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.
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