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.