Travel27-2
But in the end despite not having enough time to really understand anything significant about Tripoli and some getting lost exposure to a type of ghetto with no particularly scary people but rather a landscape like a combination of several of my worst nightmares, I am rather drawn to Tripoli and Lebanon in general inasmuch as my limited experience will allow. We are in Byblos now, not too much grit here but a pretty fine sweeping view of the Mediterranean from our room. However, the roadblock on the highway between Tripoli and Byblos with it's serpentine of oversized metal jacks-like obstructions, which our cab driver was summarily waved through, tempers somewhat any purely romantic notions you may be able to have about this place. Still, I really do love it here, despite my inclination for criticism.
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Travel27
Perhaps to some the description of Tripoli as a "hellhole" would be granting it a kindness it does not deserve. Its recovery from the Civil War and subsequent explosions seems to be a more reticent one compared to Beirut. The bullet riddled buildings are still coated in grime, the school children I trailed behind on my early morning walk drop behind them in a sadly familiar fashion the candy wrappers and potato chip bags as soon as the last chip entered their mouths.
Perhaps to some the description of Tripoli as a "hellhole" would be granting it a kindness it does not deserve. Its recovery from the Civil War and subsequent explosions seems to be a more reticent one compared to Beirut. The bullet riddled buildings are still coated in grime, the school children I trailed behind on my early morning walk drop behind them in a sadly familiar fashion the candy wrappers and potato chip bags as soon as the last chip entered their mouths.
Travel26
With our vast accumulated wisdom we have upgraded to the VIP bus this time (the windows are cleaner for sure) and are now sitting, waiting in our slot for takeoff. For at least 24 more minutes. A beautiful clear day in Aleppo. The two buses next to us have taken off and now another has just pulled in. Buses from this station go to Istanbul, Tehran, Baghdad, Aman, Beirut and hopefully to our destination which is Tripoli.
Overall the hustling here in Syria was less demanding than in Turkey, although by number shoeshine boys per capita are about the same. Yesterday a boy from Charles Dickens central casting practically attached himself to Bernadette's leg in his attempt to convince her she needed a shine but later while I was out alone possibly the same boy (certainly one very like him) persisted beyond my initial ignoring of him only briefly before his 10 year old boss dragged him away. As I was at the time in a brief but very sincere sober contemplation about rates of monetary exchange perhaps the older boy recognized the emotion as one he himself faces and so gave me a pass on the hustling. We were however later kindly and politely hustled by a fluent english speaking Syrian Lothario who in the end only wasted slightly more than an hour of my time and only cost Bernadette sixty something American for the silver necklace he led us to deep in the souk.
The two Americans have been graced with good luck at both Syrian border crossings but whereas the one in was by private taxi and took ten minutes this one out is on the bus with forty others of varying nationality and well...now we are finally out in just under 2 hours. But as often can be the case it wasn't the Americans slowing things down for everybody at the border. Next stop a few minutes away, Tripoli, a reputed hell hole, but alas, where by paternal grandparentage, I am from.
With our vast accumulated wisdom we have upgraded to the VIP bus this time (the windows are cleaner for sure) and are now sitting, waiting in our slot for takeoff. For at least 24 more minutes. A beautiful clear day in Aleppo. The two buses next to us have taken off and now another has just pulled in. Buses from this station go to Istanbul, Tehran, Baghdad, Aman, Beirut and hopefully to our destination which is Tripoli.
Overall the hustling here in Syria was less demanding than in Turkey, although by number shoeshine boys per capita are about the same. Yesterday a boy from Charles Dickens central casting practically attached himself to Bernadette's leg in his attempt to convince her she needed a shine but later while I was out alone possibly the same boy (certainly one very like him) persisted beyond my initial ignoring of him only briefly before his 10 year old boss dragged him away. As I was at the time in a brief but very sincere sober contemplation about rates of monetary exchange perhaps the older boy recognized the emotion as one he himself faces and so gave me a pass on the hustling. We were however later kindly and politely hustled by a fluent english speaking Syrian Lothario who in the end only wasted slightly more than an hour of my time and only cost Bernadette sixty something American for the silver necklace he led us to deep in the souk.
The two Americans have been graced with good luck at both Syrian border crossings but whereas the one in was by private taxi and took ten minutes this one out is on the bus with forty others of varying nationality and well...now we are finally out in just under 2 hours. But as often can be the case it wasn't the Americans slowing things down for everybody at the border. Next stop a few minutes away, Tripoli, a reputed hell hole, but alas, where by paternal grandparentage, I am from.