2005 Log

Some Time at Home

Home for awhile. Please check out the few pictures in Back In Beirut. More to come, Inshalla.

Spent the day lounging and doing chores in what feels more and more like home. Before traveling to Syria the girls felt the hectic pace of Beirut was almost too much. After spending time in Damascus and Aleppo, during the full moon and the Muslim weekend, returning here feels calm. I woke up early enough, brought coffee back and we roused to a day of nothing, chores like laundry and the post, travel plans, some food, more walking, and delivering the YWCA gift my sister brought from Austin to the YWCA in Ain Marissi. We made it through the heat of the day, then rested, planned our trip to Jordan then went to dinner at Alice's restaurant. I went to high school with Alice, a Norwegian woman who's returned to marry Ahmad and open her restaurant. We ate charming food and drank village Arak from Ahmad's family, talked for hours about love and then need to have the time to remember.

We're all just tired, happy to be back in Beirut and walking home we found a charming spot to sift through Yemenis jewelry in a small shop near LAU. Funny, we traveled all over the Syrian desert looking for the stuff we riffle through just block from Alice's and home.

Tomorrow more nonsense, chores like coffee, and where to go to send home the stuff we've collected - all the receipts and recipes and tickets, the cards and brochures that are just too heavy to carry, but too precious to leave behind.

So woke late today, took coffee with Joseph, the very cute barrista who works at Latté Art, the café down the street that serves the best western style espresso. He's been so sweet to me and my girls, and when I saw he was Christian by the bracelet that he wore, I gave him the bracelet I was given by the nun at St Theca's, and he was so taken he blessed himself, spit at the fact that St. Thecla shrine is in Syria, then poured coffee. We talked about the this world as best we could and he suggested a beach in Jbail, the village name for Byblos, and arranged for Siad, his taxi-driving friend to take us there, to his favorite beach club.

We leave for Jordan tomorrow and needed to finish business, so Siad dropped us downtown, in Hariri-ville, the new downtown in the shadow of the new mosque. Traffic is still astounding, lights that mean nothing and open streets where somehow people know where to go. Downtown is also in the shadow of the newly rebuilt parliament building, and today, Tuesday, was the first session of the newly elected members. 128, of which 62 are brand new members - the new movements, the old movements, futurists, Hezzbolah, the communists, all meeting for the first time since the civil war ended and since the Syrian withdrawal from Lebanon. Historic moments, and we're getting out of Siad's taxi across the empty field that was Martyr's Square, and now is just the statue and ruin, walking into the offices, when fireworks and machine guns start going off. It was 11:40, and Parliament had just announced what everyone was sort of waiting for, the reappointment of Nabih Berri, the 4th term, pro-Syrian Speaker of the Parliament to the post. This is celebration (mixed with a little disappointment) - this is a tacit agreement between the various blocs of parliamentary seats that Berri will continue on the path of reform and not lapse back into the Syria-dominated intelligence and political arms he has been allied with. And I'm thinking all this while guns are going off and, OK, where do we go if things go south, and a woman pokes her head out of a shop and says, "It's OK, Berri is OK, things are good," and we go into the office and do the business while the guns and fireworks continue. At one point, Leslie, a little stirred, asks Dalya if thing are fine, and she says, "Don't worry, these windows are bullet proof." More evidence that Hariri-ville is the way of the future.

Then the roller-coaster ride through the port of Beirut, up the coast through Jouneah Bay to the beach, where we lay, and swim, and rest and come down from a pretty harrowing morning. It wasn't for these people though, harrowing I mean. It was another day on the new, long and possible arduous path toward a new democracy. Inshalla. People are happy, hopeful, and convinced the future is bright. Now as I write this, back in Beirut, I'm tracking a military helicopter that's been circling for an hour. A good sign I guess. The sound of that helicopter, like the sounds of automatic weapons, is something you never forget. Now Leslie, and E, and P know, and from now on the innocence of fireworks going off will be forever painted with this.

Everything is good, we're happy, and health, and seeing some amazing things. Tomorrow we travel again, and I'll try and connect then.

Back in Beirut

June 26 (ed.6.27)

So I've had trouble getting connected to this in the places we've been, and we're back in Beirut and happy to be trying to catch up. There was a nasty car-bomb assignation while we were gone just block from here, but it's over, and we're home and safe. If you;re interested, I'll try and summarize some of the past few daze...

(Apologies to our most excellent guide and interpreter Hussein Hinnawl for my mangling of the history and tales of these place. Mr. Hinnawl was extremely patient and thorough, and sadly my heat-adled brain fails in the details. I promise to try and rectify my errors at a later date.)

We left Damascus the 23rd, early, after touring with a great guide Hussein, a Palestinian refugee - very formal, spoke British style english, extremely intelligent and informative. Saw so many sights it was overwhelming. The Omeyed mosque in Damascus is incredible. It also houses John the Baptist' head. (We went to see the movie, Kingdom of Heaven, prior to going to Syria and that, if you can believe it, was helpful in that the Syrian hero, Saladin, was in the movie as the compassionate king, and is also entombed nearby). The Hamadeyia souks are thick and rich. the Syrian food is delicious and odd, fresh meats and vegetables, and very salty cheese, for breakfast.

Traveled north and west 60 km to Malula, the last village that still speaks Aramaic, the language of the area in the time of Jesus. Visited the church of Mar Sergius, one of the oldest Christian churches in Syria. Named for Roman soldiers, Sergius and Bacchus, who found them selves Christians and after some rigamarole or other. They were traveling north to arrest some Christians when Sergius was taken blind from fish scales in his eyes. Then he heard the voice of God and changed, and decided to convert himself and others, was martyred and the church was named after him. We were prayed for in Aramaic , then drank the wine and stood at the old alter, still shaped like a pagan alter. Then we walked the St. Theckla walk through the gorge that formed when she prayed for escape from the soldiers her father's sent to kill her, again. Seems Theckla decided to become Christian and her father wanter her to return to the pagan fold. When she refused, he let snakes on her, and they were tamed. Then lions, who purred at her feet, then fire, but she was silk and didn't burn and ran away. In Malula she prayed, the gorge formed and she hid for years in the caves. People found out, fed her, she healed them and eventually died here, was sainted somehow, and we walked through the tomb without our shoes. Very cool spot in the heat of the desert. the wine we bought in Malula, special sweet wine, port like, miraculous, blew up in my bag staining my white shirts and things with the richest, blood-like stain. I guess I am just blessed.

We took the road to Bagdad, on our way to Palmyra, passing Iraqi cars and broken down busses, a dead donkey and the Bagdad café, where we stopped for photos, coffee and a game of Makbusi. 3 hours across the Syrian desert passing classic bee-hive houses and military installations to the ruins, huge and desolate in a small town full of happy people and tourists. It was cool enough to walk around and we went through the tombs and then the temples. Aramaic story of the Phoenician Baal we saw in Lebanon.

The ruins have the remains of the whole city: the temple, the Agora, the theater, the long, long Roman street that's punctuated with the square in the middle and the 4 four-columed monuments to all this. In the Agora there's a corner where the news crier would deliver the news he collected daily from the caravans arriving from Egypt, or Persia, or the East. Then there are the tower tombs, huge and imposing on the hill, below the Muslim citadel. One of the tombs was the Tomb of the 3 Brothers, Malî, Saadi, and Naawain. Typical Aramaic/Roman tomb, with the funerary bed of the main family, the man depicted larger, and the women and children smaller around him. And he always has a bowl in one hand, for prosperity, and an acanthus leave in the other, for eternal life. Anyway this tomb was different because there's records that the brothers rented out the rest to those who couldn't afford their own. Most of the tombs entombed the bodies on their back, but this one put them on their side to conserve space. they could fit 175 bodies in this place. Amazing evidence of early entrepreneurship.

Ate dinner at the Pancake House, this wild travelers' haunt run by this band of Syrian brothers, one of whom moved to Romania for a few years and learned to make these amazing pancakes; wet, almost sweet crepe-like things he fills with chicken or cheese or bananas with honey. Dinner was different, Mautouch, a Bedouin spicy rice dish with beans, peanuts and chicken. Our small, charming hotel looks out directly on the Roman street, the long row of columns that always seem to glisten. Later we walked in the white night, under a fullish moon, windless and cool and empty. We are lucky to be here off high season Hussein says, we have the ruins almost to ourselves. Later Leslie and I traded for hours with an guy who said his father started the store full of Bedouin treasures. More expensive than I thought it would be, but very interesting and fun listening to the guy say, over and over, "Madame, this is the real one." Found a beer in the lobby of the hotel, a different experience than in the tightly restricted streets of Damascus.

The next day E and P rented a camel for an hour we all walked in relative silence alone through the site, up the Roman street, through the theater and across to the smaller temple. Truly amazing, though that word just sound so stupid here. Then we dove west, back across the Syrian desert, little traffic, little signs of life. The road connects Palmyra with Homs, a city on the main trade route of the Bedouin people, who come to trade their stuff - cheese and milk and wool and jewelry and goats, for stuff they need to go back into the desert. We made it to Crac des Chevaliers before lunch, and toured the castle that's the castle's castle. Huge and in pretty good shape, it is another in the whole series of stories we've been hearing about the places we've been - somebody started this place BC, because it is defensible and offers good grounds. Somebody else took it over, and over, recycled the building materials and then the crusaders spent 150 years shoring up the biggest castle in Christendom, a place that held 4000 soldiers and horses with enough water to last a year. And they lasted years, and years, until the crusades were winding down and the garrison had dwindled to 400 and the Muslim hero Salieen (not Saladin) succeeded in breaking the west wall, and the crusaders gave up and took their booty and left. The muslims shored it up, built a beautiful mosque and lived their till they were taken over by someone else... Our guide is just so full of facts, and delivers them constantly in the heat of the day. We lunch, get more history, then drive 200 km to Aleppo.

We stopped in Hama, a town on the Orontes river, the only river in the area that runs South to North (nick-named the "Disobedient River). The Romans built elaborate water wheels to move the water from the below ground level of the river to the aqueducts that moved water to the fields. Ate Hama Sweets across the street from the regional office of the Bath party. Hama sweets are cheese made from the first milk of the goat after giving birth, wrapped in a wet, sweet dumpling and sprinkled with pistachio nuts. Sweet!

We're dropped at our hotel, this lovingly restored Alepposian house, central courtyards and small rooms surrounding them. We have a few hours to ourselves so we rest then walk through the old city of Aleppo, narrow, narrow streets crammed with shops selling everything. This is the Armenian section, lots of meat and gold, machine shops and people taking tea on the stoops. We find a place we can drink and relax, and do, and get ready for the full day in Aleppo. Leslie made Hussein promise we would get some un-rushed in the souks.

Yesterday we started early (again) and drove 40 km to Sam'Ann, where St. Simeon sat on a pillar for 36 years praying (the pillar was 4 m at first, then folks kept bugging him, so he added 4 m, then another 4, so it was a 12 m pillar, now it's just a stump after centuries of pilgrims chipping away souvenirs) . They built what was at the time the biggest cathedral in the world on the site, then a monastery that housed 400 monks, then a Baptistry to convert the unclean. Anyway, another incredible place, full of property changing hands. 20 miles from the Turkish boarder it's also an important Armenian shrine, as well as an Orthodox place for those in that fold. After St Simeon we travel back to Aleppo and tour the Citadel, another old old place, owned by many, but eventually the Muslims built the strongest most expansive citadel, protected it for centuries, until eventually the Ottomans took it over and installed the Sultan and converted the central hall to a lavish palace. It's been restored and is remarkable.

After that we toured the souks, and we bought all kinds of stuff - textiles and scents, silver and soaps, paper and copper. the souks are classic, with donkeys and motorbikes wending through spices and meat, tobacco and sweets. the souks are in the old caravansaries, where travelers would bed themselves and their animals while they traded on their trade routes. Still so much of that feel though all of this. We rested later and dined at another converted house, this one open and multi-storied, listened to a Lebanese musician playing folk tunes on his oud. Finally tired, we walked the old town to the Baron Hotel, the oldest western style hotel in Aleppo, where TE Lawrence traded his signature for rooms and drinks.

Then left Aleppo early this morning, for the ride south again across the miles of Syrian desert where nothing but power lines and rock quarries disturb the horizon. Ach, this is all too much, but I wanted to try and catch up before I got too far behind, in case anyone is still listening. I know I left out a lot, and my version of history is so lax and wanting, but I hope to express that this part of the world is an incredible place to travel. Syria, though a little more oppressive feeling and less friendly than Lebanon on the surface, has been a joy and a wonder. We're happy to be back home for a couple of days, resting in Beirut, in our small and comfortable flat with no schedule tonight but posting this and the accompanying photos, then dreaming of more stone.

Dawn In Damascus

Waking up this morning to calls to prayer from the millions of mosques in Damascus, I watched red turn to color and woke up again and again, from 5 to 5:15, to 6, then 7 and the car waiting downstairs and a day that only ends at midnight, seeing sights and people and stuffs that I can't begin to describe here, it's late, we're tired and leave early for Maloula and Palmerya, where we hope to find more access. Lots of travel time tomorrow across the deserts, I hope to document some of what we were looking at and smelling and eating and meditating with today. I am simpky falling behind, and notebooks become so awkward in the middle of markets and monuments and meetings.

I keep wanting to say Bagdahd. And tonight, a family, amazed to see us, white and dressed in white walking down narrow alleys, handed Elise a baby and asked if we would be photographed with them. We said yes, and asked where they are from, Bagdahd," she said, and smiled a smile as wide as this part of the river that runs through all this.

Tonight the last of the full moon, over mosques and markets, and we'll sleep until 5, or 5:15, when the morning calls call us to wake and travel more, with Mohamad the driver, and Hussain the guide. I just can't think anymore and the Internet café is closing.

Full Moon in Damascus

Left Beirut this morning early, on a different road, toward Hambda, climbed 3000 feet straight out of the city, out of the grit and smoke pretty quickly into Aley and the highway, such as it is, climbing that steeply with trucks and busses, in an air conditioned bus with a driver, Elise, Phoebe and Leslie, and me, no one one was very high, or going very fast. But it was a highway, unlike the other roads we've taken out of the city, that have a lot more city in the them than highway. Passed the soldiers in Marj, where they grow marjoram and the soldiers wait and make sure the Syrians are really gone. And they seem to be. More terraces are planted on this road, more crops coming in and less new construction and more rebuilding of old Lebanese stone houses with red roofs. And every Lebanese is built symmetrically - a window on one side of the door, a window on the other. A balcony here, a balcony on the other side.

Anyway through Chtaura (the same village we went though before - spelled differently) and then dropped into the Bekka Valley, across a different road, to Damascus. No sign of Hezbolah or the red dust. Just water and more panted terraces. Across the valley pretty quickly to the boarder, exit visa from Lebanon and money, then travel awhile, get checked out, show passports, then travel awhile, then entry visas into Syria, and more money, but then "Welcome to Syria" and twin Assad posters, dead father and living president son greet us and everyone at the Dunkin' Donut hut. Some rather barren miles across scrub and rock and then climb a little into Damascus. 6 million people or whatever. Mosques everywhere and we find our hotel and realize we have to change money, which becomes the most amazing ordeal, standing in the Central Bank of Syria with American travelers check nobody trusts. We had to get signatures from 5 people, including the manger, at 5 different stations and every isle is not an isle but a space between overflowing file cabinets and overstuffed boxes of papers on the ground. Amazing really, but interesting except for the anxiety and heat, and the frustration and fear of the unknown. More than an hour in a cramped place with many many people watching us, and us watching our checks and passports move around from station to station. Finally get the money, find a restaurant, and everything starts to fall into place. The calls to prayer from the countless mosques sort of eases the tension, we find Souk al-Hamidiyya and are completely beside ourselves.

We're staying in the heart of New Damascus, blocks away from the old Roman walls that separate old Damascus. It is sprawling and not quite as organized as Beirut, and feel much more Eastern than Middle Eastern. The countless political posters of Lebanon are replaced with the ubiquitous images of Assad Sr. and Jr. Everywhere. And tonight, around Martyr's square, a full, bright moon points the way to Palmyera.

Tomorrow we tour Damascus with a guide, whom we met, and who assured us taking pictures is a fine thing to do. I will hopefully have something more than what I posted tonight to post tomorrow.

And on the 11th day...

Yesterday drove down the coast 20 miles, South of Damour, where the river comes out of banana plantations, the ruined village and the biggest unfinished concrete projects I've ever seen. Throughout the 80's Damour was completely destroyed by factions of Druzé who believed one of their leaders was assented by Christians in Damour. (Interestingly, 10 years later, with the village totally gone except for the few stone houses still remaining, and the rebuilding going on like crazy, the Druzé leadership recanted the accusation that their leader was assented by anyone from Damour, and the village is left alone - without the Druzé and without the Syrians.) We swam for a few hours with the group of 20 at John's Beach, a small resort well south of the development and rebuilding, under paloma style umbrellas, and lounged and visited with people we won't see for awhile, if ever. Hot, dry but breezy enough to make me believe I am in Lebanon, the place people believe anything can happen.

Today we drove with Samir to Baalbeck. Jesus, what an amazing thing. Left Beirut on Beit Mary road, up the mountains and broke down in Sturra, a very small village but with the remarkable Maktalib Hotel and Restaurant where we took coffee until the second bus arrived. Then finished climbing out of the mountains and dropped into the most fertile Bekaa valley, the one that fed the many empires that have owned Lebanon over the centuries. Once in the valley we drove on the Bekaa plain across red dust, through potato fields and Hezbolah gates, finally lifting onto the high point where Baalbeck is. Baalbeck (Heliopolis to Greeks) is a suite of temples to the god of the Bekaa (Baal is God in Phoenician) It is so difficult to describe here. It was truly awesome. I've posted some pictures that might tell a little of the story. We had a guide, Charbel, a Marionette Christian whose father and grandfather were guides, who told us fascinating tales of the Baalbeck and the temples. The temple of Venus is the largest Roman temple on earth, and the temple of Bacchus is the most well preserved acropolis in the world. So much huge stone, and flood of "how in hell did they do that" echoes everywhere. And then of course the stories of who did what to whom, the Romans taking over from the Phoenicians, the Greeks taking over from the Romans, then the Muslims, the Assyrians, the Ottomans, the Turks, then the French, the English, and of course the Syrians. But massive stones, limestone quarried within a few miles, and the 20 meter tall, 2 meter in diameter granite pillars quarried in Aswan Egypt, sailed from Alexandria to Tripoli, the rolled overland on cedar logs into the Bekaa. "How in hell?" 300 years and thousands of slaves. Jeeze...

We left at 2 and drove up the mountain to Zahlé, a village with the Latini river running through it, and ate at Arabia, a restaurant with a river running through it... and heard Samir, the driver talk and talk about these villages, his village, and more tales of the Syrian occupation.

Tomorrow we travel to Syria - Damascus, Palmyra, Aleppo, and the Crac des Chevaliers for 5 days. Funny, we just watched Orlando Bllom save Jerusalem in a movie all about where we are and where we're traveling. I hope to find a connection there.

In Over My Head

2 Weeks into this and it seems like we've been here a longer time. Spent the day with 6 beautiful women wandering the streets of Beirut, from the conglomerated uptown, that used to be the new town, and now looks tired and held together with baling wire, glue and political posters; and the new Hariri downtown that looks like a pastiche of Moorish architecture, costumed hookah charcoal keepers and expensive restaurants and shops. And each time passing through the blurry line that separates them, the ever-present St George and the sight of the Hariri's assassination. This city is a study in opposites, the rich the poor, the new and the blown up, fast cars, stumbling motorbikes,
donkeys and politics, abject hunger and abundance and waste. And always the cats.

Last-night was the ACS gala for the reunion, and it was as over the top as anything I've ever seen. A thousand people; alumni, students, parents, teachers and administration meeting at sunset in a brand new hotel in Rouché Beirut, overlooking the Mediterranean of course, but just off the Corniché, through the station of military and adjacent to the bombed-out buildings. So we were there to celebrate 100 years of the school being agile, adroit, and flexible enough to survive world wars, civil wars and occupations from nations too numerous to name. And we survived, all of us in our own way. Eating too much, drinking too much, crying and laughing and dancing to wild Arabian hip-hop beats.

This place seems to climb inside everyone who has lived here, from those who were here in the 40s and 50s, to people like us here in the 60s and 70s, and the youth, here now, dressed as they are, certain they are moving toward a more democratic place. A secular, spiritual and intellectual democracy, that rises like it always has, out of the smoke and soot, the blood and tears of everyone whose set foot here.

Tomorrow we go to the beach, and bathe in the blue. Tonight, a little lit, I watch stars sparkle through this haze and dream I never left.

Newphotablums - Byblos & BeirutDay7. Please enjoy.

Pushing a String

We went to Byblos today, me and 5 beautiful women. Like herding cats it is. A visit to the Lebanon National Museum first, looking over artifacts we couldn't photograph, things preserved through miraculous dedication (like encasing objects, and in fact the entire museum, in concrete) through the war years, then up the coast again to Byblos - continuously inhabited for 4 thousand years - remnants of 17 distinct civilizations, an amazing flat spot on the coastal mountain range looking into the ever-blue Mediterranean, with Phoenician people so happy we tourists are back.

Byblos today. Ruminations later. Baalbek tomorrow. Tonight, rest and the company of these cats, beautiful cats I am trying to herd with string.

14 June, Maybe More

Yesterday was our 25th wedding anniversary and realized it kissing on a hillside as we traveled to the mountains of Lebanon. The Barouk Cedars in the Shouf hills are groves of Lebanese Cedars planted to preserve the trees. We traveled east of Beirut and then south along the green line that separated Christian West Beirut from East Muslim Beirut, the line is riddled with buildings still bombed out and pock-marked with thousands of bullet holes, buildings being demolished and rebuilt, and new buildings going up. the Lebanese saying "Behind great wealth there are crimes of similar proportion," seems to ring true. Where does the money come from to rebuild or start new buildings, and where does the will and patience come from to live with the physical testament of the years of destruction and loss.

But from the Barouk Cedars, there's nothing but the country, the land of milk and honey and the smell of cedar and lavender. Walking around the preserve knowing where I am but knowing this is simply anywhere, a natural beauty. Up and over the hill to the east is the Bekaa Valley, and across the valley is the Syrian boarder.

From the Cedars we traveled south along the plateau in the Mt Lebanon district, heading to Baadarane, a Druze village where we had lunch of Labne, quince, olives, potatoes and meats. After lunch visited a traditional Druze weaver who makes the most tightly knit jackets and scarves. The village looks barren but there are boys on motorbikes pulling wheelies and showing off, completely scarfed women hiding in doorways not wanting to be photographed, an old man in traditional Lebanese clothes posing for the gang we are, and signs of life just under the walls and fences.

After lunch we came down the mountain to Beiteddine, a 17th century palace still in use by the Lebanese president and his ministers. Old Roman mosaics being restored and on display, in the heat of the day the palace has cool spots, and a spring-fed fountain in the plaza, and gardens in bloom. There is a concert season beginning and the work to assemble the risers goes on through our stay. This is the courtyard where Kris was the queen at her Junior Prom. And the palace is almost invisible as we drive down the hill toward Deir El-Quamar, an 18th century village and palace that was a caravansary where travelers bedded themselves and their horses. Our guide, Nassim tells stories from that era, and also of the recent Syrian occupation and withdrawal only months ago. Many of these properties only now going back into the hands of the Lebanese owners who for years watched the Syrian military squander their fields and possessions, carting produce and belongings across the boarder to sell.

Then we transferred back to Beirut by the Damour road. Damour is a river and valley where I camped as a kid. Coastal banana plantations giving way to the development of high-rise hotels and apartments. A Christian community, Damour was completely destroyed in 1992 after the assassination of a Druze leader, when the Druze came down from the mountains and flattened the village. Nassim points out the few remaining houses that are original, the rest is new concrete construction, as opposed to the traditional Lebanese stone wall and red roof construction.

We reenter Beirut from the south, on the new highway, that cuts through what used to be refuge camps, and now are 15 year old apartment buildings covered in soot and exhaust. And everywhere the posters of politicians and leaders. The camps are almost gone, but from a high spot in the road you can see football-sized areas covered in tarps and rags, with small, narrow alleys running through. And people and rugs, and cars and trucks and everything moves quicker as we get closer to the center of Beirut.

We're dropped off at the ACS, where I said I would read some poetry for students in the Tsunami Relief project Diedre's organized. And I do, and then attend the ACS Headmaster's reception, and eat and drink with the other alumni who've made this emotional trek back to Lebanon.

I am swimming so helplessly in memory and dreams. All of this coming back like it never left. The orchestra of horns and motors, the soot and sweet smells of oleander, jasmine, hyacinth, and gardenia. And my sisters are here and our daughters arrive this evening and it all gets so mixed up. Still the white hot sky, and we haven't been in the Mediterranean. Tomorrow. I think we'll do that tomorrow.

Just Our Luck, Beautiful

Lounging through the heat this morning, awaiting the vote in the 3rd Parliamentary elections, this one the most contentious, between the Marionite christians and the Druzé Muslims, in the mountain districts. This is the vote people anticipate will draw the line between life and business as usual - the ways of these people for the past 2K years - or descent back into the ways of war, and everyone here, in Ras Beirut, a predominantly Muslim part of town, believes, it will be a progress into the ways of peace, democracy, and change, as well as a return to the graft and corruption that people here both loathe and cherish. Loathe because nothing changes. Cherish because nothing changes. Violence is change and uncertainty. No one wants that. So as frustrating as it may be not being able to get your restaurant license the first or second time around, at least you can sell food from the building that's still standing. No one wants the violence to return, that's the feeling on the street.

And the feelings we get, as Americans, is the most welcome, the most friendly and warm. It is as though we are in no way responsible for what everyone knows here is the result of the American administrations' insistence on an agenda that will never work in the Middle East. Ach! So what. Let's get married. Let's eat and enjoy this air and amazing sunset. "I am your best friend." And I believe it. We are blessed to be here, today, when history is getting writ. And what a day.

We traveled north to Jieta Grotto, 20 km out of Beirut, up the hills into the most amazing caves, lie beautifully, then a boat ride through the lower grotto, then home through horn-honking, flag-waving traffic, everyone expecting tomorrow will be a good day.

And what a day tomorrow will be.

Beirut Eve of Election 4

This morning slowly and with great care walking the streets of Ras Beirut looking for coffee and sweets. Leslie sleeping, Craig and I wander the streets we wandered 30 years ago, marveling at what's gone and what's still left. The ravages the years of war has taken is evident almost everywhere and is a source of wonder and amazement. So is the rebuilding and the the constant flow of life, and love and car horns, and the ever present image of Rafik Harrirri and his son on posters on every block. A little haunting, especially the giant poster near Pigeon Rock, where he and his son have been Photoshopped in, Rafik a little ghostly but present, and the son solid as a part of the rock.

We walked the way I used to walk, through the International College gate through the Druzé village onto the ACS campus, where everyone is busy prepping for the reunion that starts on Monday. Sweeping, repainting, mopping floors. Everyone happy the alumni are coming back. The campus is amazingly the same. And smells the same. All of the memories of art class and gym class and the endless fumbling at the lockers. Then we walk to the Corniche, a many-mile long promenade along the sea (aptly names Rue 1) in late morning looking for drinks. We walk down steps to a straw covered Muslim café, where men and women sit taking tea and smoking water pipes. The breeze is strong and fresh off the Mediterranean and cools us, enough we continue to Rouché Beirut, still a predominantly Muslim neighborhood that entertains visitors from all over. Again the damage and repairs are in equal measure. Broken buildings being rebuilt, buildings laying dormant, and everywhere the face of Harrirri. There we eat at Lamb House, walk to Pigeon Rock and then cut up Rue Sadat toward Hamra District. Hot, white sky and very little shade until we drop into the neighborhood, past stores that attract Leslie like magnets - stores full of local dress and craft. Me, I am looking for more shade and the comfort of home for an air conditioned rest before we go out again to the souks, to Manot Street, and to a dinner I can only imagine from here.

We spend an hour and a half talking with Chico, a sixty-something record shop owner Craig used to buy records from, is is bright, well read and sat out all the wars here in Beirut. He tells us his conspiracy theories and we talk at length about the state of Lebanon - its history and choices, it present voting and its future. Tomorrow the mountain districts vote for their parliamentary representation and Chico is convinced this will truly be the test as to whether Lebanon wants a united democracy or want to maintain a divided state. So interesting and complicated. Later we travel downtown, to Place du Canon and Martyr's square looking for the souks I remember, and as Chico told us, the souks were gone, replaced with a very different, almost theme-park like downtown, new shops and restaurants, new monuments and the biggest mosque I've seen being built. And through it all silver footprints, and when I as someone, "Who's are they?" "Mr. Harrirri," I'm told. Muslims, Christians, wealthy and middle class all enjoying a cool Saturday evening around the hope the country decides to stay undivided. One thing that was also amazing was the youth - the teen without a real sense of the war that raged through this country for years is years behind them, it it seems like all they want is to keep taking tea, talking on their mobiles and skateboarding through these bright new streets.