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Once a week, in a dark and very smoky basement bar of a central Damascene hotel a large group of people meet to drink, smoke (so much that your eyes ache within the first five minutes and don't stop aching for the duration of your stay) and listen to poetry. It is the sort of club that you read about in history books, where revolutionaries meet to discuss politics whilst being inspired by their country's finest poets. It seems to be extremely popular, or that was certainly the impression given when India, Emlyn, Everitte and I first visited at the invitation of our good friend Ali, a most marvellous student from SOAS who seems to know about everything that's going on in Damascus. We entered the dingy joint and had to sit on the floor for the duration of the night because there was absolutely no space anywhere else. It was uncomfortable, but such a unique experience that the atmosphere, thicker than the smoke, made you forget the aching in your legs and eyes.

The evening appears to be run by this bizarre Turkish character who remind me a little of professor Snape, wears a leather jacket, smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and spends the evening shouting at people to be quiet and listen to the poetry. It also gives him free reign to join in with any poems/songs he knows or likes as he knocks back his araq. He is always moving to and from the small rostra, heckling from wherever he happens to be. Towards the end of the first night, he had us gathered around him as he was talking about his love life. The conversation ended with him saying, "I have two beautiful girls, but now I am finished from the sex." He also appears to like hugging people when drunk, which is pretty much 99% of the time.

As you can probably tell this evening we were acquainted with the best group of Syrians we could possibly hope to meet - the celebrity of the club, a guy called Shakespeare who knows more about English poetry and can quote it more than any of us put together and his friend Amer recite English poetry every week and then translate it into Arabic for the benefit of the general public. They are quite extraordinary and so talented. The first week we went they did Kubla Khan and I couldn't stop grinning. As for the majority of the evening, although you cannot really understand a single word of what's said, it is worth going just to listen to the rhythm of the Arabic and the reactions that the poetry receives.

The evening tends to be finished off with music, and the first week we went we were lucky to be entertained by an Iraqi called Duri who not only plays the guitar with great skill, but also has the most beautiful voice I think I have ever heard. India and I were mesmerised by his music and his far from objectionable outward appearance and were not doing a very good job of not gorping in wonder. Alas for us that he left a few days after that to go back and visit his family in Iraq, maybe he'll get back just before we leave…?

After the poetry ended, the lights were rather unceremoniously but in the bar and we slowly headed outside where we met even more people. We ended up going with them to a small bar on straight street called Abu George in a battered and ancient Renault driven by a French Canadian Syrian called Hasan, whose entire crop of saplings of various types on his farm in the Jebel Druze had been consumed by the herd of one of the more venomous and hostile Druze villagers. I couldn't get over how surreal it was, driving down the oldest recorded street in the world with so much history attached to it in this way. But this stop appeared to be but brief as they then decided they would take us up mount Qassioun. Bearing in mind it was already about 2am by this point and we had university at 9am the next day, this is where our hopes of getting a relatively early night were quashed. Not that I was complaining, we were having far too much fun.

In the car on the way up I discussed the fine topics of poetry and music with Shakespeare and Amer -from metal music and why it is banned in Syria (considered subversive) to our favourite orchestral works. I think they were quite surprised I actually knew any classical music, and the feeling was more than mutual - does one ever expect to be going up a mountain in the very very early morning with people who want to discuss which Brahms piano concerto is their favourite?

Once we got the the top we admired the view of Damascus at night. I would highly recommend it even if you have to settle for 7pm instead of 3am. The green of the mosques goes well with the neon blue of the churches and the blinking lights around the rest of the city. They also pointed out that the dark areas where the president lived and where there was a huge military complex containing huge satellites for spying over Disneyland. The conversation started to move away from the poetry and music towards politics and therefore fascinated me in the extreme as I munched on cherry and chocolate fairy cakes that appeared from nowhere. They laughed at Ali, India and Everitte as they had never seen wine passed around and drunk from the bottle as was done that night. As the night wore on I was stuck between Everitte speaking Arabic in a very loud and slow voice about how the Americans won't do anything unless it is for money, and the others discussing the relevance of Shelley's Ozymandius to present day Dubai.

Needless to say we didn't get into the university, despite swearing to each other at 5.30am as we went our separate ways that we would, so it was just as well that the next week the day after the poetry club was a national holiday, so we had no classes. I don't know what we'll do next Monday…

The second time at the poetry club it was a real pleasure to see everyone again and congratulate them after they recited. It was once again a splendid night, despite the embarrassment of being forced to dance to the guitarist Stalin's (more emphasis on the 'i') music, when we would much rather have just listened. You kind of feel all eyes on you at times like that. All the same we still headed to Abu George afterwards and sat outside. Temptation proved too much when I saw that Stalin had brought his guitar, so for much of the evening I just sat and listened to him and his strange versions of the Gypsy Kings where he sang along in something that sounded like Spanish but was actually gobbledegook. This was not a problem, you cannot really expect a Kurd to memorize Spanish lyrics, I know I couldn't, but it was still quite sweet.

Alas for the weakness of my resolve and any sense of shame, for after 4 weeks of no music (apart from my harmonica in Bb) I couldn't refuse when the guitar was handed to me. What started out as a small pleasure in playing a couple of songs to myself ended up as something that lasted for the rest of the night. We were moved to the Jewish garden at the request of some policemen, where the caretaker of the garden hung around and kindly let us stay there, though we obviously weren't supposed to. Once settled there the rest of the night was spent passing the guitar between Stalin and myself and taking it in turns to play. They bore my presence very well and they kindly insisted on me playing stuff despite my limited guitar skills, and it being under the watchful gaze of about 10 slightly drunk Syrians. Plus, who'd turn down the chance to play the Mamluk Muhammad Ali song (the original extended and for the most part historically accurate version) in the early hours of the morning in Damascus?

Thus we passed the night in only slightly chilly Damascus talking and listening and singing. Out of everything I played, apart from the Mamluk song of course, for some reason their favourite was wagon wheel, I think because Everitte knew the words and could drown out my singing and playing for the most part. Since that evening though I have been told that we have been invited at the insistence of all who were there that night to play next week at the poetry club. The idea fills my heart with fear…before we found this out however the next morning Everitte texted, "we should perform Wagon Wheel at the next poetry club." I replied, "but is Syria and the poetry club ready for it?" "Syria no, poetry club yes," he wrote. We shall see…on a brighter note though, after that evening Shakespeare offered to give me Arabic lessons in exchange for a song each time. We shall see how long that lasts, but I hope for a while because my Arabic is in dire need of assistance.

On Wednesday another completely separate poetry evening was held just off Qaiamaria in the studio/house of an artist - when I grow up I want to be like Nawal Alsadon in her black house coat, black velvet hat and her amazing home in the Damascus Old City. The evening was dedicated to an Australian poet, Matthew Blome who graduated in Law from Sydney university and took to the road, travelling through the Middle East for 10 months. He is going to Kurdistan for Christmas, lucky thing. I was made extremely jealous when he talked about his time in Iran and seriously considered asking whether he knew anyone whom I could marry for a non-British passport. I WANT TO GO TO IRAN!!! His work is inspired by the Romantics, especially his favourite Lord Byron, and was a pleasure to listen to. He has the all too rare skill in being able to distill a certain idea and encapsulate it in a few lines of poetry. And did I mention he's been to Iran? Each poem was was translated by Shakespeare who was sitting next to him and so you got the applause of the people who understood more English than Arabic the first time, and the applause of the Arabic speakers the second time round. The one that got the most raucous reception was his poem about sex and the fact that wearing the veil has the opposite effect to that which it was intended - your imagination runs wild over the unknown body beneath the chador. His poems often had strong links with nature and my two favourites were the ones about the miracle and sheer fortune of being alive which was the first one he recited, and one about the sparrows that he saw flying over one of Iran's mosques. I know hearing about poetry second hand sort of sells it short, but it was really a pleasure to listen to.

After the poetry finished, Shakespeare, Amer, Ali, India, Everitte and I sat around a table and chatted. We then remembered we hadn't done our homework, and Shakespeare offered to take us through it. It was odd eating humous in the white painted room of the studio and translating a piece on graveyard tourism in San Salvador. Later in the evening Hasan re-appeared with freshly baked bread which we all fell upon despite Shakespeare telling him not to distract us from our task. As we wound our way home, again much later than intended, he invited us all to visit his farm at some point. I cannot think of many things I'd rather do, the company is just too good.

Yesterday, after going to university and being frustrated that all we did was look at the text which we knew inside out already thanks to Shakespeare, Ali and I decided to form a choir. Unfortunately it only has 3 people so far and no music. Any suggestions are gratefully received. Then India and I went to an "audition" for this TV series that I got told about by Karen, an American woman who was at the Jewish garden on Monday night. Apparently it is a series that is being shot in Syria in English and is exported to the ex-pat community in the Gulf States. We were both intrigued so decided to go along just for the experience. There was no audition as such, you just had your photo taken and asked about your availability. Methinks that there will not be much acting to be done even if we do get a part. Still, twas good fun and we went with the other girls who had turned up (all westerners from the university) to souq sarouja and had juice with the guy who had spoken with us. He turned out to be, if we are to believe him, a former political activist who has turned his attention to directing and is currently doing some clandestine work in Syria with the BBC. Even if what he was telling us wasn't true, and there is no reason not to believe him, it was still some fascinating conversation.

After a few too many hours India and I headed back to Bab Touma to buy some flowers for Hiba as it was her birthday. The florist we went to was very friendly and created, whilst watching the Arsenal match (3-nil!) a lovely little bouquet which he then wrapped in plastic blue netting with a gold bow with an only slightly camp flourish. We gave these to Hiba, along with some jewellery we bought the other day and she seemed pleased. She invited us for supper with her and when we arrived she filled the table with amazing food. It turned out she had prepared a mini birthday feast for her and me, and had even found the piano cake India and I had spotted in Bab Touma when we first arrived. We ate more delicious tabbouleh, mini savoury pastries and cake and jelly for pudding. I was very very happy.