We woke up the next morning to a truly luxurious breakfast at the Park Inn in Istanbul.

It was the classic Turkish breakfast of crispy baguettes, tomatoes, cheeses, olives, and had boiled eggs. We took it with plenty of cups of milky coffee and with a view of the Blue mosque off to our left, and the great pink Hagia Sophia mosque on our right.

We munched away and made plans for our time in Turkey. Everything was coming together for this part of the trip, except for one vital piece: the car.

After having such a blast traveling through the gulf with Mr. Jackson Fu in the Toyota Previa, we had decided that we should attempt to do Turkey in a similar way. And it was thus that we began investigating rental cars, with Claudia and Diane taking a central role.

In the meantime, Scott and I had another vital mission that needed to be completed before we exited Istanbul, and that was the acquisition of Kazakh visas.

There was much to do and not too much time here in Istanbul, so we were quick to get moving. Claudia headed off with to meet her friend Alp while Diane, Scott, and I headed out towards the Kazakh embassy on the Istanbul city tram.

At the end of the line, we hopped into a cab and began driving around aimlessly asking people for directions to the Kazakh embassy. We must have been in the right neighborhood… either that or the Kazakhs threw really great parties, for everyone we asked seemed know where it was. Yet despite receiving many directions, the building continued to elude us.  But finally, after a fair bit more random taking of turns, and asking of lounging cigarette smoking apartment security teams, we pulled up to the place.

We spoke to the guard outside, who, though it was closed, happily unlocked the door and let us in.

Inside was a kind of manicured garden area, with a nice cobblestone path that led up to a cottage, with a cutesy, residential style door. We had all our paperwork and passports ready, and we knocked on the door with every hope that we might be able to drop them off right there and then. But this was to be our first window into the world of post-soviet insane bureaucracy which we were poised on the edge of. The door was answered, by a tall and rather Korean looking fellow in an American eagle bright pink polo shirt and tight jeans who was sorry to inform us that while it was a weekday, they were unfortunately closed and we had better come back tomorrow. “Could you just take these forms and put them in an inbox?’ We asked. “That would be impossible.” He answered in interestingly accented English.

Fair enough, we thought, walking away from the place. At least we had found the place, and that was step one.

We took a picture of the sign to remind us of exactly where it was, and hit the road on foot.

As we strolled we investigated the cars parked along the street, making a list of models which we thought might accommodate all of us for the upcoming ride across Turkey. We would, of course, prefer a Toyota Previa, but research had suggested such a car was tough to find, perhaps even illegal to rent here…

We continued on, past a deserted school where a single child rode on his training wheels threw an empty playground, and then past the airport, which sported a fantastic logo on their fence.

From there we made our way down to the water, where we strolled along the sea for a while, playing with the community exercise equipment, and generally goofing around.

Soon we found ourselves at a community beach, where I found myself struck, as I had been by the female luggage scanner, by women wandering around in their bathing suits. It’s just not something that one sees in the middle east. And it had been quite some time since we’d been outside the Middle East. I found myself ever so mildly scandalized. It was really quite wild.

Eventually, we walked back up from the beach, stopping at a grocery store for some water, and then climbed back on the commuter rail, bound for town.

Back in town we collected our cycles, and head out for a ride. It was to be Diane’s inaugural wheel with the team, and we were excited to put some Turkish kilometers under our belts. And so we headed out, through this very ancient and interestingly part-European and part-Arab city.

It was not long into the ride that we began to conclude the European part was certainly dominating over the Arab. People dressed like Europeans here. EU flags were proudly placed around the city on flag which called it “European Capital of Culture. ”

We looked a little into this European Capital of Culture proclamation, and as Wikipedia explains it:

The European Capital of Culture is a city designated by the European Union for a period of one calendar year during which it organises a series of cultural events with a strong European dimension.

Good one.

It was not long into the wheel that Scott’s Mother caught one of her front wheels in the ditch through which the trolley rails run and went flying over her handlebars and into the street. We screeched to a halt and headed over to see if she was ok. Thanks be to Jah, she was unharmed, but rather shaken, none the less.

One of the trolley attendants lent us the use of his little officer’s hutch, where we could take stock of ourselves and help Diane to calm down. They gave us a towel to clean some of the road grit off, and after a spell, walked over to a nearby park and sat down. It had been a very intense experience for all involved. The whole trip flashed before my eyes as Daine went sprawling into the street, including when Scott had done the same in Bangkok and I began to realize how lucky we had been to have had so few accidents. Not even a single flat…yet…

AsiaWheeling’s guardian angel aside, we explained to Diane that we would understand completely if she wanted to lay off wheeling for the rest of today. But she refused. After a couple more minutes of collecting herself in the park, we were back on the roads, and wheeling up a storm.

And let me underline, dear reader, that Istanbul is not an easy city to wheel in. Traffic is fast here, and none too used to cyclists. The roads are also full of obstacles like, very old, bent, widely spaced grates, and the tramline that had caught the front tire of Diane’s Speed D7.

We continued, past the blue mosque and down the cobblestone streets towards the shores of the Bosphorus. On the seashore, we were able to get onto a bike path, which was of great relief to all involved, for we now only had to worry about traffic consisting of pedestrians, roller bladers, and the occasional fellow wheeler.

Diane was doing very well, wheeling fast, and with a smile on her face. We made short work of that chunk of coastline, making our way by this very interesting turbaned statue, and eventually being dumped out into a part of town which was just littered with, of all things, bike shops.

We even stumbled upon the Turkish Dahon distributer, who unfortunately spoke none of the languages that we knew, but emitted general supportive body language.

From there, we took a bridge across the Bosphorus, and onto the side of the island where Alp lived.

Once on the new island, we began working our way uphill towards a place called Taksim, which is a giant square surrounded by a shopping and hotel district.

We spent some time wandering around there, poking our heads into car rental agencies but not finding much in the way of vehicles large enough for 4 people and 3 folding bicycles.

We even stopped into good old EuropeCar, a company that had served us so well in Abu Dhabi, but alas, the office here in Istanbul was staffed by grumpy and unhelpful characters. So much brand equity was destroyed in our five minutes of interacting with the Istanbul EuropeCar office, that I left the building feeling sorry for the company and wondering how it could have gone so far down the wrong path.

As we continued to poke around Taksim, we eventually got a call from Claudia and Alp, who were ready to meet up for Dinner. Alp ended up leading us to a fantastic joint, though to call it a joint is perhaps unfair.

It was more like a high class restaurant, built for sophistos, another Meze place, where we feasted on a fantastic assortment of dishes.

It had been quite a wheel and we were thrilled to be eating.

Fresh greens, yogurts, spicy fried shapes, crispy French tasting rolls, pickled mushrooms, sweet raisiny chicken pieces. It was a glorious walk through a world of very small portions of very scrumptious things.

After dinner, Claudia traded with Diane, joining us on the cycle to night-wheel home. As we made our way back down hill and across the bridge, I could not help but find myself startled at how quickly the trip had changed with the addition of Diane. Turkey was certainly an interesting chapter, and a delightful experience, but was it going to be AsiaWheeling?

The next morning we packed up our things and checked out of our hotel in Aleppo. We paused outside to strap our things onto our bikes, while we dodged men rolling giant truck tires and wheel barrows full of paint.

We headed right back to the drugged-bunny-themed place that we had eaten at upon first arriving in Aleppo, and ordered a similar feast of pastes and salads.

As we ate, the flatscreen television above our heads blared  the music video of “The Job by Qusai,” a fantastic look into Saudi corporate thug life.

This time, the owner of the place came to sit down with us and chat for a while about his business, the politics of the Middle East, the city of Aleppo, and, of course, AsiaWheeling. He gave us redundant cups of free thick black Middle Eastern coffee, and lined up with some of his staff to wish us off when we were finished eating.

We packed our things onto our cycles, but were compelled to wait around, chatting about marketing techniques and the origins of the drugged bunny mascot of the restaurant, so that Claudia could converse in Arabic with some passing women.

We got to the bus station just in time to catch the last three seats on the next bus leaving for the Turkish border.

The bus left about 10 minutes after we arrived.  This fine luck with buses continued to be a theme of our journey, and this was just another strike against doubters of the AsiaWheeling angel of fortune.

The bus ride, however turned out to be not quite so straightforward. First we arrived at the Turkish border, which we, as American citizens, could cross with only a visa issued upon entry. However, executing the mission turned out to be quite complex. As Scott and Claudia waited with our passports at passport control, I headed off with the bus driver and crossed into Turkey, where he led me into a large administrative building and up to a small window on the second floor.

The man behind the window and our bus driver seemed to be very good friends, and the two of them joked about Israel in Turkish, while he scrutinized my passport photocopy. Normally, he explained, we would need to have all the passports present in order to issue the visas, but for me, he said winking at our bus driver, he’d make an exception, using just my photocopy to register all three visas.

I crossed my fingers that this little bit of smoke and mirrors would not cause us problems down the road, and proceeded to pay him all our remaining Syrian Pounds and a good many USD on top of that, walking away with three Turkish visas that I could have put into any passport I liked. I returned to find the bus had already left, along with my traveling companions. The Turkish passport control officer still had our books, though, and with the snort of a racehorse, wetted and applied the visas that I handed him and stamped each book.

Then the bus driver and I were jogging together, across the no man’s land toward where the bus was idling, baggage compartment door open, while guards with dogs and machine guns shined lights into the cavity. Scott and Claudia saw us coming and gave a cheer.

All the bags had been unloaded and were being scanned one by one. I found myself quite surprised to see that the official scanning our bags was a woman, and unveiled. In fact, not just unveiled but wearing a sleeveless shirt! After traveling in the Muslim world for so long, to me that seemed downright scandalous!

I was startled at my own reaction. In most of the countries where we travel, this would have been a completely un-noteworthy piece of professional garb. Perhaps it just underlines the degree to which women’s roles in Muslim society differ from those in more secular countries.

Once through the border, we began to work our way across an aggressively irrigated landscape, driving by many farms and ponds, all of which were unnaturally fed by large above-ground systems of pipe. Then we arrived in Antakya, where we were quite surprised to find everyone getting off of the bus. So we unloaded our things and piled them in the parking lot. Scott waited with our stuff, while I ran off with Claudia to figure out where we were and what we needed to do.

We managed to find someone who spoke Arabic, but it was not easy. Everyone seemed to only speak Turkish here. Once we did find the fellow, though, hurried investigation yielded word that our tickets were actually connecting on to Adana, as we had hoped, where we were to meet Scott’s mother, Diane. We needed with all haste to go collect Scott, and get him on another bus, which was scheduled to leave in seven minutes.

So we left our bags near the counter, trusting that the ticket sellers would keep an eye on them, and hurried up the stairs to find Scott.

In the meantime, Scott had made a terrible and drastic realization: he had left is Panama hat on the bus! With seven minutes to blast-off, he began hurriedly traipsing around the lot, asking frantically to try and locate our bus. All the buses looked the same, however. And just as he was about to get in a cab that may or may not have been about to take him to a secondary lot where the bus may or may not have been, we decided that we needed to just let it go, and climb on the bus to Adana, lest we miss it and strand Diane alone in a random Turkish city.

So now, dear reader, I’d like you to take whatever you’re drinking and hold it out in front of you. Be sure to pivot your body so that you are not directly over your computer, a loved one, or your favorite bearskin rug. If you really must, stand up and run outside with your drink. Now we’d like you pour just a small splash of the drink out onto the ground in humble respect for a great hat, and for what was to be the end of this fine tradition of the AsiaWheeling Panama hat.

Okay. Let’s all regain control. Moving on.

We began to drive now, into an even greener landscape. Suddenly we were moving through forests, and the ocean spread out to our left.  We rode by fascinating industrial sites and rich farming operations, as the sun sank low and eventually set into the Mediterranean.

We awoke in Aleppo and Woody’s stomach bug had returned with a vengeance.  This was a particularly tenacious one, requiring water, rest, and the occasional Coca Cola for caloric support.  Claudia and I decided to let him rest and explore the old quarter of Aleppo together.

Wheeling toward it, we were drawn to the giant minarets of the great mosque there, and we paused to admire the courtyard.  Entering as infidels in short pants didn’t seem the most halal of activities, so we gazed from outside and moved on to chain our bikes and explore on foot.

The old quarter of Aleppo is a market of gigantic proportions, selling everything from kebab skewers, to safes, to silk scarves, to painted plates.  We were not in search of anything in particular, and took time to gaze into every couple of shops.

Some sold copious amounts of gold chains and pendants.

Others trumpeted trading relationships with China, which was constantly spoken of in a poor light by many of the men we met in this part of the world.  It was good to see a bit of solidarity between these two great nations.

Strolling around the byzantine caverns proved chock full of eye candy.

Dated ads for paint products and over-eager shop owners caught our attention briefly, though continuing to stroll, getting more and more lost seemed to be the key.

We found ourselves in various antechambers and courtyards, where the economy of regional and international tourism collided with daily life in Aleppo.

Taking a peek at the old citadel and asking for directions at a camera shop only distanced us from any sense of direction.

Though we were able to finally stumble upon the bikes after coming across a fantastic decal of the Syrian president.

We had been discussing ideas for a T-Shirt to forever immortalize Syria in the form of AsiaWheeling apparel, and settled on an image of the beloved president with a command to partake in our favorite activity here “Getting Syrious.”  It is with pride that we present to you the latest addition to the AsiaWheeling T-Shirt Store: Get Syrious.

While Claudia wheeled home to rest and drop a Coke off for Woody, I picked up my laptop and headed out to clean up some photos and process my inbox.  On my way out, as I dodged trucks carrying gigantic tires, a shop owner invited me into his showroom.  They sold tires to the local populous here with “Made in Indonesia” emblazoned on the side.  They came in all sizes, and as I marveled at the inventory, I was invited into the back room to see the boss.  As we drank tea, we discussed in plain English the Aleppo tire market and what exactly it was that I was doing in Syria, as part of this “AsiaWheeling” company.  With praises to Barack Obama complete and the tea cup reaching its vacant state, we bid each other farewell and exchanged visiting cards.

On the street, an open wireless network with a weak signal provided hope of connectivity, and luckily it carried the namesake of a large hotel six blocks away.  Strolling over to the park across from the hotel, I synced and corresponded with the world as pedestrians peeked at my screen and came over to peer at the inner workings of gmail.

Wishing for a bit more comfortable surroundings, I stopped in a cafe whose clientele were utterly rapt in the World Cup.  The vibrations here were homey and rustic, the staff charming and stern, but helpful.   Closing my laptop, I headed home for a night of rest before the next big day of transit.

The next morning I was feeling slightly better as we packed up our things and headed out from the hotel in search of more breakfast. We decided to sample one of the competitors to the simple hummus and flatbread restaurant that Samer had taken us to two days ago. And we were able to find one without much trouble. It was the same basic idea. Maybe not quite as jaw-droppingly amazing, but deserving of a very solidly applied seal of approval. I was unfortunately unable to eat much, but even sickened and without much appetite I was able to appreciate the love that went into those pastes.

We left that place and continued wheeling. It felt good to be back out in the sunshine. My energy levels were low, but pedaling felt good, breathing felt good, and Latakia was beautiful. I found myself swallowing curses at my illness for robbing from me a day of wheeling here.

We spent the afternoon exploring the city, poking our way through spice shops. Claudia had gotten the idea into her head that decorating her dorm room with sprigs of Syrian sun-dried objects would be the move.

And so that became our mission for the day. It brought us into a number of very interesting shops, and interactions with some fascinating members of the Syrian spice retail sector.

As Claudia was running into yet another shop, we stopped another bicycle coffee salesman, in order to procure some more lucidity. The fellow was very old, and nearly unable to speak. There was also a little bit of Popeye in the guy… at least in his hat. His coffee was quite good, though, and we felt confident that we paid a price easily four times the norm per cup, so we hopefully parted ways with him in good spirits.

After meeting back up with Claudia, we all began to make our way toward the Hotel Safwan, where we had stored our things. With all our belongings loaded onto the cycles, we headed back the way we’d come and arrived at the train station just in time to catch Samer, who had somehow figured out which train we were on and arrived there to wish us safe journey. We exchanged the warmest regards with him and climbed onto our train.

The Syrian railway was amazing. It was startlingly cheap, very clean, and luxuriously comfortable. The staff were amazing, and gave us a special place in the children’s play-car to store the bikes.

The children’s play-car was something like a McDonalds Playplace on the train, where your kids could let off a little steam, while you relaxed and watched the countryside fly by. And that was exactly what we did.

We arrived in Aleppo just as the sun was setting, and quickly unfolded our cycles right there on the platform.

We then wheeled right into the city. Our Syrian flashlights had now been determined to be total duds, useful only for a single ride, and long ago jettisoned. So we were once again without substantial lights. Luckily Aleppo too was very well lit.

All our Syrian friends to date had explained that all of their country was warm and hospitable (a fact with which we heartily agree)… except for Aleppo. For one reason or another, Aleppo was not popular with the rest of Syria. Hossam had explained to us that we needed to be careful walking at night there, and that the people would not be honest and would not respect women.

So it was with much interest that we took our inaugural wheel in this city. So far it was none too scary or grimy. In fact it had quite an affluent vibe.

When we saw a restaurant with a large picture of a drugged-looking cartoon bunny on the outside, we decided to stop to eat. It was true we had not found a hotel yet, but it had been way too long since we’d had that breakfast of pastes, and the search for a hotel and subsequent bargaining would be much more palatable on a full stomach.

The staff at the place was thrilled to have us around and busied themselves arranging places for our bags and cycles. We ordered a delightful feast of salads, pastes, and falafel sandwiches, and I did my best to put food in my body while Scott and Claudia ate hungrily.

Having eaten, the task of finding a hotel felt much more manageable, and it was not more than 20 minutes of wheeling later that we found ourselves checking into a very small, very clean, and splendidly affordable hotel in what appeared to be the tires and automotive parts district of town.

Suddenly it was morning.  We rose early as the light poured into the oddly shaped room from the balcony, where the remainder of our watermelon recovered from the previous night’s feast.

Woody was feeling a bit under the weather, with one foot off the merry-go-round as we say.  Whatever the diagnosis, coffee would certainly be part of the cure.  Walking outside, we found the lobby to be full of travelers mulling about in preparation for the day.

Woody had opted for a haircut the night before, one of the minimal variety, which brings a certain intensity of persona.  Coupled with sunken eyes and oblique posture resulting from his stomach aliment, the other travelers silently moved back from his and Claudia’s path as they descended the stairs.  They crouched down to inspect an insect on the sidewalk.

Meanwhile, I chatted with the travelers who seemed like an odd bunch.  One slight blond man with short cropped hair wore tight black cheap monday jeans and carried a cheap monday tote bag.  “Do you work for cheap monday?” I asked.

“No, I just like the brand.   But I am Swedish.”  In conversation, we shared plans for the day with each other.  A student of Arabic in Damascus,   he was spending the weekend in Latakia.  Today he would take a bus north to the “beautiful and deserted” beaches outside the city.  Somehow Latakia seemed to be filled with a mysterious contingent of Scandinavian hipsters.  I pictured him walking in short James Bond style swim trunks with an orange sunset in the distance as Syrian families gazed on.

Bidding him farewell, Claudia, Woody and I began strolling in search of coffee.  At an odd time during the weekend, the people’s coffee was not an easy find.  We settled on a basement-level cafe that served it up piping hot in paper cups.  At times like this, with a member of the team under the weather, we self prescribe water, rest, and if it can be stomached, food.

Food was the next order of business, and with the known quantity of Samer’s paste restaurant, we ventured up the hill to feast again.

Next door, the hookah establishment and tea house did not yet have customers, and graciously allowed me to photograph a few of their paintings, which had been done on the large mirrors that hung on the wall.

Woody was just on the better side of being able to wheel, and with the perennial pull of the activity we find so magnetic, we headed out on the cycles to explore.  Our first encounter was with the same bicycle mounted coffee vendor, and one of his clientele.   He smoked 100 millimeter  cigarettes which dangled from his triangular head like the hand of a metronome.

Bidding adieu, we mounted the cycles and passed through the impressive port of Latakia in the midday light.

As we continued to ride through the center of town and began to break into the northern sections of the city, Woody called a waypoint.  The stomach problem persisted, and it was time to take a rest.  Conversing about the best course of action, I decided to continue wheeling, heading north and visiting one of the fabled beaches.  At a field of green stalks, we parted ways.

The road north was a gorgeous and wide highway with light traffic and even a few other wheelers.  The breeze, sunlight, and road conditions made it especially enjoyable.  Riding alone was a new feeling, and one that returned my frame of mind to many past lives on my road bike in California, Japan, Long Island, and Cape Cod.  Eventually, the resort district of the north enveloped me, and I had the opportunity to wheel around scoping out the different offerings.

With a penchant for typography, I opted for Le Meridien, with its gutsy use of ornate script paired with ultra-utilitarian Futura.

AsiaWheeling has a penchant for crashing hotels, and so naturally I wheeled through the gate and began to make my way around the the edifice to the beach.  I was past security and the beach was right there.  But something didn’t feel right.  I felt like asking for trouble and seeing what happened, to be at once legitimate and naive.  What was the process of being a strange customer here?  How would I be treated by all levels of the staff?

So beginning my experiment, I wheeled the bike over to the distracted security guard, who then motioned and huffed that I could not have my bike within the confines of the parking lot, so I locked it outside.  Returning, I asked him where the beach was, and he pointed me toward reception.  Inside the grandiose lobby, the young staff plastered on smiles for a busload of demanding guests.  “Where is the beach?”  I asked, and they waved me through without a question.  Outside, something was still not right.  I sauntered down to the beach and found a prime chaise lounge where I rested my camera and Panama hat.

Now I would have to change into my suit.  I walked into the locker room, and thought for a moment to change, but my experiment was not yet complete.  I still had not been asked to become a customer.  Plus, it seemed as a customer, I would  earn a locker key.  Outside, I asked they young man attending to the beach admission kiosk how I could acquire a  locker key, and he showed me the price schedule with ultimate cheer and understanding.  For guests, it was free, and for families and women during off-peak hours, there was a nominal fee to visit the beach.  It increased during the weekend (today was Saturday), and for single men, the fee was double.  Here I was looking at a complexly tiered schedule of prices, and if I indeed wanted to be a customer, I would be subject to poignant price discrimination.  At the very least, I consoled myself, the beach would probably not be full of single men.

Paying the fee, and now a customer, I began to ask for things.  Did they have a newspaper?  No.  Nothing to read?  No Economist or National Geographic?  Nothing.  Just me and the beach.  All in all, the experience was relaxing and zen-like.  Swimming in the water, watching the jet-skiers play, taking a dip in the pool, and spilling a million thoughts down on paper about gourmet ketchup cleared the head quite well.  Soaking up the sun for hours and draining my water bottle, I thanked the team there and mounted back on the cycle to return.

Casually, I had been exchanging text messages with Hiba, the Palestinian Swede we met on the bus to Latakia. We planned to meet up in the evening.  She explained that her brother would be joining her, and that her strict family wouldn’t allow her to come home later than ten.  Stopping by the hotel to freshen up, I found Woody increasingly on the mend though not yet at 100%.  With a bit of faith, I dawned a white shirt and headed out, wondering what this experience chaperoned by a 19-year old B-Boy would be like.

We met on the seaside overlooking the Mediterranean as the sun was setting, and she explained that her brother didn’t speak English.  No worries, as he seemed like a total chiller.  We ventured down to a cafe on the beachside and drank tea and smoked hookah, as her brother puffed Marlboro Lights and played us electronic music on his blinged out mobile phone.  Where on earth was I?  Hiba and her brother were great cafe companions, and we strolled around a bit in the evening.  Finally, it was time for all three of us to go home.

After giving the download to Claudia and Woody back at the hotel, we settled into bed.  The next day we were heading north.

We woke up in our room at the Safwan and decided to indulge in a little bathing.

We had not done so in quite some time. In part because the arid climate of Syria kept us pretty dry, which made us feel clean, and in part because the poor quality of the showers at our beloved Hotel Ziad Al Kabir in Damascus had been quite the deterrent.  In fact, Scott later disclosed to us that he had been afraid even to use the bathrooms for missions more serious than urination.

So it was in an atypically shiny and manageable state that we emerged from the Safwan, hopped on our cycles, and headed out into Latakia, in search, unsurprisingly, of coffee. Not far into the search, as we were driving by a central park, we spotted a fellow wheeler who had attached a few of those Jordanian style giant coffee urns to his cycle.

We decided we had better try some and found it to be truly delicious and mind bogglingly cheap. So we propped the bikes up against a wall and began to settle down for a few cups.

While we were drinking coffee and admiring the fellow’s cycle, a man wandered up to us and introduced himself as Samer.

He was excited to learn about our trip, and brought us over to take a look at his car.

It was a Chevrolet pickup truck, of which he rightly assumed we would approve being Americans. As we were taking a look at the car, a giant water truck showed up and began hosing down the streets with a mighty high pressure hose. The fellows running the hose were also quite friendly, and made sure not to soak us, which was no small task, such a torrent were they handling.

When we asked Samer to a recommend a good breakfast joint, we found ourselves quickly and inescapably compelled to eat breakfast with him. So off we went together, Samer driving his black and yellow striped Chevy, and we following behind.

He led us to a very local establishment, which sported a simple, but tantalizing menu. They offered piping hot homemade flatbread, hummus, babajanouj, pickles, and plates of tomatoes and onions. Despite the simplicity of the menu, it was obviously a popular local hang out, just filled with people. Each table sported a fantastic aluminum oil-can shaped olive oil dispenser and a few ramekins of spices – salt, cumin, and paprika. At Samer’s direction, we ordered a few of everything on the menu, and were just blown out of the water by what arrived.

The hummus was delightful, thick and oily, with a few whole chick peas thrown in.  The pickles were crunchy and delicately flavored. The bread was steaming and soft, with just a hint of crunchy brown exterior.

As we ate the, owner of the place came out to chat with us. He too was very interested to learn what we were doing in Syria on these bikes. Samer seemed proud to have us there, and we were certainly proud to be there with him. At the end of the meal, the customary free tea was brought out to the table, each small cup accompanied by a rather giant egg-cup sized serving of sugar. They were certainly into massively sweet tea in this country.

After we had eaten, the owner took us for a little tour of the operation.

The tour took place quite diligently underneath a giant poster of the president of Syria, Bashar Al Assad, the leader of Hezbollah, Hassan Nasrallah, and the late brother of Mr. Bashar Al-Assad, Basil.

It was clearly an institution.

Full of hummus and bread, and feeling just great, we bid our new friend goodbye, pausing to take a group shot before hitting the road.

A fellow wheeler showed up, just as we were executing the shot, and joined in as well. The more the merrier, we figured.

Then we headed out into Latakia, excited to learn more about this city. We first plunged down to the coastline, where we caught sight of the same blue Mediterranean that we’d swam in in Lebanon. The temperature and the humidity were rising quickly as the day wore on. And as we continued to wheel down the coast, we realized the easy to handle dry air of Damascus had given way to a downright sticky climate now that we’d reached the seaside.

We spotted a local public beach, and headed down a gravel drive to investigate. Soon the gravel drive turned into more of a hiking trail, which in turn dissolved into a path too gnarly for our bikes. So we carried our cycles the last few meters to the beach, where we were able to climb back on and continue wheeling, now over hard packed sand.

The beach was very popular, with all kinds of stands selling various goods, food, and even haircuts. We wheeled back up onto the road, where we saw a large wooden ship’s hull that was perhaps being repaired in the middle of the street. It had obviously been there a while now, for traffic had parted around it so frequently as to have worn new roads into the packed sandy ground.

As we wheeled on, we soon found ourselves in a decidedly new, and decidedly poorer neighborhood. We were forced to stop from time to time, as Claudia was starting to feel none too well in the stomach. Despite our repeated questions as to whether or not she would rather turn back, Claudia was determined to continue wheeling, which we respected.

And so on we went, deep into what we would soon learn was the Palestinian refugee neighborhood.

Claudia had become increasingly in need of a rest room, and so we began stopping from time to time to ask to use a business’ facilities. Unfortunately, all the businesses seemed to have no bathrooms for women, so we wheeled on, hoping Claudia would be able to continue to hang in there. She did, of course, and valiantly, until we were able to find a nice restaurant that granted her admission to its restroom.

As we rode on, we saw all kinds of interesting pro-Palestinian graffiti, unpacking of which is more than encouraged in the comments. Along with the graffiti, we stumbled upon a number of interesting plaques and posters. This wheel was proving unusually fascinating.

Soon we turned off the main streets, and began wheeling the alleyways, cutting across the refugee neighborhoods, stopping from time to time to check on Claudia and to drink water. We were sweating profusely in this city.

As we rode by, the locals were extremely welcoming, calling out to us, and smiling as we cruised past. Soon we were dumped onto a particularly muddy and traffic snarled street, from which we made our way back up toward the center of town.

As we rode, we passed this interesting operation, which seemed to be sporting a roof doubling as a refuse storage zone.

We were joined part way back by quite the obnoxious gang of little wheelers-in-training, and soon we found ourselves so harassed, that we began pondering ways to lose them.   They had been swerving in front of us dangerously and shouting at us in languages we couldn’t understand, coming up so close to us, that we feared we might lock handlebars and both go sprawling into the filthy street. Something needed to be done.

And it was thus that we ended in an uphill struggle to outpace them on the climb back to the high ground of the city center. The superior gearing and general hardware of our Dahons was in our favor, but the kids were tough and Claudia was weakened with sickness.

So we struggled on, climbing, and steadily gaining ground. Somewhere around this stand where kids were selling circular pretzels, we saw our chance to shake them and took it, pulling a quick unexpected licht onto a very busy street.

Suddenly we were on a slight downhill and began to pick up speed fast. We could hear them shouting behind us, but we had good headway now.

By the time we whipped by this very well branded intelligence agency building, we were pretty sure we’d lost them.

Now the sun was hanging low, and we were back in the city center, where we headed around the large roundabout and continued back to the vicinity of the Safwan, which turned out to be in the container port district.

We had to stop when we saw this very violent faceless scarred head statue.

If anyone can tell us more about it in the comments, we would be truly grateful. With bikes parked next to the scarred head, we sauntered over to a viewing platform and watched containers being moved around by giant clawed machines, as the sun set over the port of Latakia.

We ate our second last breakfast, once again at the good old Al Negma. The food was just as incredible and affordable as we remembered it, and the owner was just as willing to give us directions to the bus station.

Except this time we were not headed up the giant booze-shop-lined hill toward the Ante-Lebanese bus station. This time we were headed on a domestic trip, to the fabled city of Latakia.

It was yet another near tearful checkout from the Ziad Al Khabir.

It was beginning to join the ranks of Steve’s Room and Motta’s apartment in terms of hosting AsiaWheeling for extended periods of glory. We said one last goodbye to its welcoming staff, endearing grunge, and Sudanese spiced onion-scented halls.  And with that, we wheeled to bus station.

The ride was pleasant. We had no idea of the schedule of the buses leaving, so we were in no rush. Damascus was as beautiful, dry, and sun-drenched as ever. As we were riding, a car pulled up next to us and called out: ”AsiaWheeling!” We looked over and it was none other than the man who had taken us under his wing on our first day in Damascus, helping us to repair Scott’s sandals and taking us for a tour of the covered market. We pedaled next to his cab, chatting for a bit, and in the end wishing him safe travels.

Once we directed our attention back to wheeling, we realized that we had missed a turn. Not to worry, though, for we were able to pull over in front of a giant military compound where we were quickly surrounded by fellows in all black with giant machine guns. The guys seemed mostly excited to see us and especially interested in talking with Claudia. She was happy to oblige them and was able to secure some very good directions for us. A quiet jaunt on a rather busy highway later, we arrived at the bus station.

I set up shop watching our things while Scott and Claudia headed out to compare buses. It seemed that all the buses to Latakia were selling out as we spoke, and their mission quickly dissolved into a frantic dash to secure tickets. But secure them we did, and soon we were relaxing in the blood red seats of a giant lumbering bus crawling its way across the desert towards Latakia.

The bus stopped halfway through the ride at an Arabic sweets shop, and we decided to buy some to keep us going. The sweets were particularly interesting, featuring the usual baklava-esque variants coupled with a new one, which  consisted of a large flat noodle stuffed with a sweetened cheese and chopped pistachio. Normally I am not too into sweets, but these were just too interesting to hold back on.

While we enjoyed the plate of sweets, Scott went to the counter to acquire diet cola.  While doing so, he struck up a conversation with a fashionably dressed young woman named Hiba who hailed from Malmö, Sweden. She was on her way to visit family in Latakia.  Originally from Palestine, her extended family had been relocated to Latakia in the mid-twentieth century, with her parents moving to northern Europe later on. Hiba and Scott exchanged Syrian phone numbers, and as they bid farewell, her younger brother sporting Nike dunks, a big purple t-shirt, and a fitted baseball cap came to accompany her back to the bus.

When we arrived in Latakia, we unfolded the cycles, and climbed out into the cool desert night. We were immediately befriended by a military officer on his way back to his home town for a little R&R. He led us from the station over to one of the main streets, from which he gave us directions to the city center. We wheeled on from there, noticing that our Syrian flashlights had, despite our charging them all the last night, somehow either failed to store energy, or had broken.

Fair enough. Latakia was lit plenty well enough, and soon we began to spot hotels around us. The first few we wandered into were a bit too pricey, but eventually we stumbled into a Tintin-themed place, by the name of the Hotel Safwan.

From there, we headed out in search of more of that amazing garlic mayonnaise-soaked shawarma, and wiled away the rest of the evening playing whist at a local hookah and ice cream joint.

The next morning, we woke bright and early and headed off to meet Hossam in the same market district of Damascus’ old city where we had met the day before. He met us there with his friend, Delia, who was in very high spirits. We all wandered together through the market, talking excitedly about our plans that day. Not far into the place, Hossam ran over to a vegetable seller and grabbed a few onions and a handful of herbs. “For the kebabs,” he explained.

Our first stop was a meat shop. Hossam definitely had his favorite suppliers, and took great pride in carefully selecting some fantastic cuts of lamb. The first of these he directed the shop owners to blend  and run through a grinder with the bundle of onions and herbs that we had just bought. While they got to work on that, we headed down the street and bought more pieces of lamb from another seller, who proudly hung a bunch of freshly skinned lambs outside his storefront. The lambs had been gutted and cleaned, but for one reason or another, the testicles were left attached. “It is the Syrian way,” Hossam explained to us, grabbing a giant, brown paper wrapped hunk of meat and two chickens, strolling back out into the bustling alley.

We then bought a giant watermelon and a smaller honeydew from an man with a giant room full to my head level with melons. I grabbed the watermelon, and Claudia the honeydew. Hossam protested at Claudia carrying the melon, to which she responded with a feminist retort. Hossam’s friend instantly recognized her and joined in in solidarity. Hossam soon shut up as he became preoccupied with other things, such as fresh cheeses and homemade hummus. We also bought a large bag of fresh cucumbers and more onions.

As we were leaving the market, we noticed this kid selling the kind of child’s bouncy balls that included a set of handles up top, allowing the user to bounce around on it, presumably as some sort of enjoyable though inefficient mode of transit. In any event, he was looking so enterprising and debonair, that while we could not bring ourselves to buy a bouncy ball, we couldn’t resist taking his portrait.

Hossam left us for a moment to run into his friend’s apartment and grab a bag of utensils and a large grill. It was not long before we were met by Hossam’s dentist friend, who pulled up in his Hyundai Verna. There were six of us needing to cram into his five-passenger vehicle, but I was more than happy to climb onto the console, and do my best to avoid the stick shift, snuggled in-between two heavily cologned Syrian men.

Hossam and the dentist began cackling uncontrollably as Hossam told us that he had managed to get off work that day by telling his boss, at the large phonebook company where he worked, that he had just gotten a call from a real big potential client and would need to run off immediately to go close the deal.

We stopped outside Hossam’s place, and he ran inside to talk for a bit with his grandfather. While he did this, we continued to joke around in the car, playing musical sunglasses. Scott looked particularly dashing in the dentist’s shades.

We proceeded from there to drive out of the city of Damascus and into the countryside, where we found ourselves turning left and right into a tangled maze of deserted and dusty back roads. Eventually we stopped outside a giant half-built concrete, multistory structure. “We’re here!” our new friends exclaimed, and we all hopped out of the car, grabbing armloads of food and equipment.

Hossam turned to me and put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he stifled a giggle, “we are going to need to steal our way into this one.” He then jumped over a low-lying wall and into an overgrown courtyard. From the other side of the wall, he took out a knife and jammed it into the lock of the gate, wiggling it around. He then began violently kicking at the gate. Eventually, the old rusty thing gave way and swung open with a gut wrenching creak.

In we went, picking our way through the grasses and over to a small clearing by a somewhat sewage-laden babbling brook. Delia, the dentist, and Claudia began to set up shop there, while Hossam and I scrambled up onto another concrete wall and pulled off some of the corrugated asbestos roofing tiles from a nearby building.

At Hossam’s order, I dropped into the building, which proved full of dusty stuff, and began collecting things, handing them up to him. First two cobweb-covered hand-woven carpets, then the seats from an old couch, followed by a rusty saw, some silverware, and a number of folding chairs. With that done, I scrambled out.

Then we all gathered around the clearing while Hossam and his friend changed from their city clothes into their country clothes: this meant flowing pants and undershirts.

In the meantime, Scott had already headed out to search for firewood. I was about to join him when I decided to question our dentist friend as to the chances of us getting caught in this little ex-Syrian military breaking and entering escapade we had found ourselves participating in. The entire vibe of the experience felt safe, but the last thing I wanted to do was run afoul of the law in this police state.

I was most pleased to learn, however, that Hossam had just been joking, and that his aunt actually owned this land. From there I relaxed considerably, and headed off to search for firewood with much lightened spirits.

We came back with a bunch of firewood,  to find that Hossam had been hard at work putting together the kind of ground meat kebabs that the Russians call “Lula,” meaning ”gun barrel.”

Scott set to work flexing his old Eagle Scout skills and putting together the fire, while the girls gathered around a central plate and started chopping veggies for a salad, and to skewer into shish-kebabs. I had the great pleasure of lounging on the old couch cushions with the dentist and playing the ukulele. Soon the fire had raged down to a good solid burn, and Hossam headed over to start cooking.

He began by filling a couple of wire rack presses with spiced chicken. He then followed up with the kebabs. From time to time he would use a piece or two of the gigantic stack of flatbread that we’d bought as hot mitts, or as tools to transfer the hissing and fat dripping meat from the grill back to the picnic spot.

For each of the kinds of meat, a piece of bread was used as a plate, and as the soft flatbread soaked up the juices, I began to realize I had not eaten all day and was damn near delirious with hunger. Suddenly I heard a chorus of shrieking over by the grill. It seemed that Hossam had realized some of the kebabs were done and, rather than risk them drying out, he had just grabbed the red hot metal with his bare hands, and screaming in pain, but refusing to drop the skewers, made his way, huffing and puffing in brave agony, to the pile of bread. What a fellow we’d found!

We then all sat down to feast.  The girls had put together a very impressive salad, which we squeezed lemon over and salted.

The dentist cut a hole in a large bag of the magnificent Syrian garlic mayonnaise, and squeezed forth a giant pile of that onto a plate. Meanwhile Hossam sliced a similar hole in the corner of the bag of hummus, and squirted a giant spiral of that into another bowl. They spread both sauces out with a spoon, and poured olive oil over them, and then it was time to eat.

And my goodness, dear reader, did we eat that day! By the time we wandered down to the river to get the melons that had been chilling in the water, I was nearly bursting with some of the most succulent meat, bread, and salad I had ever tasted in my life. It was just too good.

The sun shone, and birds sang in the trees. Feral cats wandered up to us, and we gladly threw them pieces of chicken and lamb bone. “Life is good!” the dentist cried out, as he rolled back onto his cushion, stuffing his face with a slice of what turned out to be one of the sweetest and most strongly flavored watermelons I had ever encountered.

Hossam laughed and clapped his hands “Life is too good!”

And with that, we began to transition into a phase of feast-induced drowsiness. We just laid around in the shade of the trees. I played relaxing tunes on the ukulele, and time slide by.

Eventually the sun was sinking and our hosts indicated we needed to go, so we hustled to clean the place up and pick our way back through the grass to the car.

The sun was just setting as we made our way back into Damascus. It had been a beautiful day. You’re right Hossam, life is too good.

That next morning we collected our clothes from the line, stuffed them into our bags, and hit the road, soaring back down the hill and into town. We were sorely in need of some food that did not make us feel sick after eating it, and Scott had found a place in the Lonely Planet that appeared to offer some semblance of price to performance. So we headed off in search of it. We got hungrier and hungrier as the locals directed us this way and that, unsure of where the spot was. In the end, we were directed by a woman in an alleyway toward a large restaurant she claimed was the place we were looking for. It did not have the same name or the same menu, but by then we were becoming more beasts than men and women, so we just sat down.

It turned out to be your basic traveling management consultant’s fare, the kind of thing you might get at a sit-down restaurant in LAX. It was okay, but nothing amazing. And the LAX analogy extended easily to the pricing. By then we were coming to expect these kinds of manufactured experiences, and were beginning to just roll with them, in a sort of of grouchy Scrooge McDuck way.

We ate our medium food, and poured a bunch of the complimentary nuts into Claudia’s purse to save for later, and headed back out. We were unable to find the same kind of bus depot that we had in Beirut, and were informed by a group of cackling old men that we would need to take the local. So we pedaled to the bus stop, folded up our bikes, and soon the bus arrived.

We climbed on the thing and were immediately confronted by a shamelessly predatory bus driver, who insisted that we buy no fewer than 15 tickets, despite the fact that all our things and our bodies took up no more than six seats. We argued tirelessly with him, holding up the bus for quite some time, but in the end our imminent departure and frustration wore us down first and we just paid him. He handed me a giant roll of flimsy receipt-style tickets, which for the rest of the ride proved an unending source of laughter for our fellow passengers.

And so we rode on, along the beautiful coast of Lebanon, gritting our teeth and looking forward to choosing freedom in Syria. Finally the bus arrived back in the snarling traffic of Beirut. The driver stopped the bus, and came back to yell at us to hurry and unload our things. I muttered and bit my tongue.

We were unfolding the cycles and strapping our things down to the rear racks when the usual group of passersby began to form around us, interested in who these weirdos on the folding bicycles were. Among the crowd were a number of grimy street children, one of whom came over to us and asked to have some water. Having bought a six pack of two-liters the day before, we were happy to give him a bottle.

We then watched, aghast, as he walked over to the side of the road and began to pour the drinking water all over his head in order to cool himself. One of his friends came over trying to get some water, and the two of them exchanged a brief series of blows, with the newcomer eventually turned back empty handed. With our water completely poured out onto the ground, and empty the bottle littered in the street, the two kids had the audacity to return together and ask for another bottle.

That was it, it was time to wheel out of here. We hopped on the cycles, and began to pound down the road. Insane Lebanese drivers whipped by us, honking and careening. I didn’t even care, by this point I had one thought in mind: get back to the bus station and buy a ticket to Syria.

And that’s exactly what we did, arriving just in time to catch the last three seats on the next bus for Damascus. We made friends with a Syrian chap on the bus platform who made a point of chatting up Scott for the majority of the ride back over the Ante-Lebanese Mountains. He was interested in all kinds of things: American culture, sports, the World Cup, acronyms, and the English words for all kinds of things.  “What does FIFA mean in English?” he asked Scott.  “Well it’s an acronym, composed of the first letter of each word in the name of an organization.  And FIFA is actually the first letters of four French words.”  We reflected on how strange a concept this might have seemed.

He wanted very badly for us to come back to his village with him and sleep in his house. His home was three hours outside Damascus, though, and we just couldn’t spare the time. He kept at it, however, asking again and again, and eventually we were forced to give him the partially dishonest “maybe.”

When we crossed over a ridge and the city of Damascus spilled out below us glowing and wonderful, our new friend turned back to us and exclaimed “Damascus, Ya Habibi!” (Damascus, My Darling). We could not agree more!

It felt wonderful to be back in Syria… like a breath of fresh air. We goofed around with the crowd of locals who gathered around us as we unfolded the cycles. None of them were preoccupied with ascertaining who was cooler: us or them. None of them were worried that their pants were “in” this season. They were just people, and we were just people too, albeit absurd foreigners rolling around Damascus at night on folding bikes. That’s  all there was to it. Glorious.

As we wheeled down the highway back into town, we found ourselves marveling at how patient and relaxed the traffic seemed, compared to how gnarly we thought it was when we had arrived in Syria the first time. Traffic in Lebanon had been other worldly, just hellish. We passed by a giant wedding party at one of the many liquor stores that lined the road to the bus station, and stopped to take a peek.

There was singing, dancing, screaming, rice throwing, and general merriment. A group of machine gun-toting soldiers was watching the proceedings, laughing and swaying with the music. When they saw us they whooped out in supportive tones, encouraging us to engage in a giant circular marriage dance that was beginning. As tempting as that was, we decided to keep wheeling into town.

Back at the Ziad Al Khabir, they were ecstatic to see us once again, and the owner proudly showed us to a new room, something like the flophouse version of the presidential suite. Furthermore, we could stay in this fancier and rather gigantic room for no extra charge, he explained, for we were friends now.

Damascus, Ya Habbibi, indeed.

Our friend Hossam was also just thrilled to have us back in town. As we headed out the next morning into the bright sun and dry air of that most delightful city, we got a call from none other than Hossam himself. He was interested in eating lunch with us, introducing us to some of his friends, and solidifying plans that he had been cooking up for a large group barbecue.

We felt great about all of those things, and headed out into the old city market where we met the man, looking as dapper and put together as ever. We wandered through the old city together, investigating shops and restaurants that showed potential to provide us with lunch, passing by ornately dressed tamarind juice vendors and navigating the throngs of people.

We stopped at an amazingly ornate and ancient bathhouse on the way, which was a strong reminder to Scott and I how long it had been since we’d been to one, and how much we loved visiting public baths.

Of course, having Claudia around, we couldn’t indulge just then so we continued on, past all kinds of stalls selling everything from exotic spices to fresh made bulk hummus. The bulk hummus fellow stopped us and insisted that we try some.

“You can sample anything in this market,” Hossam explained, “and you will never be obliged to buy anything ,whether you approve of the sample or not. It is the Syrian way.”

We loved the Syrian way, and continued to snack on bits of dried fruit, succulent olives, and neon colored pickles as we made our way along. Finally, we passed a particularly formidable looking organ meat restaurant and decided it would be the perfect place to eat.

And so it was. We delved into a truly magnificent meal of intestines stuffed with rice, tongue, brains, and mysterious milky looking soups. We ate the innards in the traditional Syrian style, grabbing them with flatbread, and then sprinkling onion, cilantro and lemon salt on top. It was unforgettably delicious.

As we ate, Hossam told us jaw dropping stories of his time in the Syrian military, where he had been sent out into the desert with just a knife, and expected to survive for days. He had eaten bugs, sliced himself and sewn the wound shut with his sewing kit (he had the jagged scar to prove it). At one point he even startled us all by putting a cigarette out on his tongue. What a character this guy was!

Conversation soon turned to the BBQ. We would need to do it tomorrow, it seemed, for as much as we loved Damascus, we needed to move on to other cities in Syria. So, with a little more discussion, the date and the menu were set.

We parted after agreeing to meet up again before the BBQ to purchase meats and vegetables.

We decided that night to indulge in a little Damascus night wheeling. We began by buying three cheap Syrian flashlights and some very nice British-made hose clamps. We used the clamps to attach the lights to our handlebars. The fellows at the hardware store that sold us the goods approved wholeheartedly of the system.

The streets were delightful at night, with reduced traffic and plenty of lighting.

And so we wheeled on, into an unexplored and rather maze-like part of town. Part way through the wheel, we stopped for some more of that garlic mayonnaise-soaked Syrian shawarma that we loved so much, sitting down on the curb to eat three giant wraps, the bill for which totaled less than $1.00.

Finishing up the night, we played cards and looked up curiosities on the wiki reader, becoming quite the curiosity ourselves in the process.

The next morning we woke up and began furiously doing laundry in the bathroom of our room at the King George Inn in Jbeil, better know as Byblos, in Lebanon. Claudia was feeling much better, which was a great relief. She seemed glad to be joining in the activities again, scrubbing a pair of jeans furiously in the shower in her bathing suit. After cleaning, rinsing, and hanging up all the clothes that were not currently on our bodies, we began thinking about food and wheeling.

We had, during the great bargaining fiasco of last night, given up our rights to the generally included breakfast at the King George in favor of a reduced rate, so we needed to find something in town.  King George himself strutted around the hotel’s entrance, tending to the garden in the front of the property and producing a nasal murmur into his mobile phone.

We found our bikes outside, where we’d parked and locked them, right in front of the great black Mercedes in the manager’s parking place. Someone had been courteous enough to cover them with a large gray cloth, perhaps to deter thieves.

It was as we were pulling the dusty great cloth off our bikes that I realized I had left my bathing suit in the room (you see, dear reader, we had plans to head to a beach again), so I excused myself to run back up and get it. When I attempted to unlock the door, however, I found myself unable to do so. Either the lock or the key had ceased to cooperate.

So we brought the proprietor’s son, Tony, into the picture, and he too struggled with the door, eventually giving up. We were locked out of our room, with my bathing suit inside, but he assured us he would have the problem solved by the time we got back from our wheel. So we pulled the cloth off the cycles, and figuring I could just buy another suit or go in my ExOfficios, hopped on my Speed TR, whooshing down the hillside and back into the city.

Inside town, we wheeled right by the Librarie Al Jihad. “Jihad,” Claudia explained to us, in reality has a totally different meaning than the whole Alquaida-ized version with which we are familiar in the west.

It refers more to an interior battle for enlightenment, she explained, which sounded good to us, and fit very well with the idea of libraries. So we rode on, giving it the AsiaWheeling-well-named-library seal of approval. As we made our way deeper into town, the call of our growling stomachs began to grow in strength, and we began, with increasing mania, to dash in and out of restaurants in search of food.

We ended up finding it at a sort of down-home snack joint, where we were able to a get a large plate of French fries, some hummus, and a few smoked fish wraps. The food was tasty, but left us feeling very heavy, sluggish, and a little sick.

There is a Lebanese practice of sneaking French fries, as ingredients, into dishes where you wouldn’t find them.  The result is often tasty in the short term, but an uncomfortable belly bomb in the longer term. We figured there was no better cure for the heavy greaseball stomach and sluggishness than wheeling though, so we climbed back on the cycles and continued exploring, albeit at a slightly slower pace.

Soon we came upon the seaside, where just as in Beirut, crystal clear blue Mediterranean water, lapped invitingly against a coastline scattered with hotels, resorts, and clubs. Interested as usual in the people’s beach, we wheeled on, eventually to be rewarded by what looked suspiciously like a public beach.

It was blazingly hot that day, and we were all too happy to spot a small convenience store. Our previous efforts to buy water in this city had been met with Tokyo-esque pricing, and similarly Japanese volumes. But this place looked a little more down home, and to be honest, we were getting so thirsty that we would have paid whatever we had to. We haggled a decent deal on six two-liter bottles, and as we were leaving, we noticed a large system of closed circuit televisions and cameras, which allowed the proprietor to keep an eye on the ice cream cooler outside. When we asked about the elaborate system, she explained that people had been stealing from her ice cream cooler. “So you’re saying the ice cream is not just free?” Scott joked.

“Nothing is free in Lebanon,” she said with a shocking deadpan. And with that, we made awkward goodbyes and climbed back on the cycles.

As we were wheeling down to investigate more closely, we ran into a Lebanese man who lived in Philadelphia. We spent a while chatting with him. He was far from the only foreign Lebanese in this country. Lebanon sports an external population of over 10 million, living in other countries all over the world. And not only do these Lebanese send money home to their families in Lebanon, but many of them come home to visit for the summer.

This might explain, at least in part, why we were finding Lebanon to be so startlingly expensive. During the summers, at least, it was filled with all the affluent Lebanese from foreign countries coming back home to flash a little.

Meanwhile, we had found a good spot at the beach, and Scott and Claudia had used a nearby seafood restaurant as a changing room. I just took my pants off near the water, hoping I was not scandalizing the populace too much. Then, leaving our stuff in a great trusting pile, we headed off into the blue water. We swam out, away from the coast, enjoying the cool of the water. It had been startlingly hot, and it felt amazing to be in the cool blue sea.

Just then a chiseled and well tanned man in a row boat came over. He explained to us that we had better get back to shore, for the water here was filled with jellyfish. Some of them were really big, he explained, throwing his arms out dramatically.

It was then we noticed that, indeed, none of the other beach goers seemed to have ventured out this far. So we began to swim back. And the rumor proved true, for as we swam, I began to notice stings, and then Claudia got struck as well. Then I caught a really bad one on my leg. We all began swimming faster and eventually reached the beach running back to our pile of things, with yelps and hollers.

We were quite happy to be on dry land again, and wiled away the next few hours reading about the Lebanese economy on the wiki reader, and singing songs on the ukulele.

That night, we returned to the hotel, and called a great meeting of the AsiaWheeling field team. We needed to reevaluate our plans. Lebanon was proving startlingly expensive, devastatingly touristy, and for one reason or another, we felt a pull to move on. With the marked exception of our meeting with Mueen and the Red Bull team, our interactions with the locals had been some of the most mediated, most predatory, and least pleasurable of the entire trip. The Lebanese food that we had looked forward to turned out to be a choice between swanky $20-per-plate type places, or cheap greasy street food, which consisted mostly of hidden French fries.

Frankly, I was fed up. I didn’t feel welcome. Furthermore, I felt that the way to be welcomed was to come and spend a lot of money. I thought back to the humble little city of Genshui, in southern  Yunnan, where we had been taken under the wing of that restaurant owner, and continued to return back to his shop for more feasts and long conversations, to meet his friends and family, to be brought into his life. And that fellow didn’t even speak English.

Everyone here spoke English. Despite that, for the first time in six months of rambling, we were consistently unable  to connect with the place in anything more than either the most superficial or most intellectually mediated way. I know, I know, dear reader, this is an atypical stance for your humble correspondents to take. And please don’t get me wrong. Lebanon is a beautiful country, just bursting with natural wonders and rich history. But I just don’t think it’s the place for AsiaWheeling.

It felt artificial, manufactured, and mediated. The men of this country are engaged in a never ending cycle of competition to see who has the fanciest car, who frequents the coolest night clubs, who has the best pair of acid-washed designer jeans, or the newest sunglasses. The women are so painted, so packaged, and so modified as to appear only partially organic life forms.

In an effort to gain Internet access, we inquired with the staff of the King George whether it would be possible to plug in our laptop to their network.  After Scott was shown various dead Ethernet connections on multiple floors of the hotel, Tony, George’s son invited him to sit on the steps outside their personal residence on floor two.  As the Internet trickled wirelessly, syncing emails and uploading posts to AsiaWheeling.com, shouts and hollers of domestic dispute flowed forth from the residence.  Business with family seemed tough, especially the hotel business.

Lebanon was an important place to visit, an awesome cultural and economic spectacle, but after about an hour of discussion, we decided it was time to go back to Syria, where we felt at home.