There were no tours available on Wednesday, so instead I gave in and asked my aunt to call for a taxi for the whole day. She called the taxi company they usually use and said it would be $100 for the day. Since there was no other alternative, I said yes, and the driver said he would take me to Beiteddine, stopping at Deir al-Qamar on the way, and then later to the Chouf Cedar Reserve.
I left the house to the usual "You will be cold! You have scarf? You have something for your head? Take umbrella! You want fruit?" The driver was friendly, spoke almost no English, wore a pinstripe suit and drove an old Mercedes. We drove up up up into the Chouf Mountains, my stomach twisting and turning along with the road. I could see in the villages as we passed men dressed in the characteristic Druze clothing: a white round cap on the head, a long sleeved black/gray sweater, black pants that are fitted from the knees down but loose fabric between the legs. I didn't take any pictures and I couldn't find any online either. The women wear long black robes and white scarves wrapped around their head/neck.
We stopped in Deir al-Qamar, named by Lonely Planet one of the prettiest villages in Lebanon. Its name means "Monastery of the Moon" and it houses a mosque, church, synagogue and Druze meeting hall in the city square. It has a palace for Fakhreddine, the Druze governor of Lebanon famous for uniting Mt Lebanon and the coastal cities. There are also well-preserved khan/mosque/church/palace etc from the 17th/18th centuries, many of which have architecture influences from Italy, as he was exiled to Tuscany for 5 years and returned to modernize his city with the help of Italian engineers and architects.
I looked around and found the wax museum, and though I had little interest to enter it, one of the men at the door offered to show me around. He was nice but a little weird and ended up in most of my photos. A lot of the old buildings have been turned into private summer residence-- not to shabby. In addition, the khan is used by the French Cultural Center and there is a library on the top floor.
Finally I told my guide that I had to go and we returned to the car. Along the road we saw the Castle Moussa, a modern day castle built by a local man in 1962 in order to win over the love of his life. Inside he has a wax museum but I didn't want to stop and see it because I wanted to get to the park before it closed.
Next stop was Beiteddine, 50 km SE of Beirut. It is the former palace of an 18th century governor, now part of it is the personal residence of the Lebanese president in the summer. I was surprised to learn that they still let in tourists even when the president is living there. A guide found me and took me around the palace, as you need a key to get into most of the rooms.
LP tells me that during the Israeli invasion of 1982, more than 90% of its original contents were lost, but the Druze leader Walid Jumblatt has ordered its preservation, including a large collection of mosaics. There are 3 main courtyards, the main one, a central one and an interior one. Beneath the courtyards are the huge stables that host the museum for the mosaic collection. Behind locked doors there are reception rooms, the walls made from carved/decorated cedar wood and the floors mosaics, with long cushions running along 3 walls, and hammams. In each room there were signs that said 'no photos, no smoking' so I dutifully refrained from taking pictures, though the guide would say, "Here, a special photo just for you!" and succeeded in taking a photo of me in every room. At least you can also appreciate the tiled floors and such.
There were also gardens, which I was free to explore on my own, with views of the mountainside.
Our final stop was to the Chouf Cedar Reserve, where I hoped I would be able to do a little hiking among some multi-thousand year-old cedars. The Reserve has 6 parks, though at this time only 2 of them are open to the public (they have only 12 park rangers and clearly need a lot more money/support). The guide at the entrance offered to come along for a small donation so he joined us in the car and directed us along the road to the entrance to the trails. Along the way he explained the significance of the Lebanese Cedar, not only historically or economically but also ecologically-- it is the only tree to have pinecones that point upward, not downwards, they are very strong trees whos roots grow amongst rocks, preferring the mountain climate and snow, and also as it ages it changes shape, from the common upright shape to a horizontal orientation that makes it the distinct symbol of Lebanon. The cedars at the entrance of the park were planted by Walid Jumblatt's father, Kamal, 50-60 years ago, so they are still young, but as he showed me later, they have trees that are 1500-3000 years old. I took some pictures but then my batteries ran out and I took the rest with my film camera, so you will have to wait and see.
I was disappointed to find out that the hiking trails are only available in the summertime, which made no sense to me. When I asked he said it was because it is very cloudy and 'not good for pictures.' I probably should have pressed him more to let me look around, but also the park closed at 2 so we were cutting it close.
The beginning of our short walk he asked that 'If you love and like' we stay silent for the first minute and a half to appreciate the sounds and smells of the environment, which I appreciated very much. The path led to an opening, which was named after some prince who liked to come and read under the ancient trees. The walk was very short, about 10 minutes with a break for photos, and then we returned to the car. We drove back to the entrance and he showed me the honeys and jams that they make (they keep bees in the park) to raise much-needed money for the park. So I bought some Cedar Honey.
On the road again, and the driver asked me if there was anywhere else I wanted to go. It was just after 2 so I thought maybe we were leaving too early and he wanted to show me somewhere new. I checked my book but found nothing else in the area so I called Chantal to ask her advice. She told the driver about somewhere to go and I fell asleep in the car, trying to sleep off a bothersome stomach.
We ended up taking quite the detour, arriving near Saida, at a site called Maghdouche, home to a sacred grotto where apparently the Virgin Mary stopped to wait for Jesus as he visited the then-pagan towns of Saida and Tyre, where Jewish women weren't allowed. I walked around, climbed a tower to look over the area, checked out the cemetary and church, returned to the car. When we arrived home again, I gave him his $100 and he said, no I need $20 more. ummm why? Because of Maghdouche. ummm No. We speak to your aunt. Ok so we went upstairs to the apartment and Tiigy went to find my aunt, who was busy watching TV. She came back and said, Madame is sleeping. I explained to her the problem and we both went to talk to my aunt, who said, ok bring him in here, but I don't want to miss my show. So the driver came into my aunt's bedroom and they argued about the price for a while. Ultimately he got the extra money, which was ridiculous to me but I couldn't really say anything because I didn't know what was going on. Maghdouche is not worth $20, fyi. Also I think I forgot the umbrella in the car.
Tired of being cheated by taxi drivers, I called the tour company and signed up for the trip the following day. Alas I would lose some independence but at least hopefully not my money.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Recipes, aka 'mix, taste, add more, taste, mix, serve with a garnish.'
Tuesday I decided I needed to do some research before I could go out on my own again. I spent the day at home sitting in the kitchen with my aunt as she prepared food for dinner (but refused to let me help): swiss chard soup with small lentils, baba ghanoush, chard stalk in tahini sauce and an undetermined part of chicken that I fear is not the usual muscle.
Tahini sauce is easy enough to make, it consists only of tahini (100% sesame seeds), copious amounts of lemon juice and water, olive oil and garlic mashed into a paste. I would give you measurements for a recipe, but she doesn't calculate. The same is true for the baba ghanoush. First you roast the eggplant (Tiigy did this over the open flame on the gas stove, I have done it in the oven), then remove the insides, slice it into smaller pieces and mash it up into a lumpy consistency. Add some tahini sauce, lemon juice and salt. Mix together, taste, add more. Taste, blend, keeping it lumpy. Add a little olive oil, then serve with a sprig of nana (mint).
And while we're talking about recipes, here is one for kibbe that she gave me last week while cooking. I don't fully understand her directions so maybe someone (Mom? Auntie Marilyn?) can fill in the blanks.
1 kilo of lamb, no fat, from the butcher, finely blended in a cuisinart
3 1/2 (cups? I forgot to write this down) burghul, small
wash burghul once the meat is ready and let it sit for one hour
pound the meat
blend in mixer: 2 onions, red/green peppers, salt, black pepper (unless you're Lauren, then you can omit the black pepper)
Mix to taste, add mint.
When it is very soft, mix with bughul and meat. Knead for a long time, wetting hands, and leave overnight in the fridge.
For the filling:
2 kilo lamb, ground.
4 onions (the size of your fist): cut finely
sautee in olive oil, add snowbud before it is finished cooking. then add meat. cook.
peppers, red/green
black pepper
salt.
This kibbe she prepared as little saucers, flattening out circles the size of her palm, putting filling in the middle with a little clarified butter, adding another flattened circle on top and pinching together the edges. bake in oven.
Hopefully I can get some more recipes from her before I leave.
Oh right, the rest of the day, I called various tourist agencies to see what day trips they had planned for the rest of the week. Only two had a schedule up (again, its the off-season) for trips around $60-70 each, and one promised to call me back.
For lunch and dinner we had the food my aunt had prepared that day, though I started to have stomach problems while tasting the food in the morning and didn't eat very much.
Tahini sauce is easy enough to make, it consists only of tahini (100% sesame seeds), copious amounts of lemon juice and water, olive oil and garlic mashed into a paste. I would give you measurements for a recipe, but she doesn't calculate. The same is true for the baba ghanoush. First you roast the eggplant (Tiigy did this over the open flame on the gas stove, I have done it in the oven), then remove the insides, slice it into smaller pieces and mash it up into a lumpy consistency. Add some tahini sauce, lemon juice and salt. Mix together, taste, add more. Taste, blend, keeping it lumpy. Add a little olive oil, then serve with a sprig of nana (mint).
And while we're talking about recipes, here is one for kibbe that she gave me last week while cooking. I don't fully understand her directions so maybe someone (Mom? Auntie Marilyn?) can fill in the blanks.
1 kilo of lamb, no fat, from the butcher, finely blended in a cuisinart
3 1/2 (cups? I forgot to write this down) burghul, small
wash burghul once the meat is ready and let it sit for one hour
pound the meat
blend in mixer: 2 onions, red/green peppers, salt, black pepper (unless you're Lauren, then you can omit the black pepper)
Mix to taste, add mint.
When it is very soft, mix with bughul and meat. Knead for a long time, wetting hands, and leave overnight in the fridge.
For the filling:
2 kilo lamb, ground.
4 onions (the size of your fist): cut finely
sautee in olive oil, add snowbud before it is finished cooking. then add meat. cook.
peppers, red/green
black pepper
salt.
This kibbe she prepared as little saucers, flattening out circles the size of her palm, putting filling in the middle with a little clarified butter, adding another flattened circle on top and pinching together the edges. bake in oven.
Hopefully I can get some more recipes from her before I leave.
Oh right, the rest of the day, I called various tourist agencies to see what day trips they had planned for the rest of the week. Only two had a schedule up (again, its the off-season) for trips around $60-70 each, and one promised to call me back.
For lunch and dinner we had the food my aunt had prepared that day, though I started to have stomach problems while tasting the food in the morning and didn't eat very much.
Day trip to Tripoli
After a quiet day on Sunday, I was ready to go out on Monday and see something new. But first I had to go through the same whirlwind of changing plans that I experienced on Friday. I called the Chouf Cedar Reserve to ask about visiting the park-- what time it was open, if I could go hiking, which entrance to go to, if there was transportation. I planned to visit the reserve after visiting the nearby Beiteddine, but since it is the off-season there was no transportation to take me from Beiteddine to the Reserve, or from the Reserve back home. It seemed there was no option but to rent a taxi for the whole day, which I knew would be expensive. But before I could figure that out, the park called me back to let me know that Beiteddine is closed on Mondays. Good to know.
So I called Chantal at work for another idea-- she suggested going north to the Cedars (another park), but I told her I had read that in the winter there is only downhill skiing there, no hiking, because of the snow, and I would rather snowshoe or xc-ski than downhill. Plus again the transportation did not work out and so on. Then she suggested Tripoli, 85 km north of Beirut on the coast, which I had not yet been to see. My aunt was on her way out for the day, so she said she and Ramez could drop me at the taxi station in Dora and find me a service taxi (shared betwee 4 people) so I wouldn't have to rent the taxi for myself alone. By this time it was late in the morning and when we arrived at the station it was already noon. Nagibe found me a good driver and told me that it would be 7,000 LL (less than $5) to the city and an extra 5,000 ($3.33) to take me directly to the old city. This sounded like a great deal to me, so I happily waited in the car with my book (now I am reading Islam: A Short History by Karen Armstrong-- Elisabeth I think it is yours? I definitely recommend it) for the car to fill. It reminded me of Ghana, where we would wait a few hours for the bus to fill, though since it was already late in the day and Tripoli is relatively far I hoped it wouldn't take so long to find a few other passengers.
In the meantime, the driver, Antoine, took me across the street to refill my cell phone ($47 in one week?!) and I bought a new card for $23 to last the next 10 days (I am writing this on Friday and I only have $2.62 left and I didn't even call the US). Then back to the car.
An hour later, no one had joined me and I began to get worried. No other cars had been filled since I arrived and the drivers were walking back and forth with their hands behind their back, praying with their prayer beads. Not a good sign. My aunt reappeared, having finished her errand and saw me still sitting in the car, alone. She talked to the driver then asked if I wanted to buy the whole car since there were no other passengers. There seemed to be no other options and it was getting late so I agreed.
Tripoli is twice as far from Beirut as Byblos is, so it is about a 90 minute car ride, or 2-3 hours by bus. Antoine was very friendly, though he spoke little English, so I practiced some Arabic with him and he practiced his English with me and he told me about his family, gave me his phone number in case I have any problems, told me he lives 10km from Tripoli and I can stay with his family if I need to.
We were more than halfway there when he pulled off the highway and onto a side road. I recognized the fort in front of us from my drive north with the trekking group as the guide had pointed it out to us when we drove by. Apparently my driver wanted me to see it up close, so we walked up and read the info signs, then approached the stairs to climb up to the top. A man appeared from a small building hidden in the trees and at first I thought he was going to tell us we couldn't go up. Instead he pulled out a key and led us up the stairs and opened the entrance door for us. Though he didn't speak any English, he gave us a tour around, the only word I recognized was "W.C." (water closet = bathroom) and we saw a 500 year-old bathroom intact.
After a series of photo shoots with my driver acting as photographer, we returned to the car and Antoine whispered I should give him 5,000 LL for the tour ("harram, this is his business"). I gladly did and we continued on the road.
Antoine dropped me at the appropriate location and then wrote out for me in Arabic the directions to get home again (1. from the castle where he dropped me to the taxi station 2. from the taxi station back to Dora, Beirut 3. from Dora taxi station home again). I ended up paying him more than I thought I needed to, as usual, but I didn't know exactly what price he agreed on with my aunt and it ended up being almost $30.
Tripoli (Trablous in Arabic-- transliterated from the Greek word Tripolis) is the second largest city in Lebanon and has been around since maybe before 1400 BC. It was settled by communities of traders coming from Saida, Tyre and modern-day Tartus in Syria, each settling their own city within distinct walls (hence the name "three cities"). It has been under the rule of Seleucids, Romans, Umayyads, Byzantines, Fatimids, then became independent in 1069 under the Ammar family. Then came the Crusaders, led by Raymond de Saint-Gilles of Toulouse, who built a fortress, which is where I began my tour. The castle has been burnt down and rebuilt several times. In general, it was a fairly unexciting castle, though huge and good for wandering, and it seemed like no dark and narrow passage into the depths and dungeons were off-limits. It was nearly empty and there were no informational signs so I did what I usually do and made it up as I went. From the top you can see the modern city below.
I left the castle and asked for directions to the old city, which the man at the door gave me, but they consisted of hand gestures and the words "blue box." I walked down the street and wondered which blue box he meant-- the blue stand selling fruit? The blue street sign? So I decided to give it up and just walked, walking from one souq to another, coming out in some strange area, asking someone else, not understanding them, walking in a different direction. There should have been many mosques, madrassas, hammams, khans, etc. to be seen, but I didn't really care if I found them or not so I just walked. In one souq where I was following a chain of gold jewelry shops I saw a sign for the Khan al-Saboun's soap workshop. So I entered and was greeted by a young man who works there and asked if I wanted to see the gallery. Two young women gave me a full tour of all the soaps, massage oils, hand creams, etc that they make, smelled every single scent they have and worried they would ask me to buy something. Instead, they asked me to sign their guestbook and gave me a pamphlet of information and a bag of soap shavings to put in my clothing drawers. I would have bought something if I had not already heard about the soaps and such awaiting me in Syria.
From there I decided I should probably wander my way in the direction of the taxi station, which according to my book was not far from whereever I happened to be, so I asked a few more people and walked in the general direction of their gestures. Along the way I looked into the windows of their famous sweet shops (one gave me a taste of their baklava) and bought a pomegranate juice from a street vendor (in retrospect probably a bad idea-- not feeling so well a few days later). Eventually I found the "garage of the clock," aka taxi station under the clock tower. I asked for the Dora station and found a taxi to sit in and wait once more for passengers to go home.
30 minutes later, yet again, no one had showed up. The driver asked me if I wanted him to take me home for $20. Sigh. With no other choice, I agreed and we left. I asked him if he would take me directly to the house and he said yes, then he talked to my aunt on the phone to be sure of the directions. When he hung up he laughed and said "your aunt is very good." Apparently she had invited him up for coffee, I'm not really sure why, except to check on him (usually when I am sent off with a driver she takes down his name and license plate number). He came up for coffee and before he left he asked for an additional 5,000 LL, or rather, he asked for 10,000 and my aunt bargained him down to 5. Later, Chantal pointed out I may as well have gone with a tour group for all the money that I spent on taxis, which unfortunately was true.
That night Chantal's sister, Josyan, came over to visit. I had not seen her since we stayed at their house eleven years ago-- my only memories of their house include the short supply of hot water for showers (which I couldn't understand) and slicing my finger while cutting a bagel and fainting from watching the blood flow. We rearranged the artwork and furniture in the living room and sat drinking coffee and eating nuts. Eventually she invited us all out to dinner with her and her husband, Eli, but Nagibe and Chantal were both too tired. I gladly accepted the invitation and we went to meet Eli at a nearby Lebanese restaurant.
Josyan is a doctor at AUB and Eli has a fertilizer business (I erred before saying they are both doctors) and they have three children: Elisa is 28 and studying theater in Barcelona, Josef is 25 and studying classical music/playing the lute in Stockholm, and Sarjoun who is 31, received his phD in Robotics from Carnegie Mellon and is now trying to start his own robot toy company, spending 6 months in Pittsburgh and 6 months in China. Unfortunately I missed all of them by about a week. Instead, Josyan suggested that I meet her co-worker's American niece who is completing her masters at AUB, who I will probably meet sometime this weekend.
For dinner we had a ridiculous amount of food: olives, bread, tabbouleh, stuffed grape leaves, labneh, kibbe, meat pies, cheese sticks, kibbe nayyeh (raw kibbe), sausage, muhammarah (spicy red pepper and walnut dip), hummus, eggplant dip, mashed potatoes with garlic, pickled vegetables, fresh vegetables, and thyme salad with onions. For dessert: a towering platter of fresh fruit, sliced pineapple, strawberries, grapes, and a platter of sweetened apricots, figs, pumpkin, dates and eggplant. Most of it was for my sake to try new foods and taste a little bit of everything and in the end too much of it returned to the kitchen. I tried to convince myself that they must recycle it in some way, though I couldn't figure out how, but I later asked Chantal and she said they throw it all out. This I cannot understand nor appreciate. Usually I am very careful to not waste any food and therefore eat everything that is served to me, for better or for worse, but with so much excess here I can't eat that way. When one is cooking at home, its good to make in excess because you can refrigerate it and eat delicious leftovers for the next few days. But eating this way in a restaurant makes no sense to me. Especially without doggy bags!
So I called Chantal at work for another idea-- she suggested going north to the Cedars (another park), but I told her I had read that in the winter there is only downhill skiing there, no hiking, because of the snow, and I would rather snowshoe or xc-ski than downhill. Plus again the transportation did not work out and so on. Then she suggested Tripoli, 85 km north of Beirut on the coast, which I had not yet been to see. My aunt was on her way out for the day, so she said she and Ramez could drop me at the taxi station in Dora and find me a service taxi (shared betwee 4 people) so I wouldn't have to rent the taxi for myself alone. By this time it was late in the morning and when we arrived at the station it was already noon. Nagibe found me a good driver and told me that it would be 7,000 LL (less than $5) to the city and an extra 5,000 ($3.33) to take me directly to the old city. This sounded like a great deal to me, so I happily waited in the car with my book (now I am reading Islam: A Short History by Karen Armstrong-- Elisabeth I think it is yours? I definitely recommend it) for the car to fill. It reminded me of Ghana, where we would wait a few hours for the bus to fill, though since it was already late in the day and Tripoli is relatively far I hoped it wouldn't take so long to find a few other passengers.
In the meantime, the driver, Antoine, took me across the street to refill my cell phone ($47 in one week?!) and I bought a new card for $23 to last the next 10 days (I am writing this on Friday and I only have $2.62 left and I didn't even call the US). Then back to the car.
An hour later, no one had joined me and I began to get worried. No other cars had been filled since I arrived and the drivers were walking back and forth with their hands behind their back, praying with their prayer beads. Not a good sign. My aunt reappeared, having finished her errand and saw me still sitting in the car, alone. She talked to the driver then asked if I wanted to buy the whole car since there were no other passengers. There seemed to be no other options and it was getting late so I agreed.
Tripoli is twice as far from Beirut as Byblos is, so it is about a 90 minute car ride, or 2-3 hours by bus. Antoine was very friendly, though he spoke little English, so I practiced some Arabic with him and he practiced his English with me and he told me about his family, gave me his phone number in case I have any problems, told me he lives 10km from Tripoli and I can stay with his family if I need to.
We were more than halfway there when he pulled off the highway and onto a side road. I recognized the fort in front of us from my drive north with the trekking group as the guide had pointed it out to us when we drove by. Apparently my driver wanted me to see it up close, so we walked up and read the info signs, then approached the stairs to climb up to the top. A man appeared from a small building hidden in the trees and at first I thought he was going to tell us we couldn't go up. Instead he pulled out a key and led us up the stairs and opened the entrance door for us. Though he didn't speak any English, he gave us a tour around, the only word I recognized was "W.C." (water closet = bathroom) and we saw a 500 year-old bathroom intact.
After a series of photo shoots with my driver acting as photographer, we returned to the car and Antoine whispered I should give him 5,000 LL for the tour ("harram, this is his business"). I gladly did and we continued on the road.
Antoine dropped me at the appropriate location and then wrote out for me in Arabic the directions to get home again (1. from the castle where he dropped me to the taxi station 2. from the taxi station back to Dora, Beirut 3. from Dora taxi station home again). I ended up paying him more than I thought I needed to, as usual, but I didn't know exactly what price he agreed on with my aunt and it ended up being almost $30.
Tripoli (Trablous in Arabic-- transliterated from the Greek word Tripolis) is the second largest city in Lebanon and has been around since maybe before 1400 BC. It was settled by communities of traders coming from Saida, Tyre and modern-day Tartus in Syria, each settling their own city within distinct walls (hence the name "three cities"). It has been under the rule of Seleucids, Romans, Umayyads, Byzantines, Fatimids, then became independent in 1069 under the Ammar family. Then came the Crusaders, led by Raymond de Saint-Gilles of Toulouse, who built a fortress, which is where I began my tour. The castle has been burnt down and rebuilt several times. In general, it was a fairly unexciting castle, though huge and good for wandering, and it seemed like no dark and narrow passage into the depths and dungeons were off-limits. It was nearly empty and there were no informational signs so I did what I usually do and made it up as I went. From the top you can see the modern city below.
I left the castle and asked for directions to the old city, which the man at the door gave me, but they consisted of hand gestures and the words "blue box." I walked down the street and wondered which blue box he meant-- the blue stand selling fruit? The blue street sign? So I decided to give it up and just walked, walking from one souq to another, coming out in some strange area, asking someone else, not understanding them, walking in a different direction. There should have been many mosques, madrassas, hammams, khans, etc. to be seen, but I didn't really care if I found them or not so I just walked. In one souq where I was following a chain of gold jewelry shops I saw a sign for the Khan al-Saboun's soap workshop. So I entered and was greeted by a young man who works there and asked if I wanted to see the gallery. Two young women gave me a full tour of all the soaps, massage oils, hand creams, etc that they make, smelled every single scent they have and worried they would ask me to buy something. Instead, they asked me to sign their guestbook and gave me a pamphlet of information and a bag of soap shavings to put in my clothing drawers. I would have bought something if I had not already heard about the soaps and such awaiting me in Syria.
From there I decided I should probably wander my way in the direction of the taxi station, which according to my book was not far from whereever I happened to be, so I asked a few more people and walked in the general direction of their gestures. Along the way I looked into the windows of their famous sweet shops (one gave me a taste of their baklava) and bought a pomegranate juice from a street vendor (in retrospect probably a bad idea-- not feeling so well a few days later). Eventually I found the "garage of the clock," aka taxi station under the clock tower. I asked for the Dora station and found a taxi to sit in and wait once more for passengers to go home.
30 minutes later, yet again, no one had showed up. The driver asked me if I wanted him to take me home for $20. Sigh. With no other choice, I agreed and we left. I asked him if he would take me directly to the house and he said yes, then he talked to my aunt on the phone to be sure of the directions. When he hung up he laughed and said "your aunt is very good." Apparently she had invited him up for coffee, I'm not really sure why, except to check on him (usually when I am sent off with a driver she takes down his name and license plate number). He came up for coffee and before he left he asked for an additional 5,000 LL, or rather, he asked for 10,000 and my aunt bargained him down to 5. Later, Chantal pointed out I may as well have gone with a tour group for all the money that I spent on taxis, which unfortunately was true.
That night Chantal's sister, Josyan, came over to visit. I had not seen her since we stayed at their house eleven years ago-- my only memories of their house include the short supply of hot water for showers (which I couldn't understand) and slicing my finger while cutting a bagel and fainting from watching the blood flow. We rearranged the artwork and furniture in the living room and sat drinking coffee and eating nuts. Eventually she invited us all out to dinner with her and her husband, Eli, but Nagibe and Chantal were both too tired. I gladly accepted the invitation and we went to meet Eli at a nearby Lebanese restaurant.
Josyan is a doctor at AUB and Eli has a fertilizer business (I erred before saying they are both doctors) and they have three children: Elisa is 28 and studying theater in Barcelona, Josef is 25 and studying classical music/playing the lute in Stockholm, and Sarjoun who is 31, received his phD in Robotics from Carnegie Mellon and is now trying to start his own robot toy company, spending 6 months in Pittsburgh and 6 months in China. Unfortunately I missed all of them by about a week. Instead, Josyan suggested that I meet her co-worker's American niece who is completing her masters at AUB, who I will probably meet sometime this weekend.
For dinner we had a ridiculous amount of food: olives, bread, tabbouleh, stuffed grape leaves, labneh, kibbe, meat pies, cheese sticks, kibbe nayyeh (raw kibbe), sausage, muhammarah (spicy red pepper and walnut dip), hummus, eggplant dip, mashed potatoes with garlic, pickled vegetables, fresh vegetables, and thyme salad with onions. For dessert: a towering platter of fresh fruit, sliced pineapple, strawberries, grapes, and a platter of sweetened apricots, figs, pumpkin, dates and eggplant. Most of it was for my sake to try new foods and taste a little bit of everything and in the end too much of it returned to the kitchen. I tried to convince myself that they must recycle it in some way, though I couldn't figure out how, but I later asked Chantal and she said they throw it all out. This I cannot understand nor appreciate. Usually I am very careful to not waste any food and therefore eat everything that is served to me, for better or for worse, but with so much excess here I can't eat that way. When one is cooking at home, its good to make in excess because you can refrigerate it and eat delicious leftovers for the next few days. But eating this way in a restaurant makes no sense to me. Especially without doggy bags!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A day of rest
Sunday we had another late start, heading out after a late morning breakfast to visit my great aunt Sr Agnes (the first in ten children in my grandmother's family; Tante Nagibe [and my grandmother, Marie]'s older sister), who is also a nun (though in the Maronite Church). She lives in a convent about 20 minutes away in an unknown town, and I joined Chantal for her weekly visit.
I don't think she had warning that I was coming with Chantal, so it was a big surprise for her to see me walk through the door. I don't know when was the last time I saw her, but I'm sure I was something of a small child. She was doing pretty well, relatively speaking, though she is blind in one eye and cannot walk due to bad knees, she is full of good spirits. We found her watching television in her room, and she and I talked while Chantal fell asleep on her bed. Our conversation was limited--though I tried to ask her a few questions about her family, she did not understand me, so instead we sat and watched the Christian TV channel.
We stayed for a few hours, then returned home. My aunt Nagibe had not left her bed all day because she was not feeling well (she suffers from arrhythmia as well as various other pains) and Chantal quickly fell asleep again. I ate dinner alone for the first time since arriving and it was a quiet evening.
I don't think she had warning that I was coming with Chantal, so it was a big surprise for her to see me walk through the door. I don't know when was the last time I saw her, but I'm sure I was something of a small child. She was doing pretty well, relatively speaking, though she is blind in one eye and cannot walk due to bad knees, she is full of good spirits. We found her watching television in her room, and she and I talked while Chantal fell asleep on her bed. Our conversation was limited--though I tried to ask her a few questions about her family, she did not understand me, so instead we sat and watched the Christian TV channel.
We stayed for a few hours, then returned home. My aunt Nagibe had not left her bed all day because she was not feeling well (she suffers from arrhythmia as well as various other pains) and Chantal quickly fell asleep again. I ate dinner alone for the first time since arriving and it was a quiet evening.
Saturday: Saida, Cinema and Samra
So the weekend had finally come and though I could not tell the difference, Chantal was glad for the break from her busy week at work. Thus she took on the new job of Guide and we debated over a late breakfast what our day's plans should be. After a few phone calls and finding many of our destinations closed/unresponsive and fears of impending rain, Chantal suggested we drive south to one of her favorite cities, Saida (Saidon).
Saida is only about 40 km south of Beirut (about the same distance as Byblos) in the southern region, a predominantly Muslim area. Lebanon borders Israel in the south so it often receives attention for extremist groups lobbing bombs over the border and being invaded by Israel, etc. As we drove, Chantal quizzed me on my education about the civil war and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and seemed surprised to hear that American universities aren't all spouting pro-Israeli propoganda. She explained that she feels a certain connection to the Muslim population in this area, likely because as a nurse at the AUB hospital, located in West Beirut, she cared for predominantly Muslim casualties during the civil war and she feels the greatest sympathy for the Palestinian refugees, though her sympathies don't extend to the extremists that the region houses (evidenced by flags of various colors denoting one's affiliation-- yellow for Hezbollah, green for Amal, etc). Saida is most famous for being the birthplace of former PM Rafiq Hariri and a lot of the city has been rebuilt after the civil war thanks to a foundation in his name.
We began at the Khan al-Franj (restored by the Hariri Foundation) apparently the largest/most beautiful/best preserved of its type, built in the 17th century by the Lebanese prince Fakhreddine. It has an open courtyard with two stories, the top level to provide housing for travelers and merchants, the lower level with covered stables and storage. I looked inside one of the stables and found a darkened room that housed a mini art gallery for pieces of work that all expressed emotions of hope, peace, anger and such about the Gaza-Israeli conflict.
However, our main attraction to Saida, in addition to its picturesque coastal setting, was the soap museum (al-mathaf a-sabon), a 13th century building rededicated to soap making in the 19th century, which we found after wandering through a maze of covered souqs and almost walking past its nondescript door. Its trilingual signs explained the process of "saponification," with displays of various ingredients used and their benefits, of tools used to process, cut and design the soaps. This particular factory had been used to supply the hammams (public bathhouses), so there was also a display about the customs and artifacts of the bathhouses. It was particularly interesting to read about the importance of personal hygiene in the culture and the use of hammams as social centers in Arab cultures where women weren't allowed to go out in public.
While I wandered the museum, Chantal waited for me in the accompanying cafe and when I was finished I met her for tea and orange blossom water. Then to the museum gift shop, which made me wish we had such bathhouses back in the US so one could justify spending so much on embroidered slippers, robes, towels, etc. It also made me think about how I could rearrange my already-overweight bags to pack in a few more gifts/souvenirs. And I haven't even arrived in Syria yet...
We somehow found our way back out of the markets and stopped to buy me a falafel sandwich (which cost less than my tea)-- I found it just as much fun to watch them make my sandwich as it was delicious for me to eat, looking out across the harbor to the floating Sea Castle (built by the Crusaders in 1228). Unfortunately the castle was closed off to visitors so we saw it from behind the bars, then returned to the car and drove back to Beirut, arriving just in time to make it to the cinemas to meet Chantal's friend for Revolutionary Road.
We left the theaters fully depressed after the movie (but don't let that discourage you from seeing it!) and after a few errands at the mall (where I spotted my first Uggs since arriving, though malls are malls) we met Michel for dinner at a Thai restaurant. After dropping him back at his apartment, we continued on to meet up with her co-workers at a cafe to celebrate the end of their monthlong-working-marathon.
The cafe was called Samra and was well-hidden on the second story of an otherwise empty street at 1030 on a Saturday night. It was relatively small with a bar in the back and posters of favorite old Egyptian movies, actors and singers (the only one I recognized/remember was a young Umm Kalthoum) and is apparently unique for its distinctly Arab character. The cafe slowly filled up, with both our table's mix of young and old, surrounded by groups of students and another table hosting a local (older) TV star and his large crowd. Later in the evening a band (bass, oud, violin and drum) arrived and began playing traditional Arabic music that everyone in the room except for the lone American knew all the words to. The room erupted into spontaneous and spirited dancing (though not spastic-- it was both calculated and expressive, in particular the national dance the debke, performed by a group holding hands moving in a circle [n.b. this is difficult in a crowded cafe]) as it seemed with each new song they remembered, 'oh yes, THIS is my favorite song,' and the dancers found a piece of floor to claim for their own. There were certain individuals who were particularly skilled (we had a former belly dancer in our own group) and I was impressed that across all age groups, male and female, no one held back from twisting their hips and waving napkins. I still think there may have been some musicians planted in the audience, as random people pulled out castanets, jumped up to the microphone to sing a few songs, etc. In short, the audience put on as much of a performance as the musicians did and I am sorry that I left my camera behind in the car. The belly dancer at our table was Syrian and she told me that I could expect as much fun in Damascus with good music and cheaper food [I continue to receive contradicting opinions about what to expect, I will just have to wait it out and see for myself]. Though she was born in Aleppo, she lived in Damascus for some period of time while dating an Italian diplomat, so much of her advice for a young Westerner was to seek out the embassies and foreign cultural centers for events and activities.
On the table (for approx. 10 people): 25 small dishes (about 2 of each) including bread, potatoes, hummus, eggplant dip, tabbouleh, fattoush, sausage, kibbe, cheese, vegetables, chicken, etc.
Saida is only about 40 km south of Beirut (about the same distance as Byblos) in the southern region, a predominantly Muslim area. Lebanon borders Israel in the south so it often receives attention for extremist groups lobbing bombs over the border and being invaded by Israel, etc. As we drove, Chantal quizzed me on my education about the civil war and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and seemed surprised to hear that American universities aren't all spouting pro-Israeli propoganda. She explained that she feels a certain connection to the Muslim population in this area, likely because as a nurse at the AUB hospital, located in West Beirut, she cared for predominantly Muslim casualties during the civil war and she feels the greatest sympathy for the Palestinian refugees, though her sympathies don't extend to the extremists that the region houses (evidenced by flags of various colors denoting one's affiliation-- yellow for Hezbollah, green for Amal, etc). Saida is most famous for being the birthplace of former PM Rafiq Hariri and a lot of the city has been rebuilt after the civil war thanks to a foundation in his name.
We began at the Khan al-Franj (restored by the Hariri Foundation) apparently the largest/most beautiful/best preserved of its type, built in the 17th century by the Lebanese prince Fakhreddine. It has an open courtyard with two stories, the top level to provide housing for travelers and merchants, the lower level with covered stables and storage. I looked inside one of the stables and found a darkened room that housed a mini art gallery for pieces of work that all expressed emotions of hope, peace, anger and such about the Gaza-Israeli conflict.
However, our main attraction to Saida, in addition to its picturesque coastal setting, was the soap museum (al-mathaf a-sabon), a 13th century building rededicated to soap making in the 19th century, which we found after wandering through a maze of covered souqs and almost walking past its nondescript door. Its trilingual signs explained the process of "saponification," with displays of various ingredients used and their benefits, of tools used to process, cut and design the soaps. This particular factory had been used to supply the hammams (public bathhouses), so there was also a display about the customs and artifacts of the bathhouses. It was particularly interesting to read about the importance of personal hygiene in the culture and the use of hammams as social centers in Arab cultures where women weren't allowed to go out in public.
While I wandered the museum, Chantal waited for me in the accompanying cafe and when I was finished I met her for tea and orange blossom water. Then to the museum gift shop, which made me wish we had such bathhouses back in the US so one could justify spending so much on embroidered slippers, robes, towels, etc. It also made me think about how I could rearrange my already-overweight bags to pack in a few more gifts/souvenirs. And I haven't even arrived in Syria yet...
We somehow found our way back out of the markets and stopped to buy me a falafel sandwich (which cost less than my tea)-- I found it just as much fun to watch them make my sandwich as it was delicious for me to eat, looking out across the harbor to the floating Sea Castle (built by the Crusaders in 1228). Unfortunately the castle was closed off to visitors so we saw it from behind the bars, then returned to the car and drove back to Beirut, arriving just in time to make it to the cinemas to meet Chantal's friend for Revolutionary Road.
We left the theaters fully depressed after the movie (but don't let that discourage you from seeing it!) and after a few errands at the mall (where I spotted my first Uggs since arriving, though malls are malls) we met Michel for dinner at a Thai restaurant. After dropping him back at his apartment, we continued on to meet up with her co-workers at a cafe to celebrate the end of their monthlong-working-marathon.
The cafe was called Samra and was well-hidden on the second story of an otherwise empty street at 1030 on a Saturday night. It was relatively small with a bar in the back and posters of favorite old Egyptian movies, actors and singers (the only one I recognized/remember was a young Umm Kalthoum) and is apparently unique for its distinctly Arab character. The cafe slowly filled up, with both our table's mix of young and old, surrounded by groups of students and another table hosting a local (older) TV star and his large crowd. Later in the evening a band (bass, oud, violin and drum) arrived and began playing traditional Arabic music that everyone in the room except for the lone American knew all the words to. The room erupted into spontaneous and spirited dancing (though not spastic-- it was both calculated and expressive, in particular the national dance the debke, performed by a group holding hands moving in a circle [n.b. this is difficult in a crowded cafe]) as it seemed with each new song they remembered, 'oh yes, THIS is my favorite song,' and the dancers found a piece of floor to claim for their own. There were certain individuals who were particularly skilled (we had a former belly dancer in our own group) and I was impressed that across all age groups, male and female, no one held back from twisting their hips and waving napkins. I still think there may have been some musicians planted in the audience, as random people pulled out castanets, jumped up to the microphone to sing a few songs, etc. In short, the audience put on as much of a performance as the musicians did and I am sorry that I left my camera behind in the car. The belly dancer at our table was Syrian and she told me that I could expect as much fun in Damascus with good music and cheaper food [I continue to receive contradicting opinions about what to expect, I will just have to wait it out and see for myself]. Though she was born in Aleppo, she lived in Damascus for some period of time while dating an Italian diplomat, so much of her advice for a young Westerner was to seek out the embassies and foreign cultural centers for events and activities.
On the table (for approx. 10 people): 25 small dishes (about 2 of each) including bread, potatoes, hummus, eggplant dip, tabbouleh, fattoush, sausage, kibbe, cheese, vegetables, chicken, etc.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Beirut may be the "Paris of the Middle East" but Byblos is the birthplace of the linear alphabet!
Friday morning I woke up with plans to get out of the house and visit Baalbek, a city 2 hours east, known for its impressive Roman ruins (I visited it the last time I was in Lebanon with my family). I had started to feel guilty about spending so many leisurely mornings at home and it was probably time that I went out on my own (this time, no tour groups) and tried getting lost in someplace that was further than my own neighborhood. At the same time, not all parts of Lebanon are places that a person such as myself should go wandering alone, and Chantal called me early Friday morning from work to tell me that she had spoken with a friend who warned her that Baalbek is definitely not a place for travelling alone.
So with a last minute change in plans, I headed out with Ramez to the autostradt to get a taxi heading for Byblos. Byblos is 40 km north of Beirut and a much smaller/easier city to manage, and also has archaelogical significance. It is one of the oldest inhabited cities in the world (much like the one I'm headed to in a week) and the archaeological site there displays ruins from throughout the ages. The earliest known occupation of Byblos was in the 5th millenium BCE, during the era of early agricultural settlements-- cultivated grains, tools and primitive weapons have been uncovered onsite. By the 3rd millenium BCE, it was colonized by the Phoenicians and developed into an important religious center, but it was invaded by the Amorites in 2150 BCE (see the Obelisk Temple), the Hyskos in 1725 BCE, and the Egyptians again in 1580 BCE, beginning a long period of trade and development, during which the first linear alphabet was developed. By 612 BCE it was under rule of the Assyrians, then Babylon in 539, when it became an important trade link to the Persian Empire (it was an important source for cedar trees) and later to the Roman Empire. Unfortunately for the wealth of the city, the traders failed to regulate the pace of deforestation and were depleted of their most valuable natural resource. Instead, it became an important religious center of the Eastern Roman Empire, converting to Christianity, until it was conquered by the Islamic Empire in 636 (the city was renamed Jbail). The Crusaders reconquered it in 1098 until it was lost again to the Mamluk dynasty in 1266. It only recently (relatively speaking) became a point of interest in 1860 when a French historian and philosopher began to excavate the site. [I know I just sounded really smart and well-informed, but I was mostly paraphrasing from my Lonely Planet guidebook.]
So. You enter the site of the old city through the Crusader Castle (built by the Franks in the 12th century), where there is a small museum with history about the site. You can walk through the castle and the best part is the view from the top, from whence I took this panorama (roughly photoshopped together). I was lucky to arrive earlier in the morning; there were few other tourists out, except for one group of students and a family, so I was able to wander around the ruins (which I did for over two hours) for the mostpart without seeing anybody else. There is the Roman theater, built in 218 CE; the "L" temple named for its shape and built in the 3rd millenium BCE, later burnt and rebuilt, which housed holy cells, residences for the priests, workshops; in the 19th century BCE the Obelisk Temple was built on top of it-- forcing archaeologists to move it to a different site so they could excavate the "L" temple below it. Throughout the ruins, there are various sites dug out where Phoenician royal tombs from the 2nd millenium BCE were discovered. In some of the photos you can see a red tiled house overlooking the sea that was built during the Ottoman Empire and near this house there are early settlements from the Neolithic (5th millenium BCE) and Chalolithic (4th millenium BCE) eras, where funeral jars have been discovered with the remains of people curled up in the foetus position.
Outside of the old city is the medieval city, where I walked through the restored souq (market) which has been restored and features souvenir shops selling Phoenician figurines, precious gems, fossilized fish. The most interesting of these shops is the Memoire du Temps, which is run by a very friendly man named Pierre who is the 3rd generation in his family, famous for their excavations of fossils in mountains near Byblos. All of the fossils in his shop, which does not begin to encompass his entire collection, have been discovered at 800 m above sea level, and all are 100 million years old. His collection has made Byblos famous yet again, as it is the only such source for these fossils in the Middle East. And you can buy one for as little as $5!
After lunch (fattoush, green salad with parsley, tomato, cucumber, toasted pita chips, and shrimp in coriander/garlic/olive oil sauce) in a seafood restaurant overlooking the harbor, I asked a few men playing shash bash (backgammon) to help me get a taxi home. One of them called one up for me, and this time I successfully directed the driver back to the house. Hurrah I actually know where I live now!
Later that evening, Chantal came home for dinner with her friend, Michel. We had 6 different kind of cheeses, ham, fois gras, olives, salad with wild greens, fasoulia (white beans in a red sauce served with cardamom rice), and eggplant for dinner. For dessert it was the usual sweets, though this time with no butter and sugar! Considering the fact that those are two of the prime ingredients in ME pastries, I remain dubious, but my aunt is working on her new 'regime' (diet) and as a result brown bread found its way to the table for the first time. She also told me that she only eats 5 olives a day now, because there are 20 calories per olive, though I suggested maybe she should be more concerned about the cheeses and fois gras.
After dinner, we broke out the cards and my aunt Nagibe taught us how to play barrida, a game for 2 or for 4 people that reminded me of gin rummy. We played until 1 am (Nagibe had more than doubled our scores by that time) and then it was bed and skyping with home.
So with a last minute change in plans, I headed out with Ramez to the autostradt to get a taxi heading for Byblos. Byblos is 40 km north of Beirut and a much smaller/easier city to manage, and also has archaelogical significance. It is one of the oldest inhabited cities in the world (much like the one I'm headed to in a week) and the archaeological site there displays ruins from throughout the ages. The earliest known occupation of Byblos was in the 5th millenium BCE, during the era of early agricultural settlements-- cultivated grains, tools and primitive weapons have been uncovered onsite. By the 3rd millenium BCE, it was colonized by the Phoenicians and developed into an important religious center, but it was invaded by the Amorites in 2150 BCE (see the Obelisk Temple), the Hyskos in 1725 BCE, and the Egyptians again in 1580 BCE, beginning a long period of trade and development, during which the first linear alphabet was developed. By 612 BCE it was under rule of the Assyrians, then Babylon in 539, when it became an important trade link to the Persian Empire (it was an important source for cedar trees) and later to the Roman Empire. Unfortunately for the wealth of the city, the traders failed to regulate the pace of deforestation and were depleted of their most valuable natural resource. Instead, it became an important religious center of the Eastern Roman Empire, converting to Christianity, until it was conquered by the Islamic Empire in 636 (the city was renamed Jbail). The Crusaders reconquered it in 1098 until it was lost again to the Mamluk dynasty in 1266. It only recently (relatively speaking) became a point of interest in 1860 when a French historian and philosopher began to excavate the site. [I know I just sounded really smart and well-informed, but I was mostly paraphrasing from my Lonely Planet guidebook.]
So. You enter the site of the old city through the Crusader Castle (built by the Franks in the 12th century), where there is a small museum with history about the site. You can walk through the castle and the best part is the view from the top, from whence I took this panorama (roughly photoshopped together). I was lucky to arrive earlier in the morning; there were few other tourists out, except for one group of students and a family, so I was able to wander around the ruins (which I did for over two hours) for the mostpart without seeing anybody else. There is the Roman theater, built in 218 CE; the "L" temple named for its shape and built in the 3rd millenium BCE, later burnt and rebuilt, which housed holy cells, residences for the priests, workshops; in the 19th century BCE the Obelisk Temple was built on top of it-- forcing archaeologists to move it to a different site so they could excavate the "L" temple below it. Throughout the ruins, there are various sites dug out where Phoenician royal tombs from the 2nd millenium BCE were discovered. In some of the photos you can see a red tiled house overlooking the sea that was built during the Ottoman Empire and near this house there are early settlements from the Neolithic (5th millenium BCE) and Chalolithic (4th millenium BCE) eras, where funeral jars have been discovered with the remains of people curled up in the foetus position.
Outside of the old city is the medieval city, where I walked through the restored souq (market) which has been restored and features souvenir shops selling Phoenician figurines, precious gems, fossilized fish. The most interesting of these shops is the Memoire du Temps, which is run by a very friendly man named Pierre who is the 3rd generation in his family, famous for their excavations of fossils in mountains near Byblos. All of the fossils in his shop, which does not begin to encompass his entire collection, have been discovered at 800 m above sea level, and all are 100 million years old. His collection has made Byblos famous yet again, as it is the only such source for these fossils in the Middle East. And you can buy one for as little as $5!
After lunch (fattoush, green salad with parsley, tomato, cucumber, toasted pita chips, and shrimp in coriander/garlic/olive oil sauce) in a seafood restaurant overlooking the harbor, I asked a few men playing shash bash (backgammon) to help me get a taxi home. One of them called one up for me, and this time I successfully directed the driver back to the house. Hurrah I actually know where I live now!
Later that evening, Chantal came home for dinner with her friend, Michel. We had 6 different kind of cheeses, ham, fois gras, olives, salad with wild greens, fasoulia (white beans in a red sauce served with cardamom rice), and eggplant for dinner. For dessert it was the usual sweets, though this time with no butter and sugar! Considering the fact that those are two of the prime ingredients in ME pastries, I remain dubious, but my aunt is working on her new 'regime' (diet) and as a result brown bread found its way to the table for the first time. She also told me that she only eats 5 olives a day now, because there are 20 calories per olive, though I suggested maybe she should be more concerned about the cheeses and fois gras.
After dinner, we broke out the cards and my aunt Nagibe taught us how to play barrida, a game for 2 or for 4 people that reminded me of gin rummy. We played until 1 am (Nagibe had more than doubled our scores by that time) and then it was bed and skyping with home.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friends for Maggie?
As you may have noticed, I've been spending a lot of time with old people. I use the word 'old' loosely, meaning anyone over the age of... 27 maybe. It hasn't really bothered me so much, especially since they have been family members primarily, but it worries my cousin Chantal to no end that I have not spent time with the youth of Beirut. Thus, on Wednesday I was set up to spend an evening with her colleague's 22 year old son, Ziad. Being forced to spend time with anyone you don't know can be awkward, especially when parents are the driving force behind the arrangement. I felt a little like the socially inept cousin who can't get a date for the prom, but all in all it wasn't that bad.
I met him at Chantal's office, with his mom and my cousin excited enough for the two of us. We got into his car and started driving around the city. At first, I assumed, naively I suppose, that he had some ultimate destination in mind, and we made easy conversation as he drove. I started to recognize the buildings and the neighborhood and it appeared that we were making laps around downtown Beirut-- finally he asked me if there was anywhere that I wanted to go. I assured him I had no idea what there was to do, that I hadn't gone out at night yet and I would be happy with anything. He assured me we could do anything I want, I need only to say it. After a little back and forth I realized he really had no idea what to do with me. Great. We walked around downtown a little bit, where expensive designer boutiques and cafes line the pedestrian streets. There are engraved footsteps in the sidewalk marking the last steps former Prime Minister Hariri took before he was assassinated in 2005, and we could see the mosque built in his honor lit up in the background. Then we returned to the car and continued driving. For at leaaaast 2 hours.
In the meantime we had fairly good conversation-- he is a business student who never does school work and says the only things to do in Beirut are go out to eat and go clubbing. "Did you know we have clubs that are open 24 hours a day?" I asked him if he had any other interests outside of school-- yes, clubbing, also he used to play basketball, but then girls took up too much time. Ok. Eventually he asked if I would be interested in a movie, yes of course! We parked the car and waited for his friend to pick us up. She was warm, friendly and very talkative, named Laili, studying journalism. She had just finished her first interview, with a Shi'i Muslim who belongs to a particular sect that celebrates some kind of event in their religion by cutting their scalp with razors and wearing white cloth to soak the blood. Her analysis? "People who do this are very stupid."
We met up with Laili's brother, Hamoud, and his girlfriend Maia, and followed their car to the cinema, located in a shopping mall in the neighborhood Achrafiyeh. We arrived at 830, 30 minutes after the last movie had started, so we opted for dinner instead. It was my first experience eating out at a restaurant, and ultimately I was grateful that I am so lucky to have such good cooks and a home to stay in, so I don't have to spend all my money eating out (Chantal's friend Michel explained to me that there was a difference between Lebanese food at home and Lebanese restaurants. Restaurants only serve mezze, small appetizer-style dishes, kabobs and sandwiches, whereas at home you get the real thing). There is nearly every genre and chain of restaurants here: Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Italian, fast food/American (Ziad was surprised to hear that there was such thing as American cuisine outside of fast food). We ate at a Lebanese restaurant called "Cafe Blanc." Only 3 of us ordered food and Hamoud, who hadn't ordered anything, picked up the check. Of course I pulled out my wallet to pay and was met with wide-eyed looks from all around the table and was forced to put it away.
For the most part, they spoke in Arabic together and I had small side conversations in English with the people near me. Hamoud's friend, Sam, asked me how I feel about Obama. They were surprised to hear that most Americans are glad to see Bush go-- which surprised me in turn. Sam said he was reserving his opinions on Obama for when there was some clear evidence of his political policy, since he hadn't been overt about them during his campaign. This has been a common theme with most Lebanese I've talked to about our new president and in general I think it is because they are most concerned with US political policy toward Gaza, and they are skeptical that the US will ever do anything for the Palestinian people against their Israeli allies.
We left the restaurant around 10 and drove back to Laili's apartment to drop her off. On the way we noticed cars pulled over on the side of the highway and Ziad pulled over to join them. We got out of the car and as we followed the commotion and looked over the bridge, we saw an overturned car on the road below. Looking further along the bridge that we stood on there was a gaping hole in the rail where the car had apparently driven through and flipped over, landing in the highway below. Thankfully it didn't seem as if it had struck any other cars. All along the side of the highway, cars had pulled over with their hazard lights on and everyone watched the activity. It was rubbernecking like I'd never seen it before.
Once we arrived at her apartment, we left her car there and joined Hamoud in his car so he could drive me home. In the car we had a pretty good conversation; Hamoud had barely spoken to me during dinner but now he loosened up a little and asked me many questions about studying Arabic and told me about Lebanon and Beirut. When I had told Leili and Ziad earlier that I was planning to study in Damascus, they responded with the usual confusion. To them, Syria was "ugly," the people were "dirty," there was no nightlife and no reason to go there. Hamoud was a little more reasonable and once we talked out why I was interested in studying there, he agreed with me for the most part. It has been interesting bringing up this subject with the Lebanese here, because they don't understand why I am majoring in Arabic in the first place (which is interesting because its not appealing to them at all and it doesn't tell them anything more about my academic interests; obviously I want to learn Arabic, I'm in the Middle East, my family is from here. So what else?), why I wouldn't pick something that actually gave me a career ("Don't you want to add business or some other program to that? Can't you double major?"), and why I would go to Damascus, of all places. We also talked about the Francophile Lebanese-- Hamoud said there was no reason why he would ever want to travel or work in the US, because "what is there to learn there? In Europe there is history and culture....what is there in the US?" Lebanon gets its French leanings from being under French occupation after WWI; some Lebanese (at the time, maybe now) would have preferred to remain part of Europe than the Arab world. A lot of people here attended French schools, travel there yearly, moved there during the war, etc.
Another interesting conversation we had was about men in America. Earlier, Ziad had asked me if it was true "what you hear about gangs and gangsters in America." Uhhh what do you mean by that? I told him of course they exist, but only in certain parts of certain cities, and they certainly weren't prevalent in the culture, though they have their own subculture, and it was likely misrepresented in whatever representation he saw of it in Lebanon. Hamoud similarly asked me if it was true that all American men are "assholes." I didn't know how to respond to that. Ziad brought up the gang question again and Hamoud referred to college movies where the big guy beats up on the little guy and is respected for it. The only thing I could think of was the stereotypical frat/jock and no of course not all men are like that. He said it makes him angry to see that depicted in movies-- I think he is watching the wrong movies.
Hamoud also asked me what I thought so far about Lebanese women. I wasn't really sure how to respond. "You know, you will never see them without makeup, big hair, high heels, even at 830 in the morning! they go to class dressed like they just left the club..." Ahh yes, I think American women are a little bit more casual, for better or for worse, though you can find a little bit of everything there.
Anyway, apparently they had never been to Jal El-Dib before, probably because it is outside of Christian East Beirut and Muslims don't usually go out there, so we continued to drive on the autostradt until I realized that we were halfway to the next city, Jounieh, and asked if we had gone too far. "We never use navigation systems or maps in Lebanon, I know every street in Beirut, but I've never been to Jal El-Dib." Somehow I managed to navigate the neighborhood (yes I was very proud of myself) and was home by 1130. So much driving, so little action. But in the end I was still appreciative that they took me along and it was good to learn a little about the youth in Beirut.
--
The following day (Thursday) Chantal called me from work to see if I would want to go an Arab play with her and a few friends, though I wouldn't understand most of it. Of course! I took a taxi to her office and she asked me how my previous night had been. I explained and she was shocked. I told her it wasn't that bad, but still she was disappointed: "They have nothing better to do than drive around the city in circles at night? They have no interests?? When we were their age, we were wild!" Unfortunately, the play was sold out, so we went to her friend's house instead ("Maggie, I am sorry but you will have to spend another night with old people." Really, I don't mind.) She warned me in advance that the host of the evening, Akram, loved to put on film nights, but he was too much of an intellectual and they were often difficult to get through (and he difficult to watch them with). Akram is a professor at AUB in literature, and a writer himself. I promised I was up for the intellectual challenege, it would be a nice change from the night before.
We picked up her friend Jenna on the way, who is also a nurse but teaches dance therapy and is also involved in drama. Once she found out I was studying formal arabic, she pledged to speak to me only in fus'ha for the car ride over, so we commenced to speak (or I tried to speak) in the elegantly constructed sentences that no one ever uses.
Akram and his overly energetic dog met us at the door-- it is somewhat rare to see dogs in Beirut, I still haven't seen one outdoors (when I was at Selim's apartment a few days earlier he had a beautiful tall blonde dog who bounded about the house, I commented it must be tough to be inside all day and he said, well, he has the balcony). Chantal asked for some recommendations about what I should do and see, and lamented about the youth today. Akram agreed, both as a professor and a father, as his daughter is my age and he can't get her to take interest in anything beyond going out. Chantal suggested she might take me along somewhere... and so it continues. Though, I did meet her when she came home and she seemed significantly more down to earth than the others, and she promised to make some plans after her architecture final was finished on Tuesday.
The movie for the evening was based on a James Joyce short story called "The Dead." His friends groaned and cried out for something more entertaining. He replied, "To me, this is the height of action." There was an extended debate about which restaurant to order in from, finally they agreed to eat home-cooked after the movie was over. Chantal's worries about me spending too much time with old people were in vain-- regardless of age I would prefer to spend time with people I can relate to. I could imagine having some of the same conversations they had with my own group of friends, and they seem to have a lot of fun together, planning weekends out, dinners at home and going out to plays and films.
The movie, faithful to the 20 page short story to the word, was slow and difficult for the others to hear the Irish accent. But the last scene tied together the entire film with all its recurring themes (or machines, as Akram called them), both intellectual and aesthetic. Over dinner, which Akram had prepared himself, conversation erupted into a massive argument, which I stayed out of, on whether or not one can "interpret" any work of art. Jenna, the dancer/drama teacher, pleaded yes, while Akram firmly argued that there is no such thing as interpretation, only analysis of structural elements, and that it was impossible to ever determine what the author "means" or is "trying to say." I thought Akram was overlooking the value of art as a form of expression, but again, found no method of entry into the heated conversation. Ultimately, the difference in opinion was boiled down to a mistranslation of the word "interpretation" into English from French, since they were all speaking in their third language, for my benefit.
The conversation turned to politics when Jenna asked me what the opinion of the American people is on the situation in Gaza. I told her it was difficult for me to say, since it began when I was at home, rather than surrounded by people at school and then of course I came to Lebanon. However, I thought that speaking for myself, and those whose opinion I am aware of, were sympathetic to the Palestinians and waited upon the regime change so it would not be Bush acting in the name of the American people. Around the table, they all expressed doubt that the US would ever come to the rescue of the Palestinians against their own longtime ally. They argued about whether or not the US president was a puppet for the political elite, and how the president's position of power had changed since Nixon and LBJ had abused their power and kept their political actions hidden from the people. I decided they were raining on our DC parade and chose to forego cynicism for optimism, just this once.
For dinner (served by the housekeeper but made by Akram), we had lentil soup, vegetable soup, spinach side dish, kibbe, salad, breads, beans & snowpeas in a red sauce, rice. And for dessert, three kinds of jam: fig, apricot and quince. Also carob molasses, which I didn't like but is a favorite here-- the tree of which I saw for the first time while hiking last weekend. Apparently all the seeds on a carob tree are equal in weight, without fail, and as a result it was used as a weight of measure-- the carat. In fact, now that I am looking the word up in the dictionary to make sure I spelt it correctly, the word actually derives from the Greek word keration, meaning "fruit of the carob." [side note: I also saw a pepper tree for the first time. Who knew that peppercorns grew on trees?!]
I met him at Chantal's office, with his mom and my cousin excited enough for the two of us. We got into his car and started driving around the city. At first, I assumed, naively I suppose, that he had some ultimate destination in mind, and we made easy conversation as he drove. I started to recognize the buildings and the neighborhood and it appeared that we were making laps around downtown Beirut-- finally he asked me if there was anywhere that I wanted to go. I assured him I had no idea what there was to do, that I hadn't gone out at night yet and I would be happy with anything. He assured me we could do anything I want, I need only to say it. After a little back and forth I realized he really had no idea what to do with me. Great. We walked around downtown a little bit, where expensive designer boutiques and cafes line the pedestrian streets. There are engraved footsteps in the sidewalk marking the last steps former Prime Minister Hariri took before he was assassinated in 2005, and we could see the mosque built in his honor lit up in the background. Then we returned to the car and continued driving. For at leaaaast 2 hours.
In the meantime we had fairly good conversation-- he is a business student who never does school work and says the only things to do in Beirut are go out to eat and go clubbing. "Did you know we have clubs that are open 24 hours a day?" I asked him if he had any other interests outside of school-- yes, clubbing, also he used to play basketball, but then girls took up too much time. Ok. Eventually he asked if I would be interested in a movie, yes of course! We parked the car and waited for his friend to pick us up. She was warm, friendly and very talkative, named Laili, studying journalism. She had just finished her first interview, with a Shi'i Muslim who belongs to a particular sect that celebrates some kind of event in their religion by cutting their scalp with razors and wearing white cloth to soak the blood. Her analysis? "People who do this are very stupid."
We met up with Laili's brother, Hamoud, and his girlfriend Maia, and followed their car to the cinema, located in a shopping mall in the neighborhood Achrafiyeh. We arrived at 830, 30 minutes after the last movie had started, so we opted for dinner instead. It was my first experience eating out at a restaurant, and ultimately I was grateful that I am so lucky to have such good cooks and a home to stay in, so I don't have to spend all my money eating out (Chantal's friend Michel explained to me that there was a difference between Lebanese food at home and Lebanese restaurants. Restaurants only serve mezze, small appetizer-style dishes, kabobs and sandwiches, whereas at home you get the real thing). There is nearly every genre and chain of restaurants here: Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Italian, fast food/American (Ziad was surprised to hear that there was such thing as American cuisine outside of fast food). We ate at a Lebanese restaurant called "Cafe Blanc." Only 3 of us ordered food and Hamoud, who hadn't ordered anything, picked up the check. Of course I pulled out my wallet to pay and was met with wide-eyed looks from all around the table and was forced to put it away.
For the most part, they spoke in Arabic together and I had small side conversations in English with the people near me. Hamoud's friend, Sam, asked me how I feel about Obama. They were surprised to hear that most Americans are glad to see Bush go-- which surprised me in turn. Sam said he was reserving his opinions on Obama for when there was some clear evidence of his political policy, since he hadn't been overt about them during his campaign. This has been a common theme with most Lebanese I've talked to about our new president and in general I think it is because they are most concerned with US political policy toward Gaza, and they are skeptical that the US will ever do anything for the Palestinian people against their Israeli allies.
We left the restaurant around 10 and drove back to Laili's apartment to drop her off. On the way we noticed cars pulled over on the side of the highway and Ziad pulled over to join them. We got out of the car and as we followed the commotion and looked over the bridge, we saw an overturned car on the road below. Looking further along the bridge that we stood on there was a gaping hole in the rail where the car had apparently driven through and flipped over, landing in the highway below. Thankfully it didn't seem as if it had struck any other cars. All along the side of the highway, cars had pulled over with their hazard lights on and everyone watched the activity. It was rubbernecking like I'd never seen it before.
Once we arrived at her apartment, we left her car there and joined Hamoud in his car so he could drive me home. In the car we had a pretty good conversation; Hamoud had barely spoken to me during dinner but now he loosened up a little and asked me many questions about studying Arabic and told me about Lebanon and Beirut. When I had told Leili and Ziad earlier that I was planning to study in Damascus, they responded with the usual confusion. To them, Syria was "ugly," the people were "dirty," there was no nightlife and no reason to go there. Hamoud was a little more reasonable and once we talked out why I was interested in studying there, he agreed with me for the most part. It has been interesting bringing up this subject with the Lebanese here, because they don't understand why I am majoring in Arabic in the first place (which is interesting because its not appealing to them at all and it doesn't tell them anything more about my academic interests; obviously I want to learn Arabic, I'm in the Middle East, my family is from here. So what else?), why I wouldn't pick something that actually gave me a career ("Don't you want to add business or some other program to that? Can't you double major?"), and why I would go to Damascus, of all places. We also talked about the Francophile Lebanese-- Hamoud said there was no reason why he would ever want to travel or work in the US, because "what is there to learn there? In Europe there is history and culture....what is there in the US?" Lebanon gets its French leanings from being under French occupation after WWI; some Lebanese (at the time, maybe now) would have preferred to remain part of Europe than the Arab world. A lot of people here attended French schools, travel there yearly, moved there during the war, etc.
Another interesting conversation we had was about men in America. Earlier, Ziad had asked me if it was true "what you hear about gangs and gangsters in America." Uhhh what do you mean by that? I told him of course they exist, but only in certain parts of certain cities, and they certainly weren't prevalent in the culture, though they have their own subculture, and it was likely misrepresented in whatever representation he saw of it in Lebanon. Hamoud similarly asked me if it was true that all American men are "assholes." I didn't know how to respond to that. Ziad brought up the gang question again and Hamoud referred to college movies where the big guy beats up on the little guy and is respected for it. The only thing I could think of was the stereotypical frat/jock and no of course not all men are like that. He said it makes him angry to see that depicted in movies-- I think he is watching the wrong movies.
Hamoud also asked me what I thought so far about Lebanese women. I wasn't really sure how to respond. "You know, you will never see them without makeup, big hair, high heels, even at 830 in the morning! they go to class dressed like they just left the club..." Ahh yes, I think American women are a little bit more casual, for better or for worse, though you can find a little bit of everything there.
Anyway, apparently they had never been to Jal El-Dib before, probably because it is outside of Christian East Beirut and Muslims don't usually go out there, so we continued to drive on the autostradt until I realized that we were halfway to the next city, Jounieh, and asked if we had gone too far. "We never use navigation systems or maps in Lebanon, I know every street in Beirut, but I've never been to Jal El-Dib." Somehow I managed to navigate the neighborhood (yes I was very proud of myself) and was home by 1130. So much driving, so little action. But in the end I was still appreciative that they took me along and it was good to learn a little about the youth in Beirut.
--
The following day (Thursday) Chantal called me from work to see if I would want to go an Arab play with her and a few friends, though I wouldn't understand most of it. Of course! I took a taxi to her office and she asked me how my previous night had been. I explained and she was shocked. I told her it wasn't that bad, but still she was disappointed: "They have nothing better to do than drive around the city in circles at night? They have no interests?? When we were their age, we were wild!" Unfortunately, the play was sold out, so we went to her friend's house instead ("Maggie, I am sorry but you will have to spend another night with old people." Really, I don't mind.) She warned me in advance that the host of the evening, Akram, loved to put on film nights, but he was too much of an intellectual and they were often difficult to get through (and he difficult to watch them with). Akram is a professor at AUB in literature, and a writer himself. I promised I was up for the intellectual challenege, it would be a nice change from the night before.
We picked up her friend Jenna on the way, who is also a nurse but teaches dance therapy and is also involved in drama. Once she found out I was studying formal arabic, she pledged to speak to me only in fus'ha for the car ride over, so we commenced to speak (or I tried to speak) in the elegantly constructed sentences that no one ever uses.
Akram and his overly energetic dog met us at the door-- it is somewhat rare to see dogs in Beirut, I still haven't seen one outdoors (when I was at Selim's apartment a few days earlier he had a beautiful tall blonde dog who bounded about the house, I commented it must be tough to be inside all day and he said, well, he has the balcony). Chantal asked for some recommendations about what I should do and see, and lamented about the youth today. Akram agreed, both as a professor and a father, as his daughter is my age and he can't get her to take interest in anything beyond going out. Chantal suggested she might take me along somewhere... and so it continues. Though, I did meet her when she came home and she seemed significantly more down to earth than the others, and she promised to make some plans after her architecture final was finished on Tuesday.
The movie for the evening was based on a James Joyce short story called "The Dead." His friends groaned and cried out for something more entertaining. He replied, "To me, this is the height of action." There was an extended debate about which restaurant to order in from, finally they agreed to eat home-cooked after the movie was over. Chantal's worries about me spending too much time with old people were in vain-- regardless of age I would prefer to spend time with people I can relate to. I could imagine having some of the same conversations they had with my own group of friends, and they seem to have a lot of fun together, planning weekends out, dinners at home and going out to plays and films.
The movie, faithful to the 20 page short story to the word, was slow and difficult for the others to hear the Irish accent. But the last scene tied together the entire film with all its recurring themes (or machines, as Akram called them), both intellectual and aesthetic. Over dinner, which Akram had prepared himself, conversation erupted into a massive argument, which I stayed out of, on whether or not one can "interpret" any work of art. Jenna, the dancer/drama teacher, pleaded yes, while Akram firmly argued that there is no such thing as interpretation, only analysis of structural elements, and that it was impossible to ever determine what the author "means" or is "trying to say." I thought Akram was overlooking the value of art as a form of expression, but again, found no method of entry into the heated conversation. Ultimately, the difference in opinion was boiled down to a mistranslation of the word "interpretation" into English from French, since they were all speaking in their third language, for my benefit.
The conversation turned to politics when Jenna asked me what the opinion of the American people is on the situation in Gaza. I told her it was difficult for me to say, since it began when I was at home, rather than surrounded by people at school and then of course I came to Lebanon. However, I thought that speaking for myself, and those whose opinion I am aware of, were sympathetic to the Palestinians and waited upon the regime change so it would not be Bush acting in the name of the American people. Around the table, they all expressed doubt that the US would ever come to the rescue of the Palestinians against their own longtime ally. They argued about whether or not the US president was a puppet for the political elite, and how the president's position of power had changed since Nixon and LBJ had abused their power and kept their political actions hidden from the people. I decided they were raining on our DC parade and chose to forego cynicism for optimism, just this once.
For dinner (served by the housekeeper but made by Akram), we had lentil soup, vegetable soup, spinach side dish, kibbe, salad, breads, beans & snowpeas in a red sauce, rice. And for dessert, three kinds of jam: fig, apricot and quince. Also carob molasses, which I didn't like but is a favorite here-- the tree of which I saw for the first time while hiking last weekend. Apparently all the seeds on a carob tree are equal in weight, without fail, and as a result it was used as a weight of measure-- the carat. In fact, now that I am looking the word up in the dictionary to make sure I spelt it correctly, the word actually derives from the Greek word keration, meaning "fruit of the carob." [side note: I also saw a pepper tree for the first time. Who knew that peppercorns grew on trees?!]
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The blind leading the blind
Lo and behold, miracle of all miracles, my uncle arrived at the house. I had spent the morning getting ready nervously, thinking of all the ways he could get lost, forget where he is going, forget we were going anywhere at all... I called the Patriarchy at 10:40 to confirm our plans and he had already left. Ten minutes later, the phone was ringing and it was the taxi driver, looking for directions. My aunt was getting ready for her day out, she was on her way to the club, where she will "play alll day," aka gamble and play cards. As she opened the door to the elevator, dressed in her furs, she was met face to face by my uncle, dressed in his black robes. The three of us rode the elevator down together and I wondered when was the last time they would have seen each other-- my grandparent's wedding?
When we walked outside, my aunt climbed into Ramez's car and my uncle looked ready to join her. "No Uncle Paul, where is the taxi?" "She is not coming with us?" "No she is going somewhere else." Apparently his taxi had left, so we found another. "Where are you going?" "Jel El-Dib." "No, Uncle Paul, we are in Jel El-Dib, we are going to Harissa." "Ah, yes Harissa." And he gave the driver the address of the convent.
On the ride up there, about a 40 minute drive, he asked me more questions about the family. Work, marriage, school, health. "I think Teddy had a problem with somebody. He resolved it?" Ummmm. "The man paid him?" Ummmm... "I think somebody had an accident and the man died?" No no I don't think that is true. I never heard anything about that.
I asked him a little bit about Damascus, where he worked for 12 years. He promised to visit me there, but reminded me that Beirut was better, a recurring theme in my trip, I have noticed. "When I retired, they asked me where I want to live. Aleppo, Damascus, Baghdad-- no no, I want to live in Beirut. I have been here for five years, I am very happy." He also checked up on my religious duties-- "Do you go to the Holy Mass every Sunday?" ummm sometimes (i.e. 3 years ago on Christmas)... "Do you pray every night?" ummmm sometimes... "The Hail Mary and the My Father and what else?" You know, a personal prayer. "You find time to go to the confession?" Not always... "You must make time! But the most important thing is the holy mass. Do your parents go every Sunday?" And so on and so forth. My guilt about lying through my teeth to an archbishop was eased by the thought of what he would have said if I had told the truth, declared myself as an athiest, renounced the religion of my family. No thank you, I prefer a few white lies and the scar on my conscience.
We reached Harissa and were dropped off at the convent. One of the nuns met us at the car, and showed us into the waiting room to wait for Sr Augustine. I asked him how often he sees his sisters and he said at least once a month, which I found to be pretty impressive.
"Abusu ana! Abusu ana!" My aunt came into the room, her round face bursting with joy to see us sitting there. Or rather, she hobbled, wheezing a little, as she had hurt her back several years ago while visiting us in CT. I gave her copies of the photos I had given to Uncle Paul the day before, and as she asked me the usual round of questions I was surprised when my uncle jumped in with answers for her. So our circuitous conversations have gone somewhere!
After a little while, a nun came in to tell us lunch was ready. With my aunt squeezing my arm tightly, we walked to the dining hall and sat down to the food awaiting us. Beef and potatoes, kibbe, spinach pies, mini pizza-like round things, fool (beans), fresh greens and radishes cut into the shape of a flower, a steaming cake composed of wa'ra a'nab (rolled grape leaves stuffed with meat and rice), lubneh (yogurt), olives, fresh bread and beer. Over lunch, my aunt quizzed me in Arabic-- numbers, days of the week, names of the months, basic phrases-- the whole time with a big smile on her face.
For dessert, it was a platter of fresh fruit and a huge "cake," though I don't remember the name of the dessert in Arabic. It reminded me of knaafeh but they had another name for it-- white sweet cheese and pistachios between layers of crispy vermicelli noodles, with a healthy dollop of Middle Eastern syrup on top. I couldn't finish my portion, though my uncle devoured his, the size of his plate.
My uncle returned to the waiting room while my aunt took me to see her room and the chapel. In her room, she pressed upon me a bag of chocolates and slipped a tissue into my bag. I could see through the paper a bill wrapped inside and I gave it back to her. She forced it upon me and I didn't know what to say. Taking money from a nun? Lying to a priest is one thing, but.
Returning to my uncle, we sat and a nun brought us coffee and soon enough, we were off to visit Sr Julienne in Bzommar, 10 minutes away. The mother superior, a younger woman, drove us there since taxis were scarce. As she drove back to Harissa I couldn't help but wonder how we would get home again.
My mom had told me that Sr Julienne had become blind and deaf as she grew old, so I was curious how she would remember me, if I should give her the photos I brought, how we would communicate, etc. Fortunately this was not completely true-- though she has hearing and seeing problems, she is very much active and engaged-- as much as anyone else (photos and video forthcoming). The four of us sat and Sr Julienne went through the family facts, this time both her sister and brother helped to fill her in, and they all asked me questions about Damascus. All of them had lived in Damascus at some time and Sr Augustine and Sr Julienne both remembered Abasseyen Square, where I would be living. They also said they had a sister convent or something there, so if all else fails with the family, there's always that. And though we had already talked several times about the family I would be staying with ("They are good Christians?") my uncle wanted to call the Bishop in Damascus to find a good Christian family for me to live with. Talk later turned to Barack Obama, whom all of them were curious about. "He is good Christian? But his father is Muslim?"
After the visit, we said our goodbyes and Sr Julienne walked us to the roadside. I didn't want to ask the inevitable question-- where is our taxi? My uncle started wandering up the road, presumably to find one, but we stood and we stood and none appeared. Finally my aunt started flagging down passing cars, and I wondered who would pick up this stranded archbishop, nun, atheist. God? The devil? No no, the first to stop was a Lebanese soldier and he gave us a ride back to Harissa. From there we dropped off Sr Augustine and once again my uncle and I stood by the side of the road, til another car slowed and gave us a ride. Of all the circumstances where I would think of hitchhiking, this was not one of them.
This car drove us down to the port city of Jounieh, the nearest city to Beirut, slightly out of the way but at least they had taxis and busses. A bus pulled up where we were dropped off and we boarded, my uncle calling out the name of the neighborhood I lived in though it was not clear the driver heard us. Once I saw the sign "Jel El-Dib" pass by us on the highway and we continued driving, I poked my uncle and asked if we had gone too far. "No, no, I told the driver." At the next stop as we got down from the bus, he asked the driver if we had arrived at Jel El-Dib. Of course he said no, in confusion. We climbed into a taxi and drove back to the correct neighborhood and again none of us had any idea where the apartment was-- a few phone calls by the taxi driver and we arrived at the building. My uncle started to get out of the car and I told him he had to stick with the taxi so that it takes him back to the patriarchy. The driver was confused, asked where he was going, he replied "Beirut." Ay.
--
Home again home again, I made it in time for the inauguration and watched it on TV on CNN. Later, while eating dinner (kibbe), we watched the evening news in Arabic, with footage of Obama's inauguration on one channel and protests in southern Lebanon about Gaza on the other, complete with burning Israeli and American flags, and protesters hitting posters of Obama's and Ban Ki-moon's face with a shoe.
I told the story of the day's adventures to my aunt and she broke into laughter, put her head in her hands and said, "Your story, beautiful."
When we walked outside, my aunt climbed into Ramez's car and my uncle looked ready to join her. "No Uncle Paul, where is the taxi?" "She is not coming with us?" "No she is going somewhere else." Apparently his taxi had left, so we found another. "Where are you going?" "Jel El-Dib." "No, Uncle Paul, we are in Jel El-Dib, we are going to Harissa." "Ah, yes Harissa." And he gave the driver the address of the convent.
On the ride up there, about a 40 minute drive, he asked me more questions about the family. Work, marriage, school, health. "I think Teddy had a problem with somebody. He resolved it?" Ummmm. "The man paid him?" Ummmm... "I think somebody had an accident and the man died?" No no I don't think that is true. I never heard anything about that.
I asked him a little bit about Damascus, where he worked for 12 years. He promised to visit me there, but reminded me that Beirut was better, a recurring theme in my trip, I have noticed. "When I retired, they asked me where I want to live. Aleppo, Damascus, Baghdad-- no no, I want to live in Beirut. I have been here for five years, I am very happy." He also checked up on my religious duties-- "Do you go to the Holy Mass every Sunday?" ummm sometimes (i.e. 3 years ago on Christmas)... "Do you pray every night?" ummmm sometimes... "The Hail Mary and the My Father and what else?" You know, a personal prayer. "You find time to go to the confession?" Not always... "You must make time! But the most important thing is the holy mass. Do your parents go every Sunday?" And so on and so forth. My guilt about lying through my teeth to an archbishop was eased by the thought of what he would have said if I had told the truth, declared myself as an athiest, renounced the religion of my family. No thank you, I prefer a few white lies and the scar on my conscience.
We reached Harissa and were dropped off at the convent. One of the nuns met us at the car, and showed us into the waiting room to wait for Sr Augustine. I asked him how often he sees his sisters and he said at least once a month, which I found to be pretty impressive.
"Abusu ana! Abusu ana!" My aunt came into the room, her round face bursting with joy to see us sitting there. Or rather, she hobbled, wheezing a little, as she had hurt her back several years ago while visiting us in CT. I gave her copies of the photos I had given to Uncle Paul the day before, and as she asked me the usual round of questions I was surprised when my uncle jumped in with answers for her. So our circuitous conversations have gone somewhere!
After a little while, a nun came in to tell us lunch was ready. With my aunt squeezing my arm tightly, we walked to the dining hall and sat down to the food awaiting us. Beef and potatoes, kibbe, spinach pies, mini pizza-like round things, fool (beans), fresh greens and radishes cut into the shape of a flower, a steaming cake composed of wa'ra a'nab (rolled grape leaves stuffed with meat and rice), lubneh (yogurt), olives, fresh bread and beer. Over lunch, my aunt quizzed me in Arabic-- numbers, days of the week, names of the months, basic phrases-- the whole time with a big smile on her face.
For dessert, it was a platter of fresh fruit and a huge "cake," though I don't remember the name of the dessert in Arabic. It reminded me of knaafeh but they had another name for it-- white sweet cheese and pistachios between layers of crispy vermicelli noodles, with a healthy dollop of Middle Eastern syrup on top. I couldn't finish my portion, though my uncle devoured his, the size of his plate.
My uncle returned to the waiting room while my aunt took me to see her room and the chapel. In her room, she pressed upon me a bag of chocolates and slipped a tissue into my bag. I could see through the paper a bill wrapped inside and I gave it back to her. She forced it upon me and I didn't know what to say. Taking money from a nun? Lying to a priest is one thing, but.
Returning to my uncle, we sat and a nun brought us coffee and soon enough, we were off to visit Sr Julienne in Bzommar, 10 minutes away. The mother superior, a younger woman, drove us there since taxis were scarce. As she drove back to Harissa I couldn't help but wonder how we would get home again.
My mom had told me that Sr Julienne had become blind and deaf as she grew old, so I was curious how she would remember me, if I should give her the photos I brought, how we would communicate, etc. Fortunately this was not completely true-- though she has hearing and seeing problems, she is very much active and engaged-- as much as anyone else (photos and video forthcoming). The four of us sat and Sr Julienne went through the family facts, this time both her sister and brother helped to fill her in, and they all asked me questions about Damascus. All of them had lived in Damascus at some time and Sr Augustine and Sr Julienne both remembered Abasseyen Square, where I would be living. They also said they had a sister convent or something there, so if all else fails with the family, there's always that. And though we had already talked several times about the family I would be staying with ("They are good Christians?") my uncle wanted to call the Bishop in Damascus to find a good Christian family for me to live with. Talk later turned to Barack Obama, whom all of them were curious about. "He is good Christian? But his father is Muslim?"
After the visit, we said our goodbyes and Sr Julienne walked us to the roadside. I didn't want to ask the inevitable question-- where is our taxi? My uncle started wandering up the road, presumably to find one, but we stood and we stood and none appeared. Finally my aunt started flagging down passing cars, and I wondered who would pick up this stranded archbishop, nun, atheist. God? The devil? No no, the first to stop was a Lebanese soldier and he gave us a ride back to Harissa. From there we dropped off Sr Augustine and once again my uncle and I stood by the side of the road, til another car slowed and gave us a ride. Of all the circumstances where I would think of hitchhiking, this was not one of them.
This car drove us down to the port city of Jounieh, the nearest city to Beirut, slightly out of the way but at least they had taxis and busses. A bus pulled up where we were dropped off and we boarded, my uncle calling out the name of the neighborhood I lived in though it was not clear the driver heard us. Once I saw the sign "Jel El-Dib" pass by us on the highway and we continued driving, I poked my uncle and asked if we had gone too far. "No, no, I told the driver." At the next stop as we got down from the bus, he asked the driver if we had arrived at Jel El-Dib. Of course he said no, in confusion. We climbed into a taxi and drove back to the correct neighborhood and again none of us had any idea where the apartment was-- a few phone calls by the taxi driver and we arrived at the building. My uncle started to get out of the car and I told him he had to stick with the taxi so that it takes him back to the patriarchy. The driver was confused, asked where he was going, he replied "Beirut." Ay.
--
Home again home again, I made it in time for the inauguration and watched it on TV on CNN. Later, while eating dinner (kibbe), we watched the evening news in Arabic, with footage of Obama's inauguration on one channel and protests in southern Lebanon about Gaza on the other, complete with burning Israeli and American flags, and protesters hitting posters of Obama's and Ban Ki-moon's face with a shoe.
I told the story of the day's adventures to my aunt and she broke into laughter, put her head in her hands and said, "Your story, beautiful."
Places to go, People to see
Monday morning I was grateful for the chance to sleep in, waking only at 10 to 11 when my phone rang. The previous evening I had called a friend of my mom's, from CT, who is Lebanese, because our visits to Beirut happened to overlap by a few days. He wanted me to meet his cousin, who travels to Damascus weekly for business, because he knows the city well and has his own network of people who could help me while I'm living there. He called that morning so we could arrange to meet later in the evening, once his cousin finished work.
For the rest of the morning I happily took advantage of the wireless in the house, reading and catching up on news and emails. My aunt had gone out for the morning with her driver to do errands and such, so when she returned we had lunch that she had picked up from a local restaurant-- flatbread baked with meat, tomatoes (like pizza, but more yummy and no cheese) and spices. She offered to help me get in touch with my mom's uncle (on her father's side, whereas the family I am staying with now is on her mother's side) who is an Archbishop in the Armenian Catholic Church, and has retired to Beirut for the past 5 years after working in Aleppo, Damascus and Baghdad. Though he speaks seven languages (English, French, Arabic, Italian, Turkish, Armenian and Latin [which he completed his studies in]), communicating with him is always a little circuitous. Our attempt to meet up went something like this: "Uncle Paul, when should I come see you?" "Today is Monday?" "Yes, today is Monday. Which day should I come-- tomorrow?" My aunt in the background is trying to tell me that she only has her driver today so I must go today. I am dubious that we can pull this off on such short notice, since my mom warned me to give him a few days notice, and to arrange it with another priest at the Patriarchy to be sure. "Which day?" "Tomorrow? No, today. Should I come today?" "Which day?" "Today, Uncle Paul. Can I come today?" "You come today?" "Yes, today. Is that okay?" "Today is Monday." "Yes, Uncle Paul. Can I come today? Monday?" In the background, my aunt is pushing me to tell him in one hour. He reads her mind. "What time? One hour?" "Okay yes I'll be there in one hour. I am coming soon." "You have address?" "Yes, yes, I'll see you soon."
And so I left with Ramez, my aunt's driver, who speaks no English, and whose Arabic I can never understand. He found the Patriarchy in Geitwa, a neighborhood in Beirut, and the two of us entered the impressive building and sat in the waiting room until my uncle came and found us. I felt bad asking Ramez to wait outside in the car, so as my uncle and I sat and talked, as he gave us the tour of the building, including his room, and as we met various important people (the bishop, the accountant, etc) Ramez was there with us, coming in handy to take a few photos (soon to follow, when I find a cord for the camera)-- though when we went up to meet the Patriarch himself, who greeted us with offers of chocolate and Irish Bailey's, he was asked to stay behind.
After going through the usual family register of who's who and where are they now and what are they doing, I asked my uncle if he had phone numbers for his sisters, Sr. Augustine and Sr. Julienne, who are both nuns and also have retired in Lebanon. He found the number for Sr. Augustine, who lives in Harissa, and after a quick phone call he said, "Ok, we go tomorrow." Tomorrow? "Yes, you have driver tomorrow?" No he is not available, I'll take a taxi and come to you. "Ok I take taxi to Jel El-Dib. I will see you before 11 am, at your aunt's house." I had given him my address earlier, but I can't even find the house, so I wasn't exactly sure how he would be able to find it based on my information. I didn't want to insult him though by implying he wasn't capable of figuring it out, so we said our goodbyes and I left feeling anxious and hopeful that somehow he would find his way to the apartment.
--
While I was with my uncle, my phone rang several times as Mahmoud, my mom's friend from home, and his brother Talah, tried to get in touch with me for meeting later in the evening. Mahmoud had originally planned that I could take a taxi and meet them somewhere in the city, but when my aunt heard this plan she refused. When I returned home, I called them back and gave her the phone so she could direct them to the apartment, for which I was secretly relieved.
They arrived just as a flurry of visitors were leaving (a friend from church who came by to sell tickets to a fundraiser, the electrician), and we sat in the 'salon,' drinking tea and eating the never-ending supply of sweets, while we discussed my impending trip to Damascus. Thankfully, Talah said he would be able to take me himself on his next trip in the following week, and before that he would send 'his man' to check out the house and the family and make sure everything would be okay for me to stay there. It has been a little awkward to try and explain how I found this family to live with, since it was through about 8 different connections (my aunt's friend's colleague's colleague's old professor's friend lived there last summer), and though I am relieved just to know there is an address and a family and a room waiting for me on the other side, and though my mom had called and spoken with the father and everything sounds good to us, it is helpful to have someone who can actually visit the house before I arrive and check things out. And to have someone who will drive with me across the border, help me navigate the visa/paperwork, change my cell phone, change money, find the house, etc etc--- also a good thing. As of now, the only information I have about the family is "Shadid house, Abassayen Square. Everybody knows the house!" Actually, this is not true. The other day I emailed their son, a 13 year old boy named Farah, looking for a more clear address and I found out it is building #4. Ok.
Later that evening, I sat in the kitchen with my aunt as she prepared dinner for the following evening-- kibbe, but made in flat disks-- and I copied down the recipe from her, or as much as I could understand and she could explain. Lebanese food is very labor intensive, so it is often prepared in stages. She had made the meat mixture the day before and left it in the fridge, so the next day she could knead the meat, roll out the small saucers and form the patties.
That night for dinner we had juicy and tender beef cubes, cooked perfectly in some sort of marinade and with carmelized onions. mmmmm. and more lentil soup and the usual salad and cheese and olives and such.
For the rest of the morning I happily took advantage of the wireless in the house, reading and catching up on news and emails. My aunt had gone out for the morning with her driver to do errands and such, so when she returned we had lunch that she had picked up from a local restaurant-- flatbread baked with meat, tomatoes (like pizza, but more yummy and no cheese) and spices. She offered to help me get in touch with my mom's uncle (on her father's side, whereas the family I am staying with now is on her mother's side) who is an Archbishop in the Armenian Catholic Church, and has retired to Beirut for the past 5 years after working in Aleppo, Damascus and Baghdad. Though he speaks seven languages (English, French, Arabic, Italian, Turkish, Armenian and Latin [which he completed his studies in]), communicating with him is always a little circuitous. Our attempt to meet up went something like this: "Uncle Paul, when should I come see you?" "Today is Monday?" "Yes, today is Monday. Which day should I come-- tomorrow?" My aunt in the background is trying to tell me that she only has her driver today so I must go today. I am dubious that we can pull this off on such short notice, since my mom warned me to give him a few days notice, and to arrange it with another priest at the Patriarchy to be sure. "Which day?" "Tomorrow? No, today. Should I come today?" "Which day?" "Today, Uncle Paul. Can I come today?" "You come today?" "Yes, today. Is that okay?" "Today is Monday." "Yes, Uncle Paul. Can I come today? Monday?" In the background, my aunt is pushing me to tell him in one hour. He reads her mind. "What time? One hour?" "Okay yes I'll be there in one hour. I am coming soon." "You have address?" "Yes, yes, I'll see you soon."
And so I left with Ramez, my aunt's driver, who speaks no English, and whose Arabic I can never understand. He found the Patriarchy in Geitwa, a neighborhood in Beirut, and the two of us entered the impressive building and sat in the waiting room until my uncle came and found us. I felt bad asking Ramez to wait outside in the car, so as my uncle and I sat and talked, as he gave us the tour of the building, including his room, and as we met various important people (the bishop, the accountant, etc) Ramez was there with us, coming in handy to take a few photos (soon to follow, when I find a cord for the camera)-- though when we went up to meet the Patriarch himself, who greeted us with offers of chocolate and Irish Bailey's, he was asked to stay behind.
After going through the usual family register of who's who and where are they now and what are they doing, I asked my uncle if he had phone numbers for his sisters, Sr. Augustine and Sr. Julienne, who are both nuns and also have retired in Lebanon. He found the number for Sr. Augustine, who lives in Harissa, and after a quick phone call he said, "Ok, we go tomorrow." Tomorrow? "Yes, you have driver tomorrow?" No he is not available, I'll take a taxi and come to you. "Ok I take taxi to Jel El-Dib. I will see you before 11 am, at your aunt's house." I had given him my address earlier, but I can't even find the house, so I wasn't exactly sure how he would be able to find it based on my information. I didn't want to insult him though by implying he wasn't capable of figuring it out, so we said our goodbyes and I left feeling anxious and hopeful that somehow he would find his way to the apartment.
--
While I was with my uncle, my phone rang several times as Mahmoud, my mom's friend from home, and his brother Talah, tried to get in touch with me for meeting later in the evening. Mahmoud had originally planned that I could take a taxi and meet them somewhere in the city, but when my aunt heard this plan she refused. When I returned home, I called them back and gave her the phone so she could direct them to the apartment, for which I was secretly relieved.
They arrived just as a flurry of visitors were leaving (a friend from church who came by to sell tickets to a fundraiser, the electrician), and we sat in the 'salon,' drinking tea and eating the never-ending supply of sweets, while we discussed my impending trip to Damascus. Thankfully, Talah said he would be able to take me himself on his next trip in the following week, and before that he would send 'his man' to check out the house and the family and make sure everything would be okay for me to stay there. It has been a little awkward to try and explain how I found this family to live with, since it was through about 8 different connections (my aunt's friend's colleague's colleague's old professor's friend lived there last summer), and though I am relieved just to know there is an address and a family and a room waiting for me on the other side, and though my mom had called and spoken with the father and everything sounds good to us, it is helpful to have someone who can actually visit the house before I arrive and check things out. And to have someone who will drive with me across the border, help me navigate the visa/paperwork, change my cell phone, change money, find the house, etc etc--- also a good thing. As of now, the only information I have about the family is "Shadid house, Abassayen Square. Everybody knows the house!" Actually, this is not true. The other day I emailed their son, a 13 year old boy named Farah, looking for a more clear address and I found out it is building #4. Ok.
Later that evening, I sat in the kitchen with my aunt as she prepared dinner for the following evening-- kibbe, but made in flat disks-- and I copied down the recipe from her, or as much as I could understand and she could explain. Lebanese food is very labor intensive, so it is often prepared in stages. She had made the meat mixture the day before and left it in the fridge, so the next day she could knead the meat, roll out the small saucers and form the patties.
That night for dinner we had juicy and tender beef cubes, cooked perfectly in some sort of marinade and with carmelized onions. mmmmm. and more lentil soup and the usual salad and cheese and olives and such.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Trekking in zee Mountains
So my first excursion as a solitary traveler was not all that solitary. On my first night here, Chantal read my mind and suggested that I go 'trekking in the Lebanese mountains' on Sunday. She told me there was a local touristing group that runs trips every weekend and she could book it for me if I had the right shoes and was willing to leave by 730 am. Hurrah my extra bag of hiking clothes and gear was not completely in vain! At first I had my doubts of going with a group and succumbing to my inevitable fate as a foreigner and a tourist, but I was ultimately grateful to have gone out with Liban Trek (the first eco-tourism organization in Lebanon), since I realized I a) have no idea where I am b) have no means of personal transportation c) have no maps, certainly not trail maps d) am alone e) you get the idea. Also, after looking into the group and other groups that run similar hiking, skiing/snowshoeing, educational and cultural trips, they are of course worthy groups to support, as they run eco-friendly excursions, educate natives and foreigners alike about the natural wonders of the country, and support local and rural economies. And its always better than getting lost, alone, in the mountains.
So I boarded the bus at 8 am with the other 19 participants and we drove about 2 hours into the north, to the Koura district, where one of our guides was born (the other guide was a Danish woman, maybe in her 60s). The group was a mix of Lebanese and foreigners, young and old-- I think I was the only real tourist, while everyone else was either native, native-born but living in the US, or foreign but working here. We started our hike around 10 am, splitting into two difficulty levels, the majority going for Level 6. It ended up being more of a challenge than most anticipated, up and down the mountainside, along the River of the Birds, through mud, olive orchards, wildflowers, backyards and small villages, past ruins, with views across valleys and up mountains terraced with orchards. We met up with the other group at a site for a grotto which hosts a shrine to the Prophet Elias, where women come to make their vows for fertility. Apparently he is shown with a sword in his hand as he sought to kill pagan priests for not following Christianity, was punished by God, repented, saved, etc. etc. but I don't know what this has to do with fertility.
The day was long, I had breakfast at 730 and we didn't eat lunch til 2, returned to the bus after 4, was dropped off by the bus in my neighborhood after 530 on their way back to Beirut. This was lucky because Chantal was still working so I would have had to take a taxi back to the house anyway, so she had written out directions for me to arrive back in the neighborhood, then told me to call the house and my aunt would send a taxi to pick me up, since I have no idea how to find the apartment building. The bus dropped me off in the location she wrote down, pointed out a nearby landmark (she had written that the apartment is across from a particular pharmacy) and I stood on the street and called my aunt, telling her I was facing the pharmacy. She sent down Tiigy (sp?), the sweet Ethiopian housekeeper, to bring me up to the apartment, but after 10 minutes I didn't see her. After three attempts for Tiigy to find me (each 10-15 minutes apart) my aunt called me back in frustration (hence the miracle of the cellulaire!) and asked me again where I was. "Near the church! And the statue! And across the street from the pharmacy!" "The church? What church?! Where are you??" And she told me to go to the one open shop on the street and give someone the phone so they could direct this helpless American home.
I walked into the florist and handed the phone to the man there, failing to communicate my situation. He explained to my aunt where I was, she explained where I was supposed to be (mid conversation his own phone rang and he managed to carry on two calls at once) and he called a taxi to bring me home. While I waited, he asked why I was so muddy and what I was doing here. He laughed when I said I was American and said he doesn't like America, or at least not Rice and Bush and the rest of them, thankfully separating the American people from the (former!) administration. He said America was to blame for all the world's problems (as the tv displayed the Gaza conflict on mute) and when I tried to argue the severity of this statement, he began listing them. Ok ok well at least we agreed that good things were to come in the next few days, specifically Tuesday January 20th, approximately 12 noon EST, 7 pm Beiruti time. Also, it turns out he was born in Aleppo, Syria, the city my grandfather was born in, so he was especially excited to hear that I was travelling to Damascus and hoped to learn more about the country, its culture and language.
As I left his shop, he gave me a pink rose, which I promptly gave to Tiigy, who was waiting outside the apartment, across from the pharmacy, wrapped in a jacket, and who showered me with hugs and kisses upon my return.
Finally home again, I showered and joined my aunt for dinner-- we had kibbe (this time pounded into thin layers and filled with ground lamb and nuts) with yogurt sauce and cucumbers, and lentil soup. Over dinner, we practiced her English as she asked me hundreds of questions I didn't know how to answer, about the health, financial well-being, employment, etc. of my relatives on all sides of the family. She told me stories of visiting my family in Boston when it was minus 20 degrees outside (C or F, I don't know) and my dad gathering al-hattab for the fireplace and there being no radiators. She continuously asks me if I "have cold" though it is mid-60s everyday here and the heat is always on.
Later, over tea, once Chantal had returned from work, my aunt Nagibe offered a toast, saying "chin chin," which I guess means you have to drink the entire glass in one sip, an impossible feat while drinking hot tea. She then explained, as Chantal translated, amidst breaks of laughter, that her grandfather was a wealthy man who owned a lot of land, though he was very stingy with his money, in terms of spending it on other people. The villagers who worked his land would bring him crops from the fields, but he didn't want to spend the money to buy the compulsory coffee for the guests, so he would challenge them with a "chin chin," though he wouldn't drink it all himself, and the others would burn their mouths and subsequently not ask for any more coffee.
So I boarded the bus at 8 am with the other 19 participants and we drove about 2 hours into the north, to the Koura district, where one of our guides was born (the other guide was a Danish woman, maybe in her 60s). The group was a mix of Lebanese and foreigners, young and old-- I think I was the only real tourist, while everyone else was either native, native-born but living in the US, or foreign but working here. We started our hike around 10 am, splitting into two difficulty levels, the majority going for Level 6. It ended up being more of a challenge than most anticipated, up and down the mountainside, along the River of the Birds, through mud, olive orchards, wildflowers, backyards and small villages, past ruins, with views across valleys and up mountains terraced with orchards. We met up with the other group at a site for a grotto which hosts a shrine to the Prophet Elias, where women come to make their vows for fertility. Apparently he is shown with a sword in his hand as he sought to kill pagan priests for not following Christianity, was punished by God, repented, saved, etc. etc. but I don't know what this has to do with fertility.
The day was long, I had breakfast at 730 and we didn't eat lunch til 2, returned to the bus after 4, was dropped off by the bus in my neighborhood after 530 on their way back to Beirut. This was lucky because Chantal was still working so I would have had to take a taxi back to the house anyway, so she had written out directions for me to arrive back in the neighborhood, then told me to call the house and my aunt would send a taxi to pick me up, since I have no idea how to find the apartment building. The bus dropped me off in the location she wrote down, pointed out a nearby landmark (she had written that the apartment is across from a particular pharmacy) and I stood on the street and called my aunt, telling her I was facing the pharmacy. She sent down Tiigy (sp?), the sweet Ethiopian housekeeper, to bring me up to the apartment, but after 10 minutes I didn't see her. After three attempts for Tiigy to find me (each 10-15 minutes apart) my aunt called me back in frustration (hence the miracle of the cellulaire!) and asked me again where I was. "Near the church! And the statue! And across the street from the pharmacy!" "The church? What church?! Where are you??" And she told me to go to the one open shop on the street and give someone the phone so they could direct this helpless American home.
I walked into the florist and handed the phone to the man there, failing to communicate my situation. He explained to my aunt where I was, she explained where I was supposed to be (mid conversation his own phone rang and he managed to carry on two calls at once) and he called a taxi to bring me home. While I waited, he asked why I was so muddy and what I was doing here. He laughed when I said I was American and said he doesn't like America, or at least not Rice and Bush and the rest of them, thankfully separating the American people from the (former!) administration. He said America was to blame for all the world's problems (as the tv displayed the Gaza conflict on mute) and when I tried to argue the severity of this statement, he began listing them. Ok ok well at least we agreed that good things were to come in the next few days, specifically Tuesday January 20th, approximately 12 noon EST, 7 pm Beiruti time. Also, it turns out he was born in Aleppo, Syria, the city my grandfather was born in, so he was especially excited to hear that I was travelling to Damascus and hoped to learn more about the country, its culture and language.
As I left his shop, he gave me a pink rose, which I promptly gave to Tiigy, who was waiting outside the apartment, across from the pharmacy, wrapped in a jacket, and who showered me with hugs and kisses upon my return.
Finally home again, I showered and joined my aunt for dinner-- we had kibbe (this time pounded into thin layers and filled with ground lamb and nuts) with yogurt sauce and cucumbers, and lentil soup. Over dinner, we practiced her English as she asked me hundreds of questions I didn't know how to answer, about the health, financial well-being, employment, etc. of my relatives on all sides of the family. She told me stories of visiting my family in Boston when it was minus 20 degrees outside (C or F, I don't know) and my dad gathering al-hattab for the fireplace and there being no radiators. She continuously asks me if I "have cold" though it is mid-60s everyday here and the heat is always on.
Later, over tea, once Chantal had returned from work, my aunt Nagibe offered a toast, saying "chin chin," which I guess means you have to drink the entire glass in one sip, an impossible feat while drinking hot tea. She then explained, as Chantal translated, amidst breaks of laughter, that her grandfather was a wealthy man who owned a lot of land, though he was very stingy with his money, in terms of spending it on other people. The villagers who worked his land would bring him crops from the fields, but he didn't want to spend the money to buy the compulsory coffee for the guests, so he would challenge them with a "chin chin," though he wouldn't drink it all himself, and the others would burn their mouths and subsequently not ask for any more coffee.
The first day
My first morning in Beirut, Chantal woke me up at 830 to go with her to work. On the way, we stopped at Saifi Village, where there is a weekly farmer's market every Saturday. She bought me a manousha, freshly baked flatbread (baked onsite on top of small dome shaped ovens), smeared with zaatar (a mix of thyme and sesame seeds and other spices) and olive oil, filled with tomato, olives, parsley and cucumber, and wrapped up for my devourment. The market was fairly small and all of the stalls were filled with organic foods and handmade goods. I suppose you could consider most of the food produced on Lebanese farms "local," compared to American standards, as the entire country is 0.7 times the size of Connecticut. Chantal said there is still not much of a demand for organic produce in Lebanon, so the markets and availability remain limited.
We then continued to West Beirut, where Chantal works at the American University of Beirut Medical Center, as assistant nursing director. Unfortunately she had to work this weekend, as my visit coincided with the end of a month-long working spree, where she spends seven days a week walking early in the morning and returning home after 10 (her department is compiling a report for the state in order to gain a new level of accreditation). I met her director, a friendly Rhode Island-born Lebanese, who published a memoir about working in AUBMC throughout the civil war (1975-1990). I am currently reading it and its a pretty amazing perspective on the chaos and violence (see An American Nurse Amidst Chaos: 1975-1998 by Gladys Mouro).
While Chantal was working I was sent out with a hospital staff member to buy an international cell phone for myself, which I eventually did, after much confusion and a phone call back to the hospital so someone could explain to me in English what I was spending $125 on. Even still, I forgot to mention that I would actually be spending the vast majority of my 4 1/2 month visit in Syria, not Lebanon, so I probably have to get a new line once I reach Damascus anyway. Either way, it has proved to be a necessary investment and saved me from getting lost at least once per day. More on that later. Also, the whole being-able-to-call-home thing is pretty nice too.
My escort dropped me a few blocks away at the AUB campus, where I wandered like a visiting high school senior who missed the campus tour... walking into dead ends/in circles, reading campus maps, gleaning my impressions from the signs on buildings and the flyers posted on bulletin boards (overwhelmed by calls for attention to the situation in Gaza ["Gaza: the new Holocaust?"]). The university is built into the hillside, overlooking the Mediterranean that is only a few blocks from the campus edge. Established in 1866 by American missionary Daniel Bliss under the name Syrian Protestant College (changed in 1920), it has a mix of beautiful buildings from the original campus and modern architecture financed by American donors. I broke in my new phone by calling my parents at 6 am their time, whereupon my mom introduced the novel idea that I actually go inside the buildings, pretending to be an interested prospective student, and ask questions about the various programs, particularly in the Arab and Middle East studies department. Oh well, too late for that, it was time to return to Chantal's office for lunch.
For lunch, we ate at a nearby restaurant, which Chantal said was one of the few that actually served authentic Lebanese cuisine. We had small kibbe balls (ground lamb, baked) floating in a thick beige sauce flavored with fresh lemon rind and eaten with rice. We were joined by Chantal's friend, Michel, an older man who I ended up spending the rest of the day with when Chantal returned to work.
Michel was on his way to meet his friend, Selim, for a walk along the Corniche, the stretch of boardwalk along the Mediterranean coast, where you can find a representative mix of Beirutis from all ages, backgrounds (religious and socioeconomic), and styles of dress. Michel pointed out one group of women powerwalking as an example typical Lebanese: a Muslim woman, dressed modestly with a headscarf, next to a friend/sister wearing designer sunglasses/jewelry/handbag and a matching lilac workout suit. We spent about an hour walking along the coast, as they included me in their conversations and we talked about studying Arabic (the formal/classical/literal fus'ha versus the various dialects of Middle Eastern regions), the appearance/history of downtown as we walked past abandoned 3 story houses next to the newly built luxury hotels (see previous post on buildings and the character of Beirut neighborhoods), on religious identity in a country where one is defined by which of the 18 official religions of the country s/he belongs to (both men were decidedly un-religious and argued whether it was better to actively fight this imposed religious awareness and defend one's non-beliefs or whether it was better to stay on the fence and avoid pointless confrontations with the self-righteous), on not understanding your overly dramatic 25 year-old daughter (to which I obviously offered a lot of insight). We ended our walk at Selim's nearby apartment, whose neighborhood had been taken over by the military in order to secure the area for UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon's stay in Lebanon, at a nearby hotel, while he visited the South in an effort to bring about a cease-fire to the violence in the region.
Michel later drove me back to my aunt's apartment, where we had roasted vegetables and squid in a salty black sauce (I don't know what was in it, my aunt only said that it came from inside the fish).
We then continued to West Beirut, where Chantal works at the American University of Beirut Medical Center, as assistant nursing director. Unfortunately she had to work this weekend, as my visit coincided with the end of a month-long working spree, where she spends seven days a week walking early in the morning and returning home after 10 (her department is compiling a report for the state in order to gain a new level of accreditation). I met her director, a friendly Rhode Island-born Lebanese, who published a memoir about working in AUBMC throughout the civil war (1975-1990). I am currently reading it and its a pretty amazing perspective on the chaos and violence (see An American Nurse Amidst Chaos: 1975-1998 by Gladys Mouro).
While Chantal was working I was sent out with a hospital staff member to buy an international cell phone for myself, which I eventually did, after much confusion and a phone call back to the hospital so someone could explain to me in English what I was spending $125 on. Even still, I forgot to mention that I would actually be spending the vast majority of my 4 1/2 month visit in Syria, not Lebanon, so I probably have to get a new line once I reach Damascus anyway. Either way, it has proved to be a necessary investment and saved me from getting lost at least once per day. More on that later. Also, the whole being-able-to-call-home thing is pretty nice too.
My escort dropped me a few blocks away at the AUB campus, where I wandered like a visiting high school senior who missed the campus tour... walking into dead ends/in circles, reading campus maps, gleaning my impressions from the signs on buildings and the flyers posted on bulletin boards (overwhelmed by calls for attention to the situation in Gaza ["Gaza: the new Holocaust?"]). The university is built into the hillside, overlooking the Mediterranean that is only a few blocks from the campus edge. Established in 1866 by American missionary Daniel Bliss under the name Syrian Protestant College (changed in 1920), it has a mix of beautiful buildings from the original campus and modern architecture financed by American donors. I broke in my new phone by calling my parents at 6 am their time, whereupon my mom introduced the novel idea that I actually go inside the buildings, pretending to be an interested prospective student, and ask questions about the various programs, particularly in the Arab and Middle East studies department. Oh well, too late for that, it was time to return to Chantal's office for lunch.
For lunch, we ate at a nearby restaurant, which Chantal said was one of the few that actually served authentic Lebanese cuisine. We had small kibbe balls (ground lamb, baked) floating in a thick beige sauce flavored with fresh lemon rind and eaten with rice. We were joined by Chantal's friend, Michel, an older man who I ended up spending the rest of the day with when Chantal returned to work.
Michel was on his way to meet his friend, Selim, for a walk along the Corniche, the stretch of boardwalk along the Mediterranean coast, where you can find a representative mix of Beirutis from all ages, backgrounds (religious and socioeconomic), and styles of dress. Michel pointed out one group of women powerwalking as an example typical Lebanese: a Muslim woman, dressed modestly with a headscarf, next to a friend/sister wearing designer sunglasses/jewelry/handbag and a matching lilac workout suit. We spent about an hour walking along the coast, as they included me in their conversations and we talked about studying Arabic (the formal/classical/literal fus'ha versus the various dialects of Middle Eastern regions), the appearance/history of downtown as we walked past abandoned 3 story houses next to the newly built luxury hotels (see previous post on buildings and the character of Beirut neighborhoods), on religious identity in a country where one is defined by which of the 18 official religions of the country s/he belongs to (both men were decidedly un-religious and argued whether it was better to actively fight this imposed religious awareness and defend one's non-beliefs or whether it was better to stay on the fence and avoid pointless confrontations with the self-righteous), on not understanding your overly dramatic 25 year-old daughter (to which I obviously offered a lot of insight). We ended our walk at Selim's nearby apartment, whose neighborhood had been taken over by the military in order to secure the area for UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon's stay in Lebanon, at a nearby hotel, while he visited the South in an effort to bring about a cease-fire to the violence in the region.
Michel later drove me back to my aunt's apartment, where we had roasted vegetables and squid in a salty black sauce (I don't know what was in it, my aunt only said that it came from inside the fish).
ihki arabi!
an ongoing list of phrases and such in Lebanese dialect, though I am probably learning more French in Beirut than Arabic:
tihki arabi? you speak Arabic?
[to which I reply] shwaayyi... a little...
nishkrallah! t'ank god.
smullah! how big you've grown! (usually in comparison to my 5' 9'' + to my relative's 5' 4" - ) or, better, how fat you've grown!
abusu ana! I kiss your face! (usually accompanied by a firm pinch of the cheek)
why you study damascus? why no here? why would you want to live in syria when you are already in lebanon? with your family?
he work? she cook lebanese? they have big house? zee marriage is good? your family is happy and healthy and bringing honor and pride to the family name?
tihki arabi? you speak Arabic?
[to which I reply] shwaayyi... a little...
nishkrallah! t'ank god.
smullah! how big you've grown! (usually in comparison to my 5' 9'' + to my relative's 5' 4" - ) or, better, how fat you've grown!
abusu ana! I kiss your face! (usually accompanied by a firm pinch of the cheek)
why you study damascus? why no here? why would you want to live in syria when you are already in lebanon? with your family?
he work? she cook lebanese? they have big house? zee marriage is good? your family is happy and healthy and bringing honor and pride to the family name?
The first kick of homesickness
Today I was writing the previous post around 6 pm, Beirut time, with the CNN live coverage of the inauguration distracting me. Nishkrallah for American news networks in foreign countries.
Why did I chose to leave DC for this semester, of all semesters?
Why did I chose to leave DC for this semester, of all semesters?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Arriving in Beirut
After a semi-dramatic departure from NY/CT on Thursday [complete with a last-minute packing effort, a four hour delay on my 10:25 pm flight, a rebooking onto American Airlines, a goose chase from one terminal to the next for the appropriate ticket, a repacking of the bags at the check-in desk due to an overweight bag, a 'random' body search at the security gate and a tearful goodbye to the parents at the gate and another to friends on the phone], the plane finally took off around midnight from JFK and after a quick layover in London, I arrived in Beirut at 8:15 Friday evening to my waiting cousin, Chantal.
Driving home to the apartment that she lives in with her mother, my great-aunt Nagibe, Chantal gave me a quick tour of the city by night. The last time I was in Lebanon was 1997, when I came for Christmas with the rest of my family. We had gotten visas as soon as it was safe to travel after the end of the civil war. I remember my dismay at having to travel on Christmas-- I figured they didn't celebrate the holiday in Lebanon and all I would receive for gifts that year would be maybe a toothbrush (I don't know where I got that idea from, but I was only ten). I also remembered leaving the gate at the airport and seeing huge billboards that said "Ahlan wa Sahlan! Welcome to Lebanon!" next to equally large pictures of the Syrian president. The airport as well as our drive home that night had been marked with soldiers and checkpoints, and the damaging effects of the civil war was evident in the bullet-ridden and bombed-out buildings.
On our drive home that evening, she took me through a narrow downtown street where you could still see the style of old-Beirut buildings, though the lower levels of the buildings had been turned into hip bars and fancy restaurants, attracting nightlife to an area that was otherwise silent. The following day, it was easier to appreciate the changes that had come to the city in the past eleven years. Many buildings remain abandoned and destroyed, including the site of the assassination of Prime Minister Hariri in 2005, though a monument to him stands between the two bombed buildings on either side of the street. Some areas of the city have been rebuilt by those who could afford the repairs, trading in 1930s French-influenced architecture for modern skyscrapers and hotels, causing areas of downtown Beirut to look as familiar as any other Western city. Neighborhoods that were formerly bustling downtown areas were abandoned during the war and though they have since been rebuilt in their former style, the activity has moved on to these new neighborhoods in town, areas that some say lack the character and personality of the old Beirut.
By 10 pm, we had arrived at the apartment in Jel El-Dib, a neighborhood just outside of East Beirut, the Christian side of the city. During the civil war the city was divided between the Christian East and the Muslim West along the Green Line, but now the border has come down and people move freely across the autostradt with no checkpoints. At the apartment, my aunt Nagibe was waiting up for us with dinner. We had stuffed eggplants (the size of zucchini, stuffed with meat and rice), salad, Lebanese sweets (mostly filo pastries with nut fillings and syrupy sweetness), fruit and tea made from anise seeds.
--
It is only Tuesday and already I am far behind on keeping up with this blog... I will have to spend one day outside exploring and one day inside writing about it.
Driving home to the apartment that she lives in with her mother, my great-aunt Nagibe, Chantal gave me a quick tour of the city by night. The last time I was in Lebanon was 1997, when I came for Christmas with the rest of my family. We had gotten visas as soon as it was safe to travel after the end of the civil war. I remember my dismay at having to travel on Christmas-- I figured they didn't celebrate the holiday in Lebanon and all I would receive for gifts that year would be maybe a toothbrush (I don't know where I got that idea from, but I was only ten). I also remembered leaving the gate at the airport and seeing huge billboards that said "Ahlan wa Sahlan! Welcome to Lebanon!" next to equally large pictures of the Syrian president. The airport as well as our drive home that night had been marked with soldiers and checkpoints, and the damaging effects of the civil war was evident in the bullet-ridden and bombed-out buildings.
On our drive home that evening, she took me through a narrow downtown street where you could still see the style of old-Beirut buildings, though the lower levels of the buildings had been turned into hip bars and fancy restaurants, attracting nightlife to an area that was otherwise silent. The following day, it was easier to appreciate the changes that had come to the city in the past eleven years. Many buildings remain abandoned and destroyed, including the site of the assassination of Prime Minister Hariri in 2005, though a monument to him stands between the two bombed buildings on either side of the street. Some areas of the city have been rebuilt by those who could afford the repairs, trading in 1930s French-influenced architecture for modern skyscrapers and hotels, causing areas of downtown Beirut to look as familiar as any other Western city. Neighborhoods that were formerly bustling downtown areas were abandoned during the war and though they have since been rebuilt in their former style, the activity has moved on to these new neighborhoods in town, areas that some say lack the character and personality of the old Beirut.
By 10 pm, we had arrived at the apartment in Jel El-Dib, a neighborhood just outside of East Beirut, the Christian side of the city. During the civil war the city was divided between the Christian East and the Muslim West along the Green Line, but now the border has come down and people move freely across the autostradt with no checkpoints. At the apartment, my aunt Nagibe was waiting up for us with dinner. We had stuffed eggplants (the size of zucchini, stuffed with meat and rice), salad, Lebanese sweets (mostly filo pastries with nut fillings and syrupy sweetness), fruit and tea made from anise seeds.
--
It is only Tuesday and already I am far behind on keeping up with this blog... I will have to spend one day outside exploring and one day inside writing about it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
