Venezia

Siamo in italia

Yesterday we were in three countries, passing from Croatia to Slovenia
and into Italy, covering a little over 200km.

At one point Jesse's leaking tire was a cause for major concern, and
he was starting to think a bus would be in order; fortunately we met
an Italian with a pump dispensing "magic air" that kept the thing
inflated for the rest of the day. It also allowed us to reach the
Italian border, where Jesse amused the drivers with his displays of
love and affection for the Italia sign - when he peeled himself away
we were able to roll across into his promised land.

Today: victory laps in St Mark's square.

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Croatian charity

I am typing this from a cot in a Franciscan monastery on the island of
Cres, where we were able to take shelter from a vicious thunderstorm
that prevented us reaching our destination for the day.

Having disembarked from our ferry, we were making good time when the
sky turned black, the rain started bucketing, and the wind started
blowing over the road signs. Thinking discretion the better form of
valour, we sought shelter in town instead of pressing on into the
gathering dark of the evening. However, not only was there no room at
any of the inns, but several people looked at the two desperate
travellers and laughed, or suggested we head out into the tempest for
the next town. This would be less disconcerting were it not the latest
in a long line of generally rude and unhelpful Croatians in hotels,
tourist offices and restaurants, making it instead the final straw.
(Jesse wants me to add that although this morning we were in a four
star hotel, he found people in Zadar so awful that he's far happier on
a stone floor this evening).

Our last resort tonight was an old barn with the door ajar; the
penultimate resort was this monastery where, after some coaxing
(involving Jesse waving his crucifix around) and some displays of
appropriate desperation, we have received some "caritas" (food and pot
of pasta) for which we are extremely grateful. It is nevertheless
still worth noting that none of the people who took us in are
Croatians; in one of life's nice little ironies the most helpful
people we've found in Croatia are a bunch of Germans...

Must go, monk giving me dirty look for playing with phone after lights
out. Ciao.

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Hvar

After spending the morning on ferries hopping from Korcula to mainland
and back out to the islands, we rode the length of the island of Hvar,
a distance of some 80km. This ride offered, especially at the
relatively deserted eastern end, some of the best vistas we've yet
seen, but was let down in the overall rankings by the often dodgy road
quality.

Arriving at Hvar - a pretty little fishing port now glitzed up with
five star hotels - we set about the usual task of locating
accommodation. For most of Croatia so far this has been a matter of
spotting someone offering "sobe - zimmer - camere - apartamani" and
asking them for the room in their house. These places tend to lack
some of the creature comforts of the hotels (phones, TVs, breakfast)
but they are also not outrageously over-priced. At the end of the
day's riding all we really need is a shower and a bed, though over the
last couple of days we seem to have neglected the former in favor of
jumping into the sea with the locals. Needless to say, we are perhaps
not as clean as we should be...

The evening in Hvar passed without incident, occupied mainly by a big
dinner and some people-watching. We established that of all the
fabulous people promenading around the place, we were certainly the
only ones with beards, and most likely the scruffiest. Then again, we
were also the only ones who'd arrived in town by bicycle, so at least
we had that excuse...

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Korcula and Dubrovnik

We arrived in Dubrovnik on Monday evening, and are currently on a
ferry from the island of Korcula, heading for the island of Hvar,
kepping away from the busy coastal road by island-hopping instead.

Dubrovnik was great, a very Venetian old town surrounded by sea walls
that we ended up clambering around in search of what Jesse assured me
would be a better place to swim. After some rock climbing and the old
"swimming / keeping valuables dry with one arm in the air" trick, we
made an amphibious landing at a secret bar tucked into the rocks
between the walls and the sea. Several sundowners and some excellent
banter with the Aussies later, it was time to return to the convent
where we had secured rooms for the night (yes, you read that right,
the convent).

Yesterday we rode 130km out from Dubrovnik along the coastal road,
then a peninsula heading out to the islands. Beautiful riding through
vineyards, mountains, all with glorious views of the Adriatic in the
background. Eventually we rolled into a small ferry-port, taking a
boat across the strait to Korcula, which turned out to be a slightly
dubious backpacker haven and also where two old friends from Oxford
were on holiday. Small world...

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Dubrovnik at last

Andrew refuelling in Croatia

Albania to Montenegro: the darkest hour cometh before the dawn

I think it's fair to say that neither Jesse nor I was particularly
enamoured of Albania, and this burgeoning dislike was hardly helped by
this morning's riding. We started out on the main road from Tirana,
dodging market stalls, microbuses, ruts, goats and horse-drawn carts,
eventually reaching city limits. There we found ourselves riding
against a flow of wedding processions, with all the cars decked in
pink ribbons and honking their horns. We thought this mildly
entertaining until an Albanian leaned out of a car window right next
to us and started firing shots from his pistol into the air. I think
he was celebrating, but we hit the gas and got out of there at high
speed.

Later, after an hour spent on one of the worst roads I've ever ridden,
even on a mountain bike, Jesse had an illuminating conversation with
some young Albanians. The one who spoke decent English said "so,
Albania really sucks, right?", to which Jesse made some polite
response about how it wasn't all bad really. The Albanian's response
said it all: "that's because you're passing through - you don't have
to live here."

Leaving Albania changed everything about the day. Instead of terrible
roads littered with the remains of industrial machinery and soviet
sculpture, we were on country lanes lined by hedgerows, giving way
later to views of the Adriatic. Riding along the coast, looking out at
tenth-century monasteries, or on craggy islands lit by the setting
sun, it was hard to believe that only this morning we'd been as close
to despair as we've been on this trip.

Tomorrow: to Dubrovnik, and Croatia!

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Jesse's opinion of Albania (mine not dissimilar)

Tirana tidings

I hate to say it, but Albania is not the most inspiring country,
though I am pleased to be able to say that what it lacks in, well,
everything, it makes up in great mountain scenery.

I think our suspicions were first raised by the incredible abundance
of car wash (by hand) businesses here - literally whole towns of
"lavazho" and one tacked onto every roadside restaurant. Jesse
remarked on this phenomenon to a guy we met in a gas station, and his
response more or less said it all; "it's because our country is so
dirty". Elsewhere we saw city-sized factories, statues of communist
iron fists, and many, many disused machine gun bunkers.

However, on the climb up to the pass above Tirana we also encountered
some spectacular scenery, and the rare opportunity to ride for a long
time along a high ridge line. At some points there were vertical drops
on both sides of the ridge, and after 10km or so we plunged downwards
to the rather dreary capital.

Today brought our total distance since Istanbul to almost 1100km in
six days; tomorrow we will head for the border and cross into
Montenegro.

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Beards and crucifixes in Albania

Tan lines...

Macedonian missive

Jesse and I are now at the monastery of St Naum, situated on a lake in
south-western Macedonia. We're not sure exactly what St Naum did
beyond get martyred sometime in the tenth century, but he left behind
a rather beautiful little church, where we have been the latest
lighters of candles and sayers of prayers in a tradition going back a
thousand years. Apparently the icons here are known for their healing
of the mentally ill - I'm afraid to report that as yet neither of us
has been healed to the extent that we've decided to abandon this bike
trip.

The monastic community here has all but disappeared, sadly, and the
whole area has been converted into a holiday camp for weekending
Macedonians. These are a rather strange breed, we have decided, but
the upside is that our spandex looks relatively tame next to the
Macedonian male's swimwear of choice.

In order to get here we had two climbs, one just across the border to
get to the first of our lakes, and the second climb taking us up over
12km to 1600m in altitude. At the top the mountain fell away almost
vertically into the blue lake below; the only other people up there
with us were the local hang-gliders.

We've now done over 500 miles in 5 days since Istanbul, and tomorrow
we will head across yet another border to Tirana, the Albanian
capital.

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Macedonian lake district

Live from Florina, Greece

As I type we are in a bar on the main drag of Florina, a town right
near the Macedonian border (which we cross tomorrow). For some reason
all the inhabitants of this small town appear to be crowded onto this
one street, partying for no discernible reason other than it being a
Thursday or, as Jesse might have it, that we're in town. Either way,
we stand out as the bearded foreigners, doubly so given that we lack
faux-hawks or euro-mullets; evidently we are simply not cool enough to
hang here.

We did however have a very scenic day of riding, clocking in at a mere
135km after yesterday's epic. Early in the day we passed Pella,
ancient capital of the Macedonian kingdom and home to Alexander, then
moved on through lush farmland overloaded with peaches and nectarines.
Jesse was tremendously excited by what evidence he saw of the various
workings of the agricultural system; I was more inspired when we hit
the rivers and mountains later in the day. Unfortunately the mountain
scenery came with the added bonus of some climbing, during which we
both had cause to curse the greek road builders for omitting the
switchbacks.

We arrived in Florina before dark - a novelty so far since jesse
turned up - and found an amazing taverna for dinner and two bottles of
the house red (which, appropriately enough, was also home made). Now
back up the hill to the king alexander hotel, and on tomorrow to
Macedonia proper.

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Near Macedonia

To Thessalonika

260km was the day's tally, bringing our three-day total to 640km.

At one point today, after 100k or so and with a long way yet to ride,
we saw an old man floating quietly in the beautiful blue water of an
inlet beneath us. Looking at his serenity, then back at us, caked in
sweat and with more to come, Jesse's comment was "maybe he knows
something we don't." Amen to that.

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To Thessalonika

260km was the day's tally, bringing our three-day total to 640km.

At one point today, after 100k or so and with a long way yet to ride,
we saw an old man floating quietly in the beautiful blue water of an
inlet beneath us. Looking at his serenity, then back at us, caked in
sweat and with more to come, Jesse's comment was "maybe he knows
something we don't." Amen to that.

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Elzinga: unable to decide which former soviet location he wants to go to

Jesse enjoying a fruity cocktail, Xanthi

Day 2 of the Elzinga experience

We crossed the border this morning into Greece, then rode 186km.

Highlights of the day included taking a swim in the Aegean from a
secluded beach, finishing the day out with a 40km "time trial" in the
final hour (Jesse wishes all to know that he was "strong like bull",
doing all the work), and watching Jesse order a pina colada without
even a hint of irony.

We're now in Xanthi - no idea where we'll end up tomorrow, but I
suspect it will be a long way down the road.

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Istanbul, and Jesse's arrival

I spent two full days in Istanbul, soaking up the sights and sounds
both before and after the arrival of my reinforcements in the form of
JR Elzinga esq.

While there I found myself no longer the only tourist in town, and had
to deal with the tourist hoardes and their ever-snapping camera
fingers. Haghia Sophia was full of them, the Blue Mosque moreso; in
the latter I overheard one American ask his tour guide "so the Koran
is basically the same as the old testament, right?"

Looking beyond the tourists, it was a fun experience, and the Rustem
Pasha mosque as recommended by Trish was a nice antidote to the other
tourist-packed attractions. I caught up with Mehmet and Asli, old
friends from BCG in NY, who took me out for a fabulous dinner on the
Bosphorus.

And then Jesse arrived, causing further bafflement to the
already-bemused staff at the W Istanbul. Having seen me roll in on a
bicycle and not known whether to park the thing or have me ejected,
the arrival of a second bearded bicycling ruffian entertained them no
end. I am reasonably certain that the W has not played host to bike
tourists thus far, and I'd be willing to bet that it will be some time
before it does so again! This is a shame, however, since Cem the
concierge is a total legend who moonlights as a logistical planner for
foreign bike touring groups, so he really knows his stuff.

Today we had a slow start, but made up for it with 180k after lunch,
putting us right on the Greek border. Tomorrow morning we'll turn
right, go about 500m and then enter the border formalities.

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Istanbul...

Roadblock

A day spent in Nicaea

A slow day today, starting with a large breakfast of cheese, olives,
fresh bread and Turkish tea in the garden of the guesthouse where I'm
staying. The place is part of the Iznik tile foundation, and they have
a cottage industry on-site which churns out beautiful ceramics in
blues, greens and oranges. I spent much of the morning with my feet up
in a gazebo in their sculpture garden, intermittently stretching the
aching quads.

This afternoon I attempted to take a look inside the aya sofya church
here, built not to house the first ecumenical council (the one for the
creed) but the seventh, which still dates it to sometime in the sixth
century. Unfortunately it was closed for renovation, so I wandered
around, browsing through some tiled mosques and the wreckage of
classical civilzation littered about the town.

As I said, a slow one.

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Andrew's Nicene Creed

Merhaba from Iznik, formerly Nicaea and home briefly to Crusaders and before them the clergymen who put together the Nicene Creed (which, for those who went to College Chapel with me, is what we recited every Sunday).

In recognition of the achievements of the latter, I was going to attempt to structure the day's thoughts in the rather obscure stylistic form of a creed. Unfortunately I'm too exhausted to come up with anything particularly clever, and "I believe in one climb" still seems vaguely blasphemous.

So, not wanting to risk a smiting when I climb up out of here towards Izmit and Istanbul, I can report in plain English that today was a day of probably 15 miles of climbing in 80 miles total, and was rather tiring as a result. The scenery, however, as I hope the pictures below show, was spectacular, the lake view in particular more than justifying the sweat and tears involved in the 4 mile climb - at more than 10% - that got me up there.

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And finally, the lake at Iznık

As if by magic, the landscape shifts...

Cimmerian steppe

Eskisehir update

75 miles today in some of the most barren but majestic scenery yet, with the enjoyment marred somewhat by a nasty and persistent headwind.

Two thirds of the way through I passed a turnoff for the village which is all that remains of King Midas' ancient capital. The same place was also the location of Gordion, home of the knot cut by Alexander in that story so often cited as "out of the box" thinking...thanks to Dan for the heads-up on that one. I would have liked to have visited the site, but at that point a 50k detour was a tough sell, tougher given that there isn't even much to see these days.

Now in Eskisehir, scene of first battle between crusaders and the Turkish army of Asia Minor. As with many other such places along this trip, there is nothing to mark this event, no indication that it ever took place, just the dry grass on the plain blowing in the breeze, just as it would have been 911 years ago.

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Ottoman-style mosque in Eskisehir (and tram cables)

Turkish bateau-mouche in Eskisehir

Report from Emırdag

The last two days have seen the shockıng but welcome ıntroductıon of some genuıne topography to the Anatolıan plaın. I've actually had to clımb some hılls, there have been trees, and even the occasıonal rıverbed (dry, of course). On the other hand, I can't complaın too much as I've been makıng great tıme each day, flyıng along now that I've dıtched pretty much all weıght that ıs surplus to requırements, rıght down to the map sectıons that are no longer requıred.

There ıs lıttle to report otherwıse - thıs must be how journalısts feel ın general at thıs tıme of year. Let me see...today I watched a gas statıon attendant start the pump goıng then lıght hımself a cıgarette, whıch I belıeve ıs not advısable, despıte hıs nonchalance. Upon arrıvıng here ın Emırdag, I found myself dustıng off my French to communıcate wıth the landlady of the weırd lıttle dıve ın whıch I am stayıng; I later had to ask a rather polıte 'qu'est-ce que vous faıtes?' when she decıded that my naptıme was the very moment to measure up my dorm for repaırs. After beıng so rudely awakened, I headed out to reconnoıtre the small town of Emırdag, fındıng ıt bustlıng but unexcıtıng, and less quaınt than the beautıful and green lıttle town of Aksehır where I stayed yesterday.

As I saıd, lıttle to report, so I wıll sıgn off wıthout further ado. Tomorrow ıs a rıde through some foothılls to Eskısehır, whıch has some ımportance as the sıte of the fırst battle between Crusaders and Seljuk Turks back ın 1097. Perhaps more ımportantly for me, ıt promıses a warm shower, laundry facılıtıes and, I belıeve, the end of thıs ınfernal plaın.

Anatolia: plain

Anatolia: not terribly exciting rıdıng

Today's ride brought me from Eregli to Konya, a distance of some 80ish miles, bringing the total on the clock so far to around 460 miles. Not such a great average over the whole two weeks so far, thanks to many days spent touring historical sites in Syria, but average per riding day is a little over 75 miles.

Apologies for the stats, but this is a tiny sample of the random things with which I attempted to occupy my mind as I crossed the dusty Anatolian plain. Occasionally green, sometimes with a mountain or two to enliven the horizon, but always flat and with a straight road, this was not wildly exciting riding. Several times I was on the verge of wishing for a mountain pass, if only for the sake of variation.

On the other hand, it was easy to see how this plain took such a great toll on the Crusader army in 1097. It was during its crossing that the knights first truly realized the problems associated with wearing iron armour in hot places (yes, I would have thought they could have figured that one out in advance too), and also that many of their mounts succumbed to dehydration, beginning the transition of the army from a cavalry to an infantry force. My mount was in no danger of succumbing to dehydration, but its rider was - I discovered today that even a camelbak is no defence against a parched throat in such a dry, dusty place.

I am now sitting in a mall in Konya, where I came in the vain hope of seeing the new Batman movie. Alas! The Turkish dubbers got there before me, so I will have to wait a little longer to find out what Will is raving about. Tomorrow I am taking a rest day, during which there will be much sleeping and an effort to track down some whirling dervishes (for Konya is their home).

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Update from Eregli, Turkey

Two days ago I rode out from Antioch, where I spent some time tracing what remained of the ancient city besieged by the knights of the first crusade in 1098. In fact, there is only one of the city's five gates remaining, and it is the one which so confounded the besiegers: nestled in between the two mountains which formed Antioch's near-impregnable defensive backbone, this "Iron Gate" is still there, though you'll never find any tourist signs to tell you so.

I felt that I went some small way toward recreating some of the suffering felt by the two armies during the siege when, in an effort to climb up the mountain for some pictures of the gate, I slipped and sliced open my foot. At first I thought all was well, but the squelching of my sandal quickly alerted me to my mistake, and to the blood pulsing from my foot. One makeshift bandage, much limping and some Kurdish band-aids later, I was back in business, snapping away. As a note to mother and girlfriend, I am pleased to report that there are no signs of infection so far, and no black streaks running up my leg...

The last two days of riding have been somewhat brutal, each around eighty miles and each with a major climb through passes of strategic importance held since time immemorial. These climbs have stretched days in the saddle and in the sun, leaving my legs both sore and sunburned.

Today's climb was about 40km long, steepening signficantly in the last 15km and taking me from sea level up to 1500 metres at the "Cilician Gates". This pass has long been the only vaguely easy way to get from the Anatolian high plain through into Cilicia, and has therefore seen some notable foot traffic over the years. Xerxes would have brought his army through here westwards on his way to Thermopylae, Alexander returned the favour by passing through eastwards on his way to rout Darius at Issus in 333BC (I skirted that battlefield yesterday), a Crusader expedition under Tancred of Hauteville and Baldwin of Boulogne came through as the vanguard of the first crusade in 1098, and so on. These days the pass itself is a rather ugly affair, with motorway construction taking place along the side of the old road; the climb up to that point was gorgeous, however, or at least seemed so whenever I could divert attention from the uphill grind long enough to check.

Having now made it from Antioch through the Cilician Gate, I have replicated in two days Tancred and Baldwin's expedition of some months. Much of the difference is in superior roads (not to mention maps), but at least some is due to the delays caused by the Crusaders' penchant for besieging and pillaging any city unfortunate enough find itself in their path. In fact, the only thing that could induce either Tancred or Baldwin to move faster across Cilicia was the prospect of beating the other to the next city, with all the booty / slaughter awaiting therein. Times have indeed changed.

Nowadays, what induces me to move faster from town to town is the prospect of the booty waiting within the modern petrol stations that seem fortunately to litter my path. Whereas in Syria the petrol stations were rather grimey local affairs, Turkey has apparently over-invested in building out snazzy new Shell, BP, Petrol Ofisi and other forecourts, all of which will be found in any given town, no matter how small. The glorious thing from my point of view, however, is that each is complete with the coca-cola fridge haunting my dreams along the baking asphalt. Although these fridges lack the 1.5 litre glass bottles that so enriched the South American cycling experience, they compensate with an admirably dependable frigidity!

Next stop is Konya, which is a mere 140km away to the northwest. There I will rest my legs for a day, wait for the top layer of skin to peel off, then head half-refreshed for Istanbul.

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Update on Syrıa, from Antioch

After a little over a week spent incommunicado in Syria, I'm now back
in range of mobile data services, and it's time for me to retake the
reins after the excellent job done by Liz of keeping this page
updated.

Syria was, in general, a fantastic place with great historical sites
and wonderful people. I did my time riding in its vast eastern
deserts, but also discovered that its western half is rather more like
Provence than Arabia, making for some extremely pleasant - albeit
mountainous - riding through terraced olive groves.

Along the way I visited classical ruins left by Alexander or the
Romans, Mosques built by Umayyads or Abbasids, Churches from the
earliest days of Christian monasticism, and of course castles built by
the Templars and Hospitallers to consolidate the gains made during the
First Crusade.

I stayed in a restored Ottoman courtyard hotel in Damascus, in a date
plantation in the desert, on the hillside overlooking Krak des
Chevaliers, on the floor in the cell of a Maronite priest in Banias,
with the Isma'ili family of a local politician / poet / taxi driver in
the Assassins' town of Masyaf, and in the medieval maze of the Aleppo
souk.

There have been very few dull moments: I have had a town oud maestro
summoned to serenade me over a nargileh, seen the meagre tomb of
Saladin, become lost in the dungeons of Krak des Chevaliers, attempted
to answer a Damascene imam's questions about the Christian tripartite
God, heard that the crusades were retribution for muslim depredations,
heard that the crusades were an act of unwarranted religious
aggression, had coffee in the shop of an oil man turned plastic flower
salesman, taken tea with a family of rather impoverished Kurds, and
heard grace sung at dinner in Syrian Aramaic. And that's just one week
in Syria...now I move on to Turkey, and the road across Anatolia to
Istanbul.

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Roman ruıns at Apamea, Syria

The Castle of the 'Assassins', Masyaf

Sıgns seen on the road to Palmyra...

The Citadel Of Aleppo

Fındıng a way from Homs To Aleppo

In making his way north through Syria, Andrew has seen the insides of far more crusader castles than hotels over the past few days.

On Friday morning Andrew set out by bicycle towards the Mediterranean, and was surprised to arrive in the coastal town of Baniyas and find it devoid of hotels. As luck would have it he came upon a Maronite priest, who had enough Christian hospitality to open the church for the night to a mad Englishman he found standing in spandex on the side of the road.

Saturday brought more castles and no better luck in finding rooms for rent. After a day spent struggling across a mountain range, Andrew wound up sans hotel in Apamea; he ended up staying as the guest of the family of a plastic flower salesman (with perfect English!) he had met along the way in Masyaf.

Today Andrew continued on to Aleppo (site of the citadel pictured above). Tomorrow, he bids farewell to Syria and crosses into Turkey. Destination: Antioch.

- Liz

Krak Des Chevaliers

Andrew spent the day exploring the shadowy passageways of Krak des
Chevaliers, a crusader fortress that is one of the world's best preserved
military castles.

Tomorrow, he plans to cycle up the coast of Syria to the town of Baniyas.
After Tuesday's brutal desert crossing Andrew has jettisoned all
"non-essentials" from his pack in the interest of cutting weight, including
guide books, the bottom half of his toothbrush, and a spare pair of boxer
shorts.

Dispatches From Palmyra

I'm happy to report that after his first day of cycling, Andrew has arrived safely in Palmyra. He will have no data service until he’s out of Syria so cannot post entries or send images, but has enlisted me as ghostwriter in the meantime.  

Today Andrew rode 135 miles from Damascus to Palmyra through the desert about 60 miles north of the Iraq border,  in 102 degree heat. It took him just over 8 hours of cycling time. He's now "a complete mess, but alive" and in a suite at a five-star hotel in Palmyra.

He also adds that he met some Iraqis along the way who spoke eloquently about what Americans have done to their home town, Fallujah.

Tomorrow will bring much resting, no cycling, and hopefully enough investigation of the ancient city to make the journey worth it.

-Liz

Day 3 - Baalbek

Hopefully the pictures made it onto here, though they do the Temple of
Jupiter only scant justice. The pictures I took on my other camera are
better, but even at 10 megapixels it won't capture the experience of
sitting there.

On the other hand, if you could see the hotel I am staying in tonight,
you might be willing to trade off slightly inferior resolution for the
ability to avoid sleeping here. Long, Shining-like corridors, only
intermittently lit and even then illuminating only the cracks in the
place's long-ago grandeur. Apparently Jean Cocteau and the Shah of
Iran stayed here once, but for tonight I think I may be the only
guest.

The reason is not that there's anywhere better in town, its just that
there's no western tourists around, period. I've seen plenty of gulf
arabs around the place but, other than two Americans at AUB in Beirut
and a French couple here, I've seen nobody - I guess that the 2006
conflict and the recent political violence have done a number on the
package tour business. As a result, I was mobbed outside the ruins
today by every hezbollah T-shirt seller, trinket plugger, tourist
swindler and postcard purveyor in town, all of whom apparently
expected me to singlehandedly make their third quarter numbers.
Needless to say, I was not the market maker they had prayed for...

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Columns of the Temple of Jupıter, Baalbek

Yes, that is a guy at the base of that column. That's how big they are.

The Temple of Jupiter, Baalbek

Andrew at Baalbek, Lebanon

Day 2 - Jaita and Jbail

The bike has yet to come out of the box, for I spent the day a few kms
up the coast from Beirut, looking first at the famed Jaita grottoes,
and second at the ancient town of Jbail / Byblos.

Experiencing the rush-hour traffic around Beirut, I have to say I was
glad that the bike remained in the box. B roads were few and far
between, and the main road would have been a multi-lane affair (but
for its lack of any discernible lane markings).

Arriving at Jaita, I was prepared for enormous disappointment, the
moreso because of the busloads of vacationing gulf arabs dragging
their kids to this "must-see" attraction. However, the caves
themselves lived up to this billing - they were spectacular. Upon
entering the upper grotto, one is met with an impressive display of
limestone stalactites / stalagmites, looking suspiciously like coral
that's traded undersea for underground. Further in, the white light
transitions to a deep red, the ceiling rises into an impossibly high
vault, and it starts to feel as if you're descending into somewhere
quite sinister. Staring at what appear to be bottomless fissures into
the abyss, I felt that all I needed was Virgil as a guide and I'd be
in some weird Dantean fantasy world. (Will, if you ever film the
Inferno, this is your set for one of the circles.)

Byblos, by contrast, was heavenly and extraordinarily beautiful - the
pictures I posted earlier do it no justice. It had the winding, narrow
and still inhabited streets of many medieval towns, but sits atop
ruins bearing witness to the passage of just about every important
civilization in the last 8000 years, as well as the genesis of the
alphabet which, after being pinched by the greeks and adapted by the
romans, you are now reading. In short, the view made me recall all
those times American friends have told me how we have "so much
history" in England, and reflect that, though this may be true, what
London is to New York in this regard, so Byblos is to London.

Tomorrow: Roman ruins at Baalbek, in the Lebanese Bekaa valley,
hopefully dodging Hezbollah on the way.

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Roman theatre at Byblos

Andrew at Byblos

One of the oldest human habitations in the world: built up by the Phoenicians, visited by Alexander, Pompey Magnus, Raymond of St Gilles, Saladin and, perhaps anticlimactically, me.

Day 1 - Beirut

I am typing this message thanks to the magic of blackberry as I wait for a steak in, well, a steakhouse. (A french one, for that added bit of foreign frisson.) It has, by and large, been an interesting day, involving no riding but a certain amount of intelligence gathering and general wandering around.

Things I have learned in the course of the day are as follows (in no particular order):

1. One should not attempt to cycle across the border to Damascus from the Bekaa valley

-Just as riding it from beirut is apparently suicidal due to the deranged lebanese drivers (they don't seem too bad so far, but the lebanese who told me that live in new york, so they should be able to spot crap drivers), the route from baalbek opens the possibility of hezbollah interrogation. While I am reliably assured that "nothing bad" would come of such questioning, I do feel that in this case discretion may be the better form of valour.

2. Snazzy areas of Beirut have valet parking, nice restaurants, and guys with sniffer dogs checking cars for explosives

3. Converted crusader churches make for strange, and probably slightly inconvenient mosques

4. Some parts of downtown really are still pockmarked with bullet holes; elsewhere they've done an amazing job of cleaning it up and rebuilding (though it was still an eye-opener to see pictures of the pool-size crater created by the bomb that killed Hariri)

Tomorrow I head to Byblos, via the Jaita grottoes, but will be back in Beirut tomorrow night.