I left on Wednesday to visit Beirut for the Easter holiday. My great-aunt and uncle had come from Venezuela for their annual two month visit, and two of their sons (plus one wife and two kids) also came from Venezuela for Easter, so I was anxious to get there before the holiday in order to have to some time with my cousins that I hardly know. When I told my host family that I was leaving, yet again, to travel to Lebanon, my hostmother seemed sincerely disappointed that I would miss out on their own Easter celebrations. I was a little confused by it, as Syria celebrates Easter on April 19th with the Orthodox Church and the rest of the Eastern world (which Lebanon is apparently not a part of) (even though their own church is Protestant), but it seemed that I would be missing out on a church pageant with my hostmother’s Sunday school class, and all kinds of special foods. In order to make up for it, she invited me to see a street parade celebrating Palm Sunday on Sunday the 5th (again I don’t understand if their Easter is the 19th…) but I ended up disappointing her again when I missed it as I was distracted by the aforementioned Doha Debates that were broadcasted from Georgetown on BBC and the subsuquent speech by Obama from Prague where he pledged to end nuclear warfare.
I made it out to their church in time to see the streets filled with families, dressed in their Sunday best. The weather was pushing upwards into the 80s and I was relieved to see that with the first signs of spring also came the first signs of bare skin! Sleeveless tops, knee-length skirts (albeit with stockings underneath)—perhaps I won’t have to spend May and June in jeans and long-sleeved sweaters as I feared (although as soon as I left the Christian neighborhood it was back to floorlength coats and wool sweaters). The best part, though, was the little girls in princess dresses. Literally. I saw a 5 or 6 year-old wearing a pink costume dress with a tiara.
My hostfather, when he heard about my plans to travel again, called me “a sister of men” (meaning I was competent enough to travel without a male companion—it was a compliment—I quieted the roaring feminist within) and was only worried that by leaving on Wednesday I would miss the big lunch Leila was preparing for our Finnish neighbors. I promised to leave in the late afternoon and considering the fact that I got to help make the food (to some extent) and then later enjoy the fruits of our labor, it was completely worth it; still, the guests didn’t arrive til quarter to 3 and so I nervously checked the time throughout the meal, finally leaving before dessert. It was the latest I had ever crossed the border and I didn’t want to arrive too late in the night, plus the bus station was 30 minutes from my house, the bus left 20 minutes late (as we were pulling out a woman stopped the bus and tried to get on with her cargo of rugs), it took twice as long to cross the border with all of our passengers… thankfully the bus dropped me off somewhere where I could get a taxi to my aunt’s house without having to go all the way to the bus station outside of Beirut and then back across town to her house, so in the end I arrived before 930.
The door was answered by my eight year-old cousin, Juan Andres, who I have only met once before (a few years ago at a family reunion in Mexico) and he didn’t speak to me then (he hates girls, plus I don’t know Spanish) and when he saw me at the door his face dropped and he walked away in disappointment. He had decided to stay home while the rest of his family went shopping so I think he was expecting his parents. Eventually the rest of the group arrived back to the house and by 11 pm I was squeezed into a rental car with my cousins (technically my mom’s cousins, aka my first-cousins once-removed) Jean Paul (40, unmarried), Henricito (42) and his wife Andreina and their two kids Henricitocito (9) and Juan Andres. We were all staying at Josyan and Eli’s house since my great-aunt and uncle (aka my grandmother’s brother and his wife, aka Henricito and Jean Paul’s parents) Henri and Renee were staying at my great-aunt Nagibe’s house. So.
The next morning Henricito and Jean Paul had to leave early in the morning to go with their father to go to the passport office (they were applying for Lebanese passports), so they told us to sleep in and whenever we were ready we would go for the day to Byblos. So after a long and leisurely breakfast around 1130, we piled back in the car to pick up Tio Henri and Tia Renee and go out for the day. However, as soon as we met them at Nagibe’s house, we were told we were in fact going to Renee’s cousin’s house for lunch, regardless of the fact that we had just finished eating breakfast (it was, after all, almost 130).
It turned out that I actually knew her cousin, Agnes, as I had met her two months earlier at Sr Agnes’s funeral. She is Renee’s only relative still living in Lebanon and she lives alone (with her maid) in the same apartment that she has lived in for decades, through the civil war and beyond. She showed us photos of the damage to her apartment from the war, with the missile-sized hole in her library wall, broken furniture, destroyed heirlooms and walls torn down (she was lucky that no one was in the house when it was bombarded; she was staying with family in the mountains and since she was from the same town as some politician they were looking for, she would have been tortured for information (like her sister was) if she had been found); today of course her house is restored back to its original state and looks perfectly untouched. She also showed us pictures of parties that they had in the bomb shelter, which is to say you would never know they were hiding from a war by the looks of the ‘guests’ happily stuffing their faces and the size of the buffet table.
There was a huge spread awaiting us in the dining room and we all sucked it up and made room for the lentil soup, fattoush, spinach and meat pies, green beans, fish with tahini sauce, breads and veggies that covered the table. I was sitting next to Agnes, our hostess, and she assured me that I wouldn’t have to eat anything I didn’t like, that she always hated when she was forced to eat. Despite the fact that I was still full from breakfast, I told her I never have a problem with Lebanese food, but after the first course of soup I began to feel sick (aka chills, nauseous, dizzy, stomach pains) and couldn’t even look at the food on my plate. My hostess, of course, despite her early assurances of democracy at the dinner table, did not accept that I wasn’t feeling well and worried that I didn’t like any of what she had offered and so I was forced to continue picking all the way through the dessert course to appease her. I didn’t want to worry everyone else by telling them I wasn’t feeling well, but I had already risked offending the cook by not eating anything, so finally I excused myself from the table and tried to rest on the couch, politely refused Agnes’ offer to lie in her bed, tried walking around the living room but the pacing just made me dizzier, so I resigned myself to the bathroom and eventually returned my entire meal, from soup to nuts (I am only going into the gory details in order to emphasize the awkwardness and perhaps irony of my situation as a victim of the Lebanese excessive hospitality and how great it was that my first day spent with my distant family was them worrying about me and me being really sick). So I spent the rest of our visit lying on Agnes’s bed with my feet elevated and a cup of hot anise tea on the bedside table. At least I could assure her that it wasn’t her food that did me in, just unfortunate timing and the fact that I had left my medicine at the house.
After lunch we went to the mall so Henri and Andreina could go grocery shopping. The supermarket looked like any other American grocery store, but was impeccably clean, with entire aisles just for yogurt or cheese, olives or fresh spices. Still, looking at all the food churned my stomach a little so I left with my aunt and uncle to go back to Nagibe’s house and rest up for our next big meal. Jean Paul and Henricito showed off their Lebanese passports and we celebrated their new citizenship and official membership in the evergrowing Lebanese diaspora.
Showing posts with label beirut. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beirut. Show all posts
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Part 2: Lebanon, the Abridged version.
Lebanon was a week of late nights, leisurely lunches (preferrably with a view of the Mediterranean), long car rides and lots and lots o’ family time. Coming back for my third visit in two months to stay with family once more, I realized how familiar the area had become to me so much so that I almost forgot it was a foreign country (I am spoiled). I found it easy to navigate my way back to the house using strategically located advertisements and I suddenly became the person of experience and knowledge in the group, acting as guide to my aunt Marilyn and cousin Marisa as we visited the various sites that I had seen in my first 2 ½ weeks in the Middle East. My aunt hadn’t been to visit the family in 30-ish years, and Marisa (17) had never been before, so it was good for me to see them go through some of the same adjustments that I had to make when I had first arrived, and to appreciate my new level of comfort getting around Lebanon and Syria (only to be further appreciated when my parents arrived).
That week we went back to Beiteddine in the mountains, to the ancient site of Byblos on the northern coast (Nagibe joined us that day for a seafood feast at a restaurant with a prime seaside location), and to Saida and Tyre on the southern coast. Marisa, who is starting next year at UPenn’s Nursing School, was able to fit in a half-day working with Chantal at AUB Hospital while the aunts and I fit in a hair appointment (much needed and I was not going to do it in Syria). There were several trips to the huge ABC mall included, where we learned that a mall is a mall is a mall but at least now I have actually been shopping in Beirut. In the past the shopping was in downtown Beirut on Hamra Street, but after the damage caused by the war it has been unfortunately centralized to ABC.
Throughout the week there were the familiar proddings from the older generation—don’t you and Marisa want to get out and see Beirut nightlife? Don’t you want to call up so-and-so? Marisa was on her spring break from second semester senior year of high school so all she wanted to do was sleep a lot and not think about homework. I was just happy to be hanging out with my aunts and cousins for the week and didn’t really care about maintaining my Beiruti social life, but either way it was arranged for us in the end. Friday night Eli made a dinner reservation for 10 pm at an Italian restaurant with live music for the three of us, himself and Josyan, Chantal Nagibe and Michel, and his close friend/tennis partner his wife and 19 year-old son. It was clear that the only reason that the son was present was to escort us out for the night after dinner so despite our polite “nothankyous” and “youreallydon’thavetos,” our fate was already decided for us. Luckily he was a very nice guy and easy to talk to (not that we had a choice because we were relegated to the kids’ end of the table) and he promised us Oh it’s not a nightclub, it’s just a pub and it’s just around the corner and I’ll bring you home whenever you are ready to go. In my mind I pictured a regular bar with long tables and music in the background and figured it would be worth it just to go and meet his friends, talk to them for a bit, then get our own taxi ride home so he wouldn’t have to leave if we wanted to go home before 3 am, and it would be fun for Marisa to see a bit of the bar scene before heading off to college.
We left around midnight, the music scene at our restaurant was just heating up. The female singer, accompanied by a keyboardist and signing popular ballads of the West, was going around to each table getting people (including a few at our table) to sing for her (unabashedly and with enthusiasm!), which soon led to diners banging on the table with cups and plates, then leaping to their feet and filling the floor space with dancers. Eli’s friends were the most active of them all and brought their son up to dance with them. Marisa and I were shocked to see that he actually danced with them, rather than scowling and running the other way, as we would have done if our parents were accepting vocal solos and tearing up the dance floor.
The so-called ‘pub’ was just down the street—the whole neighborhood was filled with younge people hanging out in atmospheric bars and to be sure the night was just getting started—but as we descended into the dark smoky techno-throbbing room and saw people dancing on tables and found barely enough room to stand still without getting knocked over by others, we realized that ‘pub’ just means that there are tables one could hypothetically sit at, but it is better served to hold coats/purses/drinks or better yet, as the dance floor itself.
Apparently we were there to celebrate someone’s birthday, and we soon joined a large group of our escort’s (I can’t remember his name but he is named after a saint in the Maronite church) friends from his university. It was impossible to see or speak to anyone properly so we nodded and smiled and danced and had a good time (though one of his friends thought we were 16/younger) and eventually we looked at the time and decided to head home as we wanted to get up early for the Saturday morning farmer’s market. I communicated that we were going to head out but that we would take a taxi home. Of course that was not an option so he left his friends and we went out into the rain. Walking by the restaurant that we had eaten at that night, we ran into noneother than Josyan, Eli and their friends who were just leaving. They looked at us in astonishment and we at them. So I remembered that I am in fact in a foreign country, and not only that but also a parallel universe, where the parents stay out later than the kids and the old stay forever young. At least we could get a ride home with Josyan and Eli and our host could go back with his parents so in that sense our meeting was fortuitous. But then Marisa and I had to endure a carride home of “Why did you leave so early? You didn’t have fun?”
--
The next morning it was still raining which dampened our hopes of making it to the farmer’s market. I woke up early, showered, dressed and ate breakfast and was greeted by a sleepy Eli who emerged from his room to get his morning coffee. Oh you know the market will not be open in the rain, don’t bother going, there will be no one there. Even if they have tents? Yes it’s not worth it. I called Chantal who had taken me the first time to ask her opinion, she had no idea, so I called Nagibe’s house and spoke to my aunt Marilyn who had just woken up and we decided to let Marisa sleep and forgo the morning excursion. Around 1030 Chantal called back, said she had just driven by the square and saw tents up, so clearly it was in fact open. Josyan and Eli agreed we should go. I called Marisa, woke her up and said I would be there in half an hour to pick her up. But then came the complications of logistics: calling a cab to pick me up, take me to get Marisa, take us to the market, wait for us, take us back to Nagibe’s in time to leave for lunch (we had all been invited out to lunch by Eli’s brother). By now it was getting late, J & E now said we wouldn’t have time, but the taxi was already called, and by the way it’s going to cost $25 just for the car and don’t be late for lunch!
By the time the taxi arrived (1130) I felt like the morning was snowballing into a disaster that couldn’t be stopped. We would spend a ridiculous amount of money getting to the market, have about 10 minutes to spend there and then have to come back or else make everyone late to the big family lunch. But the car was there, Marisa was waiting and whatever. It was, of course, completely worth it. The rain stopped, we bought fresh maneesh with zaatar cheese and vegetables, tasted sweets olives breads from the different stalls, bought meringues, fresh squeezed orange juices…most of the shoppers were students and if I lived in Beirut I would spend all my food money there—it reminded me of a smaller version of the market in Dupont.
We even made it home again without making anyone wait for us. Lunch, in honor of Josyan’s birthday, was at a country club in Jounieh, a big port city 15 minutes north of Beirut, with views of the mountainside behind the marina filled with yachts and sailboats. By the time we rolled ourselves out of the restaurant, I began to feel the cumulated effects of a week spent eating in restaurants and sitting in cars…
That night my mom arrived at the airport and we went to pick her up with Chantal. Unfortunately Chantal was leaving the next morning for Berlin and was in a frenzy to pack and organize her life before she left, so my mom saw her for a total of about an hour. Even still, how lucky we were that the four of us all ended up in Beirut with the family at the same place at the same time, given how long it had taken us Americans to get there in the first place (Marilyn, 30 years, my mom 12, Marisa, her life). And how lucky that I was living only a few hours away when this all came together, and was the reason that my mom came through Beirut in the first place.
--
The next day we had hoped that we would make it to the Mazara’a, the family’s summer house in the mountains, even though it was not yet the season for visiting. Unfortunately Chantal was leaving, the roads were muddy or snowy and not fit for driving, there was no one to show us the way, and the house was too much connected to Sr Agnes for Nagibe to want to visit it so soon after her death (Sr Agnes was the main caretaker of the house and the family’s farms). Instead we made a day trip to Tripoli and spent the day eating sweets and walking around the city’s old markets and back up to the citadel on a hill.
Monday Marisa and Marilyn left for Paris, where they spent a few days before returning to the US, and my mom and I went to visit the archbishop and Sr Julienne. We took them out to lunch and tried to learn more about our family’s Armenian history. I had met a few Armenians at Georgetown who were shocked to know that my family was Armenian Catholic but we didn’t know if we actually had Armenian heritage. To them, being from a nation that has survived an attempt to be wiped off the face of the earth, being connected to one’s history language and culture is vital to keeping it alive in the next generation. So we asked and were surprised to get a fairly straightforward answer (at least in the beginning). Yes, my grandfather’s mother was Armenian, her name meaning “prince” in Armenian, but the family had emigrated a few centuries before so there was no direct connection. So what about my grandfather’s father? Coussa is not an Armenian name. And where does the Armenian Catholic come from—the mother or the father? And why has no one ever talked about this before?
The most surprising thing to me about my grandfather’s family is that 1) there is no one left living in Syria and 2) my grandfather was the only one of 9 ? kids to have children. 3 became nuns, 1 became an archbishop, 2 married without children, and 2 died young. My grandfather was born in 1903 and didn’t marry and have children until his mid-forties, after he had emigrated to New York (alone, at the age of 17 and without speaking English) and built up a successful import-export business, American Pistachio Corporation. What a life he must have left behind, compared to the one he built for himself and his family—Syria at the turn of the century!
So from Lebanon, my mom and I travelled to northern Syria to Aleppo, to visit the birthplace of the Coussas.
That week we went back to Beiteddine in the mountains, to the ancient site of Byblos on the northern coast (Nagibe joined us that day for a seafood feast at a restaurant with a prime seaside location), and to Saida and Tyre on the southern coast. Marisa, who is starting next year at UPenn’s Nursing School, was able to fit in a half-day working with Chantal at AUB Hospital while the aunts and I fit in a hair appointment (much needed and I was not going to do it in Syria). There were several trips to the huge ABC mall included, where we learned that a mall is a mall is a mall but at least now I have actually been shopping in Beirut. In the past the shopping was in downtown Beirut on Hamra Street, but after the damage caused by the war it has been unfortunately centralized to ABC.
Throughout the week there were the familiar proddings from the older generation—don’t you and Marisa want to get out and see Beirut nightlife? Don’t you want to call up so-and-so? Marisa was on her spring break from second semester senior year of high school so all she wanted to do was sleep a lot and not think about homework. I was just happy to be hanging out with my aunts and cousins for the week and didn’t really care about maintaining my Beiruti social life, but either way it was arranged for us in the end. Friday night Eli made a dinner reservation for 10 pm at an Italian restaurant with live music for the three of us, himself and Josyan, Chantal Nagibe and Michel, and his close friend/tennis partner his wife and 19 year-old son. It was clear that the only reason that the son was present was to escort us out for the night after dinner so despite our polite “nothankyous” and “youreallydon’thavetos,” our fate was already decided for us. Luckily he was a very nice guy and easy to talk to (not that we had a choice because we were relegated to the kids’ end of the table) and he promised us Oh it’s not a nightclub, it’s just a pub and it’s just around the corner and I’ll bring you home whenever you are ready to go. In my mind I pictured a regular bar with long tables and music in the background and figured it would be worth it just to go and meet his friends, talk to them for a bit, then get our own taxi ride home so he wouldn’t have to leave if we wanted to go home before 3 am, and it would be fun for Marisa to see a bit of the bar scene before heading off to college.
We left around midnight, the music scene at our restaurant was just heating up. The female singer, accompanied by a keyboardist and signing popular ballads of the West, was going around to each table getting people (including a few at our table) to sing for her (unabashedly and with enthusiasm!), which soon led to diners banging on the table with cups and plates, then leaping to their feet and filling the floor space with dancers. Eli’s friends were the most active of them all and brought their son up to dance with them. Marisa and I were shocked to see that he actually danced with them, rather than scowling and running the other way, as we would have done if our parents were accepting vocal solos and tearing up the dance floor.
The so-called ‘pub’ was just down the street—the whole neighborhood was filled with younge people hanging out in atmospheric bars and to be sure the night was just getting started—but as we descended into the dark smoky techno-throbbing room and saw people dancing on tables and found barely enough room to stand still without getting knocked over by others, we realized that ‘pub’ just means that there are tables one could hypothetically sit at, but it is better served to hold coats/purses/drinks or better yet, as the dance floor itself.
Apparently we were there to celebrate someone’s birthday, and we soon joined a large group of our escort’s (I can’t remember his name but he is named after a saint in the Maronite church) friends from his university. It was impossible to see or speak to anyone properly so we nodded and smiled and danced and had a good time (though one of his friends thought we were 16/younger) and eventually we looked at the time and decided to head home as we wanted to get up early for the Saturday morning farmer’s market. I communicated that we were going to head out but that we would take a taxi home. Of course that was not an option so he left his friends and we went out into the rain. Walking by the restaurant that we had eaten at that night, we ran into noneother than Josyan, Eli and their friends who were just leaving. They looked at us in astonishment and we at them. So I remembered that I am in fact in a foreign country, and not only that but also a parallel universe, where the parents stay out later than the kids and the old stay forever young. At least we could get a ride home with Josyan and Eli and our host could go back with his parents so in that sense our meeting was fortuitous. But then Marisa and I had to endure a carride home of “Why did you leave so early? You didn’t have fun?”
--
The next morning it was still raining which dampened our hopes of making it to the farmer’s market. I woke up early, showered, dressed and ate breakfast and was greeted by a sleepy Eli who emerged from his room to get his morning coffee. Oh you know the market will not be open in the rain, don’t bother going, there will be no one there. Even if they have tents? Yes it’s not worth it. I called Chantal who had taken me the first time to ask her opinion, she had no idea, so I called Nagibe’s house and spoke to my aunt Marilyn who had just woken up and we decided to let Marisa sleep and forgo the morning excursion. Around 1030 Chantal called back, said she had just driven by the square and saw tents up, so clearly it was in fact open. Josyan and Eli agreed we should go. I called Marisa, woke her up and said I would be there in half an hour to pick her up. But then came the complications of logistics: calling a cab to pick me up, take me to get Marisa, take us to the market, wait for us, take us back to Nagibe’s in time to leave for lunch (we had all been invited out to lunch by Eli’s brother). By now it was getting late, J & E now said we wouldn’t have time, but the taxi was already called, and by the way it’s going to cost $25 just for the car and don’t be late for lunch!
By the time the taxi arrived (1130) I felt like the morning was snowballing into a disaster that couldn’t be stopped. We would spend a ridiculous amount of money getting to the market, have about 10 minutes to spend there and then have to come back or else make everyone late to the big family lunch. But the car was there, Marisa was waiting and whatever. It was, of course, completely worth it. The rain stopped, we bought fresh maneesh with zaatar cheese and vegetables, tasted sweets olives breads from the different stalls, bought meringues, fresh squeezed orange juices…most of the shoppers were students and if I lived in Beirut I would spend all my food money there—it reminded me of a smaller version of the market in Dupont.
We even made it home again without making anyone wait for us. Lunch, in honor of Josyan’s birthday, was at a country club in Jounieh, a big port city 15 minutes north of Beirut, with views of the mountainside behind the marina filled with yachts and sailboats. By the time we rolled ourselves out of the restaurant, I began to feel the cumulated effects of a week spent eating in restaurants and sitting in cars…
That night my mom arrived at the airport and we went to pick her up with Chantal. Unfortunately Chantal was leaving the next morning for Berlin and was in a frenzy to pack and organize her life before she left, so my mom saw her for a total of about an hour. Even still, how lucky we were that the four of us all ended up in Beirut with the family at the same place at the same time, given how long it had taken us Americans to get there in the first place (Marilyn, 30 years, my mom 12, Marisa, her life). And how lucky that I was living only a few hours away when this all came together, and was the reason that my mom came through Beirut in the first place.
--
The next day we had hoped that we would make it to the Mazara’a, the family’s summer house in the mountains, even though it was not yet the season for visiting. Unfortunately Chantal was leaving, the roads were muddy or snowy and not fit for driving, there was no one to show us the way, and the house was too much connected to Sr Agnes for Nagibe to want to visit it so soon after her death (Sr Agnes was the main caretaker of the house and the family’s farms). Instead we made a day trip to Tripoli and spent the day eating sweets and walking around the city’s old markets and back up to the citadel on a hill.
Monday Marisa and Marilyn left for Paris, where they spent a few days before returning to the US, and my mom and I went to visit the archbishop and Sr Julienne. We took them out to lunch and tried to learn more about our family’s Armenian history. I had met a few Armenians at Georgetown who were shocked to know that my family was Armenian Catholic but we didn’t know if we actually had Armenian heritage. To them, being from a nation that has survived an attempt to be wiped off the face of the earth, being connected to one’s history language and culture is vital to keeping it alive in the next generation. So we asked and were surprised to get a fairly straightforward answer (at least in the beginning). Yes, my grandfather’s mother was Armenian, her name meaning “prince” in Armenian, but the family had emigrated a few centuries before so there was no direct connection. So what about my grandfather’s father? Coussa is not an Armenian name. And where does the Armenian Catholic come from—the mother or the father? And why has no one ever talked about this before?
The most surprising thing to me about my grandfather’s family is that 1) there is no one left living in Syria and 2) my grandfather was the only one of 9 ? kids to have children. 3 became nuns, 1 became an archbishop, 2 married without children, and 2 died young. My grandfather was born in 1903 and didn’t marry and have children until his mid-forties, after he had emigrated to New York (alone, at the age of 17 and without speaking English) and built up a successful import-export business, American Pistachio Corporation. What a life he must have left behind, compared to the one he built for himself and his family—Syria at the turn of the century!
So from Lebanon, my mom and I travelled to northern Syria to Aleppo, to visit the birthplace of the Coussas.
Monday, March 16, 2009
After a brief hiatus,
Ahhh too much to catch up on.
A teaser for what is to come, as I try and organize my thoughts for the next few updates:
Vacation! The end of of my first class and the beginning of the (soon to be) epic six-week break:
Part 1: a few days rest at home in Damascus, getting to know the city and its people a little better
Part 2: heading back to Beirut to see my aunt Marilyn and cousin Marisa, visiting from "Amreeka" / Connecticut.
Part 3: the arrival of my mom in Beirut and the beginning of our two week travels (at which point we reach current time)
Part 4: the arrival of my dad in Damascus in our second week (now we are looking to the future)
Part 5: the departure of my parents from Amman, the beginning of That Which Remains To Be Seen.
But for now, it is time to live in the present and so you will have to wait until I have time to reflect on the past.
A teaser for what is to come, as I try and organize my thoughts for the next few updates:
Vacation! The end of of my first class and the beginning of the (soon to be) epic six-week break:
Part 1: a few days rest at home in Damascus, getting to know the city and its people a little better
Part 2: heading back to Beirut to see my aunt Marilyn and cousin Marisa, visiting from "Amreeka" / Connecticut.
Part 3: the arrival of my mom in Beirut and the beginning of our two week travels (at which point we reach current time)
Part 4: the arrival of my dad in Damascus in our second week (now we are looking to the future)
Part 5: the departure of my parents from Amman, the beginning of That Which Remains To Be Seen.
But for now, it is time to live in the present and so you will have to wait until I have time to reflect on the past.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Trapped!
Originally I had planned to stay for the funeral on Thursday and return to Damascus Friday afternoon, in order to be back in time to study for my make-up midterm on Sunday. But it is now Saturday evening after midnight and I am still in Beirut. Why? Good question.
For two days after the funeral the family receives condolences at their house. They had published a news release in the papers to notify the public about the death of their family member and as people see it, outside of the immediate friends/family circle, they come to the house from about 11-7, sitting chatting drinking coffee etc etc. It doesn't sound intense but it is still somehow exhauusting. I found that the conversations were easier to follow and so I honed my skills in the Lebanese dialect for following the usual greetings- howarethekids-howisyourhealth-howisyourwork-lookatthisweather! train of thought.
In the afternoon, after lunch (catered rice pilaf with white fish, big salad, roasted vegetables and beef, stuffed grape leaves zucchini and eggplant) and a lot of guilting from the rellys about leaving so soon, I decided I could wait another day to return to Damascus. If I left early in the morning, I could still make it back in time to study in the afternoon and enjoy some more time with the family. Plus the weather forecast was more snow for the mountains and leaving late in the day is a little risky.
After a few more hours of receiving condolences, I escaped for a bit to see how my aunt Nagibe was doing, as she was not feeling well earlier and was resting in her room. I found her watching Turkish soap operas so I gladly sat next to her on her bed and joined in, only to emerge, alas, when all the guests had disappeared.
Dinner was vegetable soup, salad, fruit for dessert and such...and then I said my goodbyes, returned with my bags to Josyan's house, and set my alarm to wake up early and pack and head out.
But of course for the first time this year, the roads to Damascus were closed. I don't know if there was any other way I could have gone, perhaps via a different city, but amidst family apprehension I agreed to go back to Nagibe's house and wait a few hours to see if it cleared. So back with my bags to another day of condolences and condolences, though this time I learned my lesson and broke it up a bit. After a breakfast that we picked up on the way of kenafeh (different from what we make at home, and for breakfast?), a sesame seed roll toasted and stuffed with either cheese or cream and drizzled with sweet syrup, I went with Nilda and Ramez to buy groceries, then sat in the kitchen and helped prepare fruit salad. Before lunchtime, I asked again about leaving, and though the roads still seemed to be closed, I didn't trust that there wasn't an alternative route or taxis with snow chains or something. So I ate a quick lunch and went with Ramez to the taxi station. There were zero taxis there. I didn't quite understand if there were no taxis at all today, or if there had been some in the morning and they left early because of the snow, but either way it was clear I had to return to the house and spend another day.
I was worried about my midterm, because the university made it very clear that this is a special case to get it moved and I didn't want to have to ask for another date change. There are very few grades in the month-long course, and though I don't care what my final grade is, there is no way I want to fail it and have to retake the same level next time. I don't know how it will turn out, but at the very least I hope to make it back tomorrow in time to find my teacher, explain to her what happened, and still take the exam in the afternoon. However apparently the roads stay closed til 10 am, which leaves no time for error or delays, if I want to be at the university by 1. [The other reason I really need to go back- I forgot my toothbrush! It's been terrible for everyone involved.]
But I can't do anything about it and in the end it turned out to be a good thing that I stayed another day. After a few days of being overwhelmed by familyness combined with formalities and on top of my own lack of communication, I finally began to feel a little more comfortable as part of the family. Also, I got to talk to my parents via the videochat and used my laptop to bring them around to the whole family so they could talk to each person. It was a living MacBook commercial.
Then a nice long dinner with spicy vegetable soup, salad and cheese (5 kinds, including pesto cheese!) and then goodbyes, for the third time in two days.
And oh yeah, it was my birthday today :) A strange 22nd birthday, but I suppose it was better than spending it studying. Also I learned I have the same birthday as my great uncle Antonio, though he is 58 years older. And Nagibe's birthday was 2 days ago, my grandmother's would be tomorrow, and Sr Agnes a few days after that.
--
Inshallah when I write again I will have made it back to Damascus.
For two days after the funeral the family receives condolences at their house. They had published a news release in the papers to notify the public about the death of their family member and as people see it, outside of the immediate friends/family circle, they come to the house from about 11-7, sitting chatting drinking coffee etc etc. It doesn't sound intense but it is still somehow exhauusting. I found that the conversations were easier to follow and so I honed my skills in the Lebanese dialect for following the usual greetings- howarethekids-howisyourhealth-howisyourwork-lookatthisweather! train of thought.
In the afternoon, after lunch (catered rice pilaf with white fish, big salad, roasted vegetables and beef, stuffed grape leaves zucchini and eggplant) and a lot of guilting from the rellys about leaving so soon, I decided I could wait another day to return to Damascus. If I left early in the morning, I could still make it back in time to study in the afternoon and enjoy some more time with the family. Plus the weather forecast was more snow for the mountains and leaving late in the day is a little risky.
After a few more hours of receiving condolences, I escaped for a bit to see how my aunt Nagibe was doing, as she was not feeling well earlier and was resting in her room. I found her watching Turkish soap operas so I gladly sat next to her on her bed and joined in, only to emerge, alas, when all the guests had disappeared.
Dinner was vegetable soup, salad, fruit for dessert and such...and then I said my goodbyes, returned with my bags to Josyan's house, and set my alarm to wake up early and pack and head out.
But of course for the first time this year, the roads to Damascus were closed. I don't know if there was any other way I could have gone, perhaps via a different city, but amidst family apprehension I agreed to go back to Nagibe's house and wait a few hours to see if it cleared. So back with my bags to another day of condolences and condolences, though this time I learned my lesson and broke it up a bit. After a breakfast that we picked up on the way of kenafeh (different from what we make at home, and for breakfast?), a sesame seed roll toasted and stuffed with either cheese or cream and drizzled with sweet syrup, I went with Nilda and Ramez to buy groceries, then sat in the kitchen and helped prepare fruit salad. Before lunchtime, I asked again about leaving, and though the roads still seemed to be closed, I didn't trust that there wasn't an alternative route or taxis with snow chains or something. So I ate a quick lunch and went with Ramez to the taxi station. There were zero taxis there. I didn't quite understand if there were no taxis at all today, or if there had been some in the morning and they left early because of the snow, but either way it was clear I had to return to the house and spend another day.
I was worried about my midterm, because the university made it very clear that this is a special case to get it moved and I didn't want to have to ask for another date change. There are very few grades in the month-long course, and though I don't care what my final grade is, there is no way I want to fail it and have to retake the same level next time. I don't know how it will turn out, but at the very least I hope to make it back tomorrow in time to find my teacher, explain to her what happened, and still take the exam in the afternoon. However apparently the roads stay closed til 10 am, which leaves no time for error or delays, if I want to be at the university by 1. [The other reason I really need to go back- I forgot my toothbrush! It's been terrible for everyone involved.]
But I can't do anything about it and in the end it turned out to be a good thing that I stayed another day. After a few days of being overwhelmed by familyness combined with formalities and on top of my own lack of communication, I finally began to feel a little more comfortable as part of the family. Also, I got to talk to my parents via the videochat and used my laptop to bring them around to the whole family so they could talk to each person. It was a living MacBook commercial.
Then a nice long dinner with spicy vegetable soup, salad and cheese (5 kinds, including pesto cheese!) and then goodbyes, for the third time in two days.
And oh yeah, it was my birthday today :) A strange 22nd birthday, but I suppose it was better than spending it studying. Also I learned I have the same birthday as my great uncle Antonio, though he is 58 years older. And Nagibe's birthday was 2 days ago, my grandmother's would be tomorrow, and Sr Agnes a few days after that.
--
Inshallah when I write again I will have made it back to Damascus.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Beirut on short notice
Wednesday morning my cousin Chantal called me in the middle of class to share the sad news that my great aunt Sr Agnes had passed away the night before. She had spent a week in the hospital fighting a kidney infection but the antibiotics strong enough to put her in a coma, they were not enough to keep out the infection and so she passed away. She was 86 years old and the eldest of ten children in my grandmother's family (Nagibe is the second and my grandmother was the third). I am lucky to be so nearby that I could make it to Beirut on the same day, especially since my other great-aunt Sr Augustine (sister of my grandfather) passed away 2 weeks ago and I didn't find out in time to make it back for the funeral.
I spoke with my teacher during our break and asked if I could be excused from our midterm the following day. We went to ask the director of the university but were turned away-- no changing of the dates! I explained to Hajer, my teacher, the situation and why I wanted to go, and she went back to plead for my case. She convinced the director in the end and so after class was over at 1 I went back to the house to pack and go to Beirut.
After a yummy lunch of stuffed grape leaves, spinach pies and muhammara I packed a bag of black dresses and took a bus to the Beirut station. It turns out it was back across town, past the university, in the far western reaches of the city where I had not been before. I found a driver headed for Beirut and sat in the car waiting for it to fill. Two other men came to the car and we sat drinking tea while we waited. Within half an hour, a mother and her daughter joined us and the six of us squished into an old Mercedes Benz. The women were from Aleppo and though its the same country their Arabic was very different from what I was used to hearing in Damascus and Lebanon. The daughter was only 15 but she acted much older, arguing with the men to make them change seats so she could sit by a window (her mom refused to switch), bartering for cigarettes, yelling at her mother, etc.
It took us a little while to leave Syria, as we stopped along the way for permits, coffee and cigarette breaks (at the gas station! not the best place for smoking), Coke, nuts and raisins (bought by the mom and daughter, shared with all, shells littering the backseat). It was actually a pretty fun car ride--Syrians can make friends with just about anyone and they act as if they've know each other for years, making easy conversation, sharing snacks, sitting comfortably in close quarters.
Chantal had warned me to leave as early as possible because snow was forecasted for the evening, and once we reached the Anti-Lebanon mountains and crossed into Lebanon there was snow on the sides of the roads, but none on the road itself. The driver dropped off the passengers along the way and I was the last stop, so I arrived at the house of my aunt Nagibe by 7 pm (maybe 3 1/2 hours or less after leaving).
The door was open so I walked in and found the sitting room full of strange faces. It was only the day after Sr Agnes had died, so everyone was still very much in mourning but my arrival was mixed with happiness as well. My great uncles Antonio (whom I hadn't met before, #4 in the family) and Henri (whom I had met a few years ago at a family reunion in Mexico, #5) had come from Venezuela, where they live with their families, when Sr Agnes was still in the hospital and were staying at the house for the week.
I sat with the family and their friends for a while and then was ushered into the kitchen to have something to eat. Georgette, Sr Agnes' live-in assistant (she literally slept on the couch in her room every night and did everything for her for the past 2 years), was there with Kedes and Nilda (Josyan's Philippino housekeeper) preparing coffee for the guests and when she saw me she came and hugged me for several minutes, weeping into my chest.
People stayed at the house for a few hours and then after 10 pm I went home with Josyan, Eli and Nilda, since my uncles were staying with Chantal and Nagibe. I had a second dinner with them, and then sleep and up early the next morning.
--
We left for the hospital around 9 am so the family could say good-bye to Sr Agnes before she was put in the coffin. The hospital that she died in is run by the nuns in her convent, so they had a special ceremony for her. We went to the morgue on the first floor where she was laid out on a table, dressed in her habit with her hands crossed over a rosary, and nuns, family and friends crowded around to sing together. The room was full of prayers, tears and incense and afterwards people went up to say their last words to Sr Agnes.
We waited outside while she was transferred to the coffin and then climbed into cars to follow the hearst to the church, winding up the mountain roads to Batroun. In the church, there was a brief service in the chapel with the small group who was in the hospital, then everyone filed out to the reception room in the main hall, for receiving condolences. This meant sitting in a long room with couches and armchairs lining the walls, with people coming throughout the day to share in the grieving with the family. It involved a lot of black fur coats, prada/chanel/lv handbags, big hair, manicured nails and sitting, standing, greeting, sitting, small talk, coffee, standing, saying good-bye, sitting, eavesdropping/practicing my Arabic listening skills, dozing, small talk, and so on and so forth. There was also a big lunch around 1 with two long tables forming a T and one long table filled with food : green salad, rice pilaf with chicken, kibbe, hummus, bread, cheeses, spinach pies, mini-pizzas and zaatars, beef, roasted vegetables, potatoes, and fruit for dessert.
Then back to the r'ing c's until a mass at 3. It was different from funerals that I've been to as no one from the family stood up to say anything or share stories, it was only readings from the Bible (in formal Arabic, though I still couldn't understand it) and such. The altar had rows of priests and bishops on either side and the whole left side of the chapel was filled with nuns.
Then r.c. again until leaving at 6. Before we left, every person in the room lined up to say goodbye and the line was out the door for about 20 minutes.
I left with Eli, Josyan and Uncle Antoun, and we stopped on the way to buy kaek (no not cake, as I thought it might be), a thin crispy hollow ball of bread which you eat with zaatar, and so we did on the car ride home.
Then dinner with the family at Nagibe's house. It was a nice break to have some time alone with everyone after being surrounded by strangers (to me anyway) all day. Still, it was frustrating not to be able to speak easily with family you never see, or have never even met. My uncles speak French, Spanish and Arabic, still I cannot even carry on a conversation with them. All weekend I have been constantly reminded that I should have studied French! instead of Arabic. What good does fus'ha do me now?
I spoke with my teacher during our break and asked if I could be excused from our midterm the following day. We went to ask the director of the university but were turned away-- no changing of the dates! I explained to Hajer, my teacher, the situation and why I wanted to go, and she went back to plead for my case. She convinced the director in the end and so after class was over at 1 I went back to the house to pack and go to Beirut.
After a yummy lunch of stuffed grape leaves, spinach pies and muhammara I packed a bag of black dresses and took a bus to the Beirut station. It turns out it was back across town, past the university, in the far western reaches of the city where I had not been before. I found a driver headed for Beirut and sat in the car waiting for it to fill. Two other men came to the car and we sat drinking tea while we waited. Within half an hour, a mother and her daughter joined us and the six of us squished into an old Mercedes Benz. The women were from Aleppo and though its the same country their Arabic was very different from what I was used to hearing in Damascus and Lebanon. The daughter was only 15 but she acted much older, arguing with the men to make them change seats so she could sit by a window (her mom refused to switch), bartering for cigarettes, yelling at her mother, etc.
It took us a little while to leave Syria, as we stopped along the way for permits, coffee and cigarette breaks (at the gas station! not the best place for smoking), Coke, nuts and raisins (bought by the mom and daughter, shared with all, shells littering the backseat). It was actually a pretty fun car ride--Syrians can make friends with just about anyone and they act as if they've know each other for years, making easy conversation, sharing snacks, sitting comfortably in close quarters.
Chantal had warned me to leave as early as possible because snow was forecasted for the evening, and once we reached the Anti-Lebanon mountains and crossed into Lebanon there was snow on the sides of the roads, but none on the road itself. The driver dropped off the passengers along the way and I was the last stop, so I arrived at the house of my aunt Nagibe by 7 pm (maybe 3 1/2 hours or less after leaving).
The door was open so I walked in and found the sitting room full of strange faces. It was only the day after Sr Agnes had died, so everyone was still very much in mourning but my arrival was mixed with happiness as well. My great uncles Antonio (whom I hadn't met before, #4 in the family) and Henri (whom I had met a few years ago at a family reunion in Mexico, #5) had come from Venezuela, where they live with their families, when Sr Agnes was still in the hospital and were staying at the house for the week.
I sat with the family and their friends for a while and then was ushered into the kitchen to have something to eat. Georgette, Sr Agnes' live-in assistant (she literally slept on the couch in her room every night and did everything for her for the past 2 years), was there with Kedes and Nilda (Josyan's Philippino housekeeper) preparing coffee for the guests and when she saw me she came and hugged me for several minutes, weeping into my chest.
People stayed at the house for a few hours and then after 10 pm I went home with Josyan, Eli and Nilda, since my uncles were staying with Chantal and Nagibe. I had a second dinner with them, and then sleep and up early the next morning.
--
We left for the hospital around 9 am so the family could say good-bye to Sr Agnes before she was put in the coffin. The hospital that she died in is run by the nuns in her convent, so they had a special ceremony for her. We went to the morgue on the first floor where she was laid out on a table, dressed in her habit with her hands crossed over a rosary, and nuns, family and friends crowded around to sing together. The room was full of prayers, tears and incense and afterwards people went up to say their last words to Sr Agnes.
We waited outside while she was transferred to the coffin and then climbed into cars to follow the hearst to the church, winding up the mountain roads to Batroun. In the church, there was a brief service in the chapel with the small group who was in the hospital, then everyone filed out to the reception room in the main hall, for receiving condolences. This meant sitting in a long room with couches and armchairs lining the walls, with people coming throughout the day to share in the grieving with the family. It involved a lot of black fur coats, prada/chanel/lv handbags, big hair, manicured nails and sitting, standing, greeting, sitting, small talk, coffee, standing, saying good-bye, sitting, eavesdropping/practicing my Arabic listening skills, dozing, small talk, and so on and so forth. There was also a big lunch around 1 with two long tables forming a T and one long table filled with food : green salad, rice pilaf with chicken, kibbe, hummus, bread, cheeses, spinach pies, mini-pizzas and zaatars, beef, roasted vegetables, potatoes, and fruit for dessert.
Then back to the r'ing c's until a mass at 3. It was different from funerals that I've been to as no one from the family stood up to say anything or share stories, it was only readings from the Bible (in formal Arabic, though I still couldn't understand it) and such. The altar had rows of priests and bishops on either side and the whole left side of the chapel was filled with nuns.
Then r.c. again until leaving at 6. Before we left, every person in the room lined up to say goodbye and the line was out the door for about 20 minutes.
I left with Eli, Josyan and Uncle Antoun, and we stopped on the way to buy kaek (no not cake, as I thought it might be), a thin crispy hollow ball of bread which you eat with zaatar, and so we did on the car ride home.
Then dinner with the family at Nagibe's house. It was a nice break to have some time alone with everyone after being surrounded by strangers (to me anyway) all day. Still, it was frustrating not to be able to speak easily with family you never see, or have never even met. My uncles speak French, Spanish and Arabic, still I cannot even carry on a conversation with them. All weekend I have been constantly reminded that I should have studied French! instead of Arabic. What good does fus'ha do me now?
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?!]
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
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).
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.
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