It’s a three hour bus ride to the desert oasis of Palmyra. It’s a pilgrimage all travelers make for the well-preserved, large scale ruins of the ancient city. I’m not much of a ruins guy—you should see my ex-wife (rimshot!)—but Palmyra is something special. It’s something special despite the motorcycles zooming around, the piles of camel dung and the persistent postcard sellers.
     There’s also a 500 Syrian pound entrance fee. That’s about $11, triple what I was expecting. I paused for thought at the discovery of this but the ticket seller was unsympathetic. “Petra (in Jordan) is $70!” he growled, and then someone sidled up to whisper in my ear, “Here is better.”
     $70 for Petra is scandalous, but that is an argument for another day. It is worth it, especially if you are already in the region, but what does that have to do with Palmyra and Syria? Of course, I paid. I came, I paid, I enjoyed.
     Below is what at first glance appears to be a Chinese tour group, but I see right through them. It’s really a team of entrepreneurs and engineers posing as a tour group, scheming to build their own Palmyra where admission will be only $10.50. (Can you tell I’m tired?)
     There are still archaelogical discoveries in Palmyra, most notable was a Polish group in 2005 that found the remains of a church. That was coincidentally the same year my hotel room was last cleaned. I am in wreck of a cheap dive made worse by the fact that I failed to bargain. It was a temporary bout of insanity. I can’t think of anything good to say about it. Even the key works on the room next to mine, and vice-versa, which is one reason why I always lock my bag even inside my “locked” room. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I miss my mommy.

     Took me only five hours to do these photos with the self-timer: