Sorry, I don’t speak Arabic

I stayed in Istanbul one more day to see the Hagia Sophia and the fabled Grand Bazaar. After walking around the Bazaar for about twenty minutes, I was ready to leave–the ancient souk tradition of middle eastern commerce, combined with the massive inflow of western tourism Istanbul receives, have created what is essentially an enormous Arabic-themed shopping mall, teeming with jewelry stores and trinket shops, clean, efficient, and, in my opinion, devoid of whatever character it may once have had. That being said, if you’re traveling to shop, it seems to be the place to go in Istanbul–though you’ll get charged significantly more there than at some of the smaller shops frequented by the Turks in other parts of the city.

The Hagia Sophia, on the other hand, still packs quite a punch to the visitor. It’s history essentially mirrors that of Turkey: it began its existance as an Orthodox Cathedral when Istanbul was Byzantium, and Christian; it was converted to a mosque under the Ottoman empire; now, after the secularization of Turkey under Ataturk, it has been converted again to a museum. It’s also under repair, with a mass of scaffolding rising to the dome towering above in the center of the building. The walls are peeling, but it’s still possible to feel the grandeur this place once had, both under the Church and under the ownership of Islam.

Considering it high time to head on to Syria, I booked a twenty hour bus ride all the way from Istanbul to Aleppo for only ninety lira–about forty-five euro. Not a bad price at all, and hopefully a sign of tickets to come. I also considered my schedule (only three weeks left!) and reformulated my initial travel plans. So here, loyal readers, is the new itinerary: a week of exploration in Syria, a few days in eastern Turkey, a few days in Georgia, and then the remnant of the time traveling either by ship from Poti or along Turkey’s Black Sea coast back to Istanbul. From there I’ll catch a cheap regional flight to Frankfurt, and then, finally, back to the States. Ukraine, Poland and the Czech Republic will have to wait until next time.

Relativisitic effects at bus-level velocities may be negligible (that one’s for you, Philippe) but I’d say it’s a proven fact that twenty hours on a bus is longer than twenty hours anywhere else. I slept, assuming of course a broad definition of the verb “to sleep”, and read the entire book “Dandelion Wine” by Ray Bradbury. It was strange to be immersed in an excellently wrought of idealized Americana while driving through the sparse terrain of Southern Turkey, with talk shows in Turkish playing on the bus television, and conversations in Turkish and Arabic on all sides.

After switching buses in Antakya (that’s Antioch for you Biblical/Mesopotamian scholars out there) we headed for the Syrian border. This was the tensest moment of my trip, as my visa had actually expired the day before (note to self: next time apply closer to departure). We stepped out of the air-conditioned bus at the border to meet a wall of dry heat from the Syrian desert and walked into the visa office. Fortunately, the officials didn’t notice or didn’t care about the visa date, and after an hour or so of paperwork, I was officially welcomed into the country–by a rather surprised tourist information representative. I got the feeling the road borders didn’t get many American visitors.

The ticket was to Aleppo, but the bus driver informed us that they were actually going to Damascus, and so got us a taxi. The taxi driver was ostensibly waiting for someone else, but the only other passenger to Aleppo (a Syrian living in Canada, visiting home for a couple of weeks) and I “paid” (a.k.a. “bribed”) him five dollars and he drove us straight in. For the first time on my trip, I knew I was in really in another place. Stark desert, with villages built of desert stone, big machine shops servicing the trucks that crossed it, houses with camels tied up in front of them, and no English in sight.

Aleppo appeared after about sixty kilometers (very fast; the taxi driver, it seemed, had places to be), a modern city sprawled out across the desert, with the monolithic Aleppo Citadel rising in the very center. My taxi driver, who barely spoke English, transferred me to another, who spoke none, and I was driven to the cheap hotel district for about twenty five Syrian pounds. That works out to about fifty cents, USD: a good sign, I thought, for the price of living in Syria.

Turns out I was right. A hotel room for two nights was only sixty USD–a little more than I usually pay, but there’s nowhere to camp in Aleppo, and no hostels either. Still, a private room and a big free Syrian breakfast every morning aren’t bad at all. I dumped my bags and headed into town.

I hadn’t eaten for almost two days thanks to the twenty hour bus, so I decided to try a local restaurant. Monica had said Syrian food was unbelievable, and she turned out to be right. And cheap–I stuffed myself on a ground beef and tomato sauce dish with rice, pita bread with hummus, turkish coffee, a big salad, and a coke–all for less than ten USD. This, I thought, I can live with.

It was already getting dark and the citadel was closed, so I spent several hours just walking the old city streets. Aleppo is an ancient city, older than almost any in the world short of Damascus, and it feels it. The streets are narrow and winding, built of desert stone, and absolutely alive at night. Outside of the citadel itself and surrounding souks (more on those soon) there are almost no tourists, and I’m dark enough now after two and a half months of walking in the sun that for the most part I didn’t even get a second glance. At night, the temperature here is perfect, especially compared to the stifling heat of the day (visiting Syria in late July–what was I thinking?). As a result, that’s when the locals come out. Public squares are full of men talking and smoking or sitting with their women, nearly all of whom are clad in either full burqa or at least modest clothing and head scarf. The interesting thing is that, unlike in certain modest-dress sects of Christianity, Syrian women are still very fashionable–even the full burqas are embroidered and very elegant, as gender-oppressive as they may be.

There is also food, everywhere. I almost wished I hadn’t eaten. Fresh fruit, meats, fried falafel, squeezed fruit juice, coffee. The souks are concentrated into districts, as are the shops just outside of the old city. The best was on the walk from the citadel back to my hotel: the spice market. Every breeze brings whiffs of cardamom, cumin, tea, rosemary; the effect is enchanting. Supermarket owners in the States, listen up: if you really want some customers, set up a wholesale spice section, and put it upwind.

I slept, woke up for an amazing Syrian breakfast of eggs, stuffed olives, pita bread, fresh jam, cheese, turkish coffee and tea, and cream. Rather beats the American tradition of stale pastries and old coffee, I have to say (if you think I’m bashing American industry to much, I’d just like to mention here that after experiencing Turkish and Syrian hole-in-the-ground toilets, for me the American bathroom industry as much as has wings and a halo).

Then into town, where, while waiting for the lighting on the citadel to improve, I explored the souks. If there’s one obvious thing that still surprised me about the middle east, it’s that this whole part of the world has an immense shopping culture. And they do it well. The Aleppo souk is labyrinthine, and roofed, making it a welcome cool refuge from the day’s heat. And, unlike the Great Shopping Mall of Istanbul, it’s a functioning marketplace. A long walk brings you past silver and gold sellers, wool sellers, wholesale silk and cotton sellers, whole corridors of markets full of olives, full of spices, full of roasted nuts, full of dairy products. And clothing stores. It’s an interesting commentary on the culture that almost every woman I’ve seen is very modestly dressed, and a good half of them are in the full black burqas, but nearly every clothing store was tailored toward women. And these shops look like they’re trying to compete with New York and Paris (ladies, pardon my laymanship if I’m spectacularly wrong). The lingerie–sold exclusively by men, as is everything else here–would look racy in the windows of a Victoria’s Secret outlet.

I walked for a bit out of the souks themselves into the surrounding town, and found much of the same culture of commerce. Covered streets, shouting, tiny markets, selling absolutely everything. I haven’t seen a single supermarket here, simply because you can buy literaly everything in these shops. One entire street, covered in tin, was entirely lined with blacksmiths’ shops, selling everything from machine parts to construction tools. The next was tin workers, and the next auto repair shops. The souk culture is very different from the American business model, and clearly translates well into modernity. I’d be interested to see an economic comparison of the two methods.

Finally, after sitting down for an amazing sort of milkshake made from almonds (for about … a dollar) I decided to check out the main tourist attraction: the Aleppo Citadel. In the very heart of the old town, the Citadel dominates the city. It’s the oldest castle in the world (and has been conquered by just about everybody since and including Alexander the Great), has a moat around the mountain it stands on, and high walls encircling the entire perimeter. The only entrance is a span of stone that stretches out across the moat and has two gates. I got a student entry for ten pounds (ie twenty cents) and spent a couple of hours just exploring. This place was a fortress, and it’s still possible to visit the great cisterns beneath it where water was kept in case of attack. In fact, tunnels catacomb the entire fortress, though most of them are either unexcavated or blocked off to visitors. But the view is a spectacular one–from the walls, you can see out all the way across the old town to the glittering modern city around it, and, on the horizon, the dry expanse of the Syrian desert. Built into the fortifications above the entrance is a mosque (or possibly the throne room–if there was a sign, it was in Arabic) with expansive marble floors and perfectly kept; quite a surprise to come upon when exploring the crumbling ruins and tunnels of the rest of the citadel.

After thoroughly exploring the place and (finally) getting my picture taken in front of some scenery, I headed back into town and sat down to write at an open-air cafe just outside the entrance, enjoying the feeling of the city coming to life as the sun went down and the day finally began to cool.

Now, back at my hotel, I’m finally having to think about coming home. It’s less than a month away, and for the first time is really giving me a set date when I have to somewhere (namely, Istanbul). Every place I’ve been so far I’ve wanted to stay longer, and at every train station, all I see is possibilities–to Vienna from Trieste, or Moscow from Belgrade, to Jordan or Lebanon from Syria, to everywhere from Istanbul. Entrancing possibilities, temptations to just go that get stronger rather than weaker the longer I travel. The last two months seem to have passed in no time at all, but at the same time Dublin feels an eternity behind. Forever and an instant; the world is immense, and very small; six billion friendly people who are constantly at war. It seems travel deals in paradox, and it’s done the same to me. I’m more comfortable alone than I ever was, and at the same time more able to meet new people. I have more questions, but feel more strongly what I believe. I’m ready to wander for as long as I can foresee, but I think more and more of home, even as my definitions of the word constantly shift. I’m going to come back a different person than when I left. I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be.