Whatever I expected my first glimpse of Aleppo to be, it was certainly not a Sheraton Hotel.

But here I was, in this war-torn land halfway around the world, staring at a hotel brand you can find in any major city.

The hotel, our guide informed us, was the scene of intense fighting during the Syrian Civil War, but that’s not why we came. She wanted to us to see what was in front of the hotel: the overgrown remains of a Roman wall.

Aleppo, you see, is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. Scattered throughout are imprints – of which the Roman wall was our first introduction – of the various civilizations that have conquered, traded, and made this place their home over the last 7,000 years.

The Al-Jdayde quarter, historically home to Aleppo’s Christian population, was our next destination. We weaved our way through the narrow streets, eventually arriving at Saint Elijah Cathedral, the main church of the city’s Maronite community.

In the courtyard, under the watchful eye of a statue of the biblical prophet Elijah, the church’s namesake, our guide described the devastation suffered by the city during the recent war.

A few years prior, the terrorist organization ISIS planted a series of underground explosives beneath the once lively, nearby Al-Hatab Square, detonated them, and broadcasted the entire thing in a widely circulated propaganda video.

The square was completely destroyed and the surrounding area, including the church (whose roof collapsed), were severely damaged.

After watching the video of the explosion, a worker appeared and unlocked a door to a stairwell. (Apparently, they hadn’t been able to locate the key right away, leaving us standing in the increasingly hot weather.) Climbing up, we found ourselves atop the recently restored church roof.

From here, we surveyed the ruined city around us – miles and miles of crowded, crumbling concrete buildings. Occasionally there was evidence of reconstruction, but much of the city still lay in tatters.

Off in the distance, rising above the chaos, we got our first look of the Citadel – Aleppo’s crown jewel.

The heat of the day was growing every more intense. For relief, our guide took us to a nearby café/restaurant called Sissi House. I don’t know if there was any intentional connection, but I couldn’t help but think of Austrian Empress Elisabeth of Bavaria, whose nickname was Sisi, when I heard the name.

Stepping insides felt as if we’d just stepped into an oasis – and not just because it allowed us to escape the hot sun.

The café, with its upholstered chairs and carpets lining its walls, is among the first businesses to be up and running again at Al-Hatab Square. Outside, new paving had been put in place, but most of the surrounding buildings were yet little more than heaps of rubble.

After consuming what seemed like half of Aleppo’s water supply and vegetating in front of the café’s industrial-sized fan, it was time again to be on our way.

As we made our way through town, we passed, as we frequently did but hadn’t yet grown accustomed to, buildings in varying states of destruction. Many bore the scars of shelling, but not all the damage could be ascribed to war.

At the time of my visit, the seismically-prone city was still recovering from the effects of a massive 7.8-magnitude earthquake that had occurred a couple of years prior. With an estimated 6,000-8,500 fatalities in Syria alone (there were additional deaths in neighboring Turkey), it was modern Syria’s deadliest earthquake in 200 years.

As we went deeper into the city, observing the piles of rubble, our guide drew our attention to the deliberate configuration of the stones.

This, she let us know, was the start of the Al-Madina Souq, one of the longest souqs in the world. It’s been in operation since the 14^th century, although the part we were in was anything but lively.

The souq had been severely damaged during the war and some areas have not yet reopened. Still, as our guide pointed out, one can make out the sections in the rubble that marked where individual stalls once stood.

As we were imagining the buying, selling, and trading that once took place in this now empty space, an elderly man in a light blue thobe approached us. He spoke no English and turned to our guide to relay his message: He welcomed us to Syria and hoped we enjoyed our time.

It was a wholesome encounter, in contrast to our next one. A different man attempted to get too close to one of the women in our group. He was immediately met by loud screaming and evidently sharp rebukes from our guides. The man then groveled an apology. Thankfully, it was the only such incident we encountered; most other people were incredibly welcoming, wanting to ensure we had a good time.

As we made our way further into the souq, we noticed merchants were beginning to reestablish themselves among the ruins. Items were laid out, ripe for selling, while carpets were hung  to serve as attractive backdrops and to conceal the heaps of stones behind.

More and more vendors began to appear and we soon found ourselves in the undamaged part of the souq.

Here, merchants were selling their wares, just as they have for centuries. And as people have been doing for just as long, I decided to do some shopping. After all, it’s not often I get to shop in a city that’s been a center for trade since before the pyramids were even built.

Luckily, my guide helped me with my purchase (my haggling skills were, at this point, non-existent). Sale complete, it was time to escape the heat once again and give our tired feet a rest. For this, we went to a tiny boutique hotel in the center of the city.

This was unlike any hotel I had ever seen. With its half-organized, half-chaotic collection of random antiques, complete with the musty smell that seems to accompany all things old, it felt more like a hording grandfather’s attic than a hotel.

In fact, we weren’t even aware it was a hotel until the owner confirmed it by showing us some of the available rooms.

The hotel owner and curator of this bizarre assemblage was tall, elderly gentleman with a welcoming smile and a deep love for his country. As his assistant silently served us cinnamon tea, he regaled us with tales of a bygone Syria, of the peaceful coexistence of Muslim, Jewish, and Christian families and of the hope – whether his own or the one shared by his countrymen, I couldn’t quite tell – that the families who had long since left the Aleppo would return home and the reclaim their part of the mosaic that had once characterized Syrian society.

Much as we all appreciated the break (and the delicious cinnamon tea), there was more to explore. We thanked the hotel owner for his hospitality, then made our way to one of the highlights of Aleppo – the Jebeili Soap Factory.

The Jebeili Soap Factory has been turning bay plants and olive oil into the famous Aleppo soap in exactly the same way for the last 800 years. The process – involving some wooden equipment and painstaking physical labor – is of such culture significance, it was declared a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage.

Soap-making takes place in winter, so unfortunately, with it being summer, we weren’t able to witness the process ourselves. Nevertheless, we were permitted to wander freely among the seemingly endless piles of soap.

I tried to estimate how many bars there were but had to give up the task as impossible when I came across more and more neatly stacked piles of soap everywhere I turned.

Rather surprisingly, given the size of the factory and the number of bars of soap to be seen, the factory’s shop was tiny and crowded; barely more than four or five of us could fit inside at once.

I happily let my co-travelers in first as I stood outside drinking the much-needed water being offered to me by one of the factory’s employees. His hands bent with age, his face heavily weathered by time, the old man nevertheless smiled with a toothless grin as he poured cup after cup for me to drink, expecting no payment or reward in return.

Here was the essence of the Syrian people: despite their own privations and sufferings, they gladly share what they have – material or otherwise – with their guests.

Grateful not just for the water but for the chance to be here and interact with the people themselves, I was equally happy to receive.

With the heat of the day finally relenting, it was time to make our way to our final stop and the city’s most iconic and historic site: the Citadel.

The Aleppo Citadel is regarded as one of the oldest and biggest castles in the world.

Located on a hill overlooking the city, it was originally a place of worship before later becoming a palace and fortification. Arameans, Assyrians, Greeks, Arabs, Romans, Byzantines, Mamluks, and Ottomans all occupied the Citadel at one time or another; most of the present structure dates from the Ayyubid period in the 12^th and 13^th centuries.

It is said that whoever controls the Citadel controls Aleppo. It was fiercely fought over during the recent war. Now, with the war over, it has once again reopened for tourism.

Dodging the many hawkers outside the outer gate, some of whom were waving the new Syrian flag, we got our tickets and made our way inside.

The Citadel provided us with a guide who led us throughout the complex, from the deep dungeons to the obligatory hammam to the ornate throne room and to the highest points on the ramparts.

Along the way, he was more than patient with the hundreds of photos we took, offering to take the photos himself and showing us the best spots and lighting. While my camera failed to do his recommendations justice, I wondered if he’d been a professional photographer.

With the sun disappearing further beneath the horizon, it was finally time to leave. We were escorted out by the newly established Tourism Police (our guide informed us they’d been on the job less than two weeks), who excitedly insisted on having their photo taken with us, their first group of Western tourists.

After exchanging photos, we bid goodbye to the Citadel and Aleppo itself.

As we drove away, I could not help but reflect on how, in spite of wars and natural disasters, life continues in the city, just as it has done for the last 7,000 years. A new flag rises over the city, and a new, tentative hope envelops its inhabitants.

If the city is to last another seven millennia, it will be the enduring resilience and optimism of Aleppo’s people that will guarantee its future.