Seriously, This Is Not A Pen

There was quite a wait last night in between the bus that took us from Goreme to Adana, and the connecting bus from there to Antakya. Fortunately, I encountered three very sociable tourists( Neil from Ireland, Akiko from Japan, and Divan from Malaysia), and we got chatting, passing the time in a huge modern bus station that reminded me of an airport terminal.
The night bus section to Antakya went like a dream- I had my trusted travel pillow and the window seat, so all in the world was good. We had been chatting to these very young police men behind us who gave us something that looked like a slightly decayed chili, and had the texture of licorice. It is purported to have good sleeping properties, and it must have done the trick, like I said.

Changing buses first thing in the morning at Antakya to cross the border, I say goodbye to Divan, who is staying a night there. The remaining three of us make a smooth transition across the border, leaving all the work to the bus steward. He looks like he's done this once or twice before. The only thing I have to do is hand over my $52 dollars and fill out two forms. I stand and chat to an Iraqi, as the steward buzzes around. He's a really nice fellah, returning on university business from Turkey, but sadly, for whatever reason, his application is rejected and he must go back to Turkey instead of making it home. It's a shame.

"Welcome to Syria", the sign proclaims. Arabic scripture is finally on view, and it certainly makes you realise there is both a subtle and significant change between the two countries. We are well and truly in the Middle East now. We get dropped off at the side of a very busy street, right in the middle of a bustling Aleppo City, and we're off and running. We chance upon the Tourist Information centre , and the very helpful lady directs us to the "Spring Flower Hostel".

I spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon wandering the teaming streets of the city, the Citadel and the Souk. As you can probably imagine, such places are hives of activities, with locals and tourists all squeezed together, intermingled between Arabic archways and impossibly narrow alleyways. In the bazaar, there are nut stalls, butchers, spices stores, clothes shops, and art shops all competing for your attention and custom. Soap is particularly prevalent. I learn that soap from Aleppo is legendary, and it is customary for any soap seller to thrust a bar into the face of any tourist unwitting enough to enter the premises. You really can sense the place walking these crowded alleyways. The air is also crammed with the lingering scent of fruit sheesha, scented soap, and freshly cooked falafal. I pass one restaurant and the waiter skips out the front door and onto his bike, singlehandedly cycling between everyone, whilst deftly balancing a meal for two in the other.

I finally locate somewhere to change money- a quiet looking tourist shop in the shadows of the castle. I get talking to the three guys working there, and once again, enter the bizarre world of the tourist worker. I'm served a nice cup of tea, as is the custom in these parts. After a couple of minutes, one of them closes the front door and walks up to me declaring:" We are Mossad (Israeli secret service). We want you to join us." I've noticed that during these chats, sellers get to see you more as real person and not just a potential sale. At no stage do I ever get asked to buy anything. Maybe they've already made enough money today as one of them flashes a 500 Euro note at me, and walks off, declaring he's away to buy a Bugatti.

I finally bid adieu and wander out the door towards some steps that lead up to the main gate of a very imposing castle. Safely up at the top of it's ramparts, I get a superb view of the surrounding city stretching out in all directions. I'm welcomed by a big family with lots of kids. Each one practices their English and every single "Hello!" is warm. The whistle blowers return in the form of custodians encouraging people to leave the huge castle as closing time approaches. On my way out, I pass the family from before. "Goodbye, Jake!" the youngest child enthusiastically shouts as I pass by them on the steps.

The evening begins frustratingly, attempting to find a bar, which either serves beer or has the EPL on. It's certainly an indicator that I have arrived in an Arabic country when you can't get a beer, but I was confident I'd find somewhere for the game. Never mind. I collect a bottle of the local scotch ("Sham") from a very discreet off licence and toddle back to the hostel. I catch up with Neil and Akiko and we share a drink and an interesting night's talk in the hostel's bar, before squeezing into the smallest room I have ever stayed in in my life. I've seen much bigger snooker tables. True story.