T A B L E+T A L K Florence and paradise: Same difference? Discuss Italy's enchanted city in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Passages By David Downie Enchanted Liguri Mondo pesto: Liguria's green cuisine (12/22/97) Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer Chicken soup with matzo balls for the soul (12/19/97) Passages By John Krich "Won Ton Lust": The best twice-cooked pork in China (12/18/97) Pop goes the cathedral By Laura Miller New book reveals architectural triumphs (12/17/97) The Yukon Quest By Laura Johnston Mush! Racing 1,000 miles by dog sled (12/16/97) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Wanderlust archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		Christmas in Syria+|+P A G E+2+O F +2 Christmas morning in Damascus was cold and clear, as most of the traffic was off the roads. I wandered through the city to the national museum, and treated the cats that lived on the grounds to as much spit-roasted chicken as they could eat. After the cats had gorged themselves like lions at the kill, I left them sleeping in the sun and walked through the city to the marketplace. After passing the metal workers, the fruit merchants and the meat stalls, I found myself among the pet vendors. Near the shops with chickens and turkeys (which I suspected would have short careers as "pets"), I saw a shop selling songbirds and, in a tiny wooden cage on the curb near the gutter, a young falcon. As I knelt by the cage, the falcon glared at me through the bars, totally unafraid. All self pity I felt at my own circumstances was replaced by outrage, and a feeling that I was looking at something fundamentally wrong. Any bird, but especially a bird of prey, lives its life with a freedom that humans can never experience, with the sky as a playground and gravity a mere suggestion to be ignored on a whim. Any animal in a tiny cage is heart-breaking, but that falcon, in that cage, was as pitiful a sight as I ever hope to see. All of these tangled thoughts came and went in a flash, and I immediately resolved to buy the falcon and free it on the spot. The owner of the bird shop was a polite man in his mid-20s, who noticed me staring at the falcon, shook my hand gently and inquired as to my interest. I confirmed his suspicions and requested a price. He held up a small calculator that read "500." I had feared a price that high, and began to despair of freeing the bird, which was becoming agitated by our examination. I began thinking of the more exotic pieces of backpacking gear I had with me, and if I could trade any of them away. Seeing my hesitation, the owner touched the cage and typed out "100," then pointed at the bird and typed out "400." It suddenly dawned on me that the falcon's price was not $400, but 400 Syrian pounds. At 50 Syrian pounds to the dollar, it was going to be a great Christmas, alone or not. With a slightly giddy laugh I nodded acceptance, handed the man 400 pounds and pantomimed holding a bird and setting it free. He didn't understand, and thinking that I simply did not want the cage, took out a paper bag, into which he intended to stuff the falcon. I stopped him rather abruptly, pointed to the bird and again made the motions of setting a bird free. The owner's 8-year-old son, who had been watching in fascination, understood my intentions and began jumping and laughing. He explained to his father that, yes, this crazy foreigner wanted to throw away a bird worth 400 pounds. With marvelous Arabian body language -- a cock of his head and the raising of one shoulder -- the owner asked "Why?" When I said "Christmas" with my hands pressed together, he understood and accepted my reason immediately. Meanwhile, his son was running in circles on the street, shouting and laughing. I was sure that from his earliest days in the shop he had been warned against accidentally letting a bird loose. Now, the ultimate taboo would be violated by an adult while he watched. The boy's father put on a heavy leather glove and reached for the falcon, which immediately lay on its back and slashed the glove with its talons. He held the furious bird out to me, and I stroked it once on the head and, with a pang of envy, whispered a prayer of safety and good fortune. The shop owner took a step back and threw the bird into the air, and for a horrible instant I thought it would crash back to the street. The falcon's wings were stiff, and it took a few frantic beats for it to unlimber its flight muscles. Then it was a falcon again, a wild animal instead of a caged curiosity or a pet, and it rose from us and streaked away, a brown blur against the gray concrete buildings of the city. In a few seconds it was out of sight, leaving behind an empty cage, two men and one very happy boy. Dinner that night was dates and coffee with the owner and his son, communicating with gestures and smiles, and feeling the satisfaction of having cheaply purchased limitless freedom for one, and the pure happiness of childhood for another. It was Christmas. SALON | Dec. 23, 1997 After having seen some of the world as a Navy pilot and diver, Louis CasaBianca is trying to see the rest of it as a travel writer. When not on the road, he may be found writing screenplays in Los Angeles. Do you have a memorable Christmas tale? Share your memories in Table Talk. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Feeling inspired for your own Middle East adventure? 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