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Aleppo—or Halab to Syrians—was our final stop before crossing into Turkey. Aleppo is famous for its covered bazaar—a labyrinth of stalls selling every item imaginable. Spice vendors had impressive displays of patterned mounds formed by spices of varying size, weight, and texture. Delivery trucks would squeeze through narrow passages, forcing foot traffic onto sidewalks overflowing with goods. As in so many other Arab markets we'd seen, shopkeepers leaned back against their stall-fronts on tiny stools sipping tea and I would wonder how much business they would actually see in a day. At one point, we came across a grotesque camel head, severed at the base of its neck, turning omniously on a giant hook in front of the butcher shop. Even locals stopped in their tracks to gape at this unsettling site.

Throughout Syria we'd seen loads of old cars from the 40's and 50's—mostly American but some classic French Peugeots. Though they may not have all been in shiny mint condition, they were wiped-down and well-kept. In a way, it seemed strange to find these old American relics still used in this part of the world—how did they get here to begin with? Admiring an old Chevy Bel Air parked by a crumbling curb, I could see the reflection of the dusty brown streets and greyed building facades. It occurred to me that these old cars belonged here, that they were mere extensions of the surroundings. These cars were left behind and forgotten with the advance of new technologies where we come from, yet here they were still cared for and used—they looked reliable, proud. They stood as a metaphor for my impressions of Syria, a country often misrepresented or simply overlooked, but upon contact, refreshingly real and dignified.