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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Internship
Around my third or forth day here, I went into the office of English-language newspaper, The Daily Star to ask for a job or internship. I was given the editor-in-chief’s email address and told to ask him.
Two e-mails later, my friend John happened to ask who I was e-mailing as he’d met a few people who work there and written a piece for them once. “Hanna Aubar,” I said, pulling out the business card the receptionist handwrote his address on.
His last name is definitely “Anbar.” I soon sent an e-mail to the right person. He replied the next day, telling me to call his secretary (whom he did not name) to setup an appointment. She, Jojette, told me she’d talk to him when he came into the office in the next few hours and call me back.
Two days later, I called her. She told me to come in Monday (Feb. 28, we’re almost in real time now, friends) for an interview.
I put on a belt, tucked in my shirt and headed off.
I had to wait a few minutes in the small lobby outside the newsroom for Mayssem, the woman conducting the interview. She introduced herself, looked like she was about to take me back to where she’d just come from and then suggested we just sit there and talk for a minute.
She knew nothing about me except my name. Mr. Anbar hadn’t forwarded her my resume. I gave her a brief run-down of my experience. She asked what I was interested in, and said she’d have me start today.
I went into the newsroom, and started reading stories on the news wire (a compilation of everything from the Associated Press, Reuters and Agences France Presse) and the English-language Web site of Beirut’s An-Nahar.
Mayssem had me convert a press release into a brief and told me to go to a press conference the next day.
That was easy. (I’m pretty sure they’re not paying me.)
Two e-mails later, my friend John happened to ask who I was e-mailing as he’d met a few people who work there and written a piece for them once. “Hanna Aubar,” I said, pulling out the business card the receptionist handwrote his address on.
His last name is definitely “Anbar.” I soon sent an e-mail to the right person. He replied the next day, telling me to call his secretary (whom he did not name) to setup an appointment. She, Jojette, told me she’d talk to him when he came into the office in the next few hours and call me back.
Two days later, I called her. She told me to come in Monday (Feb. 28, we’re almost in real time now, friends) for an interview.
I put on a belt, tucked in my shirt and headed off.
I had to wait a few minutes in the small lobby outside the newsroom for Mayssem, the woman conducting the interview. She introduced herself, looked like she was about to take me back to where she’d just come from and then suggested we just sit there and talk for a minute.
She knew nothing about me except my name. Mr. Anbar hadn’t forwarded her my resume. I gave her a brief run-down of my experience. She asked what I was interested in, and said she’d have me start today.
I went into the newsroom, and started reading stories on the news wire (a compilation of everything from the Associated Press, Reuters and Agences France Presse) and the English-language Web site of Beirut’s An-Nahar.
Mayssem had me convert a press release into a brief and told me to go to a press conference the next day.
That was easy. (I’m pretty sure they’re not paying me.)
A turn by any other name (or the universality of bad taste)
My roommate, Martin, is German. He makes jokes about being a fascist and throws his arm up into the air, giving an accented “Hiel, Hitler,” when he enters a room. My kind of humor.
He is pretty serious about saying, “Cheers.” That first afternoon in the apartment (no, the sun had not yet set) he asked if I wanted a whiskey. My kind of booze.
“In America you don’t look in the eyes when you say, ‘Cheers?’”
That’s important. I was watching my glass as my poor motor skills could easily have led me to pour booze all over my new whiskey-toting best friend. I explained and have not messed up since.
I do, however, occasionally forget to wait until everyone in the room has a drink open, has clinked beverages and offered the salutation to the gods of fun before taking my first sip. Also a mistake.
Two days after moving in, I went with Martin to visit two of his German friends also studying at the American University. We were watching a soccer game, drinking beers and shooting the shit. It was fun. They spoke in German a lot, but I’ve grown used to just listening to “gibberish.”
At one point this guy, Sebastian, was telling a story about some other guy who sucked. He was moving along in English until he tried to describe the guy’s haircut. He said something in German, the others laughed, and he inquisitively turned to me.
“What do you call it when the hair is long in back but short in the front?”
Even the Germans get it.
He is pretty serious about saying, “Cheers.” That first afternoon in the apartment (no, the sun had not yet set) he asked if I wanted a whiskey. My kind of booze.
“In America you don’t look in the eyes when you say, ‘Cheers?’”
That’s important. I was watching my glass as my poor motor skills could easily have led me to pour booze all over my new whiskey-toting best friend. I explained and have not messed up since.
I do, however, occasionally forget to wait until everyone in the room has a drink open, has clinked beverages and offered the salutation to the gods of fun before taking my first sip. Also a mistake.
Two days after moving in, I went with Martin to visit two of his German friends also studying at the American University. We were watching a soccer game, drinking beers and shooting the shit. It was fun. They spoke in German a lot, but I’ve grown used to just listening to “gibberish.”
At one point this guy, Sebastian, was telling a story about some other guy who sucked. He was moving along in English until he tried to describe the guy’s haircut. He said something in German, the others laughed, and he inquisitively turned to me.
“What do you call it when the hair is long in back but short in the front?”
Even the Germans get it.
Internet service provider
I realized today that our ISP is not a company but a man whose name I can’t pronounce. It begins with a “D” and has a “kh” sound (like the Scottish “loch,” as pronounciation guides are wont to describe it, but that’s not actually the sound. It’s deeper, almost like trying to cough up a popcorn kernel casing stuck on the hangy thing standing guard over your throat, or even like Larry David trying to wrestle a pube off of that same anatomical sentry.)
Samer, our landlord, told us we could choose between a 64 kilobite-per-second connection for $45 per month or a 140 kb/s connection for $53. Our ISP tried to charge $60.
“Uh, Samer said it would be $53,” I said. He paused. Thought for a few seconds.
“OK, I can do that.” Damn straight.
This exchange, however, did not take place easily. He was supposed to come the day we moved in. He said he did. Martin and I were home when he claims to have come by. Apparently he stood outside our door trying to establish a psychic connection to announce his presence, failed and left.
The next day Samer came by to address the lack of a desk (which will be resolved next weekend) and the useless refrigerator (we were asked to wait a few days to see if the problem fixed itself, which it did not). He called ISP (from my phone because he was out of minutes but at least I have his number now) and it was agreed he’d come within half an hour.
He arrived around 2 ½ hours later. I’d given up hope.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Yesterday, I came. Today, I didn’t.”
In an effort to prevent the rampant theft of wire-based services in Lebanon, each computer using a line has to have its IP address registered (or something).
(Our Internet wire goes out our wall, and bounces from building to building to somewhere in the distance. The same is true for cable TV and electricity. People have a tendency to splice into these wires.)
My computer, ISP told me, was too old. He needed to do something special that he couldn’t do right there. (My vagueness is not to question the credibility of what he was saying but a function of my complete ignorance on this subject.)
When did I want him to come back tomorrow? “Whatever time works best for you.”
“No, no, tell me, and I will be here.”
“Ok, how about 9?” He stared without responding. “10?” Still staring. “11?” Nothing. “Whatever works for you.” He continued to politely insist I set the time. “No, no, when do you want me here?”
“11?” Silence. “12?” I started to laugh, and he asked if I woke up early. “I’ve been waking up at 7 a.m. since I got here for some reason, so whenever you’d like to come.”
“I can’t wake up before 11,” he confided. At last we’re getting somewhere. “Ok, 12?” Nothing. “1, how does 1 work?”
“OK, I’ll be here at 1.”
At 1:15 the next day, he arrived and fixed my computer.
Samer, our landlord, told us we could choose between a 64 kilobite-per-second connection for $45 per month or a 140 kb/s connection for $53. Our ISP tried to charge $60.
“Uh, Samer said it would be $53,” I said. He paused. Thought for a few seconds.
“OK, I can do that.” Damn straight.
This exchange, however, did not take place easily. He was supposed to come the day we moved in. He said he did. Martin and I were home when he claims to have come by. Apparently he stood outside our door trying to establish a psychic connection to announce his presence, failed and left.
The next day Samer came by to address the lack of a desk (which will be resolved next weekend) and the useless refrigerator (we were asked to wait a few days to see if the problem fixed itself, which it did not). He called ISP (from my phone because he was out of minutes but at least I have his number now) and it was agreed he’d come within half an hour.
He arrived around 2 ½ hours later. I’d given up hope.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Yesterday, I came. Today, I didn’t.”
In an effort to prevent the rampant theft of wire-based services in Lebanon, each computer using a line has to have its IP address registered (or something).
(Our Internet wire goes out our wall, and bounces from building to building to somewhere in the distance. The same is true for cable TV and electricity. People have a tendency to splice into these wires.)
My computer, ISP told me, was too old. He needed to do something special that he couldn’t do right there. (My vagueness is not to question the credibility of what he was saying but a function of my complete ignorance on this subject.)
When did I want him to come back tomorrow? “Whatever time works best for you.”
“No, no, tell me, and I will be here.”
“Ok, how about 9?” He stared without responding. “10?” Still staring. “11?” Nothing. “Whatever works for you.” He continued to politely insist I set the time. “No, no, when do you want me here?”
“11?” Silence. “12?” I started to laugh, and he asked if I woke up early. “I’ve been waking up at 7 a.m. since I got here for some reason, so whenever you’d like to come.”
“I can’t wake up before 11,” he confided. At last we’re getting somewhere. “Ok, 12?” Nothing. “1, how does 1 work?”
“OK, I’ll be here at 1.”
At 1:15 the next day, he arrived and fixed my computer.
Move in Day
Looking back I realize my timing was perfect. I left the Midwest just as winter was beginning to kick into high gear (or so my mom and the weather reports I occasionally see tell me). I have yet to need anything more than a sweater to keep warm. This, however, will likely bite me in the ass in summer swelters in a land where shorts are considered offensive.
I have a penchant for sweating that turned into a lust as I laboriously trudged from my temporary apartment to my own place about 15 minutes away. Certainly not helping matters was the giant hill I have to climb to leave the coast and head into the city. (The fact that I was abandoning my view of the sea was difficult enough.)
Man, did a cabbie honkfest ensue as I carried almost all of my possessions in a overstuffed travel backpack down Hamra street (despite the fact that I was walking against the flow of traffic on the one-way street, a legality everyone buy moped drivers obeys). It only took me two trips.
There were a few requests we made of our landlord. (He owns only our apartment in a 9-story building.) We asked for a few rugs. When I asked if the place had a washing machine, he said no but that he’d get us one. (I’m not counting this one as a request per se.) Julianne asked for a desk. This we went over a few times. She needed a desk.
The place looked great when we looked at it two days before the big move in. He’d gotten rugs, a washing machine, replaced the carpet in Julianne’s room with piece-it-together hardwood floors, painted the bathtub that was pretty gross, but there was no desk.
Jules and I snooped around a bit more, looking for pots (there were many) and pans (there was one). Samer (our landlord) assured us he’d washed them, “of course.” On our first visit, he assured us the water heater took only a half hour, “maximum, of course,” for a hot shower.
Our first day in the place (Tuesday, Feb. 20), Jules had class until late so she didn’t come until the next day. It was just Martin and I.
Martin is a German guy Jules, Dan and I met my second day here. He approached the three of us to see if we knew of any open apartments. We saw him a few more times over the next week or so. When Jules and I saw our place, there was one room that could easily be converted into a bedroom.
(Quick schematic: there are two units per floor in our building. We’re on the second floor. The first, ground-level floor, however, is floor 0. Our door opens to a hallway with a half bathroom directly ahead. To the left is a doorway to the dining room. The dining room has a doorway to the living room. One of the living room walls faces the street and has windows. One of the dining room walls is made up of glass doors with a wooden divider behind them that can be rolled up or down. Behind the doors and divider is a smallish room where Martin lives. His bedroom doors open to the living room. The other doorway in the living room leads to a small room where the fridge and a water cooler are. To the left is the kitchen with a washing machine. The fridge room opens to the hallway you’re in when you first enter. From the half bathroom another short hallway leads to a full bathroom on the right, Jules’ room on the left and my room straight ahead. Jules and I share a small balcony. There’s an even smaller balcony littered with odds and ends off the kitchen.)
I soon realized “of course” must have been mistranslated when my landlord learned its meaning. The dishes, silverware, pots and pan were pretty dirty. Most of the silverware was sticky. The pots were lined with the burned remnants of various foodstuffs. (Which came off after some scrubbing.)
The tank in the bathroom that stores hot water, which should provide it after being turned for a half an hour, needs to be on overnight. Shaving with cold water does not feel good.
Our refrigerator does not work. The freezer works fine, but the fridge is not cold. Also, it leaks water. I’m not sure from where as there is no water line going into it. Perhaps it is condensation amassing where the freezer meets enclosed room that is warmer than the room it’s in beneath it. Who knows?
I have a penchant for sweating that turned into a lust as I laboriously trudged from my temporary apartment to my own place about 15 minutes away. Certainly not helping matters was the giant hill I have to climb to leave the coast and head into the city. (The fact that I was abandoning my view of the sea was difficult enough.)
Man, did a cabbie honkfest ensue as I carried almost all of my possessions in a overstuffed travel backpack down Hamra street (despite the fact that I was walking against the flow of traffic on the one-way street, a legality everyone buy moped drivers obeys). It only took me two trips.
There were a few requests we made of our landlord. (He owns only our apartment in a 9-story building.) We asked for a few rugs. When I asked if the place had a washing machine, he said no but that he’d get us one. (I’m not counting this one as a request per se.) Julianne asked for a desk. This we went over a few times. She needed a desk.
The place looked great when we looked at it two days before the big move in. He’d gotten rugs, a washing machine, replaced the carpet in Julianne’s room with piece-it-together hardwood floors, painted the bathtub that was pretty gross, but there was no desk.
Jules and I snooped around a bit more, looking for pots (there were many) and pans (there was one). Samer (our landlord) assured us he’d washed them, “of course.” On our first visit, he assured us the water heater took only a half hour, “maximum, of course,” for a hot shower.
Our first day in the place (Tuesday, Feb. 20), Jules had class until late so she didn’t come until the next day. It was just Martin and I.
Martin is a German guy Jules, Dan and I met my second day here. He approached the three of us to see if we knew of any open apartments. We saw him a few more times over the next week or so. When Jules and I saw our place, there was one room that could easily be converted into a bedroom.
(Quick schematic: there are two units per floor in our building. We’re on the second floor. The first, ground-level floor, however, is floor 0. Our door opens to a hallway with a half bathroom directly ahead. To the left is a doorway to the dining room. The dining room has a doorway to the living room. One of the living room walls faces the street and has windows. One of the dining room walls is made up of glass doors with a wooden divider behind them that can be rolled up or down. Behind the doors and divider is a smallish room where Martin lives. His bedroom doors open to the living room. The other doorway in the living room leads to a small room where the fridge and a water cooler are. To the left is the kitchen with a washing machine. The fridge room opens to the hallway you’re in when you first enter. From the half bathroom another short hallway leads to a full bathroom on the right, Jules’ room on the left and my room straight ahead. Jules and I share a small balcony. There’s an even smaller balcony littered with odds and ends off the kitchen.)
I soon realized “of course” must have been mistranslated when my landlord learned its meaning. The dishes, silverware, pots and pan were pretty dirty. Most of the silverware was sticky. The pots were lined with the burned remnants of various foodstuffs. (Which came off after some scrubbing.)
The tank in the bathroom that stores hot water, which should provide it after being turned for a half an hour, needs to be on overnight. Shaving with cold water does not feel good.
Our refrigerator does not work. The freezer works fine, but the fridge is not cold. Also, it leaks water. I’m not sure from where as there is no water line going into it. Perhaps it is condensation amassing where the freezer meets enclosed room that is warmer than the room it’s in beneath it. Who knows?
Shave and a Haircut
There’s always a point at which my mangy mop of curls just becomes too much for me to bear. I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror or a shop window and decide I look ridiculous. Time to lop it all off.
Now, I have trouble describing how I want my hair cut to fluent English speakers. I never know what to say. I like my hair short, a little longer on top than on the sides and in back. Unfortunately, this haircut does not have a name. I usually end up just asking to leave looking presentable.
So, on Monday (Feb. 19, I swear I’m going to start writing and posting these things the day they happen) I sat in my room, hunched over an English-Arabic dictionary, trying to formulate some sort of sentence explaining that which I can’t quite explain.
I settled for “approximately this” (at which point I’d make a half-inch with my thumb and pointer finger) “long.” I repeated these three words like a mantra as I wandered from my temporary apartment, looking for a barber. I’d seen several so far in Beirut, but couldn’t remember where exactly.
Turns out, there was one about two blocks away. Wins.
There were two guys sitting on a couch along the window. Like most young Lebanese, they were very fashionable. Fashion is big with young people here. For guys, it’s a very metro sexual look. (Tightish pants, usually pre-faded jeans, and collared shirts but trendy sweaters are popular.) Hair is healthily gelled, and fo-hawks abound.
Girls’ clothes always kind of confuse me. There are huge belts that don’t fit into loops and, I’m sure, play no part in holding up pants, sweaters that cover the arms but don’t go below the breasts, big, goofy looking sunglasses, and once I saw a flock of girls wearing shorts that were no bigger than undaroos with skin-tight 80s-style stretch pants (though they were in standard, not hot or neon, colors). It gets kind of sexy in Lebanon.
(Quick aside: There are lingerie stores all over my neighborhood. Sexy lingerie. And the mannequins all have carefully-formed, rock-hard nipples. Even (I’ll sound like a creep for noticing, but you can’t not) the little girl mannequins.)
I was a bit afraid of the trendy guys my age. But they spoke English. (Sort of.) The cut went well. I’m pretty sure they mocked me most of the time, but I don’t really care. There were, at points, three guys standing around me. The guy cutting my hair left to make a phone call during and at the end of the haircut. He attacked the front of my hair (bangs? The part that hangs onto my forehead) with a straight razor.
When my hair is wet, I have a heart monitor traipsing across my forehead. It looks good though. Just as I was getting ready to pay, thinking I’d had a perfectly normal experience came the “What?” moment.
“Do you want to take a shower?” the only guy left in the shop asked me. I was not prepared for that one. Had I known I would have brought a towel.
“No, thanks,” but I regret it. I should have taken the shower.
Now, I have trouble describing how I want my hair cut to fluent English speakers. I never know what to say. I like my hair short, a little longer on top than on the sides and in back. Unfortunately, this haircut does not have a name. I usually end up just asking to leave looking presentable.
So, on Monday (Feb. 19, I swear I’m going to start writing and posting these things the day they happen) I sat in my room, hunched over an English-Arabic dictionary, trying to formulate some sort of sentence explaining that which I can’t quite explain.
I settled for “approximately this” (at which point I’d make a half-inch with my thumb and pointer finger) “long.” I repeated these three words like a mantra as I wandered from my temporary apartment, looking for a barber. I’d seen several so far in Beirut, but couldn’t remember where exactly.
Turns out, there was one about two blocks away. Wins.
There were two guys sitting on a couch along the window. Like most young Lebanese, they were very fashionable. Fashion is big with young people here. For guys, it’s a very metro sexual look. (Tightish pants, usually pre-faded jeans, and collared shirts but trendy sweaters are popular.) Hair is healthily gelled, and fo-hawks abound.
Girls’ clothes always kind of confuse me. There are huge belts that don’t fit into loops and, I’m sure, play no part in holding up pants, sweaters that cover the arms but don’t go below the breasts, big, goofy looking sunglasses, and once I saw a flock of girls wearing shorts that were no bigger than undaroos with skin-tight 80s-style stretch pants (though they were in standard, not hot or neon, colors). It gets kind of sexy in Lebanon.
(Quick aside: There are lingerie stores all over my neighborhood. Sexy lingerie. And the mannequins all have carefully-formed, rock-hard nipples. Even (I’ll sound like a creep for noticing, but you can’t not) the little girl mannequins.)
I was a bit afraid of the trendy guys my age. But they spoke English. (Sort of.) The cut went well. I’m pretty sure they mocked me most of the time, but I don’t really care. There were, at points, three guys standing around me. The guy cutting my hair left to make a phone call during and at the end of the haircut. He attacked the front of my hair (bangs? The part that hangs onto my forehead) with a straight razor.
When my hair is wet, I have a heart monitor traipsing across my forehead. It looks good though. Just as I was getting ready to pay, thinking I’d had a perfectly normal experience came the “What?” moment.
“Do you want to take a shower?” the only guy left in the shop asked me. I was not prepared for that one. Had I known I would have brought a towel.
“No, thanks,” but I regret it. I should have taken the shower.
My Day with Jesus
I got hoodwinked into attending church on Saturday (Feb. 17).
I’ve been working with an Egyptian guy, John, on stories over the past two weeks. John came to Beirut from Cairo to cover the summer war for an Egyptian newspaper. He’s stayed on to freelance and work teaching Arabic to American students via the Internet videophone program Skype.
(Nothing we’ve written was purchased, and the political nature of our stories make them useless in the States where papers depend on wire services for their news. My niche, which I’m doggedly pursuing, will be feature articles.)
We were off to pick up batteries, do an interview, and use the Internet. On the walk to the bus, John mentioned wanting to go to mass. Since we’d already left the house, I wouldn’t really know where to meet him if we split ways and I’m always up for something new, I attended mass.
While hosted at the Jesuit residence near a street known for bars and clubs (those jumpin’ Jesuits couldn’t pass up a good time, I presumed), the mass was in the Maronite rite. And in Arabic.
We arrived on the 10th floor of the residence building to find no one. John took me to a room with an altar and an amazing view of downtown (tent city). Empty chairs surrounded the altar in a half-circle. John went off to find someone, and I stared out the window, grateful to have dodged that bullet.
Soon, however, a priest showed up. He rang a bell, introduced himself, and three other guys joined us for mass. Fr. Zeki handed me a bible and pointed me in the direction of the day’s two readings. I’m not really sure if I read them at the correct time. While Fr. Zeki gave me a few English asides, I was pretty much lost during the service.
A majority of the mass, Fr. Zeki sat one chair away from me, directly across from the altar. He stood behind it for the communion part. There was a lot more moving the host around in cross-shapes than I remember from Catholic services. We had a white wine that was sweet and very tasty. I normally don’t like white wine, and I seriously considered asking what it was after the service. I decided against it.
There were about three or four times when we bowed our heads in silent prayer. (I wondered if I should pretend to pray or just think about whatever I wanted. Everyone seemed so sincerely involved in the service I felt a little guilty sitting there thinking about nothing. Ultimately, I just thought about nothing. Who would I pray to, and what would I say?)
In one of his asides, Fr. Zeki told me two ways the Maronite rite differs from the Latin rite.
(To tell me, however, he started with, “You know the Latin rite?” I heard, “You know Latin, right?” assuming he mistranslated a bit and added an extra “the” to his question. “No, I never had to learn it,” I said, making an ass of myself.)
Apparently the “peace-be-with-you” part is earlier (I didn’t notice) as well as the part where we call the Holy Spirit (I didn’t even know that was part of the Roman Catholic mass).
With that behind us, we were off. Stop number three was the house of some of John’s Lebanese Christian friends. They were great guys. One, whose name I can’t recall, is a geography teacher. His brother, Farid, is in college for marketing.
Farid’s English is worse than his brother’s. (He actually speaks very well, but at first he spoke almost only in Arabic, leading me to think he didn’t speak English at all.)
We were looking at an atlas, talking about Lebanon while John was on the phone and Farid studied at a table a few feet away. He briefly explained some of the history of Christians in Lebanon, pointing out they had nothing to do with the Crusades but were still blamed for them by their countrymen.
He complained that the Muslims had foreign countries willing to enter Lebanon to save them. The Christians, however, had no one. (Which isn’t really true, but truth isn’t necessarily a gold standard in Lebanon.)
“Jesus,” Farid exclaimed with an almost child-like enthusiasm. “We have Jesus. Jesus is our rock.” We all laughed.
“Are you Catholic?” Farid’s brother asked me. I said yes. We continued looking at the atlas, and Farid walked up, handing me a picture cut from a magazine of Pope John Paul II.
I’ve been working with an Egyptian guy, John, on stories over the past two weeks. John came to Beirut from Cairo to cover the summer war for an Egyptian newspaper. He’s stayed on to freelance and work teaching Arabic to American students via the Internet videophone program Skype.
(Nothing we’ve written was purchased, and the political nature of our stories make them useless in the States where papers depend on wire services for their news. My niche, which I’m doggedly pursuing, will be feature articles.)
We were off to pick up batteries, do an interview, and use the Internet. On the walk to the bus, John mentioned wanting to go to mass. Since we’d already left the house, I wouldn’t really know where to meet him if we split ways and I’m always up for something new, I attended mass.
While hosted at the Jesuit residence near a street known for bars and clubs (those jumpin’ Jesuits couldn’t pass up a good time, I presumed), the mass was in the Maronite rite. And in Arabic.
We arrived on the 10th floor of the residence building to find no one. John took me to a room with an altar and an amazing view of downtown (tent city). Empty chairs surrounded the altar in a half-circle. John went off to find someone, and I stared out the window, grateful to have dodged that bullet.
Soon, however, a priest showed up. He rang a bell, introduced himself, and three other guys joined us for mass. Fr. Zeki handed me a bible and pointed me in the direction of the day’s two readings. I’m not really sure if I read them at the correct time. While Fr. Zeki gave me a few English asides, I was pretty much lost during the service.
A majority of the mass, Fr. Zeki sat one chair away from me, directly across from the altar. He stood behind it for the communion part. There was a lot more moving the host around in cross-shapes than I remember from Catholic services. We had a white wine that was sweet and very tasty. I normally don’t like white wine, and I seriously considered asking what it was after the service. I decided against it.
There were about three or four times when we bowed our heads in silent prayer. (I wondered if I should pretend to pray or just think about whatever I wanted. Everyone seemed so sincerely involved in the service I felt a little guilty sitting there thinking about nothing. Ultimately, I just thought about nothing. Who would I pray to, and what would I say?)
In one of his asides, Fr. Zeki told me two ways the Maronite rite differs from the Latin rite.
(To tell me, however, he started with, “You know the Latin rite?” I heard, “You know Latin, right?” assuming he mistranslated a bit and added an extra “the” to his question. “No, I never had to learn it,” I said, making an ass of myself.)
Apparently the “peace-be-with-you” part is earlier (I didn’t notice) as well as the part where we call the Holy Spirit (I didn’t even know that was part of the Roman Catholic mass).
With that behind us, we were off. Stop number three was the house of some of John’s Lebanese Christian friends. They were great guys. One, whose name I can’t recall, is a geography teacher. His brother, Farid, is in college for marketing.
Farid’s English is worse than his brother’s. (He actually speaks very well, but at first he spoke almost only in Arabic, leading me to think he didn’t speak English at all.)
We were looking at an atlas, talking about Lebanon while John was on the phone and Farid studied at a table a few feet away. He briefly explained some of the history of Christians in Lebanon, pointing out they had nothing to do with the Crusades but were still blamed for them by their countrymen.
He complained that the Muslims had foreign countries willing to enter Lebanon to save them. The Christians, however, had no one. (Which isn’t really true, but truth isn’t necessarily a gold standard in Lebanon.)
“Jesus,” Farid exclaimed with an almost child-like enthusiasm. “We have Jesus. Jesus is our rock.” We all laughed.
“Are you Catholic?” Farid’s brother asked me. I said yes. We continued looking at the atlas, and Farid walked up, handing me a picture cut from a magazine of Pope John Paul II.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Happy Valentine's Day
In the week I’ve been here, decorations of support (pictures, strings of baby blue ribbons strung diagonally across the street, banners) for former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri’s Future Party slowly accumulated along Hamra Street. Monday marked the beginning of the cars packed full of young people driving the streets of my neighborhood and the road along the coast blaring music, honking horns and waving Lebanese and Future Youth flags.
Tuesday night the gym a block away played music for hours from its loud speakers. It’s home to Al-Riyadi (the Future-Party-sponsored basketball team). I saw the largest yet procession of vehicles – 22 cars and two scooters – Tuesday night. The next day, Valentine’s, marked the second anniversary of Hariri’s assassination.
Frighteningly, Tuesday was also the day two busses carrying civilians headed to work in the morning exploded, killing three. Since Hariri’s dealth several government officials and outspoken, anti-Syrian journalists have been killed, but the internal killing of random people (as opposed to casualties from this summer’s war) hasn’t happed since the end of the civil war.
I woke up around seven on the 14th, and people were already streaming toward the slain statesman’s grave downtown.
Hariri’s body, along with several of the 22 other people killed in the enormous explosion that left a giant crater and damaged several surrounding buildings, still lies in a shrine under some tents set up in downtown’s Martyrs’ Square. The shrine smells beautifully of the white flowers (carnations, I think) that completely cover each casket.
A portion of downtown became the tent city of the governing coalition’s opposition on Dec. 1. They’ll stay until the prime minister dissolves his cabinet and resigns. Elections soon after Hariri’s murder brought the coalition to power, led by his son, Saad.
The army, police and Internal Security Forces have the tent city blocked off from three directions with concrete blockades and concertina wire. While there were fears the sides would clash during the demonstration, it went peacefully.
People shimmied up light poles, climbed over Roman ruins, and hoisted themselves on top of phone booths and a Red Cross tent for a good view of the politicians speaking from behind bulletproof glass. Almost everyone had a flag and most were tied, stapled, or otherwise rigged to a stick or 15-foot fishing pole.
The fear of being skewered or stabbed in the eye by people who seemed not to notice they were constantly in very close proximity to someone else was the only real danger.
By around three in the afternoon government supporters had largely cleared the square. The tents, however, remain. My new landlord, while talking a few days ago as Jules and I paid him a deposit at a Starbucks, said he doesn’t think they’ll leave until they get what they want.
Sheik Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s leader, called for the camp-out and said it wouldn’t stop until the government fell. My landlord said Nasrallah’s pronouncements have yet to fail so no one would let this be the first.
Tuesday night the gym a block away played music for hours from its loud speakers. It’s home to Al-Riyadi (the Future-Party-sponsored basketball team). I saw the largest yet procession of vehicles – 22 cars and two scooters – Tuesday night. The next day, Valentine’s, marked the second anniversary of Hariri’s assassination.
Frighteningly, Tuesday was also the day two busses carrying civilians headed to work in the morning exploded, killing three. Since Hariri’s dealth several government officials and outspoken, anti-Syrian journalists have been killed, but the internal killing of random people (as opposed to casualties from this summer’s war) hasn’t happed since the end of the civil war.
I woke up around seven on the 14th, and people were already streaming toward the slain statesman’s grave downtown.
Hariri’s body, along with several of the 22 other people killed in the enormous explosion that left a giant crater and damaged several surrounding buildings, still lies in a shrine under some tents set up in downtown’s Martyrs’ Square. The shrine smells beautifully of the white flowers (carnations, I think) that completely cover each casket.
A portion of downtown became the tent city of the governing coalition’s opposition on Dec. 1. They’ll stay until the prime minister dissolves his cabinet and resigns. Elections soon after Hariri’s murder brought the coalition to power, led by his son, Saad.
The army, police and Internal Security Forces have the tent city blocked off from three directions with concrete blockades and concertina wire. While there were fears the sides would clash during the demonstration, it went peacefully.
People shimmied up light poles, climbed over Roman ruins, and hoisted themselves on top of phone booths and a Red Cross tent for a good view of the politicians speaking from behind bulletproof glass. Almost everyone had a flag and most were tied, stapled, or otherwise rigged to a stick or 15-foot fishing pole.
The fear of being skewered or stabbed in the eye by people who seemed not to notice they were constantly in very close proximity to someone else was the only real danger.
By around three in the afternoon government supporters had largely cleared the square. The tents, however, remain. My new landlord, while talking a few days ago as Jules and I paid him a deposit at a Starbucks, said he doesn’t think they’ll leave until they get what they want.
Sheik Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s leader, called for the camp-out and said it wouldn’t stop until the government fell. My landlord said Nasrallah’s pronouncements have yet to fail so no one would let this be the first.
A day in a camp
I met Akhmed at the poker night hosted at my temporary apartment every Thursday. He is Palestinian. Both he and his father were born in a refugee camp (Burj El-Barajneh – one of 12 set up by the UN in Lebanon). He’s a boozer.
(To my surprise, alcohol is readily available and not terribly expensive if done right. Beer in a store is around 75 cents per bottle for the cheap stuff produced here in Lebanon. Al Maza, the diamond, is a pilsner that luckily tastes better than a Miller product even if it uses rice. Liquor is more expensive, and bars can be very pricey. The night of the Super Bowl, my beer cost around $6.75.)
Akhmed is an interesting fellow. He is a Fatah leader, the Palestinian party led most famously by Yasser Arafat, and seriously distrusts Hamas. (He doesn’t want fucking Iran and Syria, Hamas patrons, carrying out a proxy war with America only to leave the Palestinian people on the back burner.)
He’s warm and friendly and his eyes look like sideways half-moons when he smiles, which is frequently. He also has a penchant for rock throwing – weather at Israelis across Lebanon’s southern border or at the Egyptian or American embassies in Beirut, he told Jules and I with an its-your-government-not-you smile.
His camp is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It is one square kilometer, inhabited by around 18,000 people, he said. I only saw one small road and a labyrinth of walkways between three- and four-story houses no more (but frequently less) than five feet in width. Scores of electrical wires create webs barely overhead. At one spot what looked like one hundred wires converged on what looked like a circuit breaker on a pole. The thing buzzed like a hive of bees holding a session of British Parliment.
Posters – mostly of Arafat – were everywhere. Akhmed pointed to one poster of a young man, explaining he was the most recent “martyr” – a suicide bomber who attacked Eliat, Israel, last month. Akhmed’s house had at least three pictures of Saddam Hussein (I didn’t get a full tour). Palestinians love Saddam because was an advocate for their rights (and I’m sure volleying scuds at Tel Aviv during the first Gulf War didn’t hurt).
Jules and I paid him a visit on Sunday. We sat on the lower roof of his house, drank tea, talked, watched men working with trained pigeons and listened as neighbors a few roofs away fire a gun into the air a few times. Akhmed said they were shooting at birds (not the trained pigeons). I saw no birds above the house.
The training of pigeons is a much-loved hobby. Pigeons become like children for the men who train them. They fly in circles in 10- to 15-bird flocks. To get the birds to fly faster the owner has a slingshot (not a “Y” with a rubber band, but a rope with a palm-sized hammock in the middle). He’ll put a lemon in the hammock, hold both ends of the rope in his hand, whip it around in a circle parallel to himself and rocket the lemon at the pigeons to scare them into getting a move on.
Akhmed said the lemons travel two or three kilometers. (I’m not converting to feet or miles because I can’t remember the conversion and don’t care to look. Do your own homework if you care.)
“So somewhere lemons are just falling down?” Jules asked. After a slight pause and either an I’ve-never-thought-about-it or a who-the-fuck-cares look, he said, yes.
To get the birds back, a process that takes around an hour, their owner whistles like a bottle rocket you can hear from blocks away and tempts the all-male flock with a clipped-wing female. Each trainer has one female for his flock.
Akhmed’s neighbor held the flapping female by her butt and feet, waving her up and down like a child with a sparkler. Occasionally he’d throw her up into the air, and she’d flutter back to the roof.
It was dark when Jules and I headed for one of the roads on the perimeter of the camp to wait for a taxi. We were in the southern suburbs of Beirut. Akhmed had pointed toward nearby areas the Israelis bombed the past summer.
He said he and his family stayed in the camp for the first ten days, heading to stay with friends in Beirut for the remaining 24. The road we waited on had a sign welcoming us (in French and Arabic) to Haret Hreyk, a Hezbollah stronghold heavily targeted during the war.
One girl in a passing car gave us a wide-eyed, slack-jawed look that made me fear I might have grown a second head sometime that afternoon.
(To my surprise, alcohol is readily available and not terribly expensive if done right. Beer in a store is around 75 cents per bottle for the cheap stuff produced here in Lebanon. Al Maza, the diamond, is a pilsner that luckily tastes better than a Miller product even if it uses rice. Liquor is more expensive, and bars can be very pricey. The night of the Super Bowl, my beer cost around $6.75.)
Akhmed is an interesting fellow. He is a Fatah leader, the Palestinian party led most famously by Yasser Arafat, and seriously distrusts Hamas. (He doesn’t want fucking Iran and Syria, Hamas patrons, carrying out a proxy war with America only to leave the Palestinian people on the back burner.)
He’s warm and friendly and his eyes look like sideways half-moons when he smiles, which is frequently. He also has a penchant for rock throwing – weather at Israelis across Lebanon’s southern border or at the Egyptian or American embassies in Beirut, he told Jules and I with an its-your-government-not-you smile.
His camp is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It is one square kilometer, inhabited by around 18,000 people, he said. I only saw one small road and a labyrinth of walkways between three- and four-story houses no more (but frequently less) than five feet in width. Scores of electrical wires create webs barely overhead. At one spot what looked like one hundred wires converged on what looked like a circuit breaker on a pole. The thing buzzed like a hive of bees holding a session of British Parliment.
Posters – mostly of Arafat – were everywhere. Akhmed pointed to one poster of a young man, explaining he was the most recent “martyr” – a suicide bomber who attacked Eliat, Israel, last month. Akhmed’s house had at least three pictures of Saddam Hussein (I didn’t get a full tour). Palestinians love Saddam because was an advocate for their rights (and I’m sure volleying scuds at Tel Aviv during the first Gulf War didn’t hurt).
Jules and I paid him a visit on Sunday. We sat on the lower roof of his house, drank tea, talked, watched men working with trained pigeons and listened as neighbors a few roofs away fire a gun into the air a few times. Akhmed said they were shooting at birds (not the trained pigeons). I saw no birds above the house.
The training of pigeons is a much-loved hobby. Pigeons become like children for the men who train them. They fly in circles in 10- to 15-bird flocks. To get the birds to fly faster the owner has a slingshot (not a “Y” with a rubber band, but a rope with a palm-sized hammock in the middle). He’ll put a lemon in the hammock, hold both ends of the rope in his hand, whip it around in a circle parallel to himself and rocket the lemon at the pigeons to scare them into getting a move on.
Akhmed said the lemons travel two or three kilometers. (I’m not converting to feet or miles because I can’t remember the conversion and don’t care to look. Do your own homework if you care.)
“So somewhere lemons are just falling down?” Jules asked. After a slight pause and either an I’ve-never-thought-about-it or a who-the-fuck-cares look, he said, yes.
To get the birds back, a process that takes around an hour, their owner whistles like a bottle rocket you can hear from blocks away and tempts the all-male flock with a clipped-wing female. Each trainer has one female for his flock.
Akhmed’s neighbor held the flapping female by her butt and feet, waving her up and down like a child with a sparkler. Occasionally he’d throw her up into the air, and she’d flutter back to the roof.
It was dark when Jules and I headed for one of the roads on the perimeter of the camp to wait for a taxi. We were in the southern suburbs of Beirut. Akhmed had pointed toward nearby areas the Israelis bombed the past summer.
He said he and his family stayed in the camp for the first ten days, heading to stay with friends in Beirut for the remaining 24. The road we waited on had a sign welcoming us (in French and Arabic) to Haret Hreyk, a Hezbollah stronghold heavily targeted during the war.
One girl in a passing car gave us a wide-eyed, slack-jawed look that made me fear I might have grown a second head sometime that afternoon.
Are you kidding me?
Unfortunately, as I’ve said more times than I’d like to recall with experiences such as these, I’m not really sure what this means. A person’s intentions can be hard to read and even more so when one is in a foreign culture.
The other day Jules and I were out looking for apartments. It was the middle of the afternoon, she wasn’t feeling well and she decided to head back to her hotel for a nap. I headed to my temporary apartment. The key I’d been given didn’t fit into its hole. After determining I was indeed at the right door, I decided to go for a walk until someone else came home.
I walked up toward Pigeon Rock. The birds that give the rock formation rising about five stories out of the sea right off the coast its name were absent, perhaps because it’s winter. (I don’t think pigeons migrate, but I’ve heard they swarm the place during the summer.) Since I’d killed only about 20 minutes, I continued.
I came to the public beach and decided to sit on a bench to watch the meager waves roll in. (So far, even on a very windy, stormy day, the sea has been remarkably calm.) I’m still in the bad habit of looking in the direction of car horns. (Looking makes the cabbies think you might be interested, and the habit in general can give you whiplash in a two-block walk.)
I looked at an SUV that honked (at me?) as I was about to sit down. I could only see the vehicle’s side as it was slowing down and parking almost directly behind me, so I couldn’t tell if it was a cab – distinguished by a red license plate.
I sat and looked forward to the sea. I was thinking and looking around and one or twice stole a glance behind me. The SUV was still there (a cab would have driven off), and its driver was staring (at me?) toward the water.
I stood and left. A few paces later, I turned my head to the honking. The guy in the SUV was creeping along the street with me, looking right at me and waving me over. I still didn’t know for sure if it was a cab or not. I walked over.
“Where are you going?” This has to be a cab. I’ll get rid of him.
“For a walk.” Wait for it.
“Can I go for a walk with you?” By his accent, it sounded like he could have said, “Can I go get drunk with you,” but that makes no sense.
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, ok. Sorry.”
I walked away, but saw him parked along the street again a couple hundred feet down the road. He let me pass unmolested.
The other day Jules and I were out looking for apartments. It was the middle of the afternoon, she wasn’t feeling well and she decided to head back to her hotel for a nap. I headed to my temporary apartment. The key I’d been given didn’t fit into its hole. After determining I was indeed at the right door, I decided to go for a walk until someone else came home.
I walked up toward Pigeon Rock. The birds that give the rock formation rising about five stories out of the sea right off the coast its name were absent, perhaps because it’s winter. (I don’t think pigeons migrate, but I’ve heard they swarm the place during the summer.) Since I’d killed only about 20 minutes, I continued.
I came to the public beach and decided to sit on a bench to watch the meager waves roll in. (So far, even on a very windy, stormy day, the sea has been remarkably calm.) I’m still in the bad habit of looking in the direction of car horns. (Looking makes the cabbies think you might be interested, and the habit in general can give you whiplash in a two-block walk.)
I looked at an SUV that honked (at me?) as I was about to sit down. I could only see the vehicle’s side as it was slowing down and parking almost directly behind me, so I couldn’t tell if it was a cab – distinguished by a red license plate.
I sat and looked forward to the sea. I was thinking and looking around and one or twice stole a glance behind me. The SUV was still there (a cab would have driven off), and its driver was staring (at me?) toward the water.
I stood and left. A few paces later, I turned my head to the honking. The guy in the SUV was creeping along the street with me, looking right at me and waving me over. I still didn’t know for sure if it was a cab or not. I walked over.
“Where are you going?” This has to be a cab. I’ll get rid of him.
“For a walk.” Wait for it.
“Can I go for a walk with you?” By his accent, it sounded like he could have said, “Can I go get drunk with you,” but that makes no sense.
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, ok. Sorry.”
I walked away, but saw him parked along the street again a couple hundred feet down the road. He let me pass unmolested.
Apartment hunting
Apartment hunting consisted of asking people we knew if they had open rooms, looking at flyers on the American University of Beirut’s campus and asking the woman who works with foreign students if she knew of anything new. (Jules had an e-mail from her with a few numbers from months ago.)
The two flyers for two-bedroom apartments hanging up were in English. The woman who answered the first number I called didn’t speak it, however. The numbers Jules had led to apartments that were already filled, one-bedrooms or no answers. The woman at school pointed us in the direction of an old widower who was renting out half of her large apartment.
We headed there but couldn’t find it. We ended up in a beautiful six-story apartment building inhabited, we were told, by one family. They did not share a last name with the woman we were trying to find. Jules called her (and later we would find out she heard the phone ring but opted not to answer), but no one answered.
Next we tried a building someone heard there were new apartments for rent. There were indeed. The place we saw was stunning. Everything was brand new including the flat-screen TV. We couldn’t afford it. But before the guy showing us around had us call the building’s manager to talk about the price, he took us up one floor to the pool on the roof. So out of our price range it wasn’t funny. Jules’s conversation with the manager lasted about 40 seconds.
The next day, with a hand-drawn map that included no words, two streets and a quarter-circle that I think represented an awning, we found the old woman. She was warm, funny and liked to hold your arm. The sectioned-off part of her apartment for rent was two bedrooms connected by a hallway. There was a bathroom off of the hallway. She called the hallway the kitchenette because it had shelves with dishes, pots and pans, and a microwave. She said she had an extra hotplate if we wanted so we could cook an egg.
Later, and a bit discouraged, we met with the guy who posted the other flyer on campus. He said he’d pick us up and drive us to the place. We agreed to meet in front of a restaurant. I called when we got there, and he said he saw us. (A few seconds and a few half-turns later, I saw him too.)
We ran over to his car, cutting diagonally through an intersection, to find he’d dinged a parked car. He quickly consulted with the car’s owner about the invisible “damage,” and we were on our way.
“It would have been faster to walk,” he said a few times. Traffic didn’t inch forward. It shot forward as people slammed on the gas to fill the few feet in front of them only to come to a complete stop again.
The place looked great. It was spacious if a bit empty. His descriptions of the work he’ll do before we move in on the 20th were peppered with “of course.” He opened the fridge to find the last tenants (who left a few days prior) left a few half-drank bottles of water, orange juice and absinthe. I almost asked him to leave that one in there.
Heartened, we headed off to cook dinner and get ready for poker night at my temporary home.
The two flyers for two-bedroom apartments hanging up were in English. The woman who answered the first number I called didn’t speak it, however. The numbers Jules had led to apartments that were already filled, one-bedrooms or no answers. The woman at school pointed us in the direction of an old widower who was renting out half of her large apartment.
We headed there but couldn’t find it. We ended up in a beautiful six-story apartment building inhabited, we were told, by one family. They did not share a last name with the woman we were trying to find. Jules called her (and later we would find out she heard the phone ring but opted not to answer), but no one answered.
Next we tried a building someone heard there were new apartments for rent. There were indeed. The place we saw was stunning. Everything was brand new including the flat-screen TV. We couldn’t afford it. But before the guy showing us around had us call the building’s manager to talk about the price, he took us up one floor to the pool on the roof. So out of our price range it wasn’t funny. Jules’s conversation with the manager lasted about 40 seconds.
The next day, with a hand-drawn map that included no words, two streets and a quarter-circle that I think represented an awning, we found the old woman. She was warm, funny and liked to hold your arm. The sectioned-off part of her apartment for rent was two bedrooms connected by a hallway. There was a bathroom off of the hallway. She called the hallway the kitchenette because it had shelves with dishes, pots and pans, and a microwave. She said she had an extra hotplate if we wanted so we could cook an egg.
Later, and a bit discouraged, we met with the guy who posted the other flyer on campus. He said he’d pick us up and drive us to the place. We agreed to meet in front of a restaurant. I called when we got there, and he said he saw us. (A few seconds and a few half-turns later, I saw him too.)
We ran over to his car, cutting diagonally through an intersection, to find he’d dinged a parked car. He quickly consulted with the car’s owner about the invisible “damage,” and we were on our way.
“It would have been faster to walk,” he said a few times. Traffic didn’t inch forward. It shot forward as people slammed on the gas to fill the few feet in front of them only to come to a complete stop again.
The place looked great. It was spacious if a bit empty. His descriptions of the work he’ll do before we move in on the 20th were peppered with “of course.” He opened the fridge to find the last tenants (who left a few days prior) left a few half-drank bottles of water, orange juice and absinthe. I almost asked him to leave that one in there.
Heartened, we headed off to cook dinner and get ready for poker night at my temporary home.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
"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.
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.
First Impressions
I woke up again, for about the third time on the four-and-a-half hour flight from London to Beirut, to the moon. It was absolutely the only thing in the pitch-black sky. No stars, no city skyline, just the moon. Lucky for me it was my favorite moon, when it’s a day after full, just risen, and that startlingly bright yellow-orange. We were somewhere over the Mediterranean, 20 minutes away.
I scanned the runways for signs of this summer’s bombs but noticed nothing. I had to fill out an entry card stating who I was, why I was there and where I’d be staying. I checked the box next to “Furnished apartment.” The man I had to give my card to asked me where it was. I wasn’t sure. It was my friend Julianne’s friend Dan’s place. He scratched out what I’d written and jotted down “Holiday In” (sic).
The Holiday Inn, which Jules and I passed on the way from the airport, was built just before the 15-year civil war, frequented by journalists (which I’d told the guy in the airport I was) and snipers and had been the target of bombs and bullets from all sides in those days. It’s an uninhabited shell of a building with holes all over it. It was designed to withstand an earthquake and kind of had. I laughed when I saw it and remembered that connection.
The government recently added 6,000 troops to patrol downtown because opposition protesters have been camped outside parliament in tents since the beginning of December. That erupted into violence for three days a week before I arrived. While walking from Jules’ hotel room to Dan’s, we passed about a foot in front of a soldier standing guard to the entrance of what I can only guess is a construction site.
“That’s the closest I’ve ever been to an AK,” I said quietly when we were beyond earshot. Jules laughed. Army guys with guns are good guns, not bad guns, the man who drove us from the airport said when we passed a few and a small tank at a corner.
English is everywhere but slightly broken. Some billboards are in English only, some Arabic only, some both and some French. I took an Arabic lesson in a Starbucks from a guy named Wael, a Lebanese friend of one of Jules’ friends. I’m probably going to hire him as a tutor. I hate not knowing the language.
Jules and I basically just walked around getting some things in order today – meeting with her advisor at school (which didn’t ultimately work), getting converters so we can plug our computers into Lebanese walls, finding a cell phone.
Now I know the rule is to haggle for things in the Middle East, but I was surprised I could haggle (I was 5,000 Lebanese pounds short) for the price of my phone. But that’s Lebanon, I guess. Everything’s kind of fluid. There simply aren’t traffic rules. However many cars abreast can fit down a road is how many lanes there are. “Lanes,” however, incorrectly suggests people stay in some sort of straight line while they drive. The only cars that stop when you try to cross the street are the taxis that have been honking since they saw you to see if you need a ride. You’d think your failure to respond to their honking would suggest you’re just crossing the street. Not the case. They stop, not long enough for you to cross, mind you, piss the people behind them off, and speed off when you say no.
The general cityscape is a hodgepodge. Beautiful stone buildings with ornate balconies that look well maintained and at least 100 years old are sandwiched in between drab, ugly, 6-story blocks resembling ramshackle housing projects. The entrance to my (Dan’s) apartment building is a perpetually darkened 8-foot opening between to some sort of store and a pile of dirt, chunks of concrete and debris before you get to a nice-looking restaurant. Especially at night, it is the last place you’d want to walk into. The door into the place is on the third floor. After you walk in a few feet and up maybe 10 stairs (the landing between the first and second floors), there’s a light switch. There’s another on the second floor and another on the third; actually these are buttons, not switches. The bulbs start on the second floor. The light turns off after 20 seconds. It’s like a race to get to the door in the light.
You can smoke everywhere, which people do, and apparently cigarettes are around $1.30 a pack. I haven’t had to buy rolling tobacco yet. I travel with the essentials.
I scanned the runways for signs of this summer’s bombs but noticed nothing. I had to fill out an entry card stating who I was, why I was there and where I’d be staying. I checked the box next to “Furnished apartment.” The man I had to give my card to asked me where it was. I wasn’t sure. It was my friend Julianne’s friend Dan’s place. He scratched out what I’d written and jotted down “Holiday In” (sic).
The Holiday Inn, which Jules and I passed on the way from the airport, was built just before the 15-year civil war, frequented by journalists (which I’d told the guy in the airport I was) and snipers and had been the target of bombs and bullets from all sides in those days. It’s an uninhabited shell of a building with holes all over it. It was designed to withstand an earthquake and kind of had. I laughed when I saw it and remembered that connection.
The government recently added 6,000 troops to patrol downtown because opposition protesters have been camped outside parliament in tents since the beginning of December. That erupted into violence for three days a week before I arrived. While walking from Jules’ hotel room to Dan’s, we passed about a foot in front of a soldier standing guard to the entrance of what I can only guess is a construction site.
“That’s the closest I’ve ever been to an AK,” I said quietly when we were beyond earshot. Jules laughed. Army guys with guns are good guns, not bad guns, the man who drove us from the airport said when we passed a few and a small tank at a corner.
English is everywhere but slightly broken. Some billboards are in English only, some Arabic only, some both and some French. I took an Arabic lesson in a Starbucks from a guy named Wael, a Lebanese friend of one of Jules’ friends. I’m probably going to hire him as a tutor. I hate not knowing the language.
Jules and I basically just walked around getting some things in order today – meeting with her advisor at school (which didn’t ultimately work), getting converters so we can plug our computers into Lebanese walls, finding a cell phone.
Now I know the rule is to haggle for things in the Middle East, but I was surprised I could haggle (I was 5,000 Lebanese pounds short) for the price of my phone. But that’s Lebanon, I guess. Everything’s kind of fluid. There simply aren’t traffic rules. However many cars abreast can fit down a road is how many lanes there are. “Lanes,” however, incorrectly suggests people stay in some sort of straight line while they drive. The only cars that stop when you try to cross the street are the taxis that have been honking since they saw you to see if you need a ride. You’d think your failure to respond to their honking would suggest you’re just crossing the street. Not the case. They stop, not long enough for you to cross, mind you, piss the people behind them off, and speed off when you say no.
The general cityscape is a hodgepodge. Beautiful stone buildings with ornate balconies that look well maintained and at least 100 years old are sandwiched in between drab, ugly, 6-story blocks resembling ramshackle housing projects. The entrance to my (Dan’s) apartment building is a perpetually darkened 8-foot opening between to some sort of store and a pile of dirt, chunks of concrete and debris before you get to a nice-looking restaurant. Especially at night, it is the last place you’d want to walk into. The door into the place is on the third floor. After you walk in a few feet and up maybe 10 stairs (the landing between the first and second floors), there’s a light switch. There’s another on the second floor and another on the third; actually these are buttons, not switches. The bulbs start on the second floor. The light turns off after 20 seconds. It’s like a race to get to the door in the light.
You can smoke everywhere, which people do, and apparently cigarettes are around $1.30 a pack. I haven’t had to buy rolling tobacco yet. I travel with the essentials.
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