The city that never sleeps

My worst fear of coming to Lebanon was not, as most people would think, a fear of “terrorists”, violence or safety, but instead of loneliness. I feared that I would miss the experience of getting to know the locals and the culture. So, that same evening, Jamil gave me directions to go to Rue Gourraud, in Gemmayzeh-the centre of Beirut nightlife. It’s a pleasant narrow street filled with live music, small cosy bars and restaurants lit up like fireplaces by orange-red neon lights. The whole area is packed with slow moving cars and a young enthusiastic crowd, walking underneath large white “I love Gemmayzeh” banners. I was eager but at the same time nervous to go out. When I arrived it was almost eleven o clock and the bars were only just starting to fill up, and to my amasement, the night had only just begun.
In a state of anxiousness I felt a certain familiarity with my surroundings. Beirut reminded me much of home: Bangkok, the city I grew up in. The hectic chaotic atmosphere and the random packed arrangement of bars and restaurants of Rue Gourraud reminded me of Khao Sarn road, a tourist packed street in the North of Bangkok. The parked chic Lamborghini’s and Ferrari’s, on the other hand,  that appeared almost out of place with the disarranged muddle of bars, restaurants and shops in Gourraud seemed reminiscent of the more ‘upper class’ Bangkok nightlife of Royal City Avenue (RCA).
I finally decided on entering a bar called “Porto” where I could see some free places by the bar. It was a strange feeling, entering an unknown bar, in an unfamiliar city, by myself. I could see that the bartender looked a little surprised, most likely at my age and due to the fact that I had arrived alone.
Beside me sat a man in his early twenties with curly dark hair and a lip piercing, drinking a kamikaze. After ordering a Yeterev, one of the specials, I introduced myself to this man. I was dumbfounded at the openness and hospitality he showed towards me. Perhaps I was expecting to receive the same reticence and detachedness that one would likely face in a similar situation in a Western capital like London or Paris.   Mario was a student at the American University of Beirut (AUB). The pierced man was Lebanese but had spent most of his life in Abu Dhabi, now only moving to Beirut for university to study Engineering. I had caught him on his break from studying, as all AUB students were currently mid-exams. His time off soon turned into a pretty heavy night, as we drank cocktail after cocktail, pledging that every drink would be his last. After 7 or 8 cocktails, Mario finally dragged himself home; we exchanged numbers and planned to watch the soon-to-be-starting World Cup together.
Little did I know that my night was far from over. My next few drinks would be shared under the company of a middle-aged Iraqi man, on holiday in Beirut. He had a strong American accent from studying in New York, Washington D.C. and California. Interested in politics, I was eager but tentative to ask for his views on the Iraq war and the problems surrounding the Middle East.
His concerns were more individual, focused more on the local people than on the international issues that I was accustomed to discussing. It was a different approach to what I was used to, but one that would gradually make more and more sense as I talked to locals in the following two weeks.
Not long after we started talking, the man whose name I sadly never received left the bar. I finished my whiskey coke and asked for the bill. At that moment, I overheard four Western looking 30 or so year olds talk about Belgium.
“Did you say Belgium? I’m from Belgium!” I said introducing myself.
I stood up and turned around. With more than a few drinks behind me, my confidence was sky high. They all lived and worked in the United Kingdom, having a beer on their last night in Lebanon.
Charley had a Flemish girlfriend, which explained their interest in Belgium. They invited me to sit down, as we all ordered another Almaza, the local beer. 

The feeling of familiarity, warmth and security had by now far surpassed my anxiety. I walked down the half lit side-street towards Le Mikado, it was 3 am and the four friendly strangers had just gone home. I felt safe, like a tortoise hiding in its rock-hard shell; untouchable and secure. Only my shell was composed of my new experiences, of the irradiating generosity of the local people, of Jamil, Mario, and the Iraqi. I felt safer than I had ever done in London, a city that has one CCTV for every twenty or so people, a city that stands as a beacon of Western capitalism and success. The West was wrong, I thought. This country no longer deserved a reputation of violence and aggression, it was unwarranted, unjust, simply plain wrong-I had witnessed what it was really like, I felt. I wanted to shout out, to instantly share what I had just experienced, to export what to me felt like my discovery.

A hazy Gemmayzeh photo... I guess it reflects my experiences there :)

I call this one the surprise shot. Blurry and out of focus to avoid looking like a complete idiot taking pictures of bottles in a bar

The lads...Don't remember any of their names.

Finding Jamil

We eventually found the car hiding at the back of the parking. I opened the back door and but down my bag.
“You can sit in front with me” said the driver. Soon we were on the highway heading towards central Beirut, passing countless high-rises, the car filled with the sound of Western hip hop. I felt faintly uncomfortable at first, not knowing how to react to his almost comical mood.

“Do you have a map?” He asked persistently, “You must have a map”.
I nodded and from my bag produced my Lonely Planet Guidebook. In it I retrieved the single page that revealed a map of Beirut. It wasn’t much and I felt a little embarrassed as I pointed it out to him, producing a faint smile as if to cover up my diffidence.
“Do you know where you are going?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the road. It struck me that I actually didn’t. I had forgotten the name of the area, and only knew that L’hote Libanais had arranged for the taxi and the Lebanese family I would be staying with.
He smiled and laughed, “Show me where we have to go!”
I could see the man was having fun at my growing confusion as my squinting eyes struggled to find in the dark the whereabouts of our destination. My finger brushed across the page, every once in a while slowing down at a street name that sounded vaguely familiar to a confirmation email I had received weeks before of the address of my hotel.
“Is it by...Rue Hamra?”
“No” he replied bluntly.
“Is it by Rue Charles Helou?”
No answer, so I assumed it was wrong.
I went on recalling a long list of street names and areas, in the end picking them out almost from across the map.
Charles Malek, Downtown, Mar Mitr, Rue Gourraud, Saifi, Achrafiye?! ”
It was like a quiz, our little game to pass the little time we had together. Another guess, another street, another mispronunciation; I was completely clueless.

We soon arrived in a little street just off Charles Malek, and parked the car just next to a little flower shop called “Le Mikado”. It was a fairly narrow street enclosed by apartments at either side, a residential area known as Achrafiyeh. Across the street, at the opening of a large blue painted iron gate stood a small old friendly looking man. His name was Jamil Azar and it was in his home, on the third floor of the apartment block, that I would be staying for the next four days. As we walked up the stairs, he introduced himself and asked about my trip. He was a welcoming and inviting man, with an acute grasp of the English language.

The house itself was beautiful. It was a Lebanese traditional house, spacious and welcoming with large paintings and decorations clinging to the walls of a bright colourful living room, overlooked by two large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. My own room consisted of two single beds with light green sheets, a large cupboard and a little nightstand next to my door, on top of which stood a stunning small Phoenician glass-blown water jug. This had be one of the souvenirs I would take home from Lebanon.

The living room... I know what you're thinking... but sadly no, I am not extremely rich...
I had a budget, and you'll notice how small it was when you see my next hotel.

The jug (which I am now a proud owner of) and my room.