Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
That being said, my 30th birthday in Lebanon was fantastic. It was touch and go there for a bit...the karma gods must have gotten wind of my plans to "call in sick" for my Saturday classes so that I could just stay in Beirut and actually made me sick. (side note: I teach Monday-Thursday and Saturday. I have Fridays and Sundays off. Two sabbaths in a row is what makes Judeo-Christian or Judeo-Muslim countries work. Muslim-Christian sabbaths? Not so compatible.) Luckily, my father had plied me with antibiotics before the trip, and so I was able to treat myself immediately and only felt sick for one and a half days. On Friday (my actual birthday) I came down to Beirut for a walk along the Corniche (a beautiful seaside path that curls around the city) and dinner with Lily and Trevor and headed back up to the Chouf at a very responsible hour as is befitting my newly acquired maturity that comes with living for three decades.
Saturday, I taught my class and slogged through the torrential downpour to my friend Amal's house in Bakleen. Amal is Sheikh Sami's assistant and an all-around amazing woman. She and her family (her mother, her sister-in-law Houda who speaks better English than I do, despite never having left the Chouf, her niece Gigi, and her brother) made Brazilian beans and rice and a pineapple-pistachio birthday cake, and we sat in their very cozy kitchen and chatted. I left from their house to go to Beirut, where I met Sarah, Lily, Tevor, James, Emma, and Rena for dinner at Le Chef, which serves cheap and delicious "working man" food. For those of you who are into this sort of thing, this is the one restaurant where Anthony Bourdain got to eat before he was evacuated in 2006. For those of you who are not into that sort of thing, sorry for wasting your time. Several bottles of wine later, we ended up in Hamra at a series of bars. There Trevor and I invented a drink (a variation on the "car bomb" in which a shot of Arak is dropped into a pint of Almaza beer) whose name I shall not repeat, as it is very far outside the realm of political good taste. Also, I am aware that 95% of my readership is family. I promise that nothing occured which would bring shame to any of you.
Which brings me to today, day 2 of my fourth decade of life. The rain is gone (but threatening to come back), my head is on my shoulders, and I'm ready to go.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The first, most noticeable thank you goes out to my friend Betsy from Greensboro, who sent me this lovely postcard of a banner! Yes, that’s Lebanon that you see in the background. The picture looks like it was taken in the Cedars Reserve, which is about 13 miles from my house. Betsy has a blog called The Beautiful Mundane, which (as its name suggests) is full of lovely sights and sounds. Betsy is a great curator. She’s also a great documentarian (if you’re at all interested in the ins and outs of modern Quakerism and its different branches, may I recommend her film Can We All Be Friends?), an eco-entrepreneur (her eco-friendly laundry soap is addictive—buy now and buy often!), a brilliant marketer, and all-around wonderful human being.
As long as I’m doling out the praises (and also bearing in mind that 90% of the people who read this are family who already know about his blog), I also want to say thank you to my uncle Ned, who gave me a shout-out on his blog after my first entry. Ned created the website starchamber.com and has been blogging since before the word blog even existed. That, my friends, is no exaggeration: his archives go back to April 1996. Ned is another wonderful curator of interesting things and ideas. His professional interests are of the technological variety, but his non-professional (unprofessional?) interests are wide-ranging and, well, interesting. Alchemy, geography, robotics, crowd sourcing, fiction, and even the occasional simian feces-flinging joke: it’s all there.
So go out and read, and tell them that Sarah sent you.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I can almost guarantee that my commute home last night was better than your commute home. It hasn’t gotten cold yet here, but there’s a definite nip in the air, and I walked home past the terraced olive grove under a clear sky and a full moon. During my walk, I kept on thinking about a Federico García Lorca poem that we read—Lorca, of course, poor, doomed, tragic Lorca, one of the first casualties of Franco’s forces when they came to Andalucia. Lorca, whose fascination with gypsies (I know I’m supposed to say the Roma, but it just doesn’t translate well from Spanish, and besides they were called gypsies in the thirties before anyone knew any better) seems both quaint and fierce nowadays. It’s a poem about the full moon, who sees a young gypsy boy asleep outside. It’s actually (like most poetry involving gypsies) quite sad and morbid, but I defy you read the line, “Huye, luna luna luna” without shivering a little with delight. And that’s what I was doing on the way home.: looking at the moon, looking at the moonlight on the mountains and the olive grove, whispering “huye luna luna luna” to myself, and shivering with delight all the way.
La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira, mira.
El niño la está mirando.
En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.
Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.
Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.
Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.
So far as I can tell, the general philosophy of navigating Beirut (and Lebanon in general) is based on a single precept: if you can’t find your way, you should have been born here. Or, in my case, you should at least be able to pronounce the landmark closest to where you’re going. (My batting average is shamefully low on that count.) Streets, if they’re labeled at all, aren’t labeled according to the names on the map. Building numbers seem to be non-existent. I won’t give you my ever-expanding list of mishaps that have come as a result of this—or tell you how many items on that list have ended in tears—but the system does make you feel just a little smug once you finally (FINALLY) figure it out on your 5th attempt.
Mary Pipher (author of The Middle of Everywhere, a book about refugees that I highly recommend) said, “Every day in a foreign country is like final exam day.” I have to say, I agree, and the exam is on local knowledge. Thus far in my stay, I’ve learned the following:
- the shortcut up the hill to avoid walking on the main road
- that buses from Beirut to Semqaniyeh don’t run on Sundays (this I learned the hard way)
- which vegetable stand sells swiss chard and beets
- that the Yago Roastery is a magical place that roasts and grinds coffee and all manner of spices
- that Safa Chicken is the preferred shawarma joint among the teachers, narrowly edging out Big Momma’s
- NEVER to get into an elevator around 2:00 pm or 6:00 pm, as the electricity often cuts off around those hours
- that saffron is gathered in the spring
- that I can order a beer while checking my email at the internet cafe
- there’s a series of roads that lets you circumnavigate the town, as opposed to one the one (super busy) main road
I have yet to learn:
- an easy way to get fuel for my stove
- at what intervals the buses to/from Beirut actually come and go. “Sit by the side of the road and hope” is not great traveling strategy.
- where to buy fresh olive oil and honey (everyone seems to have it in their homes, and whenever I ask where they bought it, they just offer to give me some)
- who the non-skeevy car rental agencies are
I’d give myself a 52%.
I love local knowledge. I don’t think I’m alone in this. In New York, I loved knowing which subway car to get on so that the exit was right at your feet at your stop. I loved deciding which bars would fit which mood. I loved jumping on buses without having to even glance at a map. I loved directing my parents to order this appetizer and that entree from the menu. Local knowledge makes us, well, locals, and the parts of our brain that once struggled to figure out every day tasks are now freed up for ennui and judging tourists (or helping them, as is the case more often than not both here and in New York).
But not having local knowledge is pretty thrilling, too. Where will I eat? Well, what’s around this corner and behind this door? How do I get there from here? Well, where’s the closest landmark that I can pronounce intelligibly? How long will it take me to get there? Damned if I know, but I’m along for the ride.