The further north we drove, the greener the pastures. Long gone were the barren plains of the desert. This area was the breadbasket of Rome 2000 years ago and continues to be one of the most fertile and productive regions of the eastern Meditterannean. I hadn't expected Syria to be so lush, but then again, I was getting used to Syria throwing me surprises.

We disembarked in the small town of Hama. Syrian tourist brochures and posters extol the quaintness of Hama and always feature a few pictures of its large wooden waterwheels. The idea is that you come here to sit by the Orontes river that flows through town, you sip some tea at a cafe, and you watch "the slow grinding wheels, the splash of water and the drifts of spray." Unfortunately water levels have dropped so much in recent years that few of the wheels even touch the water, and the one or two that do reach the water sit firmly in place, unmoved by the lazy green current.

The other attraction of Hama is its Old Quarter, an area of downtown with the usual maze of markets and mosques. But as a result of what is euphemistically referred to in Syria as "the events of 1982," this too has seen better days. At that time, Hama was home to a small socialist movement. President Assad -- in a move that was clearly not endorsed by the Syrian tourist authorities -- bombed the entire quarter to rubble, sending history powdering up into the sky. Still, despite all this, Hama was a pleasant-enough place to spend the night.

The next morning I woke up early, excited about the day ahead. We were heading to the Krak Des Chevaliers, a 12th century crusader castle. The Krak, as us hip world-travelers like to call it, is a site that ranks high on any "Must See" list in the Middle East. T.E. Lawrence called it "the finest castle in the world" and he should know. One summer in college, while all his Oxford buddies were back at their manor houses playing polo and saying things like "Oh Jeeves, do bring me another scotch, it's so dreadfully hot," T.E. hitched a ride on a boat to Beirut, learned Arabic, trekked across the mountains and desert, braved hostile tribes and questionable water supplies (and remember, this was before the advent of Immodium AD), and single-handedly cataloged more castles in Syria and Jordan and in greater detail, than had ever been done before. What's your kid doing next summer?

Through our hotel in Hama we hired a car and driver to take us to the Krak, two other castles, and to drop us off in the sea-side town of Lattakia further up the coast. Our driver, all 300 pounds of him, was named Omar. He drove a circa-1952 Mercedes, though to my eye it fell into that whole 1930's-1950's genre of round-fendered cars that look like they are either meant to run moonshine for Capone in Chicago or else shuttle high-ranking S.S. officials between Berlin and Munich. With much grunting and exhalation of air, Omar squeezed himself in behind the wheel.

"I AM OMAR," Omar bellowed. Whenever Omar talked, Omar talked loudly.

The car didn't start, but after the predictable "NO PROBLEM" meant to comfort us and a helpful push from a bystander he popped the gears and she started right up. We were puttering along quite nicely when Omar pulled over next to a small store. He disappeared inside, then emerged holding a glass of white liquid. As he lumbered back toward the car with his jiggling belly, I was disconcerted to see the stuff in the glass jiggling too. It moved slowly, too slowly, and left white clumps up near the rim.

Thankfully Omar is a gentleman. He served the ladies first. He handed the glass to Anna in the back seat and turned to go back inside for another glass. I immediately panicked and started yelping "No Thanks" in every language I knew. " La Shukran. No Thanks. Nein, danke. La Shukran. La. La. La. No. No. No."

"OMAR PAY" he explained. "NO PROBLEM."

"La. Shukran."

"GOAT," he pointed at the glass temptingly. Wanted me to know what I was missing.

I sang "la" more times than Julie Andrews in a nun's uniform, and he finally gave up. Sarah made herself small in the back seat and avoided getting a glass. Anna was stuck with hers and had to drink the whole thing. From what I understand, it was a rare substance that managed to fuse the worst qualities of goat milk, goat cheese, and goat yogurt. And it was warm.

Again, the car didn't start. We had parked on a steep incline, so when he put it in neutral we began coasting backwards. We picked up speed at a surprising rate, and the oncoming traffic we were rushing into backwards didn't calm our nerves. But Omar was a pop-the-clutch artist, and he threw the car into reverse and the motor came to life.

We headed east out of town and the land began to change. We were entering the spine of mountains that parallels the coast. It remained green and fertile land, but the hay and vegetable fields gave way to terraced groves of apple.

Soon we reached our first castle near the town of Maysof. It was perched up at the top of a hill and looked thoroughly un-stormable. It had all the good castle stuff -- arrow slits and sheer walls and dark corridors -- and although the internal structure had fallen into disrepair, enough remained to make it worth the visit. Maysof earned its nickname "The Assassins Castle" in the 12th century when its occupants, a Shi'ite tribe known as the Ismaelis, repelled an invasion by a Sunni Muslim force by threatening the rival leader with assassination.

From here we drove high along a mountain ridge until we came to the Big One, the Krak Des Chevaliers.

Our first glimpse of the Krak was from several kilometers away. We were high on a ridge and looked across a deep valley to the castle, thoroughly dominating the next ridge over. It was placed at the narrow tip of a promontory. On three sides the ground dropped steeply to the valley floor, and on the fourth side where the point of land connected to the main bulk of the mountain the builders had dug a deep trench. The result was a castle that looked as if it had been plopped right down on the flat top of a small volcano.

As our car drew closer I saw that it was one of those rare structures that are equally impressive up close as they are from a distance. The smooth outer walls were in excellent condition, still solid and stern after all these years. We entered through the forbidding front gate and began climbing up a long sloping corridor. This was the only passageway between the fortified outer walls and the separate inner castle. At frequent intervals in the ceiling were holes that I thought were skylights. Only later after reading our book did I learn they were conduits for boiling oil.

Once inside the inner castle, I was surprised at the smallness of the place. There was a chapel, a banquet hall and kitchen, and a large store-room or bunkhouse. There were a few towers, including a set of three with massively thick stone walls that served as the keep. It was a beautiful view from up there. In one direction the flat green fields of the Orontes valley stretched out into a hazy nothingness and in the other ridge after ridge of mountains, but despite the view I couldn't help thinking what a lonely life it would have been for those young French or English soldiers, stationed so far from home, holed up in their stone prison, unable to venture outside its dank walls into hostile territory.

Omar was waiting for us outside the gate. Inexplicably, the car started right up. We drove to the coast, then turned north until we reached our third castle of the day. Qala'at Marqab was in a commanding position on a high hill over-looking the sea. Even today -- crumbled almost to dirt -- it still looked imposing not just because of its location but also because of its size (it was huge, covering an area much larger than the Krak) but most dramatically because it was black, built from dark basalt. This would be the perfect abode for one of those "Black Knights" that always play the bad guy in medieval fantasy novels.

We were a little castled-out by the end of Qala'at Marqab, so none of us complained too loudly that it was our last stop of the day. On the way to our hotel in Lattakia, Omar put in a subtle plug for a tip with a delicate, "OMAR BEST DRIVER IN SYRIA."

Our night in Lattakia was uneventful except for a stunningly horrible bottle of local wine. I'm not even a wine conniseur, but I can tell you without any doubt it is the worst bottle of wine ever served to humankind. We managed to render it partially drinkable with the addition of a liberal quantity of club soda to each glass.

The next morning we hopped a bus back across the mountains, driving inland to Aleppo, Syria's second largest city and Damascus' chief rival for the world's-oldest-city crown. The mishmash of cultures that makes Syria such a fascinating country to visit is particularly evident in Aleppo. Arab and Islamic culture is most prominent, of course, but the city also boasts a huge Armenian population, a large Christian quarter, strong remnants of Turkey's Ottoman empire, and even whiffs of European culture here and there. Many people come to Aleppo just to wander through the ancient covered markets of the old quarter, and we did this too, but we spent a day site-seeing outside the city.

About 1500 years ago, a shepherd living in this area began the odd habit of sitting atop pillars as a way of removing himself from sinful living. He stayed up on the pillars for longer and longer periods of time, in fact he remained on one for almost 40 years. What today we call insanity the pope called saintliness, and shortly after his death in 459 he became St. Simeon. A huge basilica was built over his pillar, then a monastery, and then an inn to accommodate all the pilgrims. The remains of this complex are quite impressive, sitting on a pine-covered hillside near the Turkish border, but the pillar itself has been chipped away at by the faithful over so many centuries that it now resembles a lumpy, 4-foot tall potato.

As impressive as St. Simeon's mighty cathedral was, my favorite site of the day had far more humble origins. The hills here are covered with limestone rocks of all shapes and sizes, and the abundance of rock allowed ancient villagers to build their towns out of stone rather than less durable materials like wood or mud. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of these villages were built in the area, but by 1000 AD most were abandoned due to a series of earthquakes and foreign invasions. Left behind today are the remains of these "Dead Cities."