Travel Tips: Being a hated American

By the time December hit I was restless. I was exhausted from all the quirks and oddities that make my love affair with Cairo as much of an abusive marriage as a youthful romance. When Simon offered to let me tag along on an 18-day trip to Syria I jumped on the chance. I immediately called my company and worked out the details- I would play editor from the road, I would see Saladin’s citadel, and I would eat an endless amount of schwarma. But, as we began researching, bumps quickly emerged on the road to Damascus.

Unsurprisingly Syria’s government isn’t the fondest of travelers with American passports. The consular section in Cairo laughed in my face when I asked for a visa and told me Bush causes 'all the world's problems'. After multiple drop-ins at the Syrian Embassy’s Cairo office, chats with the Syrian consular and calls from my father to the Syrian embassy in the USA, I had it figured out. There was no way for me to get a Syrian visa in Cairo.

Simon, on the other hand was luckier. Being Australian, he had a 90% chance of entering Syria. But, according to the visa office, he’d get through if, and only if he flew to Lebanon and entered through the land border.

This left us with the question What exactly do we do with the American? We had two options- I could risk it and hope the guards felt like letting the little blonde girl over the border with the big aussie, OR I could play it safe and take advantage of the filthily expensive Fed-ex international priority mailing.

So I sent my passport off to America, leaving me unable to prove my nationality or visa possession in Cairo. My darling, wonderful and only-getting-more-handsome-as-he-ages father happily helped out stateside, and arranged all the details to get my passport back to me.

By the next week I had in my possession a much coveted multi-entry visa to Syria. And, with visa in hand, we booked a departure date, December 21st, two days away and prepared for Beirut.

We bought an electric cooker, and a few metal bowls; packed sweatshirts and shitty mittens. I was off.