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.
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 FlickrAt 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
