When we told our Couchsurfing host in Damascus that in Canada it’s customary to bring your own drink, and sometimes even food, to a party of barbecue, he looked shocked.

“What would you do in this situation,” I asked him.

After a hearty chuckle, he responded,” I would thank the invitation, but I’d stay far away from that party.”

In Syria, hospitality is a sacred thing. It’s a code of honour that runs in their blood for generations. The traditional Syrian home, from simple abodes to sprawling palaces, has a room dedicated to guests. It’s usually decorated with the best furniture in the house and its door remains unlocked.

According to tradition, anyone passing by could come in and stay for one day or one year. And, historically (but not really practiced today) the host would ask the stranger who he is and why he came after three days.

It’s hard to spend one day in Syria without being disarmed by her people. Only two hours into Damascus, our first stop, we bumped into Aesha, a girl we briefly met in a bus in Beirut. “So luck! So luck see you”, he gushed as if we were old, long-lost friends.

Mixing pantomime and English Level 1 vocabulary, we ambled in the city’s crowded streets, armed linked with Aesha as she paid for our snacks and our nuts before we had a chance to reach for our wallets. “You my visit, my guest, I pay for you, please!”

We didn’t resit too much, since it’s all very cheap. But hours later, we ate at a restaurant. Aesha didn’t eat and only helped herself to some water. But before I could swallow my last forkful she was before the cashier asking for the bill.

Roberto couldn’t let a 22-year old student pay a relatively high bill and ran after her

“No no no no no, you don’t have to pay, plese, you student, no need”, he entreated.

“Yes, yes please, please, my pleasure, please”, she responded.

Long, awkward minutes passed with slight variations in vocabulary and progressively grander gestures from both parties. Aesha finally gave up when the restaurateur advised her, with a defeated demeanor, to let it go. We picked up one Arabic word from his speech: amerki. They’re Americans, we assumed he said. They’re like that.

To be in a country where stores are decorated with fountains shaped like Arabian coffee pots, the local symbol for generosity, makes us reflect on our own attitudes back home. Where we eat alone in front of the computer, or feel slightly offended if a guest doesn’t bring a wine bottle. Where each one pays, to the nearest dollar, for what he consumed at a restaurant.

Short of cash, you say? The buying power of the average Syrian is far, far lower than our own.

Wajdi, our host in Damascus, spends many days fasting, Ramadan or not. “I don’t like to eat alone. I prefer to wait until I get home at night to eat with you.

“Food is something to be shared,” he said, night after night, in a fabulous restaurant or with a package of warm takeaway shawarma at home. And he always insisted on paying. And we, irreversibly Westernized, had a monumental difficulty in accepting.

Post Scriptum:

This post was published in an Internet café in Homs. After we sat down, without warnign or request, we were given a bottle of Syrian beer by the owner. “Welcome,” he said, a word we hear constantly, even by those who don’t speak English. As we prepared to pay for a combined total of six Internet hours, a scan and several printed pages, we were surprised again.

“How much”, we asked.

“No, free”, the owner replied..

“Free? No possible, free! 6 hours Internet, printing, scan, no free!” we protested.

“Today, first day business. Thank you, thank you very much, please welcome”,he said, handing us his business card.