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.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Sacred Stop

It has been my privilege to visit a few sacred places in my travels. Places where long ago kings built monuments for all time and places where the very lowest instincts in the darkness of the human heart flourished, places that impact the definition of our humanity, patches on our collective quilt.

And today, I am grateful to visit one such place. The Umayyad Mosque . I am not a man of any personal God, but I have a deep respect for all belief, which makes this site a must see. After Mecca, The Umayyad Mosque is considered by many to be the most significant place in Islamic culture.

At the end of the main thoroughfare of the souk I enter a square teeming with activity, and before lay the gates to the mosque. I light a smoke and take it all in. I see a gate before me through which people are entering freely.

I look around the square and see boys feeding pigeons. I see another group of boys of about nine or ten taunting and chasing an older gentleman. I'm kind of stunned, because even in my own dilapidated culture, such behaviour would not be tolerated.

The man even appeals to local authorities, and they do nothing. Later, inside the mosque, I find him preaching, and I begin to understand that the guy is nuts (probably), is here everyday (probably), and is held in little regard by the locals.

Given that all this is in Arabic, my eyes can only surmise, as my ears are useless. I stamp out my smoke and attempt to enter the gate. I say attempt, because I am rebuked with utter politeness. Tourists need a ticket. I am directed to a ticket booth, where I happily pay a paltry fee.

If tourists pay a fee it helps keep it all going for the next soul on the road, and I have no problem with that. Ditto for the idea that locals in poor countries should have access to their own sacred sites for free. As a traveler, I have no problem subsidizing the locals, and supporting the tremendous cost of maintaining these places for the benefit of all of us.

And I also give a lot of respect to the principle of access at the Umayyad Mosque. Not all mosques allow almost unfettered access, and I feel deeply humbled to be permitted entry to this historic place.

As I enter the square I am overwhelmed.

The mosaics are sublime, even to my uneducated eye.

I enter the great hall and a sense of sacredness shoots through  as souls worship all around me.

I see people weeping at ancient exhibits, and I begin to understand the depth of where I am, at once stunned and in awe.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com