The row is long at the customs of the Beirut airport. Until a few years ago we entered without particular stories and the border guards were serene. Now the climate has changed.
We make the mistake of following the queue with the female customs officer, by definition more picky.
"Why do you want to go to Syria? Did they call you? "
He looks at us and adds that he must talk to his superior. They take us to a customs office while our backpacks pass repeatedly on the control roller. After ten minutes the chick comes back with the passports and warns us that we have to enter Syria within 24 hours.
The Beirut Hariri Airport exit is on a raised shelf. The collective taxi vans shout destinations without stopping. Other indolent taxi drivers wait. When we say Damascus they don't break down and we start negotiating on the price. From $ 120 you get something less. In any case, they do not want euros (it will be the Brexit effect ...) and in any case they change them at par.
After 3 km of chaos of rush hour we change cars and drivers, according to their most suitable for Syria. He is also Arab but he smokes like a Turk.
We get rid of the traffic of a beautiful, mischievous city full of scars to get on the hairpin bends that point to the east. The sun gradually falls behind us and reflects on the waters of the port of Beirut increasingly lower and far.
From Beirut to Damascus, the road is one and always the same. It goes up to Chtaura between military check points and Mercedes 80 years. Then it descends and the green of coastal Lebanon makes room for the autumn yellow that leads to the Beqa Valley and Syria. Nervous soldiers regulate traffic.
In a total of two hours you reach the border: on the Lebanese side the procedures are fast; on the Syrian one, things get complicated. The driver knows the right gates and after thorough checks arrives the entry stamp and the recommendation to go to the Ministry of Information by tomorrow. 
In the evening, we are in Syria. The first sign we meet on the street reminds us of this.
Two fleeing refugees run along the road that flanks the roadway. They are the dark shadows of a woman and a boy trying to cross the border. It could be a scene two thousand years ago ...
Meanwhile, the stars appear and with them the check points thicken. They are continuous, obsessive, meticulous. Up to Damascus we count more than 20 and it is useless to put the passport every time. The driver smiles and smokes, smokes and smiles. It follows in all the requests of the military that make us go down every time, search, open and close everything.
When he knows that we are Italian, one of them says that he once was in Rome and at the World Cup he was a fan of Italy. Another tells us "Welcome in Syria ..." and he offers us some apples taken from a pickup truck in a row: in a single gesture, a gratuitous kindness and the absolute power of the military.
Traffic between Lebanon and Syria has increased significantly since we were last here in February. It is a good sign for the country, but it triples the time to get from the border to Damascus: it takes us three hours instead of one.
It's darker than in Lebanon, it's a drier cooler, it's Syria.
Damascus lights emerge from afar. First a vague aura, then they become a single light. Without even understanding it we find ourselves in the traffic of the city, with men, women and children walking around. There is a generic sense of tranquility even if the military is everywhere. The ISIS and the war seen from here seem unreal, far away.
Our hotel is an old glory of good times. Once it cost an arm and a leg, today it's rock bottom prices. A few years ago tourists passed by its revolving doors in droves, coming to see the alleys and the beauties of the old city. Today the attraction is us, among the very few Westerners who circulate. The Venezuelan receptionist handles our paperwork and orders the attendants to take care of us. He says he speaks ridiculous Arabic. We trust.
Opposite there is a restaurant with an electric generator at the entrance able to cover the traffic noise. Nobody speaks English, not even the menus, now a few years old.
A waiter has a flash of genius: he rips an old one used to plug a draft. It is also written in English but it does not help because half of the things do not cook them anymore. Eating in Damascus tastes wonderful all the same.
The next morning, at the Ministry of Information, we wait for the official (dressed in casual and long hair) to give us the clearance to start the tour inside and outside the capital. He has a copy of our documentation sent to the Syrian embassy in Vienna, the only one open in the European Union. The fear of having hitches fades with the arrival of our fixer and interpreter. For many things, 5-7 days are required. She will help us in everything. He speaks excellent English, is a journalist and styled Western.
Meanwhile in the taxi we turn Damascus. Between Assad paintings and Syrian flags also painted on the traffic jersey (in Arab countries it is a classic ...), we reach the suq. In a green area along the way, hundreds of refugees from every corner of Syria are camped. This is enough to remind us of the war.
There are no foreigners in the alleys of the suq. This also reminds us that something has changed. The business and the atmosphere are the same, but there is a strange shadow that lingers between the curious and taciturn faces.
We pass by the Great Umayyad Mosque. We enter between women with smartphones and lace. We meet the eyes of many soldiers in prayer.
When it is almost evening we go to the restaurant. Once it was a luxury place, now you eat with two lire. There are people, more people than in February, but there are no foreign tourists. The young people of Damascus, however, have resumed going out in the evening, on the streets of a broken country. They have a will to live that moves. We are out of place. We are their only normality.
text: Giampiero Venturi, Giorgio Bianchi, Andrea Cucco
photo: Giorgio Bianchi
