the looming billboards of the Presidents Assad, current and former.
I enter the Souk al-Hamidiyeh many times, as it's my path to the Umayyad Mosque and Hammam al-Qaimariyya and home to the addictive Bakdesh ice cream. The wide covered main street is easy for tourists to navigate. The offshoots tend to be more interesting. There doesn't appear to be a true order to the storefronts. Jewelry stores are next to nightgown shops, which are next to falafel stands. It's a great place to lose myself for a while.
At the Azem Palace, I've forgotten my student ID. I'm apologetic and offer to run back to the hotel, which is conveniently nearby, but the kind clerk gives me the student ticket for 10SYP and simply asks I don't forget next time.

The design of Azem Palace is striking, composed of stripes of black limestone and white basalt. The Palace was the home of Assad Pasha al-Azem, Ottoman governor of Damascus for 14 years. Now it is used as the Museum of Popular Arts and Traditions, complete with mannequins re-enacting bathing in a hammam. Other rooms demonstrate families receiving guests or preparing for a wedding.

I essentially glossed over the entire Islamic section of Cairo while I was there; perhaps I'd packed in too much history in 5 days of pyramids and temples and wanted my time in Cairo to be more relaxed. Thus, Umayyad Mosque in Damascus is my first real experience with a mosque of such elevated stature.

I am required to rent a long, shapeless green robe here for 50SYP and requested to keep my hair covered at all times. I have difficulty keeping the hood on when I tie my hair back, but when I let it back down, the errant strands peeking out from my hood draw disapproving looks. Shoes come off at the door; I hold on to mine in case a tip is required to get them back from the clerks.

Damascus was the capitol of the Umayyad Empire, and the beautiful mosque built between 705AD and 715AD was the first of its kind, influencing mosque design throughout the Islamic world. The courtyard is marvelous, spacious, and decorated with mosaics.

I'm not positive, but I think there are doors I'm not allowed to enter. I see people pouring in when we hear the call to prayer, but I don't know if I'm prevented for not being Muslim or simply for being a woman. Going in through another door I see the shrine containing John the Baptist's head.

One of the most amazing sights in Damascus is the Saida Ruqqaya Mosque. This Shi'ite mosque was built with funds from Iran and contains the body of Ruqqaya, granddaughter of the prophet Mohammed.

I enter through a separate smaller door for women and am given a black robe; again, I vainly try to keep my hair hidden to avoid glares. I am not allowed to keep my shoes; a clerk takes them (they're in embarrassing condition) and gives me a number. The mosque is much smaller than Umayyad, with a courtyard covered in lovely rugs; unlike Umayyad, here people pray right in the courtyard.

Once past the relatively simple exterior, I've entered the disco ball Vegas version of a mosque. The walls seem to be coated in fragments of glass, the chandeliers sparkle, the green lights glow. I watch a group of men doing some sort of circle dance for a while, then move toward a room full of women.

I don't know what's happening in here. I really wish I did. Iranian women are crying at the foot of Ruqqaya's shrine. Their passion ebbs and flows, sometimes wailing, sometimes contemplative. The cloaked women sing, throw money into the shrine, and rub small girl's dresses against its walls. They also distribute candy, I note when a few pieces are pressed into my hand; I wonder if this bit of sustenance indicates how long they plan to stay in these spots. Candy is also thrown into the shrine. I look out the doorway and see the group of men again, far from the commotion, caught up in their dance. There are two different worlds inside Saida Ruqqaya mosque; including my bubble of bemused fascination, there are three.

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