Is Aleppo a "Party Town"?

Note to self -  If I ever own a hospitality business it will be called "24 Disco Super Night Club", even if it is a humble hot dog stand overlooking the Bay of Fundy.

Now, I never did darken the doorway of the "24 Disco Super Night Club" in Aleppo, but it is clear to me that the owners are on the cutting edge of retro futuristic branding, and I am currently in negotiations for the T-shirt rights.

One can only imagine the magnificent opulence that must lay beyond the hallowed gates of the "24 Disco Super Night Club". The word on the street is that the beer taps are made of gold, the draft is served in diamond encrusted sleeves and the Shawarma bowl is constantly refilled by virginal belly dancers.

And even if that isn't true, it is still the best name for a bar, ever. Period.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Off To Market

My main purpose in travel is to gain insight into the human experience, and there is no better place to observe humans than in the local market.

If you want to understand how people live, go where they shop.

I first came to this understanding in Kumasi, Ghana at The Kejetia Market, and I have yet to see a more breathtaking market.

Since then, I have relished every opportunity to visit a market, and the market at Aleppo is considered one of the most well preserved examples of an ancient market in The Middle East. This is not some tourist destination, it is the real deal, and the place is a massive labyrinth that leaves me stymied again and again.

On the periphery of the market, one is constantly pinned against ancient walls as vehicles vie to deliver goods. Inside the market, carts of all size and shape, motorbikes, and scooters urge me to step aside with resounding horns.

At a few points I am jostled by the crowd, and in one instance, in typically Canadian fashion, I say "sorry" as a young man bumps into me while passing with some friends. I hear him ask his friend in Arabic what "sorry" means.

Next, I have a moment that deeply appeals to my Canadian DNA. Like many of my fellow citizens, I have helped push a car out of the snow in the depths of a northern winter. In Canada, it is almost a duty that you help give someone a push when they need it, and it was this instinct that kicked in as I watched a lady and her son struggle mightily and fail to get a well loaded cart up some steep stairs.

Now, I presume that the goods were intended for a stall owned by the lady's husband, and in that instance I weighed the social appropriateness of a man helping a lady he doesn't know in this culture, while noticing that no one else is stepping up to the plate.

Foreign culture be damned, I offer my help. As a Canadian it is my duty to offer a push. The lady accepts and I step behind the cart, between her and her son. Scandalously, our hips touch as we push the mighty load up the stairs.

As we reach the top, the lady thanks me in Arabic, I say "shook-ran" (thank you), and bow my head, with hands in a  prayer  position in a feeble attempt to show the utmost respect.

As we part ways, I'm kinda proud that I have represented my country well, and I suspect that no matter where you are in this world, if you need a push, you could do worse than run into a Canadian.

And if you want to have a real travel experience, I suggest you hit the local market.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Sit A Spell At The Citadel

So once I right the ship and retrace my steps back to square one, I find that my legs are getting tired. I stop for a coffee in the local hubble bubble and scarf a shawarma along the way. Satiated, I set a course in the correct direction.

I turn a corner and get my first gasping glimpse of  The Citadel.

A citadel is a fortress that protects a city, and my initial reaction was a militaristic one, as I imagine all the poor saps who were ordered to attack this fortress. Clearly, they never had a chance.

The place sits atop a steep hill, and there is but one entrance. One of the defensive measures built into the citadel are holes in the structure so that boiling oil could be poured down on intruders.

However, this place was much more than a military base. It was a little society unto itself.  There is a big theater, a little jail, a small mosque and living quarters. Crap, there is even a huge moat! A moat!

And in its modern incarnation, it seems to be a great public space for the Syrian people, a refuge from the watchful eye of the police state, a place where the people of Aleppo can enjoy a private moment.

Apparently, it is also a destination for school field trips. At one point,  50 or 60 kids erupt into song while touring the theater. I have no idea what they were singing, but it was pretty damn charming.

Obviously, safety isn't a big issue here, as I see many young people standing on ledges that would put my heart in my throat. Its hard to blame them though, as the view of Aleppo from here is magnificent.

Next stop is the market.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Wrong Turn? Impossible.

The thing about a free breakfast is that it gives this budget traveler a strong incentive to get his boney ass out of his rented bed, the prospect of Nescafe notwithstanding. Over breakfast my bleary eye glances at my LP guide and it is here that I make a great directional error.

I want to go to The Citadel and and the famed market, but I head out confidently in the wrong direction, and it  takes a few hours for me to pull out my LP and realize my mistake. But I don't really care, because daily life in Aleppo fascinates me deeply.

Shortly after my arrival I learned that eye contact or lack thereof is highly significant. Certainly, a gentleman does not make eye contact with a lady he does not know, and a man does not look a man in the eye while passing in the street.

However, if there is some reason for exchange, a tidal wave of hospitality is instantly unleashed.

As I walk the streets of Aleppo I adopt the universal sign of respect and humility, the bowed head. I picked this up in response to the fact that a lot of men are doing this to me as I pass. I know not what the women are doing because I instantly avert my eyes upon sight.

Eventually, I move in the proper direction to the big tourist areas, but my wayward sojourn breeds only gratitude as I recognize the fact that my primary purpose in travel is to find the truth in the lives of others and that a glimpse at this truth is never a wrong turn, even if I have to avert my eyes every now and then.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Stolen Moment

 

Two young lovers share a moment at The Citadel, in Aleppo, Syria.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

The Second City Theory

American parlance dictates that Chicago is known as "The Second City", after New York, but it has developed another meaning for me. The second city is often the better city. I liked Cape Coast more than Accra, Saigon couldn't beat Hanoi, and Siem Reap was better than Phnom Penh.

And lets face it, Vancouver and Montreal are better travel destinations than my beloved Toronto

As I sit in my room at the Baron Hotel, I  peek outside my window. I know this moment, and I feel like a cat in a new apartment on moving day. A cat will hide under the bed, then gingerly appear, moving in concentric circles until comfortable, until the bearings are found.

 And this cat is no different. When I find myself in a foreign city, my first move is to take a walk around the block, recording landmarks, leaving mental breadcrumbs, so I might find my way back.

So it is in Aleppo, as I find myself stepping out from the very friendly confines of The Baron Hotel. I cross the street to get a look at the hotel from a distance. I note that the nearest corner contains the offices of three different airlines.

Not knowing where to go, I play a game of Rock,Paper, Scissors with myself and righty wins, so off I go turning right and up a main road that vaguely reminds me of Yonge Street in Toronto. As is my wont, I walk and walk and walk, still amazed by the fact that I am now officially in "The Middle East".

The first thing that strikes me amidst the bustle is the sheer whiteness of everything. All the buildings are white, or formerly so. The darkest buildings are light beige. The architecture is spectacular.

After a long journey, I'm feeling famished, yet reticent. I see a lot of places selling takeaway Shawarma/Donair/Gyros, bakery's with exquisite pastry and the local version of pizza by the slice. The only proper restaurant I pass is Mexican, and I absolutely refuse upon principle to eat at a Mexican restaurant in Syria.

Eventually, I end up scarfing a Shawarma streetside, and man is it good. I chat with the man at the stand. He asks me where I'm from. He welcomes me to Syria and I know its dumb, but in that moment I begin to feel very much at home and comfortable.

Indeed, Aleppo is a great choice, even if it is a "second city".

Next up, The Citadel and the most historically accurate old market in The Middle East.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Ladies And Gentlemen, Meet The Baron

Being a budget traveler, I have never thought of a hotel as a destination. All I want is my own bathroom and a bed and a TV is a bonus. However, I made an exception in Aleppo, and I owe it all to a romantic crush on a bygone era.

The Baron Hotel first came to my attention through the man in seat61.com.. It was the first proper hotel built in Syria. It was built to serve the new railway traffic.

Agatha Christie stayed here.

As did Charles Lindbergh.

Among many, many, more.

In the lounge area, Lawrence of Arabia's tab is displayed in a glass case.

My room is functional, and it is clear the joint is on its last legs. Nonetheless, the hospitality is exceptional, and as I pour myself a beer at the historic bar, I think about the giants of an era who quenched their thirst in this room at a time when the British Empire ruled the world.

Agatha Christie wrote part of Murder On The Orient Express while staying at this hotel, and those in the know will note the fact that her novel opens on the platform of the train station at Aleppo, Syria, which is not part of the Orient Express line.

I marvel at the phone booth.

And I wonder about the calls that were made on this phone.

Yeah, I'm digging this place. Best sixty-two bucks a night I ever spent.
 

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

One Moment In Aleppo

Just a picture from the citadel at Aleppo, Syria, but one of my favourites. Taken days prior to the beginning of strife in the Middle East, I see a lot of symbolism in the image. Click on it for a better look.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Hotel?Police!Hotel?Police!

Now, I don't know about you, but when I board a bus at a station, I expect to be dropped off at a bus station, so I was more than a little surprised when my bus from Turkey dropped me off at a roundabout somewhere on the outskirts of Aleppo.

One man was kind enough to ask me where I was going. When I mentioned that I need a hotel, he says "Hotel, Police!,Hotel, Police!" and quickly leaves me alone as the traffic whizzes by.

As I pull out a smoke and my guidebook, I have an out of body experience as I see myself from above. I begin to laugh at the vision of some stupid Canadian on the side of the road in northern Syria looking through a guidebook. However, my panic level is very low. I made it into Syria, and as I drink in the wonder around me, my faith in the way forward abounds.

The thing is that I know where I want to go, I just don't know where I am or how to get there, but after a proper scalping by a cab driver, I find myself checking in to the most famous hotel in Syria, a bastion of bygone days and a destination unto itself.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Break On Through (to the other side)

As I ride the early morning bus towards the Turkey - Syria border my knuckles are as white as the shroud of fog that envelopes these post dawn hours.

The road gets worse as the fog thickens. The lady across the aisle is reading a newspaper. The headline is about a bus crash in Egypt that killed many tourists.I take some solace in the fact that I am the only tourist on the bus. The Turkish news on the T.V. is showing an endless array of traffic horrors captured by security video.

I can't see anything outside the window and the televised traffic carnage is harshing my mellow, so I put on my headphones and look down while reminding myself that every moment is a leap of faith and that we are all hurtling helplessly into the unknown at all times, foggy bus notwithstanding.

As we arrive at the Turkish border, there is a phalanx of trucks, a line so extensive that it should take days to clear. Fortunately, passenger vehicles are allowed to jump this cue. I find myself disembarking the bus and following the smallish herd to a kiosk where I present my passport to a Turkish official.

When I checked in for this bus ride, I surrendered my passport to an official of the bus company. I was told that my passport would be returned to me on the bus and it was. In the interim the bus company reported to Turkish border officials my personal details, but they made a mistake and listed my first name as David, which is my middle name.

This discrepancy is enough to cause my luggage to be pulled off the bus as I am searched and pulled aside for questioning. I think to myself that if this was a plane instead of a bus it would be a serious problem. Thank God that there isn't a "No Bus" list. (yet) Eventually things are cleared up and I get back on board.

We drive for a few minutes through the brown mountainous backdrop. We arrive at another gate and are waved through. We drive for several more minutes and I begin to wonder: Is that it?......am I in Syria?....Hell no.

Crossing any border makes me nervous, and I tend to feel like a kid being called into the principal's office. Crossing into Ghana scared me because it was my first trip to Africa. Crossing into Cambodia scared me because of its history. Crossing into Syria scares me because of the sheer foreignness of it all.

English speakers are few and far between, the country is not tourist oriented, and maybe I have seen too many movies.

We move into the Syrian border building, and as I stand in line I feel my heart pounding, flummoxed by the strangeness of my surroundings. I jostle with the crowd and finally make my way to the front. I hand over my passport, but in my nervousness, I have failed to fill out a customs declaration.

It is at this moment that I have a little freakout. I can't understand what anyone is saying amidst this crowd and I can't explain what I'm trying to say and I am such an idiot because I'm at a border without a pen, all of my pens having been packed deeply into my luggage after going through Turkish airport security 198 million times!!!

In my panic, I shriek out Pen! Pen! Pen!, like some crazed character from a Kids In The Hall sketch. Nothing but blank stares as I think to myself that I am going to be denied access to Syria for want of a pen. Finally a kindly stranger looks into my by then manic eyes and asks with utter calmness "Do you mean something to write with?"

Yes! He pulls a pen from his pocket and helps me fill out the form. I thank him profusely and he says proudly "Welcome to my country, you are welcome in Syria". It would be the first of many times that I would hear that statement.

With a little more finagling, I find myself in Syria. I notice that the fog that was plaguing us inexplicably disappears the moment we cross the frontier, as if it had been denied entry by Syrian border officials.

On to Aleppo.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com