"Mar haba", "shukran"(Hello, thank you)

“Oh, Christ, there goes a bomb,” I thought as an explosive crash of thunder roused me from sleep this morning. It rained on and off today. Heavy downpours (mixed with marble-sized hail in the morning) that each lasted around 10 but no more than 20 minutes and armed soldiers peppered my daily runnings around. I went to visit the AP bureau on the edge of the opposition’s tent city.

The building stood in between two concertina-wire barricades the army erected along a road leading to what is now the tent city. None of the soldiers spoke English, and all I’ve mastered is “Hello” and “Thank you.” Not too effective for finding a building. My approach was to basically continue walking until someone stopped me.

Streets here aren’t labeled, and, unlike other cities I’ve traveled in, no one stops on the street to consult a map. Not wanting to stand out even more, I decided to look the map over before I left and hope I remembered where to go. Oh, and I wasn’t even sure were to go as the “address” (a foreign concept Lebanon hasn’t adopted) I had was a square I couldn’t find on any of the maps I have. (This lack of addresses proved equally perplexing when I sat down to order dinner by delivery. I offered the restaurant the district I’m in and the buildings I’m between. My dinner did arrive, so the system works, I guess.)

Upon arrival in the office of the writer I was there to meet, I assumed my day’s Odyssey was over. If I’ve learned anything thus far, it’s that I’m wrong. Always. The visa I applied for doesn’t actually grant me any special access as a journalist. To get into official government buildings I need press credentials I can only get with a letter from a newspaper saying they’ll publish my work.

I was advised to visit the Ministry of Information to speak with an official in charge of credentialing the foreign press. I was given directions I thought I understood. However, I arrived at the Ministry of Tourism, a one-story building about one-half of a block long. Behind it was a larger building whose second story jutted out above the tourism building, hovering above about three-fourths of it. The larger building took up almost the entire block, the extra space used for covered parking.

The woman in the Ministry of Tourism directed me down and across the street to my left. I saw two tall bank buildings. Neither of which were a) peopled with English speakers (though both were able to call someone else over to help), nor b) the Ministry of Information. I was then pointed in the direction of the building above the tourism building. Still not right but getting closer. (In this building I remembered I’d written the word for “journalist” in my notebook from yesterday’s Arabic lesson. I used it in when repeating the name of the man I had to see. The golden ticket apparently.)

Turns out the Ministry of Information is almost directly behind the Ministry of Tourism but around the block (on Rue Spears as opposed to Rue Hamra, meaning I had to walk in a sideways “U” without crossing any streets).

While searching for a button to what looked like an elevator inside the ministry after walking undisturbed past about 5 or 6 men with guns, a man in jeans, a trendy sweater and a nice, equally trendy leather jacket came up to me to see what I was doing. Finally the man I needed’s name rang a bell. As we walked to a stairwell, the man asked where I was from. “America? What state?”

I said Illinois but quickly said Chicago. “Oh, gangsters,” he said. “Yeah,” I half-laughed. “Dangerous. You can’t go out at night.” Before I could respond, he was pointing me up the stairs to an open office where I was told nothing I didn’t learn in the AP office.

I developed a new approach to crossing the busier streets – wait for a local and just follow. It’s worked every time but damn does it get close. Sometimes I just don’t have the stomach for it. I’ll wait for a less death-defying pedestrian to take the leap with.

That finished, I was off to meet Jules at the university so I could start e-mailing newspapers to get my letter. About a block and a half away, I saw one of my first bicycle riders in Beirut. He looked about 25 or so and was very shakily and rather slowly riding a BMX bike he was clearly too big for. He was riding in the street the opposite direction I was walking as was a man on a moped several feet behind him.

The guy on the moped suddenly became very focused, crouching his head and body down. He drove up along side the cyclist who really looked like a sadly overgrown 6-year-old making his first trip down the driveway. As the moped was almost entirely past the bike so only the bike’s front tire and the moped’s back tire were aligned, the guy on the moped cut left. The bike’s tire was 90 degrees from where it should have been, the rider was pitched forward but caught himself by grabbing the twisted handlebar in the middle and planting his feet (he’d have fallen if he knew how to ride the bike any faster), and the moped driver just stared at him.

I don’t understand the language they were speaking, but the biker yelled, the moped driver said something quick back and proceeded with his left turn. I don’t think they were friends joking. It was the first time I’ve seen a close call on the street (which I see about every 10 seconds) connect, and it looked completely purposeful.