Bringing It (M)all Back Home

Image by Christopher Chan via Flickr

In 1982, at the age of seventeen I arrived in Toronto.

I was most taken by the magnificent architecture, notably The Eaton Centre, still one of the most beautiful and underated buildings in the city. Decades later, I read an article about the origin of the design of The Eaton Centre, and how its roof was inspired by the ancient souk in Damascus.

And now, all these years later, I am in that ancient Damascus souk, shopping on the shoulders of giants. At once awesome and inconceivable.

And suddenly a long way from home seems just around the corner, and I'm overwhelmed by the revelation that our commonality is so vast, and our Gap(s) so (s)mall.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Writing The Ship

I checked out of the Iran friendly hotel asap. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not anti Iranian people, there was no ideological dust up in the lobby  and the hotel staff were kind and reasonable. Its just that the room sucked, I don't like hotels that primarily cater to tour groups, and I was completely disoriented.

The final affront was being charged for breakfast. I'd become so addicted to the free breakfast that was offered at each and every stop on the way that I was mortified when I had to be stopped upon exit from the restaurant and told that I had to pay my bill.

So I payed my breakfast bill, went to my room and packed, and then payed my hotel bill. And in one final act of travel stupidity, I overpaid to get to my originally intended destination, but the overpayment  in the taxi was minimal and gave me a great look at Damascus.

I have to say that when I finally checked in to my intended destination, I was a little bit proud as a traveler that I realized that I was off the path that I wanted to be on, and that I took action to change course. In addition I lowered my hotel bill by a third and stopped paying for breakfast.

And now that the water is calm, its time to discover how awesome Damascus is.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Me, Damascus, Machine Guns, and Iranians

In my last post I extolled the virtues of "figuring it out as you go", and while I still subscribe to that theory, sometimes a traveler with weak intentions is easily led astray. It was here that I learned an important lesson: even if all you have is a vague sense of where you want to go, you must always tell the cab driver at your point of arrival that you have already booked and PAID FOR another hotel and that you deeply appreciate his recommendation, but you have other commitments.


The fact is that if you're in a large urban environment and you get to a hotel listed in a major tourist guide, and you don't have a reservation they will likely accommodate you, or help you find another hotel in the immediate area. And if you don't have a plan or the appearance of a plan, then the cabbie is calling the shots, not you, and fake power is better than no power at all.

Having exercised neither, I find myself sitting in the lobby  in the early morning Damascus hours, exhausted and waiting for my room to be prepared at a rate about 50% more than I had budgeted for, but given that I'm a cheap bastard, fifty percent more is not a significant amount.

.

As we drive through the empty streets, I remind myself that it is Friday, a traditional day off.

The staff are kind, and they do their best to get me in my room well ahead of a standard check in time, but I'm starting to get a vibe that I have made a mistake.

As I wait for my room, I step out for a smoke and notice a definite lack of activity, and I'm starting to get concerned because I have no concept of where I am in relation to where I want to be and I have this immediate feeling that I need to get to my room and find a way to go somewhere else.

After a nap, I venture out, and as I do I begin to realize that I am in a hotel that caters  mainly to Iranian tour groups. The foyer is filled with fellow travelers, half of them wearing full on burquas. I begin to understand that I will not be harmlessly  flirting with some fellow travelers over breakfast.


Beyond the confines of the hotel, the backdrop is equally bleak. I am in the financial district on a day when nothing is happening and I'm getting a post apocalyptic vibe as I scour the almost empty streets. I say almost empty, because there are a few locals observing me, and they are poised in front of  buildings with machine guns at the ready.

I remind myself not to make any sudden moves, and that taking pictures is probably not prudent.  I feel like I'm in a bad Middle Eastern version of The Omega Man.

I'm ravenous, and I find a shawarma place, presumably open to keep the machine gun toting dudes from getting cranky from hunger. The place is a postage stamp, and I wait in line behind two locals, while rehearsing my point and order pantomime.

Suddenly, two suits enter, cut the line, and are served at once. No one says a word, least of all me. Though I do fume as I wonder why the people of Syria don't rise up against this kind of petty elitist bullshit.

"Ahh forget about it, it'll never happen", I tell myself as I head back to my hotel, armed only with a shawarma and a notion.

The little man inside is trying to tell me something, and my ears are open. I need to get out of here, because I am on the wrong path. I know that Damascus has a lot to offer, but my gut is telling me that I need to hit the reboot.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Going Blind

I sleep fitfully in my berth, constantly rocked by the rolling train, and I don't mind one bit. For my money, there is nothing better than a trainride to conjour notions of a bygone era. I wake in the early dawn on the outskirts of Damascus and realise that I don't really have a firm plan.

In fact I have no plan beyond a thread of a name in the Lonely Planet guide that is across from the other older train station that is not near the train station that I am arriving at. I think they call this  "flying blind".



As I disembark, I find myself at the side of a road, a taxi stand of sorts. As is my wont upon arrival at any new destination, I hang out and chill at the point of arrival, usually because I don't know where I'm going, or I know where I'm going but I don't know how to get there, or as currently configured, a combination of both.

I linger as the vibrancy of the Damascus dawn unfolds before me, and I remind myself that the beauty of not having a plan is that nothing can go wrong.

No big deal.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Old World Charm

 

NOTE - The above poster of The Citadel in Aleppo is part of a series of travel posters promoting the glory of rail travel in the early part of the 20th century, and if you ever find one of  the above, let me know.


It used to be that I attributed the phrase "Old World Charm" to Europe. After all, I knew that I lived in the "New World" and that my relatives came from the "Old Country" and therefore "Old World Charm" must refer to people from Europe.

But my sojourn into Turkey and Syria, leads me to suspect that the term must refer to these people in this part of the world. Their world is older, and their hospitality is deeper. I am quickly learning that the people I have met and am meeting have a deep sense of taking pride in properly welcoming visitors.

After all, the Turks and the Syrians have been a part of ancient trade routes since before the Old Testament was in its first draft. These gracious people have been accustomed to seeing strangers coming down the dirt road since time immemorial,  and it shows.

To wit, I submit before the court, one Mr. Wahlid, The Concierge at The Baron Hotel, and a gentleman of the highest order.

 qu

Mr. Wahlid has worked at The Baron Hotel for 47 years, and his presence calmed me greatly.

I have spent most of my life in the hospitality industry, and the hospitality that Mr. Wahlid welcomed me with put my own skills to shame, and I will forever doff my cap to this Zen Master of welcome.

And so it was that Mr. Wahlid booked me a sleeper on the overnight train to Damascus complete with driver. He asks me to be in the lobby by 9pm. I am very grateful, as a simple inquiry from the previous night has solved all of my problems. Now, make no mistake, Mr. Wahlid is getting a cut of the action, but I know how much a train ticket from Aleppo to Damascus costs, and the markup is marginal.


I figure the cost to me for the Cadillac service is about $8 over the cost of the ticket. Perfect.

So I show up in the lobby at the appointed time, and I wait and I wait and I wait .

Mr. Wahlid tells me to worry not , and buys me an araq (raki, ouzo)  in an effort to quell my misgivings . I wait while memories of my departure from Istanbul dance through my head. However, I have the utmost faith in Mr. Wahlid, and sure enough my driver appears.

 Just prior to 10pm, Mr. Wahlid indicates to me that my driver is prepared, and it is time to go.  My train is scheduled to leave at 10:30, but by now I am learning that there seems to be a fifteen minute grace period applied to all land transport in both Turkey and Syria, so I'm not that concerned, despite the fact that I've paid my money and have no ticket in hand.

Just another travel moment where you must have faith in others. And others have yet to fail me.

"Finally", I think to myself as I gather my luggage.

However, as we exit The Baron Hotel I am surprised.

Mr. Wahlid insists upon helping me with my luggage as he leads me to the vehicle, which I expect to be a cab waiting out front. Instead we trek to the parking lot, and I begin to realize that Mr. Wahlid is going to be my driver, and in that instant I relax completely.

As we turn the corner to the parking lot, I stop in my tracks, stunned and speechless.

 Now, I'm not a car guy, but I remember every car my father owned, and I especially remember the 1974 Dodge Dart "Swinger" my father purchased brand new. It was metallic green with a dark green interior and hardtop. And this particular car was the biggest lemon ever to roll off the Detroit line.

Image by jacksnell via Flickr

At that time, we lived at the top of the hill and this lazily crafted piece of crap would stall each and every time that we drove to the bottom of the hill, to the point that it became a family joke.

And now before me in Aleppo, Syria is the exact same car with that exact same inverted rear windshield (a unique feature of the Dodge Dart), the same bench seats, the same dashboard and in that instant I have a nice notion that my Dear Departed Dad is somehow along for the ride.

As we head toward the train station, Mr. Wahlid mentions that he is very tired. I ask him why, and he tells me that his son has been assigned to serve in The Syrian Army in Danascus. Today he woke up at 4am so he could drive his wife from Aleppo to visit her son in Damascus.

In Syria, army service is compulsory for young men, and I get the vibe. Mom misses her baby, so Dad steps up to the plate. I make a note to thank Mr. Wahlid and send him off to his home ASAP.

As we arrive at the train station, Mr Wahlid secures my ticket and access. I try to send him on his way, but he insists on showing me to my private berth. I ask him about smoking. He brings me a cup with water.

As we bid our goodbyes, and to little surprise, I hear the people in the next berth greet him with utter delight.

I remind myself that I have to take a picture of the platform at The Aleppo Station, the opening stage of the Agatha Christie classic, Murder On The Orient Express (some of which was which was written at The Baron Hotel)

Homework done, I slip into the comfort of my hotel room on rails. As the train begins to pull away, I take one last look at the station. To my astonishment, Mr. Wahlid is now standing on the platform. As our eyes meet, I punch my heart, and Mr. Wahlid reciprocates as I am pulled away into the Syrian night.

As the train clacks and creaks towards Damascus, I well up, humbled by the eloquence of the dignities that have rained down upon me from the outset and how it all crystalizes in the simplest instance.

Thank you, Mr. Wahlid.

Old World Charm, indeed.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com