never start a paragraph with a capital letter

The streets were old and rough, everything was ancient except for the trees and the taxi. There was silence that I could not absorb in one gulp even though there were plenty of tourists. It was also that I come from Damascus, a big city the sits in the lap of a giant mountain full of life and death. I stood at the door of the main building of the college, there was no one to be seen inside. As I went through there was a smell of wine that suited the arched stone ceiling. I naturally left the two medium bags that contained the remaining of my life and followed the noises. The smell was coming from a garden with a massive fig tree in its centre. Dressed in shorts, it was clear I was fresh to arrive. A professor welcomed me and asked my name and nationality, when I answered, he asked if I came straight from there as he walked me to a near table; and before I said a word, he gave me a glass.

I left two nights before, said my goodbyes and crashed in the safer down town to meet the shared taxi I booked to Beirut the next day. I met my uni friends in the morning to have a coffee and a cigarette. There was a wide cone of smoke coming from earth in the distance. It was the direction of my parent's place. The first helicopter to be shot down during the revolution was on that day, a few hundred meters from where I grew up. I remember that if I hadn't left the night before, I might have never; The district was under siege for 12 days to follow.
On the way I stopped the taxi to meet a friend who gave me a book and a hug. Crossing the border with the last picture of the dead president I didn't look back. Then, I gave my Syrian ID to a friend in Beirut as it was only needed for the checkpoints. Beirut was pleasant, it was hot but breezy in the shade, and good looking people walked around. Arriving in the early morning in Istanbul, the switch to my next flight was 8 hours away. I walked about the city's markets, it had the familiar soul but different people and scenery. The tram added a bit of a European touch to the whole context that differentiated it from middle eastern cities of comparable heritage. Drizzles of light rain against the background of the partially sunny august only added freshness to the strong tea I had with lunch. I landed in Brussels. The train to Bruges passed though populous neighbourhoods. Shortly afterwards, the serenity of the Belgian country side behind the window overcame my conciousness and my mind wandered in anticipation of my next journey.