2005 Log

Wah'Lah! Beirut

The getting here was pretty easy, after the heat and sweltering tears realizing this is where we are. And getting off the plane and walking through the new airport I keep trying to remember what's is so special about this place and these people, and then we're in the line to go through without having been through the line we should have gone through and in my bad Arabic I say "Hello, I used to live here and I am back to show my family," and the young immigration officer smiles and issues us 30 day visas. That's one thing. The smiling. Then through customs without any more than a nod, out into the throng of the lobby we'll be in meeting the girls. That's another.

I have to change money I think and someone says, "Taxi," and without thinking Leslie says, "OK," so now we have our guy. He's with us forever through this maze while I try to change money and can't, then Leslie tries and does, and we're in this cab rushing though what used to be Sabré refugee camp but is now overpasses and tunnels and highway signs - 'Cite Centre' - faster than I can get my bearings we're in Beirut, Ras Beirut, Hamra District, passing the street I lived on and dropped off a block from Mayfair Residence because there's no place for the driver to stop.

We figure it out. Meet Mr. Balin, whose very kind and manages the place, and we think it's too small and I'm grasping for the ways I remember to bring up questions; not with a question, but with a compliment. And eventually everyone is happy, we settle, figure out the AC and rest, change and then look around.

From this tenth floor there is nothing but buildings and rooftops, and balconies that spill over on to other balconies, all held together with stray wires that seem to grow from the street and connect with other wires growing from other streets. And the flocks of homing pigeons kept by invisable keeper who call them, then send them away. And the horns on cars are used as another pedal, you play it like a clutch, or brake. And there are exponentially more scooters than I remember. And more buildings too. We walk north to Bliss street, a funny name for a street that's got little room to breath much less move or feel calm. Then we try to enter the University campus and are stopped and asked something, I say..."I used to live here... I am back for a reunion..." and we're ushered through the "Protectors' office, where we're told we can enter campus if we stay to the left. We do, and walk through grounds that are both kept and unkempt. A lot of the campus has been rebuilt after the decades of wars, but some of it hasn't. And everywhere there are cats. Eating the rats thats used to own this place I think.

From some vantage we look at the sea. I point out there you can walk and take coffee and fruit, and wallow in the longest sighs, and there you can swim, and there you can do nothing but awe at all this. We leave campus and I find an apartment I lived in, point it out and then point further, my memory coming back, to where we can get a drink, then buy some food and go home. We meet a dear old friend who is here for the reunion and staying just down the hall. We eat fuit and have wine, talk about all the things we remember and forget. This is the same neighborhood we rode motorbike through, wafting smoke in search of the perfect grilled garlic chickmen sandwich, from Marouch, which is just down the street. Lights go out and come back on a dozen times, there are some fireworks in the distance and Leslie asks, "Are they really fireworks?" They are. We relax. Take off out shoes, change clothes, change our mindset and relish that this certainly isn't Kansas. Or California.

Out of Italy, on to Beirut

Spent the morning nosing around Florence, making sure when Leslie took her tour of the Ufizzi we'd have the bead on the train station to catch the 5:29 to Rome. Leslie's tour @ 2 made her cry she said, looking at the real deals that she's sent as Christmas cards and used as giftwarp or posters to cover bare walls, or spent years as a child trying to copy. All the heavy hitters - Botticelli, da Vinci. Michelangleo, Fra LippoLippi, Carrvaghio - all of them in another amazingly rich house and garden and plaza. I spent the time drinking in the last of the Florantine light, checking the shadows and the map, making sure we wouldn't be lost when the time came. All the business was the same, made me wonder if the local ever tire of the constant tourists with their noses either buried in their maps or raised looking over the heads of those around them at some monument or another. I have had enough, and relax with beer and the knowledge we'll be going to Beirut tomorrow. Inshalla.

I find Leslie right on time, and we glide over the street we've become familiar with, seeing some of the same people. The woman who sold Leslie the last of the Italian ribbon she bought in this old button store passes on a bike, and manages to recognize us, turns round in the square to circle back and wave. We find the station and take an easy trainride to Rome through the most amazing Savaginion Blanc vineyards. The hardest part was figuring out the ticket, which car, which seat, and after negotiating with a number of people through broken English and Italian we settle in to the rest. One more night in Italy and then on to Beirut where I will give up my Communist passport cuz' I won't be rushin' no more.

I drift a little over a beer in neighborhood joint near Roma Termina, thinking I am ready to leave where we are and go where where going. It's not so much I know where we are, but I have an idea of where we're going and tell Leslie a thousand times, "I can't believe we're going to Beirut."

Later
The wait at the airport is long and uneventful. Leslie's dislike of airports comes out in then end though and we wait a little harder to get on the plane, then get on the plane and find out we're going to Milan - whatever, another 2 hour wait in a fifteen year trip. And landing in Milan is a little harder than I thought, as we are 20 feet from touching down something must have happened because the plane accelerated and lifted back off heading up at a pretty tight pull. And then Leslie tells me she doesn't really even like planes. New to me I guess, after all the flying we've done. But it isn't so much the plane as the not being where we're going, and it isn't even so much not being where we're going, but where we're going. I have been holding back tears for days just trying to imagine what I will find there. And I am assured by so many it won't be what I expect to find. But I don't even know what I expect, except to go there and see Lebanon again, whatever it looks like. The sea will be there. The sky will be there, the mountains, valleys, the ruins. I don't think I am so concerned with finding what I expected to see as just seeing. And sharing this with my family.

The girls arrive on Tuesday, my sisters Sunday. Inshalla, I will have found a place to buy flowers and have the apartment decorated as best as I can. If I can't buy flowers, I know the University still grows things, because I asked that specifically (and was told yes). So I can pick something. Or bring in rocks from the Corniche, or wood from the abandoned sites. Whatever, I'm certain I'll be able to put together some kind of center piece we can all look at and say, "Huh, I guess we're here."

And now, a very few minutes from landing in Beirut we pass over Cyprus, and everywhere the blue of the Mediterranean and the sky, white and hot looking. It's been a long time coming. Gonna be a long time gone.

Florence and San Gimignano

Took the train to Poggobosi, where we got a bus to San Gimignano - a small Medieval village up a hill fortified by 14 remnants of the 72 towers that must have protected this place from something other than the throngs seeking the perfect gelato. And the gelato is perfect. The sky is perfect, and the train ride a dream, through industry and warehouses, into the wine and olive country past the villas that have been here longer than the oldest house in America, much less our little wine country.

And it's good to be out of the frenzy of Firenze. As charming as it is, Florence is a big city, and the smoke from all the motorbikes and cars, trucks and cigarettes drift into the Tuscan hills. But not without the kicking and screaming that seems to go on even buying the morning paper. Pleasant though, and very charming.

I watch an old woman wring her mop out on the third floor balcony, and the young man on the balcony below shakes his fist in silence, obviously cursing the dirty water the woman lets fall, and probably has since long before he moved in, or maybe even was born. But he doesn't move, gets distracted by something up the street and turns to face his day.

We spent the day in San Gimignano, then took the train back, taking coffee as often as we please, mixing it with the occasional beer and glass of wine. The train ride is punctuated by the villas on the hills of course, but also by the group of American high school graduates Eurorailing through, telling their tales of victory and bravado. Like the boy saying he IS going to smuggle the bottle of Absinthe back into America, and the girls giggling about the attention they garner from the Italian men. And the Roberto Beninni look-alike arguing with the conductor over his ticket. A protracted argument that climbs from curiosity to full-blown distraction, with Roberto almost in tears, shouting at the poor conductor who just nods his head with patience. In America this would have drawn homeland security and an escort of many would have shackled the poor fellow off to Guantonamo.

At night we realize we'll be in Rome tomorrow, I tell Leslie it'll be good practice for Beirut. More smoke from more cars and cigarettes, and probably a little more noise. But now we listen to birds in this quiet neighborhood. Like that one that sounds just like my old Royal typewriter thwack, thwack-thwacking through the 100% cotton paper of this sky. And we watch the light turn colors through the trees, it's time to go.

This morning, getting ready to leave, standing on the only balcony on the back side of the house, in a puff of smoke this came to me clearly - don't really know why I'm including it here, esxcept that it happened, and I am sharing what happens...

It raining more Tuscan tears
washing the eyse of the
millions who died ostensibly for love
in the name of the Christ.

Jesus, White Beans & Hail

The road to town gets easier. This morning getting to the train to San Gigimano - after another breakfast with Guissé and her house and children, was easier still.

Yesterday all day wandered the hot, dry streets of Florence, visiting with the David who may be just a thug with sledgehammer hands, and the millions of Christian artifacts that have littered Florence for centuries. Jesus in all his guises. Leslie is convinced he was an Italian, "After all, how could he look so Italian if he wasn't?" And I think about the spread of Christianity without the icon of Jesus and the cross and the immaculate conception and the resurrection - all that pain and assention. What if none of these images existed? I think the spread would have been a little slower. "And Mary arrived here by boat," Leslie adds. I wonder.

Later after more drinks and lunch and shopping I buy an Italian linen suit. Not that I needed one for any reason in the world. But this is a beautiful world. It's a beautiful suit. Leslie takes pictures of dresses and more doorknobs. After resting at home we wander back out to a restaurant recommended by Guissé, and walk through what turns into the only hip-hop, theater-district, street art alleyways to find the restaurant fancy and full. After the recommendation from the hostess we walk under an arch and find Natalino's, sit outside and prepare to enjoy our first fancy meal. Our table is next to an even smaller ally and Leslie asks me what I see - "Wrought iron grates and balcony rails, some street lights just coming on, stone and corner stones, and the ever present green shutters." "What do you see?" "Dark sky." And then it rains, slowly at first and then like hell. And then it starts to hail, stones as big as the white beans on the menu. We move inside, enjoy a splendid dinner then leave when the rain stopped. Walking back to the bust stop, lost and a little light, Leslie hears the most ethereal choir coming from behind a courtyard. Wen enter the courtyard and church, and listen awhile to Elizabethan chorale music, maybe 20 youth singing what had to be praises to heaven.

Funny how it comes back to that, heaven I mean, and the questions about God, and Jesus, and Mary. We leave, find a hotel in a plaza and ask for a cab. It's too late to argue and we really can't ever be sure. In the cab I ask, "You really think Mary came here by boat?" And the cab driver interrupts, "No," he says, " She came here by cab."

A little later, but still the same

I know this may seem a little narcissistic, but at this point i am taking what opportunity I can to make notes in the field.

Another day in Florence found us staring at The David, thinking through reasons why we would. But there it is, surrounded by all of the need to know God, and the devil, and all that goes with looking around.

We'll travel tomorrow to San Genovessi (or some spelling...) and take in what is to be taken there, leaving behind our good will, and a little more of our spirit, soul, and money.

We are well, the weather is lovely, and even as Americans, we are enjoying the hospitality of our hosts.

LoveLoveLove,

C

Florence. This is the third day, I think

This place is so full of busy people. And in town the noises are tremendous. People noises, going places noises or just sitting still but talking quite busily noises. And there isn't the smell of diesel I remember. We've been very lucky - cool breezes in the morning and afternoons, evenings still and very pleasant.

We took the 1 Euro bus to Fiesole, a small village on the hill overlooking Florence. For a working class busride we got pretty far away. Incredible views of the city from a small bar/cafe. Red roofs and sienna houses spilling all over these verdant hills. For as hot as it's supposed to be the hills are amazingly green. Leslie thinks it looks like California, but with better architecture. And Les is convinced there is only one architect here, a good one. We thought we'd walk down and took the smallest, most blind alleys through the highest walled and gated homes, and the cars and motorbikes never stopped. There were turns so blind cars would stop, honk and then proceed without caution. And we got lost 10 hours in to our walking day, then found ourselves on the map and went home to eat al fresca.

Here the wine is cheap and tasty, the beer is strong and there is little talk of politics. We've seen quite a few multi-colored flags with "PACE" on them, and other than the obligatory Ché flag or poster there's been no sign of politics. But then again this may be a place people let go of things. Like their worries and their dough. So many way to separate men from their money. Fragrances and leather, hand made papers and books. But for now, for the most part, we're just trying to hang on till the bell rings.

Day 2...

Slept without drugs and dreamt complicated dreams. I kept thinking it was raining. It wasn't. Early light and the birds in the back garden, waiting, waiting, until 8 when we can go down to coffee and breakfast. Guissé grew up in Somalia and the house is littered with ivory and African things. So lovely, and then breakfast, and chat, and plans, and how easy it will be to separate us from our money here (or anywhere).

Plans to see the Uffitzi, the David, Arno, the leather market, the faces on the people who are looking like we are looking. And take pictures of doorknobs. Or just doors. When I was dreaming of this part of the trip I dreamt I would do nothing but open the shutters in the morning, and close them at night. Already they've been opened and shut a bunch of times, and it ain't looking like it will stop anytime soon.

I have in mind such a strange combination of thoughts and memories; and wants, and hopes and wishes; joys, fears, and reliefs. Leslie and I are relaxed, and relieved the building up to leaving part is over, and the I can't believe we're here part dissolves into a simple nod that our hands are together on this street like no other in the world.

We're Gone

Left this morning or yesterday about as early as I would have wanted to leave - forgetting everything I could and not saying good-bye to those I needed to say good-bye to. but left. Long, long day, arriving in Rome with what we thought was plenty of time on Saturday. And found out we have no time, and it's Sunday and very few trains are going to Florence, and they're full except for the one leaving very soon and there's two 1st class tickets for all the money I have, but we have to get to Roma Terminis first and the guy says you have enough time, the train leaves at 12:55 and it's only 5 after. And we do get to Terminis. And it's a cattle call into a huge train station and it's 20 minutes till and we're just stuck, and hot, and clearly in need of rushing. And no one seems to rush here, at rush hour. We sweat and squeak our way and ask a couple of uniformed people if they can help, and they sort of mumble and point and sometimes shake their head like the train has already left.

We're literally pushed onto the train as it's pulling out of the station. 12:57 Leslie said she saw on the platform clock. Then the stunning ride to Florence.

And Florence in sort of an Ambian afternoon. Not really hungry, we find our way to Villa de Sosta, in a residential neighborhood out of the main throng. We rest a bit, visit with Guissé, fin a card from friends in Half Moon Bay in the guest book and figure we're in the right place. Set out again around 3 to find our way downtown, and didn't really get lost, just a little turned around. Dallied in the remarkable light, reflected of the walls of the buildings that have been here awhile.

Leslie wants to do an album of door knobs. We walked till our feet hurt, caught the wrong bus back up the hill, fortunately found ourself on the map and then found the restaurant Guissé recommended. We ate lovingly and saved leftovers for tomorrow's lunch.

Seeing what whoever sees who comes to this place, or anyplace people go, it isn't easy to say anything except that it's easy to see why people come. Weather perfect, clothes fitting and still a little money in our pockets, tomorrow we'll figure it out.