By the end of my first evening in Aleppo, I had already met a couple of people. The first, owned a jewelry shop in the souk, and, as it turned out, during term time was a student of English Literature at York University in England. I was duly invited into his store to sit on stools, drink tea and meet his friends. Shakespeare had, I was informed, referred to the city of Aleppo twice in his plays; in Macbeth and As You Like It. I left, duly educated.

Within an hour, I was again drinking coffee, this time with the owner of a bag shop overlooking the central clock tower; the city’s colonial landmark. Mahmoud sold bags- rucksacks, duffle bags, handbags- sending them off, he told me, to be adorned with Adidas, Nike, D&G, Manchester United, Real Madrid, and any other logos that would make them sell in a country where brands are no less a symbol of wealth or status than anywhere else.

Before I could politely decline, Mahmoud had pulled an additional plastic patio chair from his shop, and had me sat down alongside him, offering yet more tea while we discussed the fact that I was a student of history. He reciprocated with an impressive knowledge of the ‘Dead Cities’- Roman and Byzantine ruins located in outlying areas around Aleppo, as well as a lengthy description of Syrian history.

It turned out, of course, that, as well as being a purveyor of bags, Mahmoud himself also drove foreign tourists out to the dead cities. My guard shot up, wary after coming across similar ‘friends’ in Turkey. He continued. Despite his in-depth knowledge, he insisted with considerable humility, he was a driver, not a guide. We discussed the various sights to be seen, and possible itineraries. He was clearly passionate about the subject, and definitely not in it for the hard sell.

“So how much would you charge”, I finally asked, a couple of hours later. He was relaxed. “Well, maybe you come down one day, a day or two before you wish to go, we discuss a route and price then”, he suggested, giving me a garish business card with the name of the bag shop already crossed out and his mobile number written in by hand.

When traveling to countries such as Syria, or to places in the developing world, it’s easy to idealize the hospitality or generosity shown towards you, as a foreign visitor. After all, you, as a foreigner are assumed to be wealthy, and at the end of the day, everyone has families to feed. It’s also easy to patronize, as visitors to Africa often do, casting oneself as the ’strange white man’ from a distant land that these, simple, innocent people neither know of or understand.

But this is a place where people watch bootlegged DVDs of Scrubs, where Mr Bean gets shown on buses and where many of my conversations revolved around Arsenal or Manchester United. Many people are not wealthy, to be sure, but the friendliness, hospitality and enthusiastic interest shown towards you is genuine, and cultural, not economic.

The reception comes from far more than the prospect of a purchase or baksheesh (a tip). As with Mahmoud’s effervescent teaching of Syrian history, there’s a genuine pride Syrians have for their country.

There’s pride that you, of all the countries in the World, have chosen to visit theirs, and a desire to show you, their county’s guest, the very best of what is has to offer. As you walk through a crowd, young and old men can be seen to nod towards you and mutter ‘welcome’, even if that is the only word of English that they know.

In the evening, walking home, I glanced over to the other side of the expressway and in the shadow could just about make out a pair of boys, I guessed at about 12 and 16 years old, gesturing loudly for me to join them.

Anywhere else, I would’ve kept walking, and probably at a slightly faster pace. Instead, I dashed across the four lanes of traffic- weaving through cars, one lane at a time, Syrian style as I quickly learned to do.

This time I was ushered into a carpet shop, closed up like the rest of the shops in the well-to-do part of town by this time in the evening, but where the boys, their father and their uncle had taken up residence with a medical documentary on in the background; squeamish images every so often being flashed up on screen.

Sitting me down and thrusting a coffee into my hands, it became clear they wanted to practice their English homework on me. The Father and Uncle seemed just as enthusiastic as the children, and so began another exchange of simple questions, and the occasional misunderstanding which would lead to laughter all round.

You don’t have to look around to find the ‘real’ Syria- it comes to you.