A night out in Beirut

Tripoli, Lebanon—Beirut is a city built, like Rome, on seven hills. It has since sprawled over 19. I spent the afternoon back from Byblos touring the downtown area, with its cordoned off streets, ancient mosques, and Roman ruins. Passing by one church under reconstruction, I was invited in by one of workers to take pictures. Scaffolding held the church together. Workers waved from their perches. Above me, one scraped the stone with a water jet. As I felt the spray upon my neck, I realized that everyone wore hard hats but me.

With the rest of the afternoon to spare, I wandered the grounds of the American University of Beirut. A small archeological museum was being renovated; the artifacts had been moved to a study room. The campus was peaceful and quiet, and I sat under the shade of a tree to update my journal, the ever-present Mediterranean stretched out before me.

S.S. called at 8.30pm. She had been bumped the night before and had spent an hour trying to direct her cab driver from the airport to her bed and breakfast. She had come in from Amman after spending a few months in Baghdad, working as a photojournalist. One of her photos won a World Press Photo award last year.

We met at my hotel and went to a nearby Italian restaurant. When we tried to enter the dimly lit room, a man asked if we were looking for the restaurant. We nodded and he directed us upstairs. S. looked at me and the plethora of nightclubs in the area, then mused that we might have tried to walk into a strip club. "But I live in an upscale area of town!" I protested. A Radisson hotel dominated the block.

Over fettucini and risotto funghi, we talked about Baghdad, the Middle East, and photography. She said she had recently had a close call, after being caught in a firefight while following a convoy of relief workers. She had had to run and throw herself into a ditch by the side of the road. A reporter friend of hers had thought to visit in the past, but with recent events she told her not to come. She's looking to spend some time away from the war, expanding her portfolio and working on some more personal stories. Still, she keeps an apartment there, housing a sofa and a cat.

After dinner we took a taxi to the Place d'Etoile, and walked the pedestrian mall. People filled the sidewalk cafes, eating, laughing, and smoking. In one cafe, a Turkish band played and the waiter danced for the crowd. I followed the rhythmic clapping to find him flipping on the ground and whirling through the aisles. In more quiet corners of the area, men sang and played the oud.

S. told me that the Dunkin' Donuts was a big hangout. She had met a group of gay Lebanese there the last time she was in town, and spent the week following them around. She's thinking of doing a story on them. She told me that once they became friends they wouldn't let her go. After dropping her off at her hotel, they would ask if they could pick her up in two hours to go out again.

At the Virgin Megastore, one of the salesmen invited us out for a drink. He looked at his watch. "In half an hour," he told us. S. marveled at Arabic hospitality, especially in Beirut. "Baghdad needs more of this," she tells me, though she notes that the people in Iraq are incredibly friendly. Over dinner she told me stories of being invited into the homes of the poorest residents for tea. "They'll always at least offer you tea; even if they have almost nothing themselves," she told me.

Half an hour later, our host introduced us to a friend of his, a journalist for a local newspaper. "I'll take you to a new place," our host told us. "Not an old place. The problem with old places is that you meet everyone, and you cannot be in peace. I'll take you to Torino." His friend drove us in his Chevy Corsica. Our host pointed at a bar. "That's an old place. I'm not taking you there. It's good. But it's an old place. I'm taking you to a new place. Ah! Here it is!" We stepped out of the car and into a small crowded bar. He greeted some people and we sat at a table. "Damn," he said. "Only fags and cross-dressers sit at tables. We need to get to the bar!"

The D.J. wore a black shirt. White letters read "Who the fuck is Mick Jagger." One Stones song played after another. "I love this music. I love the Stones," our host said. "I have this album. I had the original vinyl Andy Warhol cover with the zipper," he said. "I gave it to my ex-girlfriend. Now I don't have it."

We ordered mojitos, and complimented the bartender. He told us he used rum aged three years. He brought us the bottle to prove it. Our host talked the entire evening. A philosophy student, he talked about marrying our evening lives with that of our days. He talked about taking cues from our dreams. He told us his birthday was Tuesday. S. asked him how old he will be. He talked about the blues. He talked about rock and roll. S. asked him again. He talked about Andre Breton. He talked about collecting records. S. asked him again. He talked about Keith Richards. He talked about Mick Jaggar. He was shocked when we suggested he had slept with David Bowie. I was getting drunk.

At two, the bar closed. Our host's friend had gotten into trouble with a girl he knew at the bar. He asked what we were doing the next day. He had a plan to go to the beach. I told him I was going to Tripoli. "No!" he said. "You should stay in Beirut. Beirut is the heart! When is your flight?" I told him I was staying five or six days. "You should spend five days in Beirut!" he told me. "We'll go to the beach!" No, I said. I'm a tourist. I must tour. "Fine! He told me. Go to Tripoli! You will see nothing! Where are you staying?" I told him. "That is a good area! You're staying in a hotel?" No, I said. A hostel. "That is a terrible area!" he said. "Come, we'll take you home!"

We climbed back into the Corsica and I directed us to the hostel. I shook hands with our host, who wished me luck. "Can I kiss your hand?" he asked me. Of course, I said. His beard scratched the back of my hand. Posted by eku at May 1, 2004 2:55 PM