The burnout

Today I regretfully inform you of a missed opportunity.  My brother, father, Teta, friends and I decided to spend Friday evening at a concert featuring Faris Karam — a popular Lebanese singer.  Throughout the concert, I couldn’t help but dwell on the aspects of the concert that reminded me of the problems I see in Lebanon.

How unorganized the country is…

Notice how there is no time on the ticket? That’s because there is no time assigned to these concerts. It was rumored to start at 8:30PM. We got there at 8:00PM. The performers were introduced at 10:00PM. What.Is.This.

The vanity of some people in this country…

This was one of the many women who jumped on stage in the middle of the concert to take a picture with the performer.

How many plastic surgeries does it take to qualify for ‘doll’ status…?

How fake some people are in this country…

See picture above.

The main attraction, Fares Karam, decided to pre-record him ‘singing’ all of his music so he could stand on stage and look pretty/take pictures. It gave lip syncing a entirely different definition….

How racist some people are in this country…  The concert began with a speech from one of the ministers about how the problems in Lebanon — from the lack of electricity to the quality of healthcare — should be blamed on the Syrian refugees.  As a result, we should continue to support the army’s efforts to rid the country of these ‘pests.’

As I ruminated about how upset I was (the xenophobic speech at the beginning was the ultimate warning sign), I happened to miss out on some of the things that could have reminded me how wonderful this country is.

How the culture is preserved through the music…

The singer is surrounded by the traditional Lebanese drummers. Although this is ‘pop’ music in Lebanon, the tradition happens to be what it is popular.

How the concert united the entire country for one night…

The throngs of dancing Lebanese!!!

I’ll admit: it could have been a great night.  Had I been at this concert at the beginning of my trip, I would have been one of those people standing on my chair, singing to words I didn’t understand, and running to the stage when the entire audience started dancing dabke.

However, I didn’t.  The reality is that I am burned out.  In this last week with my brother and father, I have realized how much I miss the security of America — the familiarity, the comfort, the freedom.  This last week will be difficult.  But it took a night like Friday night to make me realize that I only have a week left.  I need to enjoy it.  I love this culture, these people too much not to — after all, they are mine.  

Ever had a complete physical burnout?

Last winter, I decided to start training for a half-marathon in Vermont.  My training schedule called for a ten mile run, and so my running buddy chose a trail he thought would be appropriate.  We started our run about 3:00 in the afternoon to get whatever warmth we could from the frigid sunlight.  It was still the hardest thing of my life.  He took me up mountains, across freezing rivers, down icy hillsides.  By the time I got back to my dorm, I have the strength to take off my sweat-frozen clothing, nuzzle into my comforters, and grab my cellphone.  WIth shaking fingers, I dialed my mom’s number.  “Mom, I just finished ten miles in freakin’ Vermont winter.  Call me beast.”

Probably not that great of an accomplishment, but it was pretty cool from my perspective 😀

How to start a smile

Tuesday was our first sortie with the children!  At first I was assigned to go to the beach with a class of Autistic boys, and I was responsible for a child named Najib.  Najib was about my height, twice my weight and fairly stubborn.  I couldn’t drive away the image of me bringing him into the water, a huge wave driving him out of my reach, and the aftermath of Najib busted on the shore…  As a result, I was a bit relieved when I learned that one of the teachers in La Garderie was absent, and they needed someone to care for one of the three-year-olds at the pool.  I can handle munchkins.

I walked into a class of children and met my special child for the day, Georgie.  Unfortunately, I am not allowed to give you any pictures of him, but I can tell you that he is the cutest child to grace this earth.  We started walking to the bus as best he could; he was not able to walk by himself so he resorted to holding both of my hands and hobbling forward as I walked backwards.  As he clung to me, he smiled at me — as if thanking me.  We finally strapped all of the kids into the bus (we have to tie them to the seats with a soft rope since they cannot sit properly in the car) and were on our way to the pool.  When we arrived, we led our train of children in wheelchairs, walkers and carriers to the small pool we would invade for the next three hours.  The teachers and I sat with our children in the water and made it our mission to make sure they had the best time possible.  That wasn’t very hard considering that all of the children adored the water (it was a very special occasion for them).  But in the thirty minutes between our first meeting and our first outing, I had fallen in love with Georgie — his constant smile, his childish giggle, his love of Eskimo kisses.  As a result, I resolved to make this experience as best as it could possibly be for him.  He was afraid of walking in the water (the pressure on his legs was a bizarre feeling), so I sat in the water and swung him in my arms,  bounced him in my lap, and held him afloat so he could experiment with some kicking and splashing.  Once it was time to get out of the pool, I was exhausted.  But seeing his beaming face as I fed him made any fatigue seem like a prized position.

We returned to the school in the afternoon, and I regretfully helped Georgie into his bus to go home.  I was a bit jealous of whoever was meeting him at his final destination; they were quite blessed to have such an effervescent child.

Once the day was finished, my French friends and I sat down for our second lunch together.  We talked about our experiences with the children over our morphed Lebanese-French meals.  Although I tried to stick to the traditional Lebanese fare, the French volunteers made crêpes out of m’jedra and tabouleh and dipped kofta into zaatar.  They will eat lebni instead of brie if I have anything to say about it…

Despite their refusal of the Lebanese cuisine, they needed to see a Lebanese night (maybe that would serve as motivation for eating properly…).  As a result, my friend and I reserved a table at Garden in the Sky pub at Jbeil, hailed a taxi, and prepared them for an experience in the Old Souk.  They were enchanted by the stone buildings, the Lebanese tapestries, and the smoke-filled streets.  So when we finally saw the pub, they were happy to sit outside and watch the Lebanese world at work.

We had some great conversations about the night life, the Lebanese culture, and how beautiful the Lebanese women were (the French guys were drooling over the women in the pub…).  And of course, we each ordered a drink in good spirits.  And maybe some shots for the road…

Once it was time to bid our taste of night life au revoir, I called the taxi and led everyone out of the Old Souk (like the Lebanese expert I am — I have them so fooled).  Once we got into the car, I was nervous.  Since it was a weeknight, the pub was much calmer than it would have been on any weekend, and we had left early (a.k.a. 11:30) to be ready for work tomorrow.  Before I asked their opinions, I repeatedly assured them that the pubs were much more lively on the weekends, and that I would be sure to take them on a night when they could experience the entirety of the famed Lebanese night life.  However, as I began to ramble in challenged French, I realized they were beaming.  They had loved their night and could not wait to go back — week or weekend.  

For some reason, I felt this overwhelming sense of pride and joy.  Maybe it was because I had acted as translators for a group of Arabic-less Frenchies.  Maybe it was because I had successfully ordered drinks, reserved a table, and called a taxi in this foreign language.  But I think I was happiest to see this group happy in this country that I proudly tout as a part of me.  Yes, it is always wonderful to be the cause of a smile — whether it is that of an easily-pleased Pre-K student or a apprehensive college Frenchman.   But the fact that I helped someone else enjoy a night in my country was one of the greatest pleasures.

Wait, do you want to cheers me or slap me?

Saturday has become “bahar and beach day.”  With no work and guaranteed beautiful weather, the entirety of Lebanon dons swimsuits, oversized sunglasses and carrot-scented tanning cream.  My cousins and I followed suit (minus the carrot goop) and headed to Kfarabida.  We got to our favorite beach, Pierre and Friends, only to find that there was no space left (turns out 2:00 is beach rush hour…).  Discouraged but not defeated, we crossed the rocky grounds to a new beach, Bonita Bay.  After paying $60.00 to sit our asses in some chairs (yes, we were craving sunlight that badly), we happily lapped up the Lebanese sunshine and meditated in the Mediterranean waves.  It was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon and my sixty bucks.

After much-needed showers, we traded our bikinis for (slightly) less-revealing clothing and drove to Jbeil for some Lebanese night life — Lebanese being the key word.  We sat down in an open-air pub, ordered enough drinks to cover the $25 per person charge and dreamed of what the night would bring this time.

 

We arrived around 9:00, which meant we had a bit of waiting to do.  No one from age nine to ninety dreams of eating dinner before 9:00.  Add the two hours for the average Lebanese gorge and you don’t have night life til about 11:00.  Oh well — we just got a head start.  The second 11:00 hit the Lebanese skies, the lights in the pub dimmed, the music changed from Frank Sinatra to FloRida, and the place was packed.  After about thirty minutes of quality drinking, everyone was dancing in the streets.  I reencountered some old friends, met some new ones and got to know my cousins a lot better (if you know what I mean).  In a time span that I could’ve sworn was one hour, I realized it was 2:00. We had been drinking for five hours straight, and I had never felt better.  While watching the neon streets on the ride home, I noticed an overwhelming warm sensation seeping through my body.  I wasn’t really sure if it was from the alcohol or the company, but I was pretty sure it was a combination of the two… I need some suggestions for the pub life.  What is the best drink (preferably alcoholic)?  Let me know in a comment on Facebook or WordPress!

Now i know why we’re number 6

Ahhh Sunday — a day of religion, family and partying… WHAT UP LEBANON?!?!?  I swear this country says a Hail Mary before every Bloody Mary.

It all started with an amazing lunch cooked by the spunky, brash Samira.  My Teta and I arrived at her house in a small village in the mountains known as Hamat around noon with very empty stomachs.  Smart move.  The minute we walked into the house, we were bombarded with nuts, bread, zaatar and water to wash down the Arak (a.k.a. Lebanese licorice liquor).  This was all followed by what Americans consider to be a feast and what Lebanese consider to be a first course.  I watched as she heaped triple servings tabbouleh and fatuous onto one plate, hummus and baba ganoush onto another and a pile of vegetables and veggie kibbeh on the third.  Next thing I knew, I had three mountains of food in front of my face.  Allah esaedna.  I dug in, letting the heart rule the stomach.  Bad move.  Don’t regret it.  After an hour of gorging, all the members of the table sat at the table in a bridge position over their chairs in order to stretch their bloated stomachs.  As we all wallowed in satisfied suffering, I watched Samira sneak into the kitchen and come out with a silver platter piled with Lebanese fruits.  Nectarines, apricots, grapes, plums, cherries. The members of the table wearily glanced at each other and looked up to pass a guilty glance across the platter.  Who wants to start?  Next thing you know, we had all grabbed a plate and began cutting nectarines, spitting pits onto napkins, and rubbing the running juices from our chinnie chin chins.  The meal may have been over, but the lunch was certainly not.  No Lebanese meal would be complete without the lung-choking, palate-clensing arguileh.  Prepared with mint and lemon, this smoking machine is about ten times worse than smoking and ten times as appealing.  It tastes delicious, makes a fun sound and looks really cool.  It may be terrible for my health, but I’d hate to let a little lung cancer keep me from an authentic Lebanese experience ;D

After creating a food triplet in my belly, it was time to go to the beach.  Okay, maybe I regretted my gluttony a little.  Samira’s lovely daughter, Samia, drove me to the a beautiful beach called Ocean Blue in Jounieh.  We sat for hours and conversed in a mixture of Arabic and sign language while enjoying the beautiful view.  When we finally left, I felt like I had gained a new friend — a valuable asset that I am learning is not too hard to find in Lebanon.

Once the sun went down, Lebanon descended from the beaches and headed to the pubs.  I met my cousins and cousin’s cousins in Hamat, and we made our way to Jbeil for the night.  We started with an early dinner at 9:00 at Zattar w Zeit where I got a predictable zaatar w zeit.  Sorry y’all.

We then headed to the Old Souks in Jbeil.  I started our promenade among the beautiful, antique stores imagining being home by midnight and getting a good  night’s sleep before a full day of work.  We turned the corner to find the more party-hardy half of our group screaming at the bar.

What’s the harm in a little lack of sleep?  I quickly ran over to the table that ranged in age from late twenties to early teens.  With lights flashing and music pumping, our table was soon full ice, Red Bull, 7UP, cranberry juice, and vodka.

The drinking age is supposedly eighteen.  There was definitely a thirteen year old at our table.  There was definitely no ID-checked.  I watched as the tables surrounding us began to stumble onto the dance floor, cries of drunken who-cares-about-tomorrow filling the air.  We all danced brashly, sang loudly and got a little tipsy.

I had heard Lebanese night life was crazy.  Apparently, we are the sixth best country in the world for a good party, and I finally got a glimpse into the reasoning behind that statistic.  Although brief, I was grateful for my first taste of vodka by night in Lebanon.  I left with my cousin knowing that I had missed out on a night of sleep and knowing that I could care less.