At Petra, in Jordan, before the famous temple carved out of the canyons that everyone has seen pictures of, the camel watches the crowd skeptically.

The bedoins will let you mount her and take for a 10-minute ride. Only 10 dinars ($12). Dismounting, though, is another 20.

JUST FOR FUN, a guard thought a picture of me eating or vomiting (I can't really tell what I'm doing here) the Pyramids Khafre at Giza. I'd gone last weekend with a small group of students from the language school where I have learned, once again, just how inept I am at learning languages.

I had separated briefly from the other students to get a closer look at the much smaller (but still big) Pyramid of Menkaure and came upon four Tourism Police lounging at its base. They're very official-looking in blue uniforms and crisp berets, not to mentions they have assault rifles and pistols. In a friendly way, one of the four gestured for me to show him my camera. And it did. Well, he had a gun. And then had me pose in silly ways with the pyramid in the background. He smilingly took the pictures, handed back the camera, smiled amiably, then asked for the tip. Ah. Once again. They got me. I gave him a 10 pound note--about $2.25. And then through gestures I understood he was saying, "Yeah, that's good for me, but what about my friend?" I added a 5 note to the 10. Then it was, "What about my other friend?" I rolled my eyes and walked away.

The lion-headed woman is from the courtyard of the Egyptian Museum.

The guidebook said to beware of the touts greeting you as you leave the Egyptian international airport, and that is why I was gruff with the young man who asked me as I headed toward the exit, just as the guidebook said would happen.

"You need a taxi? You need a hotel."

"No, thanks," I said and walked by him toward the forming queue.

But he was at my elbow. "You have a taxi?"

"No," I said.

"No, no, no," I said. "La, la, la." ("La" is Arabic for "no.")

He looked at me incredulously. What I said made no sense. Lugging two bags and a knap sack, apparently not a member of an organized tour for which these things are prearrange, and also looking too old, and dare I say...debonair, to be a backpacking student who needs to pinch every penny, looking, in fact, like an affluent American, a stranger in a strange land, clearly I was a man in need of a taxi.

"Why not you don't need? You need a taxi." He was a young man, probably in his early thirties, wearing slacks, a tie, a jacket, his skin hue a little redder, a little lighter than many of the Arabs I had seen in Jordan. And his features, maybe with a hint of Sudanese or Ethiopian blood--I just mean that there was a mix, and in days in Egypt so far, I have seen that mix with varying formulations, some more predominately African, some more Arab, some more Caucasian but the other quality I think I was perceiving was the Egyptian itself. Not the others, Egyptian itself.

And, he looked OK to me.

But I said, "No, thank you. Shukhran, la. I'm fine." Which wasn't altogether true because I had no idea how I'd get to my hotel or whether the hotel even had room for me. But the book said to brush off the touts.

"It's not expensive."

"No."

"Where are you going?"

"Saunamek." I was trying to pronounce the name of the island neighborhood on the west side Cairo that briefly splits the Nile's flow. The airport is in the northeast suburbs. And, by the way, when people ask me questions like this, I don't know why I tell them the truth.

"Sau...what?"

By this point, I had shuffled to the end of the exiting queue. I tried to pronounce the word again: "k."

"Za...Za...Ah. ZAMelek!"

Yes. Zamelek."

"Zamelek is far. A taxi will be expensive, maybe forty dollars."

"No. I'm fine."

"Why..."

"No."

"Come take a look."

"No."

"A limousine."

"No."

"Fair price."

I ignored him.

"Just look."

I looked straight through him.

He sighed.

But how would I get to Zamalek? I couldn't even pronounce the name properly. On the map it was just a few inches away. And the Cairo airport was filled with hundreds of people, and somehow all the others looked like they knew where they were going. Some had drivers waiting form them with their names written on little signs. Others were part of tour groups and huddled happily and excitedly together in anticipation of their first night by the Nile. And, by the way, it was night, close to 8, and by the time I got to the hotel than my guidebook recommended, it would probably already be filled, and then I'd be lost in Zamalek trying to find a hotel in the middle of the night. Alone. Middle-aged. With two bags. And with a knapsack filled with camera gear heavier than anyone know. Debonair...but alone!

"Why you won't look?" He was back. "Twenty dollars. A taxi is expensive." And from the tone in his voice and the look on his face, he was authentically confused, and hurt. Ah, no, I had hurt his feelings. And then I began to empathize. Crap. A hurt tout.

"Twenty dollars?" I said suspiciously.

"Twenty dollars. You won't find better," he said in tones impaled by my suspicion.

He led me upstairs, I following still suspiciously, to an upstairs office where a confident woman settled with me on a fare of $18, and the tout led me down again, and then out to the loading zone, wanting to know why I had not trusted him.

Damascus, Syria.

Up 'till now, I've barely traveled in parts of the underdeveloped parts of the world, and seeing directly the economic despair so many are in has been startling and disturbing. Although I believe the U.S. and the rest of the wealthy nations should do much more, domestically and internationally, to help strengthen economies throughout the world, and while I have felt some sadness at seeing this impoverishment, I haven't felt personal guilt.

Until I met this man.

On my second day in Damascus, I had just passed the city's great mosque and was headed for the Christian quarter, as it is supposed to be the most beautiful and colorful in the city, when this man fell into stride with me and asked me how I was doing. Such things happened all the time: a friendly welcome, where are you from, come have a cup of tea, it's hospitality, and, by the way, maybe you would like to see my carpets which are the best you can find in Syria.

So I thought I knew what was coming. And I had learned to be friendly and courteous to the touts, but then refuse the offer for tea.

He asked me my name. I told him. He asked me if I was touring in Syria. I said yes. He asked me what my nationality was, and when I told him, he laughed quietly, ironic, and said he was from Iraq.

That's when the guilt hit.

Not many Americans visit Syria, so, struggling for the right word to express it, he called me a pioneer. We walked on. I mumbled some sort of apology. I guess not really a mumble. I think I was clear. I was sorry. I am sorry. But I didn't say more along that line since the words were so easy and hollow to a man who has seen his life destroyed, collateral damage. So what if I'm sorry. He asked if I wanted a tour of the old city, and I couldn't say no, though I did not want the tour. I asked how much? He said name a price. I said 5 lira, he said 10. In the end, I gave him 15.

He was only a fair guide, but this was all he could do as the Syrians allowed Iraqi refugees into the country, but not to work legally. He scrapped by. Before the war, he had been a merchant marine and had a particular affection for the Genoese, spoke fluent Italian, and felt a certain sympatico between the Italians and Arabs. If he'd lost family, he didn't tell me, though I did learn his wife and children were living some 10 kilometers outside of Damascus, where it was much cheaper (and Damascus is cheap).

I did not feel bitterness nor hatred from him. I think he saw the war for what it was, a foolish and murderous catastrophe wrought by one government upon a worse one, with the ordinary people paying the price. I did not feel bitterness or hatred from him, but fatigue, sorrow, and a despair beyond hope.

One problem with traveling is there a few of those chances to knock out another blog entry--I'm going to try to post an entry more often, though perhaps without the length of my first couple of entries. Once I'm in Egypt, I'll work on rounding out some of the stories and adding some that I meant to post weeks ago.

I'm writing from the Syrian city of Aleppo, about a hour's drive from the Turkish border.

The city is dominated by a citadal, and under it span out miles of the ancient bazaars. Beyond the old city, drab concrete apartment building circle the inner city, and beyond these another city of new apartment brilliantly faced in yellow granite.

From the top of the citadal, which I climbed yesterday, you can see the entire city filling the entire valley. I was sitting at the cafe with this overlook when amuezzain began the call for prayer from a nearby mosque. Then came another call from another mosque, and another, and another, and another, until the whole city swelled with a cacaphony of voices--not so much competing as each calling out to his own square.

Below, in the Umayyad mosque, a low, flat structure from early in Islamic history, I was struck by the quiet and serenity of the place. Children played in the large courtyard, and, as often happened, a child asked me to take his picture. Then the father came out with a baby in his arms and two other kids, and hand signed for me to take a picture of them. Sometimes, in Turkey, what would follow is a request that I mail then a copy of the picture when I returned. There was none of that. One of the children asked that another picture be taken. And the mother, sitting in the shade with her back against a column and wearing a chador, sent one of her children with a slice of apple for me. Then a second. Then a third. Then a forth. She touched her heart to me. I touched my heart to her.

Aleppo is a large and cosmopolitan city, and if you like the qualities of a large, loud, exciting city and the blight that comes with every large city I have ever visited, then you would like, maybe love Aleppo.

Many women dress in the chador, the black garment covering head to toe, some, a few, even with the veil covering even the eyes. Some dress in a very western way, albeit revealing less flesh than is splatters across American malls, but otherwise hard to disguish from young American woman. Many dress between these poles, and it all seems very natural. I've been to a few talks in which the chador was demonstrated for the American audience. How oppressive it all seemed. But, here, I don't sense these women feel oppressed. Yesterday, I saw a young couple crossing the street. The man had on jeans and a red shirt, the woman a black chador opened at her face. Her frame was long and graceful. Her arm wrapped around his, and they walked tightly. They looked happy, affectionate, in love.

You'll see poking under the hem of the chador jeans and the most stylish high heels available. Before my trip, I would have thought such a sight a hint of decension. But here, the chador and heels harmonize.

So I'm left baffled why all my life our country as treated Syrians as the enemy.