The idea of traveling to Syria is not a popular one in the States. Images of touts chasing you down the street beseeching "My friend, my friend... come look. I give you good price!", shady guys looking to thow you into an unmarked van, and stray missles hitting your neighborhood all come to mind. I was warned of all of these things and worse before my trip. This morning it all came back to me at the Hamastra bus station outside Damascus. I'd already walked through the massive cloth and spice bizarres without a single hussle, strolled down the streets of the capital alone at 2am without incident, and jumped into arabic covered minivans with map in hand and "lost" all over my face. No worries. But when the ticket agent, Aziz, grabbed my passport and said, "follow me.. we go to the police," and called out to the masses "Anna mah sadir min America!" my pulse quickened. Gel slicked teenagers turned, dark bearded men popped out of booths... they looked at me.. raised their hands.. and shouted, "Hello.. nice to meet you!" Big smiles. The cops took a glance at my passport, stamped my ticket and done. I got on the bus and thought to myself.. damn, this has got to be one of the safest places I've traveled. As the driver pulled out onto the highway his young assistant passed out water and candy and cued up a movie on the tiny video screens: Sniper, which opens with a scene of American special forces shooting Panamanians. I sunk a little lower in my seat and pulled my LA Dodgers cap down. While gazing out at the sunbaked counrty my daydreams were sporadically interupped with a rat-tat-tat! bang! uuughhh! as a sour faced Tom Berenger fell another Latino. At my destination, a small town called Homs, a fresh faced guy ran up and asked how was Michigan.. he was hoping to move to Detoit. I said, "Its a start.. but watch yourself.. it ain't no Damascus."
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