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.
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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."
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