I entered the border to Syria from Turkey at approximately 8:30 AM, and for the next 8 hours, sat on a bright red, hard-plastic bench, waiting for my visa. The official policy concerning an American's entry into Syria is that a visa MUST be obtained while in America. The unofficial poilcy, so I had heard, was that yes, after an excrutiatingly long wait, an American may obtain a visa. The all-important question it seemed, was who my parents were. After that it was my occupation, and then of course duration and exact location of stay. As bureaucratic as it may have seemed, there was an extremely lighthearted and consequentially, surreal feeling about the whole procedure. Syrian soldiers, in full uniform, pistols tucked haphazardly into their belts, were in-so it appeared-very good moods. Rarely was the attitude of authoritarian entitlement displayed, rather an attitude of men at work, joking and laughing and enjoying their time on the clock in spite of all the drudgery. Perhaps around 12:30, I found myself in conversation with a man named "Sammy" who had very strong opinions concerning our involvement in Iraq. Whether or not I agreed with him was inconsequential. For all intensive purposes, Sammy was right, and would continue to be so until I had obtained my visa. It just turned out that Sammy pulled a lot of strings at the border, and apparently, accepted bribes. To make a long story short, 8 hours and $45 later I was in possession of a Syrian visa. Next, Sammy found me a cab, showed me to my bus station in Aleppo, helped me get my ticket, showed me which bus to get on, and finally, helped me find an ATM. It is odd, to say the least, to enter a country like Syria. Road rules are loose. Everything seems to move at a faster pace. People are yelling and I have no idea about what, and damn, do they stare. But Sammy, and the kids at the bus station yelling, "Welcome to Syria!" as if they sensed my bewilderment, made entry into Syria a breeze. Damascus, its capital and largest city, was every bit as good.
