Sunrise in Palmyra

"Things we do in Lebanon we cannot do in Syria," Shady said and left it at that. We slept in separate beds that night. He was in a state of worry, looking out the windows to see if anyone in the empty hotel was walking past.
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The battered white van sputters along the dusty road, sweeps around a curve and lurches to a stop. The driver lights another cigarette and motions for us to get out -- it's early morning and he is far from pleased. I step out and look up at the mighty stone complex perched high above the ruins of Palmyra, the capital of Queen Zenobia's short-lived breakaway empire, sacked by Roman Emperor Aurelian in 271. Fakhr-al-Din al-Ma'ani Castle, or simply Palmyra Castle, was built by the Mamluks 1,000 years after Palmyra's destruction. It is magnificent, solid and so far unscathed by the centuries. Stretched out below are colonnades lining the main streets of the ancient city, crossing on axis. Further east is a lush green oasis, all in the middle of this endless cold desert.

Dawn begins with a startling explosion of fire, as orange, red and yellow clouds streak across the sapphire sky. Shady shivers next to me and says I am crazy for wanting to see the sunrise.

"It happens every day," he mutters, and heads back into the van. I knew he wouldn't care, but at least he goes along with it. As I look out across 2,000 years of history, on this cold November morning in 2010, with the horrors to come -- of which no one can imagine -- less than four months away. I allow the sun to come all the way up and warm my cheeks before returning to the van. The driver puts out a cigarette and speeds back down the dirt road, cuts across a racetrack that abuts the ruins and stops on the road at the Sanctuary of Bel. He waves us away and drives off.

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The site is bathed in golden sunlight as we approach the main gate across the road. We are the only inhabitants of this seemingly endless expanse of smooth columns, cobbled roads, temples and theatres; a city in the sand left to time. Silence envelops me as we make our way along the dusty avenue to where four enormous columned structures are centered marking the main streets.

"I am cold. I am going to town. I go to the Internet shop," Shady says and walks away. I shrug and am not surprised, actually happy to be alone here. I want to explore at my leisure.

I met Shady in Beirut the year before at a club, now defunct, called Acid. He was outside smoking as I came out for some air. We shared a cigarette and soon ended up back at my hotel where the front desk man told me it was forbidden to have Shady up to my room, but that he could make an exception for two hours, when his shift ended. I left Beirut two days later and returned to New York, but kept in touch with Shady and told him I would be in Syria. He agreed to come with me since it is only two hours from Beirut to Damascus, and he had never been to Syria before.

Before Shady arrived I spent five days alone in Damascus staying at a charming hotel in the old part of the city; a traditional Syrian house with a square, open-air courtyard filled with trees, lush plants and a fountain facing which were the guestrooms. I had read about a certain hammam that existed near the main entrance to the souk, so one evening I decided to find if it existed.

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The old city of Damascus lays claim to be to the oldest continually inhabited city in existence, countered only by the city of Aleppo to the north, Syria's largest city and commercial capital. As such, though the streets are unnamed and unmapped, they are not without a sort of reason, once you understand the way in which neighborhoods and shops are grouped.

After much misunderstanding with the men on the sidewalk who I asked for directions, I realized the hammam must be across the main street. Sure enough, I rounded the corner and moments later happened upon the entrance--roughly as outlined in the Internet thread I found this information buried--below street level, down a series of steps.

I entered a relatively cold yet beautiful stone room, all the color of sand. The handsome and indifferent attendant handed me a towel and slippers, then motioned me towards the large area of neatly lined cushions and pillows across the room. I undressed and hung my clothes up on a wall hook. There were half a dozen other sets of clothing; tonight certainly wasn't busy. It is always hard to judge when's the best time to visit these sorts of places.

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Opening a door I stepped into a large brightly lit rectangular room with about a dozen washbasins; at each corner are small rooms with more washbasins, and more privacy. It is the cold, ridiculously cold for a hammam; I am tempted not to stay long. Nearby four guys are talking and laughing, their voices bouncing off the stone walls, and echoing across the empty room. One of them motions to me.

"Are you Irish?" he asks in English.

"No, American," I reply. His eyes widen and he pulls me down next to him.

"I have so much to ask you! You are so handsome. Where are you from? You must tell me everything. I am Angel and I am a Christian." He rattles off in Italian sounding English. I laugh and tell him to ask away.

The next day I met Angel near the Citadel and we took a bus about twenty-minutes outside the city to where he lived with his mother, father, brother and sister in a very nice two bedroom flat in a Christian village. We spent the day at a large church overlooking the town, and then went to his brother's hair salon, which was bustling with his friends, all of them barely twenty, handsome and full of youthful exuberance. Later, towards sunset, four of us drove out to a small-gated olive farm someone's father owned. We drank vodka, smoked cigarettes and fired a rifle so old it must have been from the 1940s. No one had ever met an American before, and they were all full of questions, which Angel patiently translated with a smile.

As it came time for me to return to my hotel, I was sad to leave, so close, warm and welcoming everyone had been. I told Angel I was leaving for Palmyra and Aleppo the next day, but that I would be back in a week. We hugged as the bus arrived. I crawled into the back and waved as he faded into the night.

Shady had arrived to the hotel while I was visiting Angel's family. I wondered why I had invited a boy I met once to travel across Syria with me, but things happen for a reason.

"Things we do in Lebanon we cannot do in Syria," Shady said and left it at that. We slept in separate beds that night. He was in a state of worry, looking out the windows to see if anyone in the empty hotel was walking past. I tried to assure him that nothing would happen, he was with me and he wasn't Syrian. "It does not matter. Everyone here is secret police." He turned out the lights and went to sleep. We rose early to catch the bus to Palmyra.

Palmyra is the crown jewel of Syria so it is said. Even among the countless other sites and cities clustered across this desert country, Palmyra is without peer. Those who live in the city depend upon the tourists it brings to survive, but also appreciate on a deeper level that the site is of historical importance. It is not closed off from the modern city that has grown up around it. There is no fence or barrier to prevent anyone from walking across it, or stomping across the many parts of the area that remain unexcavated, or even looting the artifacts that are just below the sand. Yet, it remains, brilliantly gleaming in the early morning sunlight. A civilization long since destroyed, but whose architecture is of such greatness that is has survived two millennia.

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The people of Syria claim a mantle of ancient greatness, those who have persevered, fought and died to the invading armies over the centuries. At this moment, in 2010, before the hoof beats of an apocalyptic army from within could be heard, it seemed that Syria was okay. That if they had made it through so much, even the atrocities of a tyrannical army officer-cum-president, they were bound by a common bond and would never allow their country to turn into Iraq.

Shady and I returned to Damascus on a Thursday evening after a few days in Aleppo. Angel arrived at our hotel towards midnight and took us to a nightclub. At $20 each the club was certainly not accessible to the majority of Syrians, but the open bar offset the price. The club was packed, a mixture of European students and the Syrian friends who brought them. As it was winter, there was a mound of discarded coats in the corner. I asked about coat check and Angel looked at me oddly and laughed.

"People are not dishonest here. They come to have a good time. Why would they steal?" he replied.

We tossed off our jackets as disco music blasted from the speakers and danced until dawn; the call to prayer echoed across the city as we walked out into early morning. At out hotel Angel and I embraced and he said goodbye.

Shady and I slept, then spent our last breakfast together, a delicious omelet of peppers, with a bowl of tomatoes, olives, cheese and hummus. We wandered around the souk and Shady bought some gifts for his mother and sister, then we drove to a taxi station. Shady headed back to Beirut, and I traveled on to Amman.

I do not know what has become of Angel, or his family or any of his friends. I cannot and do not wish to speculate, but I can only hope they are safe. Last I spoke with Shady he said he was fine; the war was there, but then again, there was always war in Lebanon, and there would always be war in Lebanon. Then he asked, how was I doing?

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