Mountain Villages, Castles and Booza in the Shouf

Ozge!

Ozge is leaving for Turkey on Tuesday! The beginning of the end. It seems that many of the people I’ve met here over the past couple of weeks are half & half’s like me, or political science students with a particular interest in the Middle East, here doing an internship – regardless, the one thing they all seem to have in common is that they’re all only here for the summer. Rats. It’s okay – I’ll just have to make the most out of my time with them, their last few weeks here!

So today was declared Ozge’s day and I promised to go along with whatever plans she made. Which is actually awesome for me because Ozge always seems to make amazing plans.

Last night, before I left Dany’s the two of us decided to meet up at 11:30 am on Hamra street and make another day trip to somewhere in Lebanon. Up late as usual, I rushed to get dressed and picked up two manaeesh with vegetables for us for breakfast, and hurried over to find Ozge waiting patiently for me with a cup of coffee for each of us. Mmmm boy! Great minds think alike! We were off to a good start!

We headed down to the Cola transport hub where we met up with two friends of Ozge’s, an Australian guy and an Irish guy, whose names I have embarrassingly forgotten. Ozge wanted to explore the Shouf – a mountain range southeast of Beirut that is part of the Mount Lebanon Range. So we headed off in a shared taxi for the village of Deir al-Qamar (Pronounced ‘Dare al Um-ar’ – in the Lebanese dialect of Arabic they almost always drop the ‘q’ sound, in case you were wondering – which I’m sure you weren’t, but now you know. Don’t ‘cha feel lucky?), a small village in the Shouf, which Lonely Planet describes as “one of Lebanon’s prettiest villages…and one of the best-preserved examples of 17th and 18th century provincial architecture in the country.” Good plan!

The beautiful Shouf

The drive up from boiling Beirut into the considerably cooler green mountains was beautiful and when we weren’t chatting or checking out the view, I read up on Deir al-Qamar. ‘Deir’ means ‘monastery’ and ‘al-Qamar’ means ‘moon’, so basically the name translates to ‘Monastery of the moon.’ I don’t know what the story behind that name is, but I like it! The taxi dropped us off along the main road in Deir al-Qamar around 1pm and we took a minute to orient ourselves and take in the sights.

View down the main road of Deir al-Qamar

Dany Chamoun wearing a shirt with the logo of the Tiger's Militia

Deir al-Qamar really is a beautiful city. It’s filled with stone buildings with red-tile roofs, assembled around a large center square, called Dany Chamoun Square. Dany Chamoun was a Lebanese politician and the son of former Lebanese President Camille Chamoun. He was born in Deir al-Qamar and was known for his opposition to the occupation of Lebanese territories by Syrian and Israeli foreign forces and for his role as a leader of the Tigers Militia in 1968, the military wing of the National Liberal Party (NLP) during the Lebanese Civil War. He and his family were assassinated in 1990, and in his honor, they named the main square of Deir al-Qamar after him.

Random fact about Dany Chamoun Square – apparently in the 16th century they held jousting and other equestrian competitions there. So cool! Now it just houses a small 19th century fountain that dispenses clean drinking water from the nearby Shalout spring. The fountain itself isn’t anything spectacular, but the ice-cold water hit the spot.

Dany Chamoun Square in Deir al-Qamar

Okay, being totally honest – aside from being a cute town with an interesting history, there’s really not much to do in Deir al-Qamar. We browsed the small souk where I bought a patch of the Lebanese flag for my backpack and took a peek in the bizarre wax museum that’s housed inside the old palace of Emir Fakhreddine II, that was built in 1620. We walked past the small Mosque of Fakhreddine that was built in the Mamluk style in the 1490s and down a hill to the Church of Saidet at-Talle that was built in the 7th century, destroyed by an earthquake in the 8th century and then rebuilt under Fakhreddine in the 16th century. Whew! Actually, one thing that is cool about this city is that it has housed Muslims, Christians, Jews and Druze and has the religious monuments to prove it.

So with our tour of this tiny village complete (took about 1 hour) we decided to treat ourselves to some booza (the Arabic word for ice cream – such a fun word!) from a small stall in front of the Palace of Fakhreddine. YES! And the best part was – they had banana royales. Okay for you poor, select individuals who have yet to sample the delicious amazingness that is a banana royale, I will fill you in – sliced banana, 3 scoops of the ice cream of your choice, topped with whipped cream and hot fudge. HEAVEN!! Yes, ice cream makes me that happy

Booza!! Banana Royale with pistachio ice cream! Ah! SO HAPPY!

After our delicious snack, we decided to make our way to the nearby palace of Beiteddine. Okay, and here is where we encountered our first problem of the day. Transportation. There were no cabs to be found in the bite-sized village of Deir al-Qamar and Beiteddine is 6 kilometers away. Oh dear…Luckily, there is only one road connecting the village with the palace and so we set off on foot, arms outstretched, thumbs erect hoping against hope that someone would be kind enough to pick us up. Luckily after about 30 minutes of walking a lone cab passed by and drove us, 4 sweaty, pathetically unsuccessful hitchhikers, to Beiteddine for 2,000 lira each. Score!

Interior courtyard of Beiteddine

The palace of Beiteddine took about 30 years to build and was completed in the early 1800s. It’s massive and gorgeous and perfectly in tact. There are large courtyards with fountains, steam baths, intricate mosaic floors – the details decorating this place are nuts. It’s pretty awesome. I actually visited the palace the first time I came to Lebanon with my Mom in 2005, but I was psyched to be going back.

As we pulled into the palace entrance, we waved goodbye to our driver and made our way over to the ticket counter….where we encountered problem #2. Because of the summer Beiteddine festival, the palace closed early – we were an hour too late. Uuuuuugh! Such a bummer. So now what….We took a quick break to rest and collect our thoughts. On the walk + drive over, we had noticed a castle that seemed a little out of place in the middle of the Shouf and we decided to head back there and check it out. 15 minutes of walking and more unsuccessful hitchhiking later, we found ourselves in another taxi and on our way to Castle Moussa.

Exterior of Castle Moussa

Okay, what to say about Castle Moussa? This place is a trip. So freaking bizarre! Basically the story begins with this guy named Moussa – Moussa Abdel Karim Al Maamari, to be exact. He was born in 1931 and was one of those kids obsessed with the Middle Ages – you know, knights, castles, kings and queens. Pretty standard. So the little Moussa is in grade school and the teacher asks his students to write a short essay on where they want to live when they grow up. Moussa writes about his dream of living in a castle – he’s a kid, so far this all sounds pretty normal, right? The teacher thinks the idea is ridiculous and beats Moussa in front of his classmates, who all laugh and ridicule him. Okay. That admittedly sucks.

So Moussa is so traumatized by this whole thing that he makes it his life goal to prove his teacher wrong and build himself a castle. And this is where the story begins to get a little bizarre. This guy devotes his whole life to learning about the restoration of old palaces and castles in Lebanon (he actually worked on the restoration of Beiteddine), and once he has saved up enough money, he buys a plot of land in the Shouf and begins, literally, to build his dream castle. He built the ENTIRE thing by hand, an impressive feat that took him 60 years to complete. This place has a moat, a drawbridge, medieval style ramparts – oh, he went all out.

Oh and it gets better. Inside his fabulous castle Moussa decided to recreate scenes of daily life in Lebanon with wax figures. All of which he also made himself. And you can tell. I mean, don’t get me wrong – it’s impressive that he did all that he did, but the quality of the wax figures – some of which move! – is bordering on 8th grade history project. But this dude definitely would have been given an A for effort!

First thing you see upon entering Castle Moussa - A wax representation of traditional Lebanese daily life

Seriously, walking through this place was like walking through the surreal dream of a 10-year-old boy. It started out pretty standard for a historical wax museum – figures making bread, dancing the dabke (traditional Lebanese dance), welding, etc. But as you walk from room to room the displays just get progressively weirder. First of all, evidence of how traumatized this guy was – there is an entire life-sized recreation of his teacher beating him in a classroom full of his mocking classmates. What the what?? I mean, I guess that was where the inspiration for the castle began…And I thought I had problems letting go…

The infamous and traumatic beating of Moussa

Another room housed a miniature representation of Noah’s Ark, complete with small plastic animals (lions, tigers…a dragon…and a dangling Santa Clause. No joke.) on a rotating conveyor belt, continuously filtering into the ark. And then things just got more random. Moussa must have been a collector of old irons, because in many of the rooms, there were multiple irons, arbitrarily placed on the floor. There were also large wax hands and large wax feet that kept popping up in display cases and on the floors of exhibits. What the what?!?

The room pictured below featured wall mosaics with a waterfall running over their surface, a stuffed peacock, irons on the floor, guns on the wall, an old woman carrying rope…etc. Ummmm….Why??? I don’t get it.

I don't get it...

Oh and it’s not over yet…then the gun collection began! I told you, surreal dream of a 10-year-old boy – castle, awesome wax people, and guns! Well surreal dream of a 10-year-old boy manifested in the reality of a 70-year-old man….At least 15 rooms packed with guns followed. Random wax hands and feet were still thrown into some of the exhibits for good measure, alongside the occasional large display case of daggers, swords and Bedouin jewelry. I felt like I should have been high or tripping on acid to really appreciate this place.

Bellies aching from laughing and mouths sore from gaping at the bizarre wonder that is Castle Moussa, we all packed ourselves into a shared taxi and headed back to Beirut. But the day wasn’t over yet!  A shower and a quick nap later, I headed over to Ferdinand, a small bar on Rue Mahatma Gandhi for Ozge’s farewell party.

Me, Omar and Ozge at Ferdinand - the three best Arabic students ALPS has ever known, and my two closest friends here in Beirut

Ozge’s co-workers and friends – many of whom are my flat mates (small world!) – filtered in over the course of the night and we all sipped wine and beer, talked and laughed until finally fatigue pulled us all home to our beds. What a day!

Jbeil (aka Byblos)

Yesterday, I was sick in bed all day with the flu. I guess that’s what I get for going on and on about how Friday is my lucky day. I jinxed myself. Damn. Knew it was too good to be true…But, don’t fret! I was feeling a bit more energized today and when Ozge and Charles pitched the idea of heading to the beach, I couldn’t resist. Besides, if I’m going to be sick, I’d much rather be sick at the beach – you gotta’ admit, lying in the sun is much more entertaining than lying in bed at home.

So, we headed north to Jbeil (pronounced Je-bale, and also known by the Greek name, Byblos), to the beautiful beach club, Eddé Sands.  Charles had been there before and knew how to sneak us in so we didn’t have to pay the ridiculously expensive entrance fee. Score! Once inside, we all slipped into our bathing suits and oooched! and ouched! our way over to empty beach chairs, burning the soles of our feet on the scorching sand. No sooner had we stretched out on our chairs, than Omar called to say he was also the beach – ah! Too good to be true! And just like that, our fabulous foursome was all together sipping beers and relaxing seaside.

Ozge, Omar and Charles, chilling at the beach

Eddé Sands is pretty ridiculous. The place is massive – there are 6 pools alongside the beach, restaurants, fish ponds, bars, music, amazing landscaping, a view of the ruins of Jbeil. They host concerts and all-night parties. They were actually setting up for a wedding while we were there – laying down the dance floor, setting up lights and carrying in massive crates of flowers. Looked like it was going to be one extravagant bash!

Eddé Sands (Beautiful photo by Ozge)

Ah! Okay, side note – weddings in Lebanon. Oh my crap. What an ordeal. At a friend’s party the other night, I met a wedding planner.  As she regaled me with tales of the MILLION DOLLAR weddings she organizes (no joke, many spend even more), I felt like a little kid enraptured at story time.  It was unreal. It baffles me that people are willing to spend SO much on one day.

My brother and I on our way to the moon in 1992

But then again, I’ve always had simpler tastes – after all, I’m the kid who would put aside her toys to play for hours with her brother, transforming a cardboard box into a spaceship and taking trips to the moon. To each their own, right? Some people take out loans to pay for their studies or to buy a house, in Lebanon they take out loans to look like Barbies and throw weddings on the scale of the Oscars.

Walking around Beirut, every now and then you’ll see a wedding procession driving by – the bride’s car smothered with bows, ribbons, flowers and fluff, all the other cars honking as they go by. And when I say honking, I mean hands slammed against the horn, never letting up. Actually gives me a headache, but here it means party party! Women in the cars and even passer-bys will cup their hands over their mouths and let out what a friend of mine fondly refers to as the high-pitched Lebanese yodel, a celebratory cry, which in Arabic is actually called ‘zalghouta.’

Check out this video of my friend Jad crying out a zalghouta:

Lebanese makeup at it's finest

Oh, and the outfits! It’s like an 80’s prom gone wrong – everyone dressed in the poofiest, most glitter-drenched dresses the world has ever known. Hairstyles that rival Amy Winehouse’s famous beehive for height and volume, with vibrant streaks of blond added in especially for the occasion.  Sequined covered shoes that can be seen sparkling from miles away. The bling bling these girls decorate their fingers, necks, wrists, ears and hair with would do Elizabeth Taylor proud.  And the whole ensemble is complimented by makeup that would do drag queens proud.

Everything in excess.

A Lebanese Bride

My friend Rianne actually went to a Lebanese wedding during her first week here in Lebanon.  Later she told me stories of the ceremony, held at a massive mansion in the hills overlooking Beirut.  There were rotating video cameras on cranes, candles everywhere, chefs ready and waiting to cook you whatever your heart desired.  There was a massive dance floor surrounded by hundreds of tables, flowers popping out of every surface imaginable. And as a grand finale – fireworks!

Fireworks in general seem to be big in the Middle East. In Amman, Ramallah and Beirut, I regularly heard the popping of fireworks or firecrackers, most relatively small, going off at night, or even mid-day.  But whenever we see a massive fireworks show going off in the skies over Beirut, my Lebanese friends joke that with each explosion the only sound the groom hears is that of the money draining from his bank account. I think I’m going to have to try to go to one of these Lebanese weddings before I leave. I have to see all this for myself…

But anyway, back to the beach.

Omar, me and Charles modeling our beautiful beach-wear at Edde Sands (Photo by Ozge)

The four of us had an amazing time – lounging, soaking up the sun, taking the occasional dip in the Mediterranean, or one of the pools. When hunger struck, we made our way over to one of the little restaurants where we ordered the cheapest thing on the menu – big salads (trust me, I’m not one of those freaky skinny girls who only eats rabbit food, but on a hot day this was just what the doctor ordered. Plus, there was chicken in it and the thing was massive. I’m just saying). Waiting for our food we sipped on jallab, chatted and laughed.

Ozge enjoying her delicious glass of Jallab

Omar enjoying his delicious glass of Jallab

Ah! Jallab! This stuff is amazing! The perfect antidote to a sticky, hot summer day. Jallab is an mmmmm boy delicious juice drink that I would love to claim as Lebanese, but it’s popular throughout the Arab world, so really, I have no idea where it first appeared. It’s made with a syrup made from date juice, molasses and rose water.  You mix the syrup with water and ice, top it off with pine nuts, fresh almonds and golden raisins, and switch between straw and spoon until the glass is empty. And Louis Armstrong croons, ‘Heaven! I’m in heaven! And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak, and I seem to find the happiness I seek…’ *Sigh*

Around 8pm, as the sun began to set, the four of us packed up our bags, said goodbye to Eddé Sands, and walked (about 20 min.) into Jbeil to explore the city and get some dinner. Jbeil was founded around 5000 BCE. Okay, coming from the States where no building is over 300 years old and especially coming from California, which didn’t even become a state until 1850, I LOVE being constantly surrounded by so much history! I mean, Jbeil is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities IN THE WORLD. What the what?! Doesn’t that blow your mind???

It’s an old Phoenician city and it’s insanely beautiful. I mean, I love Beirut, but this place just has so much character and charm oozing out of every street corner.

Charles, me and Omar walking around downtown Jbeil. (Photo by Ozge)

Just to clarify, Phonecia was this fantastic ancient civilization that was composed of a massive chunk of modern-day Lebanon + bits of Palestine, Israel and Syria. It lasted from the 1500s BCE until the 300s BCE and for a large part of that time, Jbeil was actually their capital city. Woot.

Map of Phoenicia

The Phoenicians were also the ones who created the alphabet that is widely believed to be the ancestor of almost all modern alphabets. So how ‘bout them apples? Yeah, these guys were awesome.  All of their big cities were located along the coast because they were all about maritime trade.  Actually the Greek name for Jbeil – Byblos – came from the Greek word for papyrus – ‘bublos’ – which was the main import the Greeks received from the Phoenicians in Jbail. Ah sooooo!

Our amazing wristbands! Here's to tacky souvenirs!

We walked past the 12^th century crusader castle and through the old souk where we browsed clothes, jewelry, nargiles, postcards, handcrafts, etc. and each dropped about 50 cents on cheesy Lebanon wristbands. We popped into the famous shop – Mémoire du Temps – where you can browse and buy old fossils. The shop is nuts. It’s relatively small and every available bit of wall and shelf space is covered with ancient fish fossils – including one of a 4 meter long shark.  Apparently it was opened by the paleontologist Pierre Abi-Saad, a native of Jbeil.  Abi-Saad’s family has owned a quarry in the city for generations, in which they discovered thousands of perfectly preserved fossils of fish, most species of which are now extinct. Apparently, in the fall and spring, you can actually go on fossil digs with this guy for FREE. I’m going to have to get in on that!

The old souk in Jbeil (Another beautiful photo by Ozge)

By 9:30pm, the souk was beginning to close up and the cafes and bars to open up. Within a few minutes, the streets went from housing baubles and bangles to housing tons of folding tables and chairs that quickly filled with hungry locals and visitors alike. Hungry ourselves, we headed down to the harbor – the former hub of all Phoenician trade. At night the harbor is so beautiful – all the fishing boats docked for the night, the medieval walls and old Mamluk towers wrapped around its sides, and little lights from restaurants reflecting in the water. Very cute.

The view of the harbor from the restaurant Chez Pepe (Photo by Ozge)

Omar, me and Charles out for dinner at Pepe

For dinner, we decided to go to Chez Pepe: Byblos Fishing Club.  The restaurant is right on the harbor and is famous all over Jbeil for its fresh fish. YES! The restaurant was founded by this guy named Pepe Abed – a Lebanese man born and raised in Mexico. He moved back to Lebanon in the 1960s and opened his now famous restaurant in 1963. Apparently Pepe really knew how to throw a good party and his restaurant attracted the glitterati of Lebanon and the world – politicians like Czech President Václav Havel, film stars like Marlon Brando and Bridget Bardot, etc. Pepe’s was the IT restaurant in Lebanon.

An old photo of Pepe Abed, showing off his photo wall of fame

Then boom. Civil war. During the war, Chez Pepe closed its doors and Pepe flew back to Mexico where he worked saving money to reopen his restaurant when things cooled down in Lebanon. It didn’t have the same ‘star’ power it once boasted but if you go now, there are still tons of photos on the walls of Pepe and his famous guests.  Sadly, Pepe died at the ripe old age of 95, in the winter of 2006. Sounds like the guy had quite a life! His son runs the business now, and it really is a blast of a place – it’s so nice sitting outside and feasting on lip-smacking good Lebanese cuisine. You actually get to pick the fish you want from a large ice filled case. It’s fantastic! It’s served with tahini (sesame paste), lemon and pita. And that’s not including the wide selection of mezze dishes – hummos, moutabal, tabouleh, etc. Good food gives me such a happy rush and when we finally finished our meal, we were are bursting with joy…and out of our pants – luckily I was sporting baggy shorts. Oh yeah.

Dancing in the streets of Byblos (photo by Ozge)

Pole dancing in the streets of Jbail

Happy and full, we walked back into the city center where all of the outdoor bars were now overflowing with people, drinking and dancing in the streets. We took a seat at an outdoor bar called Iguana and tried their signature drink – an icy cocktail, blended like a frozen margarita, made with fresh kiwis and vodka. So good!  We sipped our alcoholic kiwi slushies and danced in our chairs to the music playing from a nearby live band, singing songs in Arabic, English, Spanish, Italian and French. A little after midnight, we were all feeling wiped out and I was becoming more aware of the fact that I have the flu. So we danced our way through the crowds and hailed a cab back to Beirut.  You know, yani, just a typical Saturday in Lebanon…haha! What the what?! How is this my life??

Charles, Ozge, me and Omar at Iguana

Gouraud: The Street and the General

If you tell a taxi to take you to the Beirut neighborhood of Gemmazeh, they’ll drop you at the start of the Rue Gouraud – the main bar, restaurant and club packed street running through this noisy neighborhood, which somehow manages to be grungy and upscale chic at the same time. I love it! You can spend entire nights hopping from cafe to bar, from bar to club, and never get bored or run out of new places to try.

General Gouraud

But anyway, I’ve been curious for awhile now about the street’s namesake ‘Gouraud.’ I wikipedia-ed that shit and here’s what I found: Henri Joseph Eugene Gouraud was born in France in 1867.  For one of the plethora of reasons that inspire young men to take up arms for their country, he joined the French army and began to bump his way up the ranks.  He actually lost his right arm while he was commanding French forces during the Battle of Gallipoli in 1915. Like Cervantes in the Battle of Le Panto! Although, that was his left arm. Ha! History NERD in the house.

You know the Battle of Gallipoli – World War I, fought on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey. British and French trying to capture Istanbul from the Ottomans and failing miserably. Tons of people died on both sides – honestly doesn’t sound like it was worth it. Oh,  and they made a movie about it in 1981 – which in today’s pop culture world is probably more well known than the battle itself. The film was directed by Peter Weir and stars a very young Mel Gibson and Mark Lee as two hopeful, promising young Australians who join ANZAC (The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps – a branch of the British Army during WWI) and then get butchered in Gallipoli. It’s a great film but obviously very depressing.

ANYWAY, I digress.  So the reason why they care about this General in Lebanon is that from 1919-1923 he was a commander of the French army of the Levant (Levant = the eastern Mediterranean countries in general – specifically, Lebanon, Palestine, Jordan, Syria, Israel and sometimes Iraq and Saudi Arabia) and played an important role in the creation of the French Mandates of Syria and Lebanon.  From what I’ve read, the locals in the region had mixed opinions of Gouraud and the French presence, but apparently he had enough of an impact to merit a street being named after him!

I actually found an article in the archives of the the NY Times, written in 1922, entitled ‘Gouraud Doubts Turks Want Syria: French Policy, the General Says, Is Merely to Carry Out Mandate Helpfully.’ I love the internet

Some background info: So in 1916, you get the Sykes-Picot Agreement (s0 called because it was negotiated by François Georges-Picot of France and Mark Sykes of Britain) between France and the UK that defined who would get control of the different territories in the Middle East after the Ottoman Empire fell.  But this agreement was secret and didn’t become official (although it was enforced all the while) until after the end of WWI, in the 1920s by the League of Nations. So in 1920, in the Treaty of Sevres (peace treaty between the Ottomans and the Allied forces), France was official granted control of Syria. The Syrians were pissed, understandably and actually from 1919 (French presence already in Syria but yet to be officially granted power by the League of Nations) until 1921 you get the Franco-Syrian War, with the Syrians trying to oust the French. The Syrians lost and the French remained in control. Quelle surprise.

So when this NY Times article was written in 1922, the French presence in Syria (Lebanon had yet to be created as it’s own country and was just a state in Syria – in fact the article is written from Beirut, Syria not Beirut, Lebanon) was established but Gouraud and his troops were still facing small attacks from different groups in Syria who hadn’t given up on their goal of evicting the French.  Syrian grievances against the French included French suppression of Syrian newspapers, political activity, and civil rights and the division of Greater Syria into six different states (Gouraud actually headed this division of Syria, one of the states being that of Greater Lebanon, which eventually became the country).

In the article, the author interviewed Gouraud who was trying to set the record straight about the French influence in Syria, explaining that the French were trying to restore stability in the region, reduce their presence in Syria and were generally liked in the region despite the recent attacks – “He was sure the Syrian people were beginning to realize the generous motives behind the French mandate and the elevating influence of French efforts in Syria, and he was happy to be able to say that the French were now meeting with ready and cordial cooperation.”  He also explained that he felt the Ottoman’s would not try to retake Syria and insisted that the French were “…on excellent terms with the Turkish authorities.” So interesting. Wish I had a Syrian article written at the same time on their perspective, but given that the French were suppressing Syrian papers, that might be more difficult to come by.

Gouraud returned to Paris the year after this article was published, in 1923, where he worked as Military Governor until his retirement in 1937, and eventually died in 1946.

Well, anyway, there you go. A brief sum up of the man behind the street name in the party district of Beirut.

Sour (aka Tyre)

The alarm went off at 10:30am. Uuuuuuuuuuhhhhh. My eyes felt as though they were cemented shut, my entire body paralyzed. Somehow, I managed to animate my left hand and flopped it against the snooze button. What felt like a mili-second later that annoying MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! was going off in my ear again. That sound is like nails on a chalkboard. Although, I have discovered that any sound that habitually wakes you up in the morning – be it generic alarm beeping, a rooster crowing, or even music – begins to have that unfortunate effect.

Want to indulge a random tangent? When I was in high school, I had a year during which I was obsessed with a series of old musicals. Okay, it was longer than a year. Whatever. Anyway that same year, I discovered to my great delight that my CD player had a function that allows you to set your alarm to play the first track of any given CD. I popped in ‘My Fair Lady’ and for the rest of the school year woke up to the opening bars of the overture. In May, I discovered to my great annoyance, that just like Alex’s reaction to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony after undergoing the Ludovico Technique in ‘A Clockwork Orange,’ the opening bars of the overture of My Fair Lady had begun to invoke feelings of nausea and irritation. And they still do. So I’ve switched back to the grating ‘MEEP!’ alarm so as not to forever ruin all of my favorite songs. A sucky but necessary tradeoff.

Ozge and Charles

ANYWAY, finally out of bed, I quickly got dressed and rushed over to Hamra Street to meet Charles and Ozge, where we hitched a cab down to the Cola Transport Hub and tried to find a mini-bus to take us down to Sour (pronounced ‘Soor.’ In English it’s called Tyre – pronounced ‘Teer’), in the south of Lebanon. After some bartering in our combined broken Arabic, we figured out that while it was about $3 more per person, it would be significantly easier to just take a service (shared taxi), as opposed to a mini-bus down to Sour. So, we hopped in the first willing service and began the long drive down with our driver Ali and fellow passenger Abbas.

Abbas, new friend and our charming guide for the day!

Before too long, we all got to chatting. Well okay, chatting might be an over statement. Ali didn’t speak any English and Abbas knew only a few words. Our Arabic…well, it’s weak, but semi-functional. So Abbas gave us Arabic lessons, and there was lots of laughing at the inevitable misunderstandings. Two hours later, we arrived in Sour, a city which, unlike Beirut, doesn’t claim English as a lingua franca. Abbas had an afternoon to spare and offered to take us around the city and help us communicate when necessary. How insanely friendly is that?? I love the Lebanese!

Herodotus

Sour is a port city in the south of Lebanon that according to Herodotus was founded in the 3rd century BCE. You know Herodotus – that old, 5th century Greek historian, ‘the father of history,’ who’s word on a significant amount of history we just have to take as it is, because there isn’t much else to go on – isn’t it amazing the power held by major historians?? Particularly the ancient ones. Blows my mind.

The Harbor - First view of Sour

The first thing we saw when we arrived in Sour was the harbor, packed with small fishing boats. The city is known for its many ancient Roman and Byzantine ruins, so after a quick stop for some water, we set off in search of the al-Mina excavation site, where many of these ruins are located.  Down a dirt path and through a vine-covered entry way and all of a sudden, we were twisting our way around columns of an ancient palestra (basically a public gym – I wish my gym had massive marble columns! Well, I’d actually have to go to a gym first…but you get the idea – how amazing would that be??) the remains of a huge open-air theater, and Roman baths, all set against the stunning backdrop of the sparkling Mediterranean. Yeah, it was pretty fantastic.

Charles, Ozge and me at the entrance to al-Mina

View of the al-Mina excavation site - Theater in the foreground & columns of the Palaestra in the background

After about an hour in al-Mina, Charles, Ozge, Abbas and I walked alongside the beach until we found a small place to stop for some cheap food and Almazas.  Bellies full and thirst quenched, we began a long walk back down the beach to the old souk, located near the harbor where we’d first arrived. The beach was full of families laughing and playing in the water, and I noticed, that many of the Muslim women actually go in the water dressed in full clothing, head scarf and all. I honestly don’t know why I was surprised, it makes perfect sense, I guess I’d just never really thought about it.  As we turned away from the beach, I glanced back and saw a little girl, completely veiled, determinedly pushing her way against the current and out into the sea with two inner-tubes to keep her afloat. Made me smile

We continued walking and chatting with Abbas as we made our way through downtown Sour, and finally to the souk (market).  The souk was actually closing up for the night, but the smells of fish, fresh fruit, spices, shwarma, and pastries lingered as the store owners tucked away their displays and pulled down the aluminum coverings over their storefronts.

Downtown Sour

That seemed to be our cue to go, and as the sun began to set, Abbas put us on a bus backed to Beirut and waved goodbye. I was so tired from the sun, the few hours of sleep last night, and the long day of walking that I barely noticed the 10+ near collisions caused by  our maniacal driver on the way back to Beirut and just closed my eyes and let the hot wind knot my hair.

And now, I’m home again home again. It’s 9:30 pm and I’m going to try to squeeze in a quick shower before heading out to meet up with friends for Saturday night out in Beirut! Life’s too short to sleep .

And Friday I’m in love!

I’m in love with Beirut!! Today was such a fantastic day! Dude. I think Friday is my lucky day. No joke. I mean, in general, it’s a brilliant day. If you work or have class, all day you can’t help smiling because you know the freedom of the weekend awaits. If you’re Muslim, it’s the first day of the weekend, so that’s freaking fantastic. Really – there is nothing bad about Fridays. They’re just all-around wonderful! And here in Beirut, they’ve all been beyond amazing.

Manaeesh! Mmmm, boy!

Met Omar for coffee after class and we chatted till around 1pm, when Omar introduced me to my now beloved BarBar to grab a quick lunch. Okay, BarBar is brilliant. My love for it rivals my love for Fridays in Beirut. It’s basically a full block of different take-out places in the Hamra neighborhood, all run by the BarBar Trading Company. There’s a shwarma place, a falafel place, a manaeesh/fatayer place (manaeesh is basically thick round delicious bread, covered in zaatar & fatayer (aka – spinach pie) is bread, folded into a triangle, with spinach filling), a fresh fruit smoothie place, an ice cream place, a pizza place, a sandwich place – basically it’s heaven. And everything at BarBar is cheap – you’ll never pay more than $2 for any food item. Oh, and they deliver. On cute little motorbikes. I LOVE IT! How I did not discover this place sooner, I will never know.

Part of the BarBar strip, by night

After eating, we each went home to get bathing suits and met up about an hour later to head down to St. George’s – a beach club in Beirut, just off the Corniche (the boardwalk that runs along the sea), that’s been operating since the 1930s. There are two main pools at St. George’s, filled with chlorinated salt-water.  Omar and I swam, tanned, talked and people-watched until closing around 6:30pm. Ah! Such a great afternoon!!

One thing that’s impossible to miss if you’re anywhere near St. George, is the gigantic banner, covering the side of the large building bordering the pool, that reads “STOP SOLIDERE”.

I’ve been trying to figure out the story behind the sign, and so far, this is what I’ve found out: First of all, Solidere stands for ‘SOciété LIbanaise pour le Développement Et la REconstruction de Beyrouth’, which translates to ‘Lebanese Society for the Development and Reconstruction of Beirut.’ Basically, it’s a group that was created in 1994 by former Lebanese prime minister, Rafiq Hariri, to oversee all the planning and redevelopment of Beirut after Lebanon’s civil war (1975-1990).

Rafiq Hariri

So on the outside, it looked like they did a lot of good.  Actually, the first time I came to Lebanon in 2005, right after Hariri was assisnated, Mom bought a picture book publsihed by Solidere that showed photos of Beirut destroyed after the war, alongside photos  after Solidere’s reconstruction projects. We were impressed.

But, what, to me, as a passive tourist, looked pretty on the outside, actually had a kind of corrupt and messy process behind it.  According to a 2007 article in the Daily Star by Lysandra Ohrstrom, (Solidere: ‘Vigilantism under the color of law’), beginning in 1994, “…Solidere exchanged property rights from between 100,000 to 150,000 tenants and landowners in exchange for shares in Solidere itself. But after the completion of the rehabilitation the former occupants were guaranteed either the right to return to their property or the company’s profits were to be distributed as just compensation.” Problem is…most people still haven’t seen compensation, and going broke waiting, many have sold their property and are now basically fucked. Adding insult to injury, a lot of people were pissed that in it’s reconstructions, Solidere modernized the city, taking away from it’s historical and traditional character. They ”…demolished 85 percent of the city’s memory considering buildings to be too badly damaged to be worth preserving, and denied property owners and tenants their right to return to where they were operating from before.” Not cool Solidere, not cool.

As for St. George’s  – it’s this fantastic little beach club right by the water that was one of the first in Beirut, and it’s marina is iconic here. The building that the big sign is hanging on, is the old St. George’s hotel, which was destroyed during the civil war.  The beach club itself actually just reopened within the last year, as it was completely destroyed during the 2006 war with Israel. Problem is, Solidere has blocked the owners of St. George’s from reconstructing the hotel, taken away their rights to the marina and sometimes have even blocked people from entering the beach club – all part of efforts to put pressure on St. George’s to sell to Solidere. Boo hiss. So yeah, from what I’ve heard thus far, I’m with St. George’s. Stop Solidere!

Having fun getting ready to head out on Friday night

Anyway…after an amazing afternoon at the pool, Omar and I went our separate ways with plans to meet up later tonight.  A shower and a quick nap and before I knew it, it was 9:30pm. I got dressed for a night out while sipping on the red wine I bought at Chateau Ksara – yum! And at 10pm, I was off!!

Zeina and Salam

Met up with Ozge and Charles on Hamra and the three of us headed down to Gem for drinks and good conversation. After about an hour, we were joined by Jeff and a French girl he knows from work, who’s name I’ve completely forgotten. Another hour and Omar showed up with his friends Salam and Ziena. Lots of laughing and chatting and shots made with tabasco sauce, vodka, lemon juice and topped by olives followed.

Half of Jeff's head, Omar, me and Charles squashed in the cab, but still ridiculously happy!

At 3am, with a good buzz going, we said goodbye to Salam and Ziena, and the remaining 6 of us squashed ourselves into the back of a taxi in search of the perfect place to finish off the night. We ended up at this swank beach-side club called Island, that’s part of the Riviera Hotel. Jeff got us in for free so woot! happy day! Chilled with drinks at the bar next to the pool, danced and laughed until around 5:30 am.

And now it’s 6:30 and the happy buzz from tonight is just beginning to wear off and I’m feeling completely exhuasted.  The sun is rising outside my window, the temperature is rising and my beloved roof rooster is crowing his heart out. I think it’s time for bed.

Mezze and Wine in the Bekaa Valley

Lebanese Mini-Bus

This morning, my Turkish friend Ozge (she’s in my Arabic class at ALPS) and I decided to meet up for a quick coffee before hopping on a mini-bus to the town of Zahlé in the Bekaa Valley. Mini-buses aren’t actually buses, but rather, large, white mini-vans.  If you get on the bus at a transport hub, like we did, the driver will wait until the van is full before leaving – otherwise, you’ll make random stops along the way to pick up additional passengers. Once the bus is filled, there’s not really a set route per-say. Instead, there is generally defined final destination and as long as you want to go somewhere that’s more or less on the way to that final destination, the driver will drop you there. 

The drive up to Zahlé cost us 4000 Lira (about $2.50) each and took about an hour and a half. Driving rules and regulations don’t really seem to apply and the bus can get pretty cramped and sweaty, but luckily I got a seat near the window – yesss! Fresh air! Aside from the frequent swerves and break-slamming (I tried to take comfort in the fact that none of the other passengers seemed nervous), the ride up was really pleasant. The driver blasted Arabic music which set a fun mood as we drove up through the mountains and villages east of Beirut and into the Bekaa Valley.

View on the drive to the Bekaa Valley

The Bekaa Valley isn’t actually a valley, which is kind of weird. It’s actually a plateau between two mountain ranges in Lebanon. The plateau is this huge agricultural region here in Lebanon – it used to be one the ‘bread baskets’ of Rome.  Today it’s still one of Lebanon’s most important farming regions, and is famous for the delicious, locally produced wine.

There’s actually also a long history of cannabis production in Bekaa, and the sale of ‘Red Leb’ (nickname for the high quality pot produced there), has long provided a major source of income for producers living in the valley. The production is nowhere near as prolific as it once was, but nevertheless, the region has maintained its notorious reputation. Woot.

The bus dropped Ozge and I in the center of Zahlé around 1pm. Okay, not going to lie, it wasn’t exactly what we had expected. Lonely Planet writes:

“Known locally as Arousat al-Beqa’a (Bride of the Bekaa), [Zahlé] is set along the steep banks of the Birdawni River (locally known as ‘Bardouni’), which tumbles through a gorge, cutting a burbling channel through the centre of town.”

The Birdawni "river" of Zahlé

So, we get off the bus expecting to see this beautiful village with a huge river running through it’s center.  What we saw initially was more of a dusty intersection with no river in sight. Whatever, we’re up for anything, so we started  wandering down the main city road and off to our left we noticed this little babbling stream, about an inch, maybe an inch and half deep…the roaring Birdawni. Nice.

But, I have to say, Zahlé itself turned out to be a charming city after all, sprinkled with Ottoman era houses (that somehow survived the civil war – which destroyed most of the city), mixed in with more modern Lebanese architecture. It’s definitely not a must see on a tourist agenda, but apparently it acts more as a stop over town for visitors traveling through the Bekaa Valley or as a base for those who wish to spend a few days in the region, hopping back and forth from Zahlé, to nearby cities.

It’s a primarily Christian city, so most stuff was closed, given that it’s Sunday. But still, we had a really nice walk down the main street, Rue Brazil – named for the huge number of the town’s population that migrated to Brazil around the time of the 1860 massacre (communal fighting between Druze and Christians). The Zahlé Lebanese living in Brazil sent back money to their families still living in Lebanon and apparently that money really helped the town get back on its feet after the massacre – and so they named the main street after Brazil.

Random fact: Today, the greatest population of Lebanese outside of Lebanon is in Brazil. Who knew??? I want to go to Brazil!    

Downtown Zahlé

Hungry, we decided to break for lunch. Lonely Planet told us that the Zahlé is actually famous for its riverside, open-air cafés. Fantastic! Once our bellies started rumbling,  we stopped at the first place we saw, the Grand Hotel Kadri, where we enjoyed a delicious mezze, washed down with ice-cold Almazas. The hotel is beautiful, and actually served as an Ottoman hospital during World War I and was later home to the chief of the French Army during the French Mandate of Lebanon.

Ozge! Eating our mezze at the Grand Hotel Kadri

Lebanese Flag under the French Mandate

Quick history behind the French Mandate in Lebanon : So after World War I, in 1920, the Ottoman Empire is divvied up between the French and the British in the Treaty of Sèvres. The British get Palestine and Iraq (both of which they proceeded to seriously fuck over), and the French get Greater Syria which = modern day Syria + Lebanon. So that’s the beginning of the French Mandate. The French then separate Syria and Lebanon and Lebanon gets this funky new flag that’s a combo of the French and Lebanese flags. Anyway, I won’t go through the whole history of the French presence in Lebanon, but the country gets its independence in 1943 and the French finally leave in 1945. Oh yeah, you know you were dying to know all that info. 

So anyway, after lunch, we caught a ‘service’ (fixed price taxi) to the Château Ksara, the oldest winery in Lebanon. ‘Ksar’ means fortress in Arabic, and the current winery stands over the site of a medieval Roman fortress, and the caves where the wine is now made were once the cellars of that original Roman fortress.  So now, flash forward to the mid-1800s – the Roman fortress is long gone, but the caves are still there, unbeknownst to the locals living in the village. Jesuit priests build a monastery over the caves and one day, a priest, chasing a fox that was threatening his chickens, discovers the caves beneath the monastery. He tells his fellow Jesuit priest buddies and they think ‘Score! Perfect place to store some alcohol!’ And so the winery is born in 1857 CE. The soil and weather in Ksara was perfect for growing grapes – vines were grown along with aniseed (a flowering plant that tastes like black licorice), to make Arak, and business started to boom for the Jesuit priests of Ksara. In 1972, the priests sold the land to several Lebanese families who further expanded the business…and that catches us up to today!

Château Ksara

One thing about the Château Ksara that’s particularly fantastic is that you can take tours of the winery for FREE, complete with a complimentary wine tasting at the tour’s finish. YUM. Our guide took us through the chilly 2km of caves beneath the winery where the wine is stored in oak barrels and bottled wines are held until they’re ready to sell. The Arak is actually produced in a separate facility, above the caves, but the smell of the aniseed seeps down into the caves, mixing with the smell of oak and wine. Mmmm boy!

Inside the caves of Château Ksara

Arak produced in Château Ksara, called Ksarak

Okay, so in case you don’t know, Arak is clear, aniseed-flavored alcoholic drink that’s very popular here in Lebanon. It’s actually a brandy, made from grape leaves, the skins and seeds of red grapes, and aniseed for flavor. It’s exactly the same as Greek ouzo, Turkish raki and Italian sambuca – everyone claims it as their own. The Lebanese side of my family drinks Arak regularly and as a child I actually thought that all alcohol smelled like black licorice. Oh yeah. I was a bright kid.

According to Lonely Planet, “Experts say the best way to tell the difference [between good and bad arak], is by how you feel when you wake up the next morning: the better you feel, the better the arak the night before.” I love it! To drink it you usually add water or ice, which turns the drink to a milky white color. Personally, I’m not the biggest fan of the taste, but it’s served so often, I’ve learned to stomach it.

After our free tour, Ozge and I decided it was time to head back to Beirut and headed out to the main road in Ksara to hail a minibus. There are no bus stops. You just stand on the side of the road and passing taxis and minibuses honk as they approach you. If you proceed to wave at them, they’ll slow down. You tell them your final destination and if they happen to be headed there or at the very least in that general direction, they’ll barter a price with you and you hop in, sliding the door shut as the minibus speeds off.

Inside the mini-bus on the drive back to Beirut

Our drive back to Beirut was an adventure. Crammed in the back between your fellow sweaty passengers, you all share communal water bottles provided by the driver, which you drink the ‘Arab way’. Drinking the ‘Arab way’ means that you don’t let the bottle touch your mouth – you tilt your head back and pour water into your mouth. They’re all pro at this, so no one seems to miss or splash whereas I, the foreign idiot, usually end up splashing water all over my face and clothes, especially on a bumpy bus. Damn. Ah well.

Stops were made at wells to refill the water bottles, at one point the driver made an ice-cream stop, passengers share cigarettes and snacks – it’s a really welcoming atmosphere but totally confusing and hilarious for a first-timer like me. Our driver was especially reckless and more than once I found myself with my eyes squeezed shut and my hands tightly gripping the seat. He nearly hit every single person we stopped to pick up, and one man almost fell over as he jumped to avoid being pummeled by the oncoming van. And the driver would just laugh this maniacal laugh. He was insane. No really, I think he was.

Somehow, we made it back to Beirut alive around 6:30pm. We parted ways and I headed home for a home cooked dinner with Stephen and Shadee, before heading back out to meet Ozge at Café Younes, where we studied Arabic until 11pm. A full Lebanese day. Not bad, huh?

Coffee Coffee Coffee

When I’m not in class or at the apartment, I’m usually at cafés here in Beirut, studying and working. Cousin Stephen introduced me to this great place, right around the corner from the apartment called Café Younes, and it’s quickly becoming my regular spot.

The coffee is delicious and an iced latte or a frozen lemonade with mint on a hot summer day is all I need to keep me happy! The café was started in 1935 by a man named Amin Younes, who had been living in abroad in Brazil, working on coffee plantations. When Younes came back to Beirut, he opened the café and hired the now legendary, then 16-year old, Abou Anwar, to roast the coffee beans. Apparently Younes and Anwar’s coffee roaster was the first in downtown Beirut. Awesome. Plus, they mixed beans imported from Brazil, Yemen and Ethiopia to create a unique blend, which they then used to make traditional Arabic coffee.

Outside seating at Cafe Younes

The original café was destroyed in 1975, during the Lebanese Civil War. But Younes rebuilt. And now, the café has expanded to four locations around Beirut, with a whole variety of custom coffee blends, Abou Anwar is still in charge of roasting, and Amin Younes, the grandson of the founder, Amin Younes, now runs the business. There’s free wireless and a huge mix of people – the place is only open until 11pm, but it’s packed until then. I love it!!

Coffee culture here in Lebanon, and throughout the Arab world for that matter, is huge. Apparently, it’s even said that a Lebanese who doesn’t love coffee, isn’t really Lebanese. So I guess that means that, at least in this respect, I’m definitely Lebanese!

An Arabic Coffee Pot

To make traditional Arabic coffee, you take finely ground coffee beans and boil them for a while in special coffeepots – either a dallah or an ibrik. It’s then served in small, espresso-sized cups. Mmmm boy! Very strong, very thick, very good. When you’ve finished your coffee there are always coffee grounds left sitting on the bottom of your cup. Growing up, some of my aunts used to read my fortune, by examining the patterns made by the remaining coffee grounds – “…hmmm…i see you, thin, not like you are now…and with a husband. So, habibti, lose weight and you’ll get married!” oh, the memories…

Oh little town of Bethlehem…

Today was our last day in Palestine (tear!). But a very good last day, so no worries. This morning we all drove up to Bethlehem together – me, Stephen, Jad, Shadee, George and Mariam. Transport to and from Bethlehem is pretty restricted given that the wall is built around the city’s northern edge and cuts through some of the neighborhoods. So, surprise surprise, another checkpoint to enter in, and then finally, we were in the little town of Bethlehem! Mariam had some work to do, so the rest of us set off exploring the city.

Downtown Bethlehem

Old Gate: Qoos Az-Zarara

It’s a beautiful place – cobblestone streets, busy markets, and SO much history. With all the turquoise and light blue painted doors, it reminded me a bit of Greece. Our first visit was to the Church of the Nativity, built over the spot where, according to Christian tradition, Jesus was born. On our way there, we walked under an arch, labeled the ‘Old Gate: Qoos Az-Zarara,’ which is apparently the Qoos (arch) through which Mary and Joseph entered Bethlehem, before Mary gave birth to Jesus.

Stephen, George, Shadee, and Jad in front of the Church of the Nativity

Helena!

Just like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the Church of the Nativity was built in the early 300s CE, under orders from Helena, Emperor Constantine’s mom, when she discovered that Jesus had been born on the site. This original church burned, and the modern church dates from the mid-500s CE, when it was rebuilt by Emperor Justinian I. Don’t you love my nerdy history lessons?? Indulge me, pretend you do.

Interior of the Church of the Nativity

Inside the church, and down a flight of stairs, is the Grotto of the Nativity, a cave beneath the church and over the site where Jesus was born. Near the altar that mark’s Jesus’ birth spot is another altar which apparently marks the spot where Mary lay Jesus in the manger. Cool beans.

Cousins! in Bethlehem

After visiting the church, we walked around Bethlehem some more with a stop for souvenirs and some ice cold water. Okay, random tangent – a lot of the signs here in Palestine, and also in Jordan for that matter, are written in Arabic and also in English. The thing is Arabic is written phonetically – you write words exactly as they sound – unlike English. So, translations are sometimes full of cute mistakes…

Who 'da Ho, dug? You 'da Ho, dug.

Around 3pm, it was time to go so we said goodbye to George and Mariam, and Stephen, Jad, Shadee and I took a cab from Bethlehem to the Israeli border with Jordan. It was 115 degrees Fahrenheit/46 degrees Celsius!!!!! I felt like an egg sizzling in a pan. It was insane. Waiting waiting waiting, the car was searched, questions were asked, visas were bought, more questions were asked, more waiting and finally we were through. Significantly easier getting out of Israel than into Israel.

Goats and Donkey crossing on our cab ride through Jordan

From the final checkpoint, we took a bus to the Jordanian checkpoint, and from there we took a cab back to George and Mariam’s house in Subehi where we showered off a days worth of sweat and dirt, had dinner with Mariam’s mother and then packed for our trip to Beirut tomorrow, before passing out in our beds.

View from the cab, driving through Jordan

al-Quds

I just spent the day in al-Quds (aka Jerusalem)! You know, the holy city for Muslims, Christians and Jews, one of the oldest cities in the world (dates from 4th century BCE), the city where Jesus was crucified, the city the Crusades were fought over…no big deal.

No, in all seriousness – what the what?!? Too good to be true!

George, Mariam, Stephen and I woke up early this morning, had eggs with zaatar, pita bread and olives for breakfast and then piled into the car. The drive to Jerusalem took us somewhere between 30-45 minutes + a passport check at the Jerusalem checkpoint and we were in! As we drove into the city, George was pointing out the distinctions between East Jerusalem, which is Palestinian and West Jerusalem, which is Israeli – it’s bizarre to see the similarities and contrasts of these peoples living side by side. Our first stop, was at the top of the Mount of Olives for an insane view over all of the city.

Me on the Mount of Olives, overlooking al-Quds

Suleman the Magnificent and his sweet hat

Hadrian

After our scenic detour we made our way down to the Damascus Gate, one of the main entrances into the old city. A gate has stood at that spot since at least the 2nd century A.D., constructed by the Romans, under the rule of Hadrian. However, the gate that stands there today, was built in the mid-1500s by the Ottomans, under the rule of Suleman the Magnificent. Sweet!

Uncle George and I in front of the Suleman the Magnificent's Damascus Gate

When you enter through the gate, you’re right in the middle of the souk (market) that runs through the center of the old city. All of a sudden, you’re bombarded with thousands of different colors and smells, fabrics and foods, jewelry and carvings – it’s amazing!! I can’t do it justice with descriptions so I’ll just post some photos

Inside the souk in the old city

Zaatar Mountain! Spices for sale in the souk

Nuts and candies for sale in the souk

In the end, we couldn’t resist the allure of the intoxicating smells wafting from the sweet shops, and made a stop in the souk for some hot knafe, which is probably my all time favorite Lebanese pastry. Oh and get this, apparently, a couple days ago, a Palestinian guy set the Guinness Record for making the world’s largest knafe. This man is my HERO.

Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Bellies stuffed and huge smiles plastered on our faces we wound our way out of the souk and over to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So, if you didn’t know, a sepulchre is “a small room or monument, cut in rock or built of stone, in which a dead person is laid or buried.” So the Church took its name from Jesus’ sepulchre, which lies inside the church. Yup. That’s right. This is where Jesus was buried. Insanity.

The church was built in the early-300s CE, under the rule of the Roman emperor Constantine I – you know – the first Christian Roman Emperor, the guy who changed Byzantium to Constantinople. Constantine’s mom, Helena, was one of those people who always needed a project – kind of like my Mom. So, Constantine gave her the task of going through the Holy Land (which was then all part of his empire), digging up all the Christian relics, and building churches on the sites of her finds to promote them.

Now, before the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was constructed, there was a temple to Venus standing on the site. Helena was not a fan of Greco-Roman paganism, so she had Venus’s Jerusalem temple demolished. I’m not saying that Venus cursed her for it, but Helena did get divorced and was never remarried so…who knows? Maybe it’s just me, but I’d say, when in doubt, don’t do anything to piss off the goddess of love.

Anyway, after Helena had it demolished, she decided to excavate under the ruins of the former temple. According to legend, during these excavations three crosses were uncovered. Helena thought that one of the crosses might be the ‘True Cross’ that Christ was crucified on, so to test her theory she supposedly let a sick woman touch all three crosses. After touching the third cross the woman was healed, Helena decided that meant the cross was the ‘True Cross’ (meaning that this must have been the site of Jesus’ crucifixion) and she ordered the construction of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on the spot. The church also contains the ‘Angel’s Stone’, a piece of the stone that sealed Jesus’ tomb, and his sepulchre itself which was discovered during the construction of the Church.

I’ve never been a particularly religious person, by I do have to say that it’s incredibly moving to see people from all over the world coming to this church. They believe so completely in the power of the church and the relics inside – everyone’s crying, lighting candles, kissing the stone that Jesus was laid upon after he was taken off the cross. And they’ve been doing this for centuries now! Big example – Crusaders used to visit this church and they would carve small crosses into one of the church walls – sort of a ‘I was here’ mark. The wall is covered with hundreds of crosses now. It’s amazing!

Touching the stone that Helena claimed Jesus was laid upon after being crucified

One kind of funny tidbit about the church – sometime in the early-mid 1800s, someone was washing the church windows or repairing part of the exterior, and placed a wooden ladder on the facade of the church. The guy forgot his ladder, years passed and no one ever moved it. And now the ladder, which is still there, has come to be called ‘The immovable ladder.’ Tourists take photos of it. And just like that this guy’s forgotten ladder has become a part of this church. Can’t help but smile at that

The Immovable Ladder

After visiting the church, we were walking around the city when we bumped into an old friend of George’s, Albert. When George was around my age, he was working as a photojournalist in Palestine, met Albert and ended up renting a room from him during his stay. The two have been friends ever since. When we ran into Albert, he was sitting outside with some of his friends, smoking their narghiles and drinking tea. We sat down and joined them.

Tea and argyles with Albert and his buds in al-Quds

Albert’s stories were all in Arabic, but I hear he’s a crack up. And honestly, this dude talks more than I do. It was impressive.

Burning Garbage…

One smell that was new to me when I arrived in Palestine, was the smell of burning garbage. Coming home in the afternoon from a café, there is almost always a cloud of black smoke or small flames flickering somewhere in view. With waste collection unavailable in almost all of the Palestinian territories, the people have to do something with their waste. Sanitary landfills cost money and require space, both of which aren’t readily available. So they burn. I looked it up and discovered that it’s actually a pretty common practice in small towns and even rural areas all over the world, utilized by those who want to avoid waste collection costs.

Problem is, when you burn your waste, a lot of pollutants that are damaging to the environment, particularly the ozone layer, are released. Additionally, burning garbage can create and release toxic pollutants that cause eye and lung infections, and in some cases, cancer.

Good thing is, the Palestinians are aware of the problem.   And despite the fact that they have other, more pressing, priorities, slow but steady steps are being taken within the Palestinian territories to correct the situation.

According to an article published last February in the publication ‘This Week In Palestine,’ some Palestinian municipalities are working together to create regional systems of waste management; systems that include organized collection of waste and the creation of sanitary landfills. Cool beans. Go Palestine!

Ramallah

First full day in Ramallah! Okay, so for those of you who don’t know, Ramallah (which basically translates to ‘mountain of God’) is a city in the West Bank, populated by around 27,000 people.

Today, we all had to work. George and Mariam were editing at the studio, Stephen was writing in the apartment, and I headed into the city to do my work. I love working at cafes and in other public spaces – makes the whole experience so much more pleasant, and when you do need a break, there’s quality people watching at your fingertips.

Today, I spent most of the afternoon at a cafe called Pronto. Right now I’m editing a grant proposal for UNESCO. The document is 90 pages long, and it’s taking a loooong time to edit BUT the project proposal is fascinating. It’s all about promoting tourism in Palestine by creating paths that trail through the country, stopping at all the important religious, cultural and historical sites. An added bonus for me – the proposal includes details on each of the sites that the proposed routes will connect, meaning I’m learning a ton about Palestine in the process.

Downtown Ramallah

Fresh squeezed lemonade and manaaish (bread with zaatar), a comfortable chair, interesting work, great people watching, and a sunny afternoon in Ramallah. Who could ask for anything more??

Mahmoud Darwish

I came back to the apartment around 5pm and we all went out for a walk around the neighborhood that took us over to the grave of Mahmoud Darwish. Darwish is one of, if not the most famous Palestinian poet of the modern age, playing a critical role in the development of ‘poetry of resistance.’ I didn’t know who he was and when I asked, the reaction was exactly the same as when I asked my friends in Spain who Raul (the famous footballer for Real Madrid) was. This guy is a BIG deal. Ooops. Played the ignorant American card and promised to look for an English translation of his poetry – another on a long list of books I’ve promised to read while I’m here.

There were two guards on duty by his tomb, just sitting on the ground having tea. They recited some of Darweesh’s poetry for us, but it was in Arabic so I didn’t understand. Ah! Can’t wait to go to Beirut next month and start taking classes!! Stephen translated bits of the conversation for me.

Cousin Stephen in front of Mahmoud Darwish's grave

Okay, side-note. It’s hilarious when my family translates Arabic for me. I don’t understand anything that’s being said to me, but they seem to assume that I’m understanding everything except for a few very specific details, so they’ll just translate a word or two, or tell me who a person is that was mentioned in the conversation. It’s hilarious. Basically, I hear: alkdsjflkasjdflkjaslkdfjaksj asjdlkfjaslkfjklasjdf and eventually someone turns to me and whispers, “That means ‘green.’ Oh, and Lena is Mariam’s cousin.” So the only thing I take away from the 30 minute conversation is that at some point in the middle of all the aksfjklasjdflajsfkldjalskjfdakl, something that may or may not be significant is or was green, and Mariam has a cousin named Lena. I have found it’s better to just smile and nod along with the conversation, pretending I understand and hoping against hope that no one asks me any questions.

After a lot of curious questioning later, I did find out that the guards speaking to us were both refugees from a village that’s now part of Israel.  One had been in jail from the age of 15-20 for trying to cross the border to visit his family, who he hadn’t and still hasn’t seen in years. Here, people’s stories are so intense – I can’t imagine living out your whole life through war and under occupation. It’s horrible. I don’t know how they don’t walk around fuming mad all the time, but everyone I’ve met so far has been so wonderful – nice, happy, open. It’s remarkable. They always want to share their stories and it can be a bit overwhelming. I’ve discovered that I’m more emotional than Uncle George – he takes in the stories calmly, asking intelligent questions while I find myself crying, enraged, and/or frustrated.

After that, we just walked around a bit before heading home for some fresh cherries (my stomach has finally adjusted to the local fruit. So relieved!) and chatting.

*Random fact about Ramallah – the Mayor since 2005 is Janet Michael, the first woman to hold that position. Maabruk (Congratulations) Janet!

Mayor of Ramallah - Janet Michael

Marhaba from Jordan – the Arizona suburbs of the Middle East

Yesterday, I woke up in London . Spent the morning walking around Camden with Joost and then headed to the airport for Part 2 of my trip to Jordan. Wah! So exciting!

I had read that given that Jordan is a conservative Muslim country I should cover up and always keep my hair pulled back, if not covered. Keeping that in mind, I packed my suitcase full of baggy clothing – linen pants and loose fitting long-sleeved shirts. I may have gone too far…but I figure, better to be overdressed than offensively under-dressed.

At the airport, not wanting to stand out once I got to the Royal Jordanian gate, I buttoned my shirt all the way up to the collar. It’s a great shirt – shit colored, but for some bizarre reason it looks flattering. Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised to find a whole mix of people waiting at my departure gate. Next to me there was a woman who was completely covered with her young daughter who was wearing pink shorts and a white short sleeve top. At what age do Muslims who choose to wear the veil start covering up?? I’ll make it a goal to figure this out.

Across from me there was a girl who looked about my age wearing jeans and a sparkly low cut top. Next to her, a girl with a long-sleeved but very short dress and a facial piercing. Needless to say, I was glad I didn’t stand out in my outfit, but began worrying if I had packed too conservatively…

Getting on the plane, in front of me and behind me were these huge American and British guys with buzz cuts and tattooed arms. George later told me that they were military men off to Iraq. Creepy. Wonder what they were all thinking. The male flight attendant say ‘Hello’ to each of them and then gave me an ‘Ahlan, As-Salam Alaykum’. I look Arab! I blend in! Maybe it seems silly, but I was psyched.

Watched movies until the plane touched down in Amman just after midnight. I’m in Jordan!! Woot. So happy!!

Outside the Airport in Amman

Walking off the plane I saw pictures of who I assumed were King Abdullah II and Prime Minister Nader al-Dahabi hung on the walls of the airport – I’m still not too familiar with their faces. However, I found out later from Uncle George that the photos were actually of King Abdullah II and his father King Hussein. Turns out that although they technically have a constitutional monarchy here in Jordan, it doesn’t function like the constitutional monarchies in the UK and Spain (with the prime minister holding all the power and the king or queen acting primarily as a figurehead). Here, the roles are flipped with the king holding all the power and the prime minister acting as more of a figurehead. Interesting…

King Abdullah II

King Hussein

Prime Minister Nader al-Dahabi

My Jordanian Visa

I converted my remaining $15 American money into 10JD (Jordanian Dinar), I bought a visa and made my way through customs and baggage claim to meet Uncle George who was patiently waiting on the other side. Bizarre to think it’s been almost 2 years since I saw him last! Big hugs and then we hopped in the car to drive back to his home, just outside the small village of Subeihi, about 40 minutes from Amman.

Given that it was about 1am, it was dark, but I strained my eyes on the car ride through Amman and the neighboring village of Salt to try to see what I could. Initially, the signs were in Arabic and English, but after about 15 minutes, they were only in Arabic. I have no idea how George drives around here without being able to read Arabic.

The buildings all looked like those block houses that were popular back in the 70s. Square and rectangle shaped with those small square windows – all white with flat roofs. I guess with no rain in the middle of the desert you don’t really need a slanted roof for the rain to run off…

I was so psyched to be there and as George told me about the film projects we’d be editing I got more and more excited about working with film again. The rest of the drive, we talked about Jordan and random news – Susan Boyle’s post ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ breakdown, and the freaky and super-sad recent Air France plane crash over the Atlantic.

It’s so bizarre and cool to be here!! On the drive in there were signs to Saudi Arabia, we drove by the Iraqi border and saw Palestine off in the distance. From all the history that I’ve read, it seems like for the majority of Jordan’s history it was this place that people crossed through to get to other places. Because of that, the country absorbed a lot of different cultural influences, although it took a long time to develop itself.

Uncle George

George describes Jordan as the ‘Arizona Suburbs of the Middle East’. Arizona, because it really is just a big desert that for a very long time had very few people actually settling within its borders. Suburbs, because it’s so calm – nothing big ever really happens hear, it’s very peaceful, the people are relatively carefree.

He also explained how, in recent years, Amman and other parts of Jordan have rapidly developed with a huge influx of multi-national corporations. But the result is what he finds to be a very westernized country, that he wishes was spotted with more locally run shops as opposed to McDonald’s and Arby’s. I haven’t been into Amman yet, but I’ll let you know my impression once I see it for myself.

We arrived at the gates of George and Mariam’s house around 2am and George walked me down to the guest room. This place is beautiful!! In the kitchen there was food waiting for us so we chatted for an hour or so over Kibbeh, grape leaves, yogurt and fresh cherries from Damascus. To quote my Italian teacher, Christina ‘vedo la madonna!’

My room in Amman

After our late-night snack, I had a glass of wine to help me sleep and George gave me some books on Jordan, a Jordanian newspaper published in English and a Jordanian magazine, also written in English, with Tina Fey on the cover and stories of destruction in Gaza, cultural attractions in Amman and the latest trends in eye-makeup. I loved it.

And now, I’m exhausted. It’s 3:30am, I can hear the chanting of the call to prayer from the mosque in Subeihi, and I’m going to try to get some sleep.