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.

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Over The Borderline, pt 2

Image by PanARMENIAN_Photo via Flickr
As I approach the Syrian border in to Turkey at Bab al-Hawa a Zen calm comes over me. I'm in a ramshckle vehicle with four people, none of whom speak English, and I'm pretty sure that at least one person in the vehicle is a member of the police.

As the car slows at the Syrian side of the border, I quietly hum Que Sera Sera to myself. At the border we all get out of the car and go to the trunk, where we are asked to identify our bags and open them.

My Zen fades as I open my bag. The dude with the big gun takes a cursory glance and directs me to the kiosk, where I present my documents.

I think to myself as I exit Syria, "any idiot can get out of a country, it is getting in to the next one that can be tricky". Welcome to no mans land, the place where one is out, but not yet in. However, I am encourged by the lads in the car. The one redeeming feature of being in no mans land is the opportunity to shop Duty Free, and my fellow passengers pile into the store with a zeal beyond anything I have seen so far on this trip.

An invitation to shop is proffered, but I decline, choosing to step out of the vehicle and drink in my desolate mountain surroundings. I drench myself in the hypnotic timeless beige beauty, I consider taking a picture, but my camera is big and my instincts tell me that this border installation might not be the wisest place for a photo-op.

Nonetheless, it is striking and beautiful.

The lads return from shopping, and by the look of their purchases, I'm starting to think that these are my kind of people. Nothing but booze and cigarettes.

We approach the Turkish border and I remember why Lonely Planet says to take the early bus. The lineup is longer than The Beatles Revolution #9 played at 16rpm (take that Dennis Miller).

Everything from here forward is speculation and an example of the folly that can strike a traveler when traveling under dubious circumstances. Due to language barriers, I cannot confirm anything other than the fact that the Turkish border officials did allow me to cross. Eventually.

I think that the first mistake came when my driver was ordered to jump the cue by someone in the back seat. Jumping the cue involved getting away from the commercial vehicle  line by driving backwards, then squuezing into the regular passenger line. I'm pretty sure that cutting the line is a practice reviled worldwide, and I'm even more certain that there are a great deal of cameras at this particular border.

As I said, the Turkish authorities did allow me in and they were polite and kind. Even better, the entry visa that I paid double the going rate for in Istanbul allows for re-entry. I just saved sixty bucks unexpectedly. (Turkey has punitive visa rates for Canadians, due to the official recognition by the Stephen Harper government of an "Armenian genocide"). I take no sides, but this is why people from Canada pay twice as much as Americans for a Turkish entry visa.

While its all well and good that I am in Turkey, I was kind of hoping that the car and driver might come along with me. I'm pretty sure that due to our attempted cue jumping we have been banished to the dreaded "truck line".

And the reason that the truck line is dreaded is because every truck must go through a giant garage like xray machine that takes ten minutes to scan one semi trailer. There is a set of lights and when it goes green, the gate opens and then the door opens and dude drives his truck in. Then the driver gets the hell out. There are radiation signs everywhere and the whole process takes ten to twenty minutes per truck.

And I'm in a car, and I'm in this line. Better yet the truckers are furious that we are here, but the driver has been given his marching orders.Because we are through the border, we are now trying to cut in to the truck line. Two line cuts in one day is a record for me.

My hopes to get to Adana by nightfall dissipate along with my fascination for the countryside of this border crossing as the hours pile up. However, there is no shortage of drama unfolding before me. Serious fights threaten to break out amongst the truckers as they jockey for position. I step back and avoid the fray as peacemakers intervene.

I spy another cab in the same boat and share a silent laugh with some fellow travelers as we glance across the interminable wait.

In a comic moment I watch a swamper jump up and down on goods piled high on the roof of a truck so as to meet the vehicle height requirement. Others climb up and join in, and a cheer goes up when the truck clears the gate.

Eventually I am asked to remove my luggage, so that our car can be radiated. By this point the two police station passengers have bailed out, angrily refusing to pay the agreed fare. I briefly consider walking through the final checkpoint, but I have another 50km ahead, and no idea what lays on the other side.

It occurs to me that like it or not, it is best to stick with the devil I know.

The car gets scanned, my luggage goes back in the trunk as the carrot of departure is dangled yet again. The driver and his buddy disappear and reappear, hunting sporadically for documentation in the glove compartment.

As I enter my fifth hour at this now godforsaken dump, we finally move in to yet another line. I don't know who recorded the song "The Final Countdown", but it is running through my mind as we try to cut yet another line.

Finally we reach and clear the last gate, but a border official comes running out of yet another kiosk, and orders us to the side. We pull over, and more documents are produced. The border guard returns to his kiosk as I think to myself  "I've had enough of this shit", and apparently my driver and his buddy are thinking the same thought.

Suddenly, an air of conspiracy permeates the car and despite the language barrier, I am fully cognizant. Dude in the backseat is looking back at the kiosk, waiting for the guard to be distracted, and when he is, he gives the "go" signal to the driver.

As we peel out, I think to myself  "this sh*t is f*cked up".

I wait for the sirens to come up behind us, but they never do.

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Over The Borderline

Upon my return to Aleppo, I find myself in a taxi heading to The Baron Hotel. As we approach the hotel we stop at an intersection with police directing traffic.

I realise that my seatbelt is not on, and I hasten to strap myself in, but the female end is broken, so I hold it in place, giving the illusion of compliance. The driver looks over at me and says "Don't worry about police, I am police".

In a place like Syria, I have no reason to doubt him.

He asks me where I'm going and I explain that my plan is to pass through the Syrian frontier back into Turkey via Antakya. I have some vague plan to get a bus, but I also know that buses along this route are not common. He offers me a lift for $60, 120 km across the border to Antakya.

I consider briefly, then accept, thinking that hiring a private driver who is a cop speaks to my need for convenience and safety. Not to mention a wakeup call delayed by four hours. I accept and we arrange

The concierge at The Baron asks if I need a ride to Antakya, and I explain that I have already booked a ride and I have the first twinge that I have chosen too quickly..

My driver shows up promptly the following morning, and I am initially buoyed. We drive through the streets of Aleppo, and I briefly think that we are on our way, but it is not to be, and I begin to feel like I am in the opening of a great movie that I wish I wasn't in.

We switch cars. We switch drivers. I sit in the car with my luggage in the trunk for about half an hour. As I sit in the new car, the trunk is opened and closed several times. The thing is that when you sit in a car while the trunk is being opened it is impossible to see what is going on in said trunk, but it is possible to feel it.

I begin to imagine that my bag is being stuffed with Iranian heroin, bound for the Turkish market or any other number of nefarious schemes that end with me being sentenced to life in a far flung gulag while my family exhausts all their holdings in a vein attempt to free me or I get shot in the head in some obscure field.

My travel paranoia meter is going off like never before, and it only gets more redline as I am joined by a new driver and a fellow passenger, neither of whom speak English.

And what better place for a paranoid traveler in a police state to make a last stop prior to departure than a police station?  Even better, we pick up two more people at the police station. We all report to the local authorities that we are leaving the jurisdiction. In defence of the Syrian police and border officials that I dealt with, they were all kind, polite, professional, and vigilant.

As me and four non english speaking dudes head out into the remote Syrian countryside the driver offers a cigarette and we all accept. I wait about half an hour and do the same. No one accepts.

I've traveled to a lot of places, but I have never seen my original intentions go so far awry, and I don't mind telling you that I am deeply worried due to my complete lack of control. This is a moment where I have nothing to rely on but my faith in others.

We pull over somewhere in a remote area and the trunk opens again. While I cannot see,I can feel things being unloaded. Heavy things. By now I am pretty convinced that it is a key part for the secret nuclear program between North Korea, Syria ,and Iran. (google it!)

However, I feel a little better that we have unloaded some cargo as we head out. At least about for about 83 seconds, at which point the driver realises that he has forgotten to drop off something (possibly the enriched uranium).

We drive on towards the border and the countryside is stark and beautiful and I revel in the fact of how "real" everything is, while reminding myself that it is moments like these that are the reason that I travel. I may be scared, but I am very much alive.

As we pull up to the border I quietly take a very, very, deep breath


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Street Justice

Perhaps it is due to my bartending experience or perhaps it is innate, but I have a sonar that enables me to know when trouble is about to escalate.

I just didn't expect to see it in Aleppo.

 It is early evening, and I have checked back in to The Baron Hotel. Feeling peckish, I head back to this place where the chicken from the grill is perfect and a fine meal can be had for dirt cheap.

I turn right as I exit the Baron, and then right at the first corner. The place is on the left side of the street. There are a few joints here, but this is the one where you can see the rotisserie in the front window.

Obscure travel tips aside, as I head down the street a kerfuffle breaks out. A man emerges from a small shop holding a boy of 16 or so by the scruff of the neck and he yells across the street. Another man emerges carrying a switch.

Yup. A good old fashioned switch.

Suddenly the much larger man is on the kid and he is whipping him. My guess is that the kid is a shoplifter, and I notice that the guy who is whipping the kid is taking little pleasure in his task.

He is scaring the shit out of the kid, and teaching him a lesson, but he is not beating him mercilessly. He gets in his face and whips his legs a couple of times.

Incident over, I walk down the street with a slight pang of  ruthless envy as I consider the punks and losers who permeate my neighbourhood, stealing with impunity and making women afraid, while cops entombed in vehicles focus on pulling over drivers for failing to signal.

It  occurs to me  that flipping the switch is not always a bad idea.

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Mightymouth Meets Minibus

Believe it or not, I like traveling by bus and where possible, minibus.

One of my priorities while traveling is seeking out the simple realities of day to day life. The tiny microscopic moments that go unnoticed by locals the world over fascinate me and a bus can be a treasure trove of insight, and a minibus is like having a zoom lens.

As I board the van, a simple nugget of my travel research comes to mind. In many Muslim countries, a gentleman does not sit beside a lady on a bus, mini or otherwise, unless he is a relative.

Knowing this, I bypass the seat with a lady and her child and sit directly behind, in a row of three, next to the window. The minibus fills up, until the last of the 20 or so seats is the one next to mother and child. Just as we are about to depart, a local man climbs aboard and takes the last seat next to the young mother.

Even I know that this dog don't hunt, and we are temporarily delayed while a married lady is asked to vacate the seat next to her husband, so that she may fill the last seat next to the mother,so that the late arriving passenger can sit next to another man, so that the transgression of a man sitting next to a lady need not occur.

As the van pulls away from this remote locale I stare out the window at the daily bustle around me. I think to myself that while the cultural context may change, everywhere I go humans are doing essentially the same thing.

Caring for loved ones, meeting responsibilities, and chasing dreams.

After a time, the guy in the seat next to me and I begin chatting.

It turns out he is a doctor who is heading home after doing a volunteer stint to provide medical services to the Bedouin people who live near Palmyra, and suddenly I feel very small and inferior.

As we chat, he asks me if I am on Facebook. I notice the head across the row turn sharply towards us as we speak, and my paranoia meter goes up. Facebook is illegal in Syria, though I have seen people using it through proxy servers.

I give him an email and my web address, while explaining that I have no active Facebook account. I foolishly make an offhand remark regarding web censorship in the midst of a sermon about how being allowed in to any foreign country is a great privilege, and that when in Rome..........

As the jam packed minibus moves through the desert towards Hama,  I realise where I am, and that I should shut my mouth as I grasp the concept that zoom lenses can work in both directions.

I've been in some pretty undemocratic countries, but this is my first police state minibus ride.

Lesson learned.

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A Tale Of Tadmur,Syria

Adjacent to the ruins of Palmyra lay the town of Tadmur, itself a very old settlement. The main street nearest the ruin seems to be the "tourist area" , a scant three block walk.

But beyond that is a small town in rural Syria and my inquisitive nature forces my legs off the beaten path, and I find myself wandering through the bustling neighbourhoods of this enclave.

 I am careful about using my camera in town. I get the feeling that I am being watched. Most of the people who travel to this place do so in tour groups, and I feel like I am sticking out like a sore thumb.

As I turn a corner into a residential area, and from a block away, I see an opporutunity. I thank myself for buying a camera with a decent zoom, and I snap this shot.

The young lady is probably three or four, and she is clearing away water from the entryway to her home, and in this instant I see the beautiful and generous exuberance of a small child trying to help the family by doing a chore.

Much to my horror, a split second after the picture was taken her mother came storming out, hit the child sharply more than once, and violently dragged her into the house.

I put the camera away and continue up the street towards the house, slowly engulfed by the wailing of a child.

As I head back to the "tourist area", I wonder about that child, and what her life will be like and how a picture may contain a thousand words, but sometimes every word is a lie.

And then it occurs  to me that maybe someone saw me taking my camera out, made a quick phone call to a neighbour and the fact of my picture from a block away is the reason this child was beaten.

I consider the remote possibility, and it is not a pleasant scenario, albeit an unlikely one.

Perhaps I'm paranoid, but this is Syria, and suddenly, I'm unsure of everything.

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Gasp!

I have had the great privilege of visiting sacred places, and  have experienced moments in my travels that touched the depth of my soul, some expected and some unexpected; some joyful, some painful.

When I planned this trip, Palmyra was a place that I was drawn to, and it is one of the primary reasons that I visited Syria. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was compelled to this place.

We all have moments in our lives that define our story, and my first glance at the ruins of Palmyra is one such moment. My jaw drops, my knees buckle, and my eyes well up. It is difficult for me to quantify what I'm seeing, and I have no words that can properly convey the timeless homage to the human experience that I'm gazing upon.

Words fail me, which is why I took a lot of pictures.


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You can see more pics of this unforgettable place here.

The Fork In The Road, The Knife In The Plan

 For me, Damascus became a crossroads of sorts. I could either head west into Lebanon and Beiruit, or east to Palmyra. My Syrian visa did not allow for re-entry, and the chance of getting another Syrian visa was nil.

Long story short, once I depart Syria, there is no way back in.

I'd had a great time in Syria, but I began to get a whiff of hipster pretentiousness in Damascus that I felt would only become worse in Beirut.

Now don't get me wrong, my research indicated that Lebanon is an amazing country, and a place I would love to visit, but at this point my only opportunity to visit Lebanon is constrained by time and limited to Beirut.

One of the heartbreaking aspects of travel for most of us is the limitation, the editing of an itinerary due to any number of restraints. Time, money, visa restrictions all play a part and it is best to accept the fact some great potential experiences must remain on the cutting room floor, and that one must move forward with nary a glance behind, nor a twinge of regret.

Farewell Damascus, hello Palmyra, and I send my regrets to Lebanon. In hindsight, it is the best travel decision I have ever made.

I disembark the bus on the outskirts of Tadmor, the town adjacent to Palmyra. As usual, I adopt my "too cool for school" stance. I smoke and I wait, as if I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm in no hurry to do it, which of course is utterly untrue.

I check out the humble bus station, watch relatives pick up my fellow passengers and keenly observe the actions of other tourists as they negotiate fares to Tadmor, while taking in the wider landscape around me, which is both stunning and desolate.

I give myself a mental pat on the back for having made it this far as I tell myself to breathe.

I see a minibus one passenger short of a quorum. I negotiate a cheap fare and I take the last seat and off we go.

I arrive at my internet reserved hotel, but they have no idea about my booking, and I have no proof that I actually made a booking.

And here is travel tip #9842 - Always print out confirmation of an online reservation!

No matter, I'm famished and I kill some time dining in the restaurant while the gracious staff prepare a room for me, and I eventually print out a receipt and present it upon check out and they honour the price.

But I digress, this post is not about the mundane details of my check in, nor about the thought process that led me here. It is about Palmyra.

I check in to my room, power nap, and awake to the realisation that one of the finest historic sites on the planet is 150 yards away. I get my boney ass out of bed and head out.

When I first glimpse the unspeakable magnificence that awaits, I give myself another pat on the back.

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Off To Palmyra

It is my last night in Damascus, and I figure that it is a good time to make an inquiry at my hotel about my prospects regarding getting to Palmyra, my next destination, and one of the "must see" sites on the  itinerary. So I ask about this at the front desk of my hotel.

The staff at the hotel tell me that I should just go to the bus station and it will be fine.

Given that I was hoping that they would help me book a ticket to Palmyra, I'm a little disappointed by the vagueness of their advice, but I have nothing else to go on.

So I go on a wing and a prayer, and as I check out, the hotel staff get me a cab. I am dropped off at the outskirts of the bus station.

I grab my bags and lug them to the bus station, and it turns out that the folks at the hotel were absolutely correct.

As I enter the station I begin to understand that unlike Canada, in this part of the world a bus station is a competitive market. A tout guides me to the office of the agent offering the next bus to Palmyra, which leaves in about fifteen minutes. I purchase a ticket.

However, it is at this moment, that I become aware that I am not in Canada.

I will not be permitted access to the bus until I get a stamp of approval from the police.

Given that the bus is leaving shortly, I run towards the police office.

Inside I find a uniformed fat man of about my age trying to hit on a young lady of about half my age.

I apologize for interrupting, and humbly ask for approval while presenting my ticket and my passport.

The policeman kindly stamps my passport.

I head back across the courtyard, and show my stamped ticket to the agent, but these guys don't care one bit. I am directed to the place where the buses depart. I ask someone on the platform where to go, all the while holding out my ticket like a crazed maniac.

I am directed to the correct bus, and as I climb on board, I think about the fact that I am about to enter a whole new phase of my travel in Syria.

Make no mistake, I'm scared and I'm heading into the unknown, but I have deep faith in myself and the people around me, and either way it doesen't matter.

I'm off to Palmyra, and nothing can stop me now.

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Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

I thought a long time before I decided to blog about this picture. I am reticent to post negative travel tales, feeling that one idiot, or one bad travel moment should not reflect on an entire citizenry, and most certainly if any people are worthy of such consideration, it is the people I met in Syria.

As I strolled upon the maze that is the the Old Quarter of Damascus, I saw something on the path ahead, and in that instant I had a millisecond of blind, ignorant naivety.

As I researched Syria, I discovered that not only is it a religiously tolerant country, there is actually a small Jewish community in this country.

Syria may be a police state, and I would in no way defend the regime, but it does have a significant Christian population and the constitution mandates that their voice be included in government. In addition, women hold powerful places in society.

Compared to the worst of Middle East regimes, Syria is slightly progressive.

So when I came upon this sight, I thought that maybe there was a Jewish store, and then I thought that I can't step on it, its a flag. A metal flag of Israel laying in the road, like a giant licence plate.

Instictively, I step over it, and in that instant, I understand, and suddenly I am pulled into an illuminating moment.

Middle East politics are suddenly being thrust upon me for the first and only time in my travels through this region.

As I take another step a voice calls from behind.

"No, no no, you're supposed to step ON it!" , he yells at me. His tone is playful. I turn and then he stomps on the sign/flag.

I smile back, and politely refuse, and as I keep walking through the Old City two things occur.

I would never stomp on any flag but my own, and only then under extreme circumstances.

Secondly, how is it possible that in a reality that is dominated by peaceful souls, that we find such intractable hatreds?

If you figure that one out, let me know.

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The Street Called Straight

 When I began exploring the idea of visititng Syria, one of the things I dreamed about was visiting Straight Street in Damascus one of the oldest streets on the planet.

I imagined an ancient arabic market and a dirt lined street, a chaotic cacaphony, echoing  through the ages, an homage to timeless ways.

Instead I find a chic hipster dufus neighbourhood. This is prime real estate, and a place of modern retail commerce, encased in magnificent architecture. And again I am taken by how similar it all is, the deep familiarity with my own experience, despite the spectacular backdrop.

By all means, one should visit Straight Street, if only to see the arches and pillars, and to feel those Antediluvian cobblestones underfoot,  but the rest of it is pure dog 'n pony for tourists and the wealthy.

 

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Lost In The City

You probably don't recall the short lived 1960's British sci fi cult show "The Prisoner". One premise of the show was that the as soon as the dude tried to walk out of the town he would find himself on the road back into town.

I thought about that show for the first time as I walked through the market in Aleppo for twenty minutes thinking I was shrewdly finding my way out with my cat like sense of direction, only to find myself dumbfounded to arrive back at square one.

And now I'm in Damascus, and its happening again, only on a larger scale encompassing blocks and hours of walking. I swear, if they ever do hold The World Hide And Seek Championships, the finals should be held in the Old City of Damascus.

I try to leave mental breadcrumbs behind, I really do.

Ok, I went left, then I went right, and then I went right, and then I got pinned up against the wall as that truck went by the impossibly narrow and ancient street, and then I went right where that blue car was parked by that house with the orange roof by that computer place and then I walked down that long alleyway because everyone else was and I finally find a place to get a beer (or two....) and I find myself heading back through the same shortcut, back up the rabbithole.

However, early in my journey home I misplaced a breadcrumb, zigging at some point that would have been  more wisely zagged, and now I'm completely lost in this hypnotic labyrinth  that is the oldest continually occupied city on the planet..

In desperation, I zig and zag mindlessly, hoping that I will stumble upon a familiar chord. The last call to prayer sounds as dusk falls, and I follow the loudest one, thinking it will lead me back to the Umayyad Mosque.

And travel lesson #462 is that their is little correlation between the size of a mosque and the loudness of the call to prayer.

I have followed the wrong siren song to the wrong mosque and taken another wrong turn that leads me to a highway and its dark and I really have to pee and I regret having that beer (or two....) and then I wonder what the penalty would be for public urination in Syria and how getting me out of a Syrian prison would decimate all the resources of my family as I wander along a road that looks like any hopeless road to a bad suburban existence, lined only with the bleak hope of an occasional gas station.

At this point, I'm ready to admit failure and hail a cab, but I do not spy with my little eye, and there is nothing to do but keep walking.

Did I mention I have to pee?

I take one last zag back towards the older looking buildings, now reduced to using vague notions of architecture as my guide, when I see a familiar building off in the distance, and I realize that I am in the Christian quarter, in the exact opposite of where I was trying to go.

But at least from here, I can follow my breadcrumbs through the Old City, past the mosque, through the souk, to the left and then up that big road to my hotel.

But by now I really really have to pee. I walk across a valley into the old quarter, when I see a restaurant open off in the distance. I walk another block, then down a road, through a gate and into the restaurant. A very nice restaurant.

The kind of restaurant where a dust ridden, ballcap wearing,back pack toting,  half lost tourist who really needs to pee doth not often wonder.

I remove my cap upon entry and hope for the best.

 My instincts say that this is not the kind of place where one would storm in asking "where the hell is the can?"
I ask for a table and order a drink, which also includes a non complimentary bottle of water.I say to my bladder "hang in there little buddy, it won't be long now".

After being served, I make a casual inquiry as to the whereabouts of the washroom and whilst inside I have one of the most satisfying and expensive pisses of my entire life.

I go back to my table with the glow of a man who just had great sex, and it is only now that I can fully appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. I am in a great hall with a ceiling many stories high, a venue of spectacular detail and proportion, but I am privy to something more.

I see Syrian families gathered in multiple generations for a family feast, young friends enjoying a coffee and old friends enjoying a niqab pipe while discussing their passions, and it all seems so normal, somehow resonating through my own experience.

I pay my tab and head out into the night, this time confident of the path ahead.

And like the dude in The Prisoner, I'm back on the road to town, although I'm much happier about it than he was, and as I make my way back to my hotel it occurs to me that a refusal to seek directions is not always a flaw, sometimes its an attribute.

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