You, in the back, the one who clearly doesn't know what's going on

I left about an hour and a half before I had to be at the press conference. One, I knew I would probably get a little lost. Two, the Grand Serail (the Prime Minister’s office where the conference was being held) is the epicenter of tent city, and I would have to cajole my way through a few guards to get there.

There are people all over my general neighborhood wanting to shine your shoes. Most, and the most persistent, are kids. I usually just walk past, repeatedly saying, “No,” even as they follow me down the street. (One day, this kid who I see almost daily just happened to turn as I walked by, slamming my shin with his shoeshine box. He didn’t ask if I wanted a polish, though.)

The day of the press conference I was followed for over a block. This kid spoke some English too. Reluctantly, I stopped. After a few seconds, the other shoeshine kids caught up with us and surrounded me. They all spoke a bit of English. One of them asked me for a cigarette. He looked about 12, so I gave him one. I drew the line, however, when the one that looked 8 started asking.

(That same 8-year-old followed me down the street later in the day begging for a cigarette and trying to sell me a pack of Chicklettes he pressed into my hand after coming in for a shake, like a drug deal or an old man slipping you a tip for parking his car at the local hospital. They do, by the way, have valet service at one hospital in town.)

I was very close to the Serail, trying to hand a soldier the Arabic press release I had through a web of razor wire. He pointed and made some turns with his hand, directing me how to weave my way through the blockades and tents to reach my destination.

I had to cut through a circle of tent dwellers sitting on plastic chairs. They were presumably guarding access to tent city. I walked into the circle, said, “Hello,” and went to proceed toward the Serail. One guy moved his foot and set it down in my path. He shot me an icy, where-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-going glare.

I pointed to the building I could have hit with a stone. He gave a, “This way,” gesture with his right hand. I was trying to go through the tents when I should go around them.

The conference was, obviously, in Arabic, but I was told the minister holding it spoke English and I should approach him afterward to ask what happened. He didn’t have time for that, so I met his press person an hour later across town.

The story turned out OK, and I have my first Beirut dateline.