The Privileged Pilgrim

 Sometimes when I travel I'm not entirely sure of where I'm going to sleep, but this sentiment is usually constrained to finding a hotel in a defined place. Today, not even the place is not defined.

After a final, white knuckled ride from the Syrian border to Antakya, I do know one thing. I have spent the last eight hours in a cab to travel 120km and I just want to get out of this vehicle. Lodging is a secondary priority, and  I know that now that I am in Antakya, I have a few cards to play.

At the beginning of the day, my wide eyed goal was to be here in the early afternoon, so that I could get a bus to Adana, at which point I would book a flight back to Istanbul. In the waning hours of the Antioch day it appears my goal will not be reached.

Nonetheless, I grab my (non heroin filled)  bags and the cab driver points me in the direction of the bus terminal. I am accompanied by the very beautiful and very young Russian lady who had joined us at the Turkish border. She had been denied entry into Syria due to a lack of a visa, and she is not happy about it.

I explain to her that there has been a changing of the guard at whatever department grants visa's to travellers, and the Syrian government had cracked down on issuing visa's at the border. Having done my research prior to travelling, this was not the first time I had heard this story.

As we walk towards the bus station I advise her that if she wants to get a visa for Syria, she should go to Ankara and apply there. Graciously, she offers to help me translate in my quest for a ticket to Adana as she speaks four languages.

I hesitate for a moment, and in that moment I realise that I am really missing the company of women, and I don't mean that in a sexual way. I mean it in a social sense. As much as I enjoyed her company, I decline her offer while imagining her running for Putin's job in about twenty years and winning.

We arrive at the "bus station", shake hands, and part ways as I again lament the fact that I am not younger, richer, and better looking.

The bus station is really a strip mall of private bus companies, each with their own storefront. Almost all are closed, but I find one open. I expect to be told that there is nothing until tomorrow, but the man points me to a closed office and says they have one more shuttle to Adana.

He tells me to come back in one hour and they will be open. Perfect.

I haven't eaten since breakfast at  The Baron Hotel this morning, and I am famished. In addition, Antakya is a beautiful place, and I am grateful to have one last hour here. Dragging my luggage through town, I am definitely an object of attention.

I find a nice little Mom and Pop fast food joint and stuff myself on chicken, rice, and salad as the locals look on. I make my way to the bus office which is now open and buy a ticket to Adana. Much to my surprise, I am actually going to make it back to Adana tonight.

I load my luggage on the bus and climb aboard. As we pull out into the Turkish night, it dawns on me for the first time today that I will probably never see Syria again. This saddens me, but I quickly understand as we roll through the now dark Levant that the real cause of the tears running down my cheek is the joyous recognition that I was deeply blessed to see Syria at all.

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.

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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

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