The Ice Cream Man

This ain’t John Brim’s seminal Ice Cream Man and perhaps little more of David Lee Roth’s take on it. In this week’s Camino a Ítaca Christmas and what it means for the oldest city in the world. Will it turn into a Turkish colony? Will the Israelis make a huge land grab or simply annex it? Will it become Kabul-West? Will the Kurds finally get a ‘promised land’? Will the Ice Cream man still be around? Click over to read the Spanish version in the HOY or the English. If not, the original unedited piece below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

It took place just down a covered corridor that was sporadically lit by what seemed like bullet holes in the tin
roof. In my memory, it was the scene that most represents Christmas. By that I don’t mean the conical medieval torture device by day and notional Christmas tree at night that vitiate each and every main square across the peninsula. Nor
do I mean the anodyne motifs that line every street in the country that so ineffectually attempt to put a secular face on these generous annual donations from our municipal coffers to the Ebenezers of Iberdrola.

Here, where the chiaroscuro lane met the wide square, layers of history rose up in front of you like a millefeuille pastry. At ground level, the remains of an ancient Aramaean temple to Hadad-Ramman could be deciphered in the walled courtyard. From there, a series of Roman pillars supported a colonnade leading to a semi-ruined entranceway that the Romans had built after they assimilated Hadad with their own deity of thunder, Jupiter. And there in the centre of the square stood the Byzantine remains of an enormous church that had been dedicated to John the Baptist until the Caliph al-Walid I converted it into a temple that is still known as the Umayyad Mosque.

In the transitions you could palpably envision ancient Semitic rites being adopted into the Roman solstice of Saturnalia. In the air hung memories of the smell of the acrid papyrus smoke from the fundamentalist Christian bonfires as they consciously turned their backs on the accumulated knowledge of the classical world by implementing their dark, fatalistic vision of monotheism and thus monothought.

Then came the mark of the subsequent version of zealous believers, equally convinced that their new prophet was the sole interpreter of their celestial dictator’s whims, even if their coat of whitewash left the Christan murals in the church, and the myths that accompanied them, disfigured but visible. All this at the gates of a bustling market that displayed all the tenets of the rampant consumerism that Christmas now entails.

I was ordering a pistachio ice cream, just steps away from where Saul of Tarsus fell off his horse, when I realized that the
seller wasn’t just giving me the ice cream but was just about to give me his phone number. Here I was in an Islamic country and I was being openly hit on by another man.

But this was a country that defied stereotypes. Just a few blocks away, while music rang out from shops in the Armenian
neighborhood, I had seen more exposed flesh than you would in Ibiza. The booksellers in the souq were also doing brisk business. The Assad regime would drop barrel bombs and wipe out entire neighborhoods if you were against them, but under Bashar’s rule there was a razor thin veneer of stability. Like Saddam and Muammar before him, he was the only deity the people had to fear and obey.

Now the deposed dictator lives among empty vodka bottles in freezing Moscow as Russia’s Mediterranean colony takes on a distinct Turkish flavor under the expansionist and increasingly Islamist Erdogan. The big question now is, will you be able to say Merry Christmas here next year?