All of them, even the ones who manage to reign in their selection of fabric color and pattern, fall victim to the achilles heel of Syrian fashion: a massive over-application of lipstick. They glom it on in successive rings that reach wider than an aged Sequoia. Once they've swooped it out almost to their nose and chin they ring it with a dark black bark of liner. Their lips are huge and hideous, the kind of thing that happens to a three-year old girl's face the first time she raids her mother's makeup cabinet. One ex-pat we were dining with at restaurant crowded with young Syrian women abruptly changed conversation to mention that he had recently seen a documentary about how the rear-ends of wild baboons inflame bright red when they come into heat. None of us had to ask why he brought this up.

Syrian beauty is one of the many quirky paradoxes that makes this country so interesting. Is the country ancient or modern? Western or oriental? Friendly or forbidding? Sarah and I only meant to stay here a few days, but because we've had a great host in Anna we have stayed much longer and delved much deeper in the culture than we originally planned. The more we dig, the more we like the place but the less certain we are that we've figured it out.

Like the Chinese, many Syrians manage to be simultaneously hospitable and annoying. Walking down the street, a woman here is stared at, heckled, and sometimes worse. Taxi driver try to rip us off, people elbow in-front of us in queues, the whole litany of rude and obnoxious behavior. But time and again we see the other side. Each day we are offered tea more times than we can count. People want to talk to us just to talk. Sitting in bus stations, strangers who don't speak any English give us food or a big smile or a laugh. In the case of our hotel owner in Aleppo, he exhibited such fierce hospitality that we literally had to sneak out of the front door each morning for fear he would see us and we'd lose an hour while he sat us down for cup after cup of tea.

Even familiar things here take on a new meaning. There is an area in the Old City of Damascus known as the Christian Quarter. It is packed with dozens of churches: Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox, Lutheran, Evangelical. Some of the churches date back to the early years of Christianity and mark important sites from St. Paul's time here. We came during the Easter holiday with Anna's Armenian neighbors and joined a parade of worshipers marching from one church to the next. The Christian Quarter was pretty much what I expected. It was pious worshippers and lots of crosses. People in stores and shops going about their business.

When I returned at night, however, "Christian" took on a whole other meaning. In America, Christian is often equated with sobriety, hard work, and abstinence. Here, in the land of Islam, Christians are seen as the fornicating drunkards. They are the women who walk down the street with their heads uncovered and the men who occasionally take a sip of whiskey with their dinner. If you want to party, come to the Christian Quarter. It is here that the night comes alive with sweaty bars and discos loud with booming music. Them Christians are a wild bunch.

In the Old City just west of the Christian Quarter is another example of Syria's mystique. At first glance the main tourist bazaar looks to be just that, a crowded alley of carpet and jewelry shops, antique dealers, and makers of backgammon boards inlaid with mother-of-pearl or plastic. Only later did I learn that the bustling appearance of the place veils a second, unseen market. The guy at the silver shop is known to cash personal checks for Americans. The shoe store does most of its business buying dollars at favorable rates. The ice cream shop that sells that good pistachio ice cream. . . well, actually they are just an ice cream shop, but doubtless other stores nearby are merely facades for traders in illicit merchandise of which I've not been made aware.

Here's another one: this country that is exiled politically and insulated economically sees itself as the very heartbeat of world civilization. I guess they have some historical claim -- first alphabet, first cities and all that -- but they conveniently ignore the fact that being ahead of the rest of the world 4000 years ago doesn't count for much today. They look at their semi-occupation of the war-weakened Lebanese as proof of their military dominance. They look down on the Jordanians as a bunch of tent-living camel lovers without any history or culture and forget that Jordan is a far more respected player than Syria on the world economic and political stage.

Syria is a country that acts free even though it isn't. It is loud and vibrant and alive. Never mind that each day when I go to check my e-mail I discover the government has blocked yet another site. Never mind that the Voice of America newscasts on my shortwave radio or intermittently jammed. Never mind it is nearly impossible to make an international phone call. Freedom is in the mind, and many Syrians are starting to think they are free. The secret police, the censorship, that's all water in the fish-tank, the stuff they have swum in their whole lives and so they almost forget it's there.

Yet even as they heap praise on the virtuous benevolence of their dictator and revel in their glorious past, most Syrians are desperate to leave, and most still view the USA as the land of opportunity. Each day, hundreds queue up outside the American embassy just for a chance to submit a visa application. For this, they must pay $80, a huge fee on a Syrian income, and that's just for the right to apply. Almost all get turned down.

Any western woman in Syria (if she's not assumed to be a Russian prostitute) is showered with marraige proposals. Anna received two her first day here, and in the months since has been offered many more, including one with an $8000 bonus. Islamic societies see unmarried women as shameful, so many men are dumbfounded that their proposals are rejected. One mother, trying to hook Anna up with her son, told her reassuringly "He doesn't even mind that you're old." She's thirty.

So what does this all add up to? What does Syria mean?