Laughing All the Way from Marjayoun to Beirut

I just wrote a friend about something funny that had happened quite some time ago, and how it had gotten us laughing for dayd and days. That got me to something that will still make me laugh up to this date when thinking about it. It is a long story, and an old one. If you have some time, give it a go.
I was going down south (must have been over 12 years ago), the ‘Deep South’, when we still had an occupied Southern zone, taken by Antoine Lahad and his pro-Israel SLA (South Lebanese Army) buddies, for an interview. I was joining a camera crew of Antenne 2, who were at that time represented by Jean Marc Sroussi (one of the best TV journalists I have seen at work), and a Sipa photographer, Pascal Beaudenon. Pascal still lives in Lebanon, made a fantastic book about Lebanese landscapes recently, and Jean March is somewhere in France.
Getting there (the Deep South, that is) was like passing the Berlin Wall, with our car being triple-checked, and a real border post with SLA soldiers and the whole shebang. Antoine Lahad, leader of the southern occupied zone at that time, pro-Israel, had been attacked some years earlier by a friend of his wife, and was now living in a compound that made Alcatraz look friendly. Barbed wire, high fences, and machine guns all over the place.
I don’t remember what the actual interview was about, but we were given the regular tour of the SLA training facilities, barracks, friendly and content villagers and the works.
Anyway, after a day’s work, we were supposed to be heading back to the border post. But as we drove along the winding and idyllic road through the silvery grey hills of Lebanon, what did we stumble upon but a huge convoy of Israeli tanks and anti-personnel carriers on the move! This was great material for images. The sun was low, the landscape doused in a golden light, no trees to block the view, it was late summer so everything had this yellowish orange hue, and an Israeli convoy, like beads on a string, was moving slowly along this rural road in Southern Lebanon. It was all very idyllic.
We got out of the car and starting filming. Much to the dislike of the Israeli soldiers at the last convoy car; a shabby Jeep. Jean Marc paid no heed, and kept filming. They started screaming, and called someone up ahead on the phone. The convoy eventually came to a grinding hold, tanks and all. The Israelis do not ‘mark’ their officers, which means their officers do not wear their stars, otherwise the enemy could easily mark them as targets, and take them out, rendering the entire group without leader. But, somewhere halfway the convoy, 16 tanks ahead, some of their guys was obviously in charge, and he was very, very upset. He was standing on top of an anti-personnel carrier, wildly gesturing at us. We slowly drove our car along side the convoy, passing the first couple of carriers, and intended to stop at where this very upset man was standing. He was standing at the edge of the top of the vehicle. The long laces of his combat boots were hanging in loops over his boots. I don’t know why I focused on that, but I did. He wanted to jump down, about 1.6 meters, and walk up to us and scream into our faces what the fuck we thought we were doing and rip the cassette out of the camera, but as he jumped down, one hand resting on the vehicle, both legs swinging over the tiny rail, somehow the loop of one of his laces hooked behind one of the knobs on the low railing that was around the vehicle’s roof. So instead of jumping down with two feet, one foot jumped down, the other one stayed on the roof, hooked behind the little iron rail.
The fall he made was so embarrassing that none of us wanted to look. He just slammed face first into the tarmac, in front of all his men, and the journalists. It was so incredibly painful, yet fantastically funny.
We laughed all the way back, from the checkpoint near Marjayoun all the way Beirut, a good two hours long. I had pain in my abdominal muscles for an entire week.

A picture of 'the boys' that day. (SLA)

On Beach Weather and Politics

Lebanese politics is getting better every minute. Tonight there is a fight between several politicians. The president is among them, and Fatfat, minister of Interior Affairs is another. 'Fatfat' in Arabic means 'to crumble', so the president says on the news that he is going to 'fatfat' (crumble) his adversaries. The scenes on the news this evening remind me of Italian movies where, during dinner time, the entire family breaks out in incredible arguments and fights. This sure beats living in Holland, where scenes like this are unthinkable. Dutch politicians do not even raise their voice. Very polite and civilized, I admit, but very boring too. Watching the news in Lebanon is very entertaining.

Summertime started (last Sunday), and it's almost beach weather again. It's T-shirt weather already, but we're waiting for beach weather, so we can hang around on the sandy beaches down south (Jiyeh, about 35 kilometers south of Beirut), or the sandy beaches up north, around Byblos (Jbeil). They're not that far either, but you've got to wrestle your way through 'one helluva'traffic jam in the afternoon on your way back to Beirut, so we usually do not go up North.
Last Sunday the kids couldn't wait anymore, so we packed a few of them into the old Jeep, 6 in all, and drove to Byblos. It's too early for most people, so the beaches aren't cleaned yet (lots of junks washes ashore since most major garbage dumps in Lebanon happen to be situated on the seaside as well.), but we managed to find a spot and had a picnic.

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This one is for the profile

Solar Eclipse II

What a non-event! So total it was not, but partially. And everybody kept his kids at home, it seems. I went with a couple of colleagues to the roof of the building, and observed the entire eclipse through the funky carton glasses; reminded me of those pictures of the 60’s in the States, when everyone was into 3D movies.

But we did observe it, even took pictures. It did not get dark, although the temperature did drop quite a bit for 5 minutes. I remember my Mom telling me that she was watching an eclipse in Bunnik (my hometown), near a field with cows. And as the eclipse reached its maximum, all the cows started lining up and got ready to go to the stables. Apparently the diminishing light was a signal for them to get back to the bar.

Which reminds me of another story. When I was 8 or 9, I went with my best friend, Titia, to visit an uncle of mine, Oom Titus, who has a big farm up North in Friesland (which is where I originally come from, but Dutch readers would have figured that one out already from the name). Anyway, he asked us – when milking time was nearing – to get the cows. This is a bit of a joke. You don’t need to get the cows to the barn during milking time; all you need to do is open the fence, and the cows will come by themselves. But we did not know that, so we kept the fences closed, and ran all over the field to get the cows to the barn. Finally my uncle told us to open the fence. But there were 5 little cows, that kept jumping and running, playful and all that, that gave us a lot of trouble. No matter how we chased and cornered them, they did not want to go through that fence. Finally, after a good hour’s chase (and we were only 9, so very short little legs), we got the five into the barn.
“Gee, why did you bring those in,” my uncle asked?
Well, why not, we figured, cows need to be milked, don’t they? It was then that I learned that cows only give milk after their first calf, and these hadn’t calved yet.

Solar Eclipse

Today we are going to experience a total solar eclipse, somewhere around noon. This is going to be one interesting event. Earlier I reported that during a partial eclipse, some years ago, the entire population hid inside for the entire eclipse, because the government – or some other idiot – had said that looking at the sun could turn you blind. Well, it could, potentially, but what idiot would?
Nothing could be more educational – especially if you are studying space and solar and lunar eclipses, but it was not to be. The government has advised that all school sends their students home before the actual event. Some schools are even closed for the whole day, most for half a day. Eddie has school, luckily, and his teacher has got the special glasses, so he’s going to observe the entire event. Cookie however, has to stay home. That’s going to be a ‘hafleht bikke’, as they say here (festival of tears).
More on it later.

A multi-cultural society indeed

I rarely notice it, the Arabic script and numbers, because this society is so fantastically bi-lingual, or even tri-lingual, that you navigate your way through without noticing it. I remember how terribly exotic I found the Arabic numbers, and when I returned to Holland after my very first stay, I had picked up a car license plate from somewhere, and hung it on my balcony, and stared at it in melancholy for many months afterwards.But as I was withdrawing money tonight (phone bill is due tomorrow, electricity bill is due tomorrow, and the maid needs $500 ‘cause her brother got run over in Manila on his scooter, and she’s got to foot the bill)from the ATM machine, I was suddenly stuck for a short moment, because I only saw the big Arabic numbers, and although I can decipher them, I have to think while doing. It surprised my, because most ATM's are purely Latin oriented. This one had the Arabic print in big letters. But there were Latin numbers on them too. Very cute.
So here a few of our bi-lingual signs. A very multi-cultural society indeed.

Good Morning My Rose

More of my ‘finer moments’? I can’t think of one right now, but they are numerous (and not that far in between). One, involving the Syrians, is cute one, and originates from my very first month in country. When I first came to work in Beirut, I rented an apartment (read: shack on the roof) in Wardieh, which is a subdivision of Hamra. This was the time when bombs and shelling were still a daily occurrence. It was during the Aoun-Gegea era, when these two warlords tried to pulverize each other with heavy weaponry, but instead pulverized the city and its population, or at least parts of it. For my non-Lebanese readers; both criminals are currently actively involved in the governing of this country. Anyway, at my door was a Syrian checkpoint. I had no idea they were Syrians, there were so many uniforms around, and nobody bothered explaining it. Two little soldiers, in scruffy, pinkish uniforms. Yes, pinkish! I am not quite sure who did the uniforms of these guys, but there was some red involved, and as a result it gave them a sort of olive green pinkish look. Anyway, they were at my doorstep, and every morning, when I walked out of my door, they’d say “Ya Marghabar ya ward.” After three mornings I assumed that this was the common phrase of saying good morning. ‘Ya Marghabar ya ward’ wasn’t too difficult an expression, so I quickly learned it, and on day 4 of my stay, I decided that I could give that one a try. I said it to the baker, I used it at the supermarket (Idriss and Smith were the only ones during that era), I said it to the vegetable seller and the barkeeper, I used it on everyone I would see in the morning, until – and this is about a month later – someone asked me why I called everyone a rose. “Rose?”. “Yes, you are saying ‘Oh good morning my rose.’”.
Needless to say, the good mornings ended then and there. You see, it’s the mistake of the Syrians!

There are more of these. I cannot remember them right now. Marijke does, probably. Marijke (another Dutch lady in Beirut, and a very good friend), remind me of one of my finer moments.

Picture explanation: Hana drags along cat food in her little school bag to feed the street cats that sleep in the dumpsters along the Corniche (Beach Boulevard).

Mr. Potential-Olympic-Lebanese-Swimming-Team Coach

As I am getting my daughter out of the bath tub this evening, and into her white bathrobe, I am reminded of one of my finer moments here in Lebanon. I have quite a few, come to think of it, but this one’s one of the cherries on the cake.

That happens to be connected to this white bathrobe.
My son, when he was small, was taking swimming lessons. We figured it was a good exercise in wintertime, he’d learn a useful skill and maybe he’d pick up some team work as well. So I hauled him to swimming lessons twice a week in my neighborhood. This particular swimming pool was in an underground location, three floors down a regular apartment building, and part of a health club. It wasn’t really a big pool. Actually quite small when I think of it in retrospect, with a very low ceiling. A little dirty too. Claustrophobic people wouldn’t stand a chance in there.
So here this instructor would teach 20 or so youngsters the finer details of swimming, while the mothers and the maids were sitting on the side on plastic chairs, chatting and hoping the kids wouldn’t splash too much water and get the Clorox-loaded water onto their pant legs.
Anyway, this place was hot, small, humid, and the instructor was a yeller. He yelled all the time. Now I do not have a problem with that in general, but the place was just too confined for that. Besides, he’d give 27 instructions in one sentence. “Get out of the tub, run to the other side, get in the second line, wait till the first guy reaches the other side, jump in, do a back craw, make a turn” etc etc. My son was only 6 then, and displayed ADHD characteristics, so one instruction was as far as he would get. So he’d get out of the pool. And stand there. And stand there some more. And this instructor wouldn’t notice the poor guy shivering unless he was walking in his way. After every lesson, I’d be all uptight and nervous, and would need two beers to relax again.
Anyway, I tried that for three months, and figured that this instructor, although the ‘best in Lebanon’ I as told by all the ladies-in-waiting, was probably not the best choice for my child at that point in time. It might work for others; it did not work for him. I am explaining this in a very friendly fashion, but basically I thought the guy was an asshole, incapable of his job, and a waste of time and money. He wasn’t very expensive though.
So I shopped around. A friend of a friend of a friend knew a swimming instructor. This guy was IT. The best of the best. Couldn’t get any better. Trained the Lebanese Olympic Team (is there one?). Trained the son of Emile Lahoud (in those days there was no stigma on being the son of Emile Lahoud yet). And I don’t know what, but he was the best in town, and what’s more, he was in my part of town, so I did not have to drive too far. She gave me his number.
I call the guy. I will not repeat his name here, but I called him, and he was very friendly on the phone.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, I am looking for swimming lessons for my son.”
“Does he know how to swim?”Yes, he does, but he could use some help with techniques, and coordination and all that, because right now his swimming lessons…””Ah, he is taking swimming lessons?””Yes, he is.”
“And why don’t you want to continue there?”
“Well, the place is rather small and the instructor is yelling all the time, and he doesn’t really understand that..”
And I explained him all the things that this current instructor did wrong and did not understand and on and on and on. I bashed the guy.
“Very well”, he said, “Why don’t you come this Saturday to so-and-so (a health club with a swimming pool in town), and I’ll see what we can do about that.” He did not ask for my son’s old coach’s name, and besides, I did not know his name. He did not ask my name either.

So that Saturday I went to the agreed swimming pool, a very nice and fancy place, much and much better than the old crummy pool near my house, and walked down with my son. It was looking good. A fantastically clean and spacious pool! Ho could ask for more?
And who do I see? My son’s old swimming instructor! He sees me, waves, and continues to instruct the 7 or 8 potential Olympic swimmers he has in the pool.
I look around. No other instructor in site. I look puzzled. So does my son’s old swimming coach.
I climb back upon the stairs, go to the front desk, and say that I was supposed to meet so-and-so. “Do you know where he is?”
“Yes, he is downstairs, teaching swimming.”
“No, that’s the other guy. I am looking for so-and-so.”
“There is only one swimming coach here, and that is so-and-so.”

Slowly it dawned on me. My son’s old coach - the crummy, incapable bastard - and the fantastic Potential-Olympic-swimming coach were one and the same person! And here I was, basically telling the guy on the phone what an asshole he was. Needless to say I did not go down again. I think Mr. Potential-Olympic-trainer figured out that I was that bitch on the phone, and this was the end of my son’s swimming career. He can float like no other, swims faster than a rat, but there’s little grace and style.
How did this unfortunate story come to my mind? Because when my son was taking swimming lessons, I bought him this white bathrobe, for after swimming lessons. My daughter is wearing it now. No swimming lessons for her. Wouldn’t know who to call.

There are other ‘finer’ moments in my life in Beirut. So ‘fine’ in fact, that there are certain stores where I can no longer show my face. What am I saying? There are streets I try avoid crossing. Branded forever as the ‘bitchy foreigner’. But all that will be shared with you in due time. If I feel like it.

Hana Draws Her First Face

Hana has made her very first drawing of an actual face. Up till now she’d scribble, but today I saw the first face appear, with a nose, eyes, and some hair on top. I've photoshopped it a little, so you can see it better.

Winter has ended, I think yesterday was our final day in the snow, here are some snow movies. http://www.zippyvideos.com/5381192834371756/sledding_in_faqra/

http://www.zippyvideos.com/4900309334371826/boarding/

Happy Birthday to me

Birthday Girl on the slopes of Feraya

Happy Birthday to me! I’ve stopped counting the years; anything above 35 really doesn’t matter anymore. I went up to the mountains with Eddie last night, stayed over with some friends and went skiing early this morning.
Hubbie did send me a ‘happy birthday’ message from Beirut. That was more then I expected after I had so horribly forgotten his birthday last week. But he’s not like me; he doesn’t care, doesn’t hold grudges and he isn’t vengeful. It just is so very complicated: this entire family consists of Pisces. Hubbie, I, brother in-law, sister in-law, mother in-law and father in-law all celebrate their birthdays within 21 days of each other. We start unwrapping end of February and do not stop until the end of March.
Anyway, I spend my birthday up in the mountains above Beirut. It was a bit foggy at first, so we didn’t put any sunscreen. It did get sunny later; as a result the skin on my front head is as tight as a drum right now, burned to a crisp. I read somewhere some time ago that if you are over a certain age, you should never expose your skin to the full sunlight anymore, wear hats, and use a total sunblock. But what is the fun of it all?

Kids in the truck after skiing; Rand, Michael, Adrian & Deya

Not much is going on in Beirut these days. There is some kind of national dialogue going on between the different political parties, without much success, the president is still president although they are quite actively trying to get him out of office, a third UN report still has not pointed out exactly who murdered former PM Rafic Hariri, and bird flu has now officially reached Israel. If it is in Israel, it most definitely is present in Syria and Lebanon too. Someone at work made the joke yesterday that Syria is such a shitty country that even birds do not want to drop dead there so they made an effort to blow out their last breath in the next country, hence the dead turkeys in Israel. It would have been more appropriate if the turkeys had died in Turkey. That is not very nice to say, I don’t think you can blame the Syrians for all the mess the Lebanese are in.
I am really interested on how the Lebanese are going to react to this bird flu thing. It is a very cosmopolitan society, but in some things people can be rather ignorant.
I remember a couple of years ago when Lebanon experienced a partial solar eclipse. The government has somehow gotten the word out that it was really dangerous to look into the sun during a solar eclipse. I don’t know who got it further than that, but the result was that the entire Lebanese population believed that even being out in the sun during the entire hour in which the solar eclipse took place was mortally dangerous. I have never seen Beirut as quiet as that. Not a soul out on the street for a good hour! We were the only ones on the balcony trying to see this partial eclipse through the negatives strip of an exposed film roll. I thought that was pretty ignorant.
Half of my family has already stopped eating chicken meat. I continue to eat chicken almost daily. So if this blog suddenly stops, you know what happened.
The weather has been off and on, and the parking situation on the Corniche has now officially gotten so bad that I am actually contemplating to walk the 6 blocks to work.

And on a final note, an addition as to why I like living in Beirut. Although this is a very cosmopolitan town, people here still have a very village like mentality. That’s why I just got a call from the local supermarket here around the corner, congratulating me with my birthday. “It says on your customer card that it is your birthday today, so we would like to congratulate you with your birthday.” Go see Albert Heijn do that (A supermarket chain in Holland).

Clear Day

They say that on a clear day you can see Cyprus from Beirut, which lies a mere 150 kilometers from here, I have been told. Well, I’ve lived here for 16 years now, and almost always with a sea view, but I’ve never been able to see Cyprus.
Maybe it’s this global warming thing, but no Cyprus in view. You’re lucky if you get to see the other side of the bay. During the winter it is cloudy, and during the summer it’s so humid that you cannot even see across the bay. And if it isn’t humidity, then it is pollution, but it’s often hazy to see even across Beirut, let alone Cyprus. At night though, you can see the lights of East Beirut really good. Reminds me of Monaco every time I see it. Gives me a very rich feeling. For a fantastic shot of the same picture but then at night, click here.
But right after a heavy rain storm, like the one this night, the air is absolutely clear. And this is what you see. I am on the picture too. It was 5:00 P.M., coming out of work, so my shadow’s a bit long.
I know I am lucky that I live here when I see 47 Japanese tourist walking down my street, cameras in action, little hats for sun cover, and sturdy white sneakers, on their way to the beach boulevard. I mean, they’re coming all the way to Japan, to see the view that I see every single day, going from work, and going back home. And I actually have that same view when I wake up, when I shower, when I drink coffee, have dinner in the evening and I could go on a little longer.

As I am overloaded - once again - by work, got like 17 piles here on my desks, some more in my bag and several on my desk at work, I do not have much time to think of anything sensible to say. ‘Not that you have anything sensible to say when you do have the time’, I hear my brother think. I am trying to add an image to the header of my blogs – for five days now already – without much success. I did finally manage to upload an mpeg file to my blog. More will follow.
I leave it at that, and will just post some old pictures in the meantime. This one is of Eddie jumping off the jumping board on the beach in Beirut. ‘Beach’ is a strange word really, it does not involve sand in Beirut (sandy beach can be found on the south and north side of Beirut.) The only sandy beach IN Beirut is a public beach and as such virtually inaccessible for women in bikinis. Or bathing suits.Actually, it is very accessible; you just won’t be left alone. A beach in Beirut is a slab of concrete with a pool in it. They’re not cheap either, ranging from cheap (6,000 LBP or $4) to top of the range 20,000 LBP ($13). The less fortunate have to use the public beach, which does not get cleaned up, or the rocky shores of the Corniche, which you can see at the background. They were empty that day because it was a bit cloudy. This was in October of last year.

Plastic Bubble Dance

Click on Hana if you want to see her do the Plastic Bubble Dance.
(now let's see if this works. I've been trying for days to get this video to work)

Bad Hair Day

Eddie had a Bad Hair Day in school. Or maybe it was a Crazy Hair Day. First it was Pajamas Day, and he had to go to school in his pajamas, and today he had to come with a crazy hair-do. We had gold hair gel, but that didn’t seem strong enough, so we fortified it with plastic hair bands from his sister’s collection. So it was all nice and soft when he went to school, but by the afternoon it was as hard as wood. Even when he took out the rubber bands it stayed straight up. He had to walk to school, because he missed his ride with me. I wake him up at 6:00, yet he very often is still in bed by the time I go to work. So he had to cross town with this funny hairdo. He didn’t complain.
His sister, on the other hand, has voiced her grave discontent with the fact that the cat has now officially occupied the doll's bed. She’s not using it often enough apparently, and the cat rather likes it.

Rain or Water

Water on Bliss Street. Water on the streets of Beirut does not necessarily mean it has been raining. And since today was a bright and hot sunny day, it is most definitely not rain. Water on the streets means that the government water has come. Lebanon is the only country in the Middle East that does not experience a water shortage, yet water comes only a couple times per week. During the war it didn’t come at all, so you had to buy water from street sellers that would drive around in small pick up trucks with water tanks on the back. On the truck was also a small generator because Beirut is all apartment building and water has to be pumped up. I can’t remember the price of water, but it wasn’t much. So when there would be government water but no government electricity, you still wouldn’t get the water to in your apartment because there is virtually no pressure on the system. And this wasn’t drinking water, so for drinking water you had to get either bottled water, which could be quite expensive if you have a big family, or you go into the mountains with plastic containers and fill up at road side springs.
These days the government does provide water, but it still is not drinkable, and comes irregular. Most people have covered that problem by installing tanks on rooftops that they fill up when water comes, and that will last them for a week or so. So there are miles and miles of home-made plumbing systems in this town that seep off from the regular government system into tanks all over the place. Needless to say, this leaks like nothing else. So when the government opens the tab to supply a certain neighborhood, the roads flood as well.
Notice the creative parking. This is a two lane street with parking on one side. It’s quite popular at night since it serves all kinds of exotic cocktails (alcohol free though). So at night they triple park, and use the side walk as well.

Shopping

Shopping is a very tiresome business. Says cookie. In the back you see a remainder of the Middle Eastern spirit of Beirut. Not much is left of the ambulant traders who used to roam the streets of Hamra (Beirut) in search of customers. The water seller is gone, the mazout (oil) guy on his horse drawn carriage is rare, and the little push carts that you used to see on every street corner - with odds and ends and vegetables and the likes - have now all been banished to the southern suburbs. But the shoe shiner has remained.
I am sitting here on my balcony in the sun, seems summer has started. Maybe I'll post a picture of it later, to make you guys in Holland (with you -2 C) a little jealous.

My Dad's e-mail account

The weather’s been rather odd. Wednesday we had a hot wind blowing in the evening, it registered as 27 degrees on my thermometer, whereas it was 21 degrees inside the house. Thursday we blew off the Corniche while going to school and got pummeled by rain all day. Friday weather was fine, and today I was walking around in my T-shirt.

Thursday morning

Friday morning

My brother just called me and said my Dad had gotten an e-mail account. If I could please check my inbox. This may be quite a simple accomplishment for most people, but for my dad it’s quite a feat. He cannot operate the remote of the TV (prefers to turn it on and off with the button at the screen), does not turn on the radio since the remote of the radio is too complicated, and does not have a video nor a DVD, because he believe all of that is nonsense. His cell phone got forced upon him –my brother actually gave him one – and he prefers it in ‘off’ status, and his hearing aid hasn’t worked for as long as he’s had one.
So acquiring an e-mail address is quite something.
It does not mean he’s actually able to use it. My brothers have been complaining about his use of the computer – forced upon him as well. He makes files disappear. He types, then presses something and the file is gone. On of my brothers is then required to pass by and retrieve it. Last time all his files were in the trash. And they were all empty as well. But then again, he’s 90 years old.

When I just go to Lebanon, e-mail had not reached Lebanon. Or Holland, for that matter. Due to the war conditions, ordinary phone lines didn’t work either. Now and then you could get through on an illegal phone line, but it was hardly convenient. You had those little offices all over the place where you could make international phone calls and fax papers. You do not see those around anymore.
Letters took weeks to arrive. The post office was closed most of the time, and barely functioning anyway. I remember bags and bags of mails stacked up at the airport during the war between Aoun and Geagea (both part of the current political scene in Lebanon; a rather sad statement). I didn’t have a postal box then, and letters were addressed to my street, and the building, and since there were no mailmen, reached me in a rather unorthodox fashion. Or didn’t reach me at all. You know you live in a third world country when your mom starts to number her letters.
All lot has changed in over just 15 years. My home phone works. Letters arrive on time and without fail. I’ve got wireless cable in the house, and throughmy cell phone I can be in touch with anyone anywhere in split seconds.
If changes continue as rapidly as they have in the past 15 years, then by the time I am 90, I don’t think I would attempt anything new. So here’s to my Dad with his new e-mail account.

I Procrastinate

‘I procrastinate’, hubbie says.

I disagree.

‘We’ve had this apartment for ten years and it is still empty’, he says.

That is not quite accurate. We only bought the floor below us three years ago.

Yes, granted, it is a little empty. I like empty. It has a couch in front of the TV that fits the entire family and then some more. Designed it myself and measure four meters long. The house also has a bookcase. That bookcase too, measure 4 meters long and 2.55 high (also designed by me, yes yes), and fits all my books. Even place for future purchases. And the house has a TV (48 inch screen, but that’s hubbie’s doing). So to say that the house is empty is incorrect. It has a couch, a bookcase and a TV. I could actually have done without the TV. What more could you want?

But he says it’s empty. He’s been saying it for some time now. Okay. So it echoes.

And obviously he got fed up yesterday and went to Basta, an area in Beirut known for its antique dealers, second hand furniture shops, and otherwise dealers in furniture. And he bought. And bought. And bought. And bought some more. And now the house is full. “Hey, you don’t like it”? he said, “Then go out and change the stuff, I have no problem with that. You either go out and change it, or you keep as is, but I want furniture in my house.”

So today I went and changed it. This guy has like 7 floors of furniture, practically stacked on top of each other. I saw fantastic display cases from old pharmacies, with a hundred-and-one drawers, old wooden swivel chairs for ancient desks, little cabinets for which the keys could not be found, dressers with and without mirrors, 100 and 1 different wooden chairs (none matching) and then some more. Most of it comes from Asia, where they run a pretty good market in fake ‘antiques’. Some of it comes from Egypt, where they run a market in what is locally called ‘Style Farouq XVI’ I have been told. The last Egyptian king, Farouq, deposed somewhere in the fifties I believe, has quite a horrendous taste. Imitation Louis XVI, but then a little more baroque, a little more gilded, a little more curly and shiny. Basically a lot more kitsch.

I got some very nice pieces. A sort of cabinet that will only hold silver cutlery. Another display case that will fit the crystal wine glasses. Some other stuff that I cannot remember anymore, but I guess I’ll remember tomorrow, when they come and deliver it all. And take the other things away.

My bookcase

Miscellaneous stuff

They're not the Gemayze stairs, but still a nice feature in my neighborhood; a stair case connecting the upper street to the lower street. They are being used by kissing couples now and then because when you position yourself right in the middle, you cannot be seen from the upper street, nor from the lower street. And as this is in some ways an incredible prude country (very un-pride in other ways); full frontal kissing in public is frowned upon. So you've got to find a quiet dark spot. And this is hubbie, who I just ran into as I was running errands this morning. Well, I do run into him in the house, but now and then we meet on the streets as well. Quite nice. I've given him a little eye-blocker, would like to keep him anonymous and for myself, thank you.

Socializing

I am married to someone who hates socializing. Absolutely hates it! He does it for a living, and has no intention to do it after working hours. Tonight we were invited for dinner. He’s been squirming and squiggling and wiggling in all directions to cancel it. Finally the wife figured the best way was to contact me: I confirmed, set a date and time. Dinner set; no excuses possible. Still, he was hoping for something that would give him a reason to cancel it. And these are people he actually LIKES a lot and greatly enjoys sitting with. During the day. So tonight is the night. Nobody broke a leg, no one died in the family. Shop didn’t flood, police didn’t call a curfew, car didn’t break down, child did not fall and required stitches at the emergency ward. No political assassinations. Nothing nothing nothing.So then he calls, to ask for directions. This is somewhere up in Adma, a region in the foothills above Beirut. And I hear him say: “Wow, so you completely lost it? (voice, that is) I’m so sorry to hear it. You’re okay? You’re sure? If you feel like canceling it, that’s fine by me (notice the ‘me’, rather than the ‘we’), I mean, we can schedule this any time, no problem.” I can just imagine the ‘him’ on the other side of the line, receiving a cattle prod from the ‘he’. No way are we going to cancel this dinner; I’m all dressed up and ready to go.Well, we did go, and it was a very nice dinner. These guys have a fantastic view. The view form my house is pretty good, but it’s no Bay of Beirut. This is taken from the dining room. Halfway dinner we had a power cut (happens all the time), so then it turned out real romantic too.

And while standing in the elevator, I noticed hubbie's pockets; now why would anyone need so many pens? He's not using it to write notes to me.

Bag Lady

As I’ve had a son for nine years before I had a daughter, I assumed that all children were alike.

Conversation with boy
“Do you want to drink something?”
“Yes.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“Anything.”

Conversation with girl
Now check out the same conversation with my daughter.
“Do you want to drink something?”
“What do you have?”
“Juice en water”
“What kind of juice?”
“Orange juice.”
“Don’t you have pine apple juice?”
“No, orange juice.”
“How about apple juice, you have apple juice?”

And this process is not limited to the field of beverages; it goes all across the board. So yesterday morning she decides that she is going to choose what to wear. I was quite taken aback by this; I have never ever experienced something like this before. My son still wears what I take out for him.
But I am all for self-expression, so I stood back and watched. She came out looking like a bag lady (picture on left). Dress too short, tights too tight, hole in the tights, funky looking hair band with even funkier looking sunglasses.

Today she decided on a more ‘mellow’ combination. Very decent, I must say. Maybe a little too decent. I think I liked yesterday’s combination better.