The Dim in Beirut

Abidjan Hold 'Em

Like most men of my age, once a week I sit around a table with a bunch of friends and play poker. It’s, at the same time, relaxing and stressful, rewarding and frustrating.

We’re usually 7 or so. Most are funny characters that put a bit of life to proceedings.

But while we all contribute to the atmosphere, only one man stands out: Omar.

Stocky and bearded, he looks like a monster but has the smile of a baby that can illuminate a room and the emotional intelligence of a small child. No English or Arabic for him- like any Lebanese guy I’ve ever met who’s grown up in the Ivory Coast, Omar speaks nothing apart from a thick broken African-French.

Omar is probably the only person in our group who comes to these gatherings with the intense desire to compete. While our priority is to have fun, he wants to win. More to the point- he wants to make money.

This leads to him taking the afternoon a lot more seriously than all of us. He’ll only play very good hands for example. When he does play it’s your cue to fold. For Omar to actually put some of his chips on the table it means he’s holding something so powerful, he can blow away the Green Berets.

He takes losses with the same good graces as John McEnroe. After a losing hand, he’ll spend minutes looking at the heavens, shaking his head and whispering to an imaginary friend (we call him Youssef): “Putain, mon gars, le flop, sa mere, je te jure, la chance, Omar, Omar, tu es nul, nul, tu es le plus nul au monde, sa mere la pute…”

There are cities in Greece that have recovered faster emotionally from losses than Omar.

He wins sometimes though. And that’s when the highlight of his week comes: he’s never happier than when he’s just won a big hand and has lots of chips in front of him. He arranges them with the symmetry of an architect, looks at them with longing and love and defends them with the same ferocity as a lioness defends hers cubs. And then he spends at least 10 minutes refusing the play a hand while he counts the number of chips he has out loud.

Omar’s never had a non winning hand. Every time he folds pre flop, he wins. As soon as the flop opens, he hits his hand on the table and shouts” Je l’avais mon gars, sa mere! Je gagne, je gagne!” He scrambles to find the cards he’s thrown away to show to people next to him, all while the guys still playing the hand shout at him to shut up.

Concurently, every time somebody loses a hand, he tells them what they should have done. It’s gotten to the point where we’re seriously begging him to do a Dvd to share his wisdom with the entire globe.

His desire to win is so great that we always suspect him of cheating. But any time we think we’ve caught him he replies in his thick African accent “Moi je triche? T’es fou toi, je te gifle.” Or sneers at you and threatens “Ohhhhh. Je te boxe gars!”

To be honest, even if he does cheat (and it’s highly likely), the entire point of proceedings is to have fun. And by Omar being himself, he unwittingly entertains you more than any winning poker hand could. Truthfully, if I had a choice of me winning a big hand, or seeing Omar lose one, I’d much rather Omar lose just to sit back and watch his reaction.

It’s a lot more entertaining.

10 Facts about a Lebanese Mother

1)      Her biggest fear is that you’ll die starving: It doesn’t matter how old you are: a Lebanese mother has not realized that you’re fully aware that you need to eat when your stomach starts marking churning sounds. She truly believes that if she doesn’t ask you every 5 minutes whether you’re hungry, you’ll starve. And be careful. Rejecting your Lebanese mother’s offer of a sandwich does not mean the conversation is over. Do not be surprised if she turns up a few minutes later with said sandwich prepared for you.

2)      Is extremely skeptical of any one of your girlfriends/boyfriends: For one of them to meet a Lebanese mother’s full and honest approval takes years of arduous work, backdoor negotiations and successful passing of tests which may go on long after that person has become your spouse.

3)      Hates the roads: It doesn’t matter if you’re going to Faraya, Hazmieh, Hamra or across the street. Your mother hates the roads: all of them. You’ll be reminded of that fact every time you say goodbye to her. Expect be to told to “drive carefully” and “put your seatbelt on” several times a day.

4)      Is convinced rain is anthrax: You’ll be called at work a few times on the first day it rains in the winter and be told to “to2borni inshallah, be careful”. You’ll be admonished for not taking an umbrella. You’ll have text messages on your phone telling you to dress warmly. You will be looked at with mouth gaping wide eyed astonishment and disappointment should you wear less than 7 layers of clothes before going out.

5)      She’s unique: You’ll be reminded, on a daily basis, that, while you may have friends, a bunch of ex girlfriends, siblings and more cousins than ex classmates, YOU ONLY HAVE ONE MOTHER.

6)      Suffers from Alzheimer disease: Any question regarding your well being will be repeated several times a day. Just because you didn’t want the heater on 180 seconds ago does not mean, to a Lebanese mother, that you don’t want it now.

7)      Loves when you’re sick: As she’s, for the only time of the year, allowed to treat you like a baby without any resistance from you. To2borni Inshallah.  When you’re sick, a Lebanese mother will dote on you and take charge of the crisis with the same eagerness she displayed on the day of your birth. And you’re powerless to put up a fight, which is pure heaven for her.

8)      Still thinks you have no social etiquette:  And reminds you, every time you’re about to be introduced to her friends, to: ‘get up, be nice, shake her hand, be polite and DON’T SIT BACK DOWN until she leaves”. Then smiles at you with pride when her friend leaves while you shake your head in embarrassment.

9)      Is fully aware how ridiculous she is: Every time you admonish her for treating you like a baby. But she then blames it all on the fact that she’s a parent. “You’ll understand when you’ll have kids” we’re told. Great stuff. So, in their eyes, we only finally stop being babies when we have one of our own. Circle of life and that…

10)   Is an absolute queen: She’ll do anything for you. She’ll put her body in front of a moving train to save you. You only need to mention, in passing, that you like something and a Lebanese mother will go and get it for you. Her happiness and success in life will be defined by yours. Her biggest source of contentment is through your well being and the best compliments anyone can give her are in relation to you.

To2borni Inshallah...

Lebanon's National Sport: Showing Off

We’re absolutely word class at it.

There are other things we’re great at of course. Despite what Israel says (and don’t forget they claim the land they live on is theirs so they’re not the most credible source), we gave the world Hummus. We’re fantastic at bullshitting. The women are exquisite. We’ve got a never dying spirit and have risen like a phoenix more times than Lazarus.

But there’s nothing we can do better than showing off. There’s not a single pastime we master or excel at as much as that. We’re innovative and meticulous, relentless and shameless.

We’re the only country in the world where having a sexy phone number seriously impresses people (got one by the way). A 4 digit number plate ditto (got one too).  And don’t get me started on our consumer habits… We change our phones and cars regularly, spend fortunes on clothes, food and drink.

As I was once told: Lebanese people buy stuff they don’t need with money they don’t have to impress people they don’t know.

Here’s a list of the more subtle tricks which truly puts us on another showing off pedestal compared to the rest of the world. To all the foreigners coming to Beirut, learn these by heart.

1) The phone trick: I love this one. The trick is to be with a person somewhere and have your phone ring. Press yes on the phone, ignore the caller and CONTINUE the conversation with the person you’re with. Let the caller listen to your conversation for at least 4 seconds until you say hello. This gives the person calling you the impression you’re extremely busy and important. Doesn’t fail to impress and, more importantly, boost your ego (it sucks when the person calling you dialed the wrong number mind).

 2) The “he’s my friend” trick: Whenever there’s a conversation about going out somewhere exclusive, claim you’re friends with the owner and can book a table any time people want. Being friends with the owner can mean anything from: “I’ve met him once” to “I shook his hand a couple of years ago” to even “he’s a friend of my cousin’s girlfriend’s mate”. No need to tell anyone this though. Just state loudly that you can get a table.

 3) The “I’m with friends” trick:  When someone asks you what you’re up to, tell them you’re with friends. Don’t mention any names. Just say friends. Even if they’re mutual friends. Or the cousin of the guy calling you. Or his best friend. Say friends. This gives the impression you have a wide circle of connections and know mysterious people the other person doesn’t. Frustrates your counterpart but greatly boosts your ego.

 4) The “I’m having fun” trick: Wherever you are (beach, club, restaurant, bar, college) and however bored you may be… You must be seen to be having an absolutely fantastic time by every single person in the place. Laugh wildly, gesticulate franticly, high five everyone, take lots of photos and steal evil glances at other tables. Crack jokes with the waiters and call them (loudly) by their first names. Hug and kiss the valet drivers who, preferably, would have parked your car just in front of the place for all to see. Tell everyone the next day of how much of a cool night it was.

 5) The “too cool to drive” trick: Never have more than one hand on the wheel. The other one can be out of the window (preferably while holding a cigarette), on the shift, on your partner’s thigh… But for ultimate effect it should be holding the phone you’re talking into. Even if you have no one to talk to. Pretend you’re talking. But put your phone on silent. I once saw someone’s phone ring while he was speaking to a phantom person. Poor chap.

Takes years of counseling to get over that in Beirut…

The End of Times

 

 

Though it’s unfortunately sunny today, It had been raining hard in Beirut these last couple of days.

Very hard.

There’s been torrential rain and heavy winds, lightning and thunder too. The sky had turned a bit orange. If there was any American Evangelical Christians here, they’d think it was the rapture.

I love it though. The summer, however, I can’t stand. All that heat, sweatiness and never ending sunshine. Sorry people, not for me. Give me the apocalyptical storms over that hell, any day of the week.

But, whatever my views on the never-ending Beirut summer, I have to admit that the winter here brings up some very weird occurrences. Said simply, Lebanon, like a nudist colony, is ridiculously unequipped for this season.

When the winter strikes in Lebanon, you’re reminded of how far behind we are as a country. It’s 2012 out there, but once a bit of rain hits Beirut you become like Marty Mcfly in Back to the Future: transported to an era where everything is terribly backwards.

New to Lebanon? Here is some advice on what to expect during the winter:

1)  The Internet does not exist: Seriously. As soon as there’s a storm, consider yourself dragged back   to the early 1990s. Your connection goes the minute the first thunder storms hit. On the plus side, if there’s a war, don’t fret: you’ll be fine. We’re the only country in human history whose internet connections laugh in the face of Israeli missiles but collapse at the mere sound of wind and rain. Go figure.

2)  Cable TV has not been invented: If being dragged back to the 90s didn’t do it for you, try the 70s. If you want to watch some cable, it’s not any TV guide you need to check but the meteorological reports. Scour them with the same intensity as the Americans scoured caves for WMDs in Iraq. Because, believe me, you can have any hugely expensive system in place, but the moment a storm hits, your TV watching fate is in the hands of the Gods.

3) Forget driving: The roads are filled with water. The sewers inundated.  Traffic screeches to a halt. People are absolutely petrified of the rain to the degree where the roads are so packed it’s like in Independence Day when the aliens invade. Normal driving in the rain is absolutely anathema to Lebanese people. Walk. Because trust me, if you’re driving, by the time you get to where you want to go, it’ll be summer.

 4) Love your house: You’ll be spending a lot of time in it. Going out when it’s raining doesn’t make much sense to us. It gets to the point where you don’t need to ask people what they’re doing. You just look at the weather.  Forget about doing any outdoor sports too. Lebanese people just cannot comprehend that playing football in the rain is not just something that happens in Fifa on the Playstation.

 5)  Don’t be afraid: Of the weird things your electricity is doing: it’s happening to all of us. This is not a horror movie. The fact that your lights are flickering on and off is very normal. No ghost is in your room. We can barely guarantee any electricity in normal times anyways so the orange light emanating from the light bulb in your room is nothing out of the ordinary. Trust me.

People are Strange

My mate Rony hates people.

Not all people mind. Just people that are not like him.

If you are: Lebanese, Christian (preferably maronite), speak French and come from a “good family” then maybe, MAYBE, he’ll like you- and that’s only if you show that you like him. But it’s a big maybe.

Before I go on, let me note one thing: Rony is the poster boy of what an Arab should look like: Dark hair, huge beard, big baggy eyes, hairy legs, arms and back. If he’d ever travel to the States, he’d be held up at customs for hours.

His net worth isn’t anything to shout home about and nor is his dress sense. Basically, he has no reason to feel superior to anyone else- but he does.

There’s no logic in his discrimination. He looks down at people from poor backgrounds but calls rich people snobs. He doesn’t like the middle class either as he considers himself superior to them.

Someone who speaks Arabic but not any other language is a philistine, unworthy of his attention. Those who speak English but not French are arrogant. Anyone who speaks French but nothing else is rejecting his Lebanese identity.

His French isn’t even that great. It’s ok. He rarely speaks it to be honest. But when he does, you can be sure there are people he doesn’t know around him and he wants to impress them. He’d be talking on the phone with me in Arabic and switch to French in a micro second. I’d know instantly that someone has just walked into his office…

Foreigners scare the living daylights out of him. He’s utterly convinced every single one in Lebanon is a CIA agent. And his comments on black people would make a Ku Klux Klan Grand Sorcerer blush.

His ignorance knows no bounds. As far as he’s concerned, anything east of Iraq is part of the United States of Manila. We recently learned that a mutual friend married an extremely well off girl from Bali a few months ago. That left Rony perplexed: “Why in the hell would he marry a Philippina?”

He judges people by what they wear. Any time he spots a dapper guy he looks at me, shakes his head and says “Gay, Gay”. Any time he sees someone dressed extremely casually in a Gemayze bar, his nostrils flare up and he murmurs “If I was the owner, I’d throw him in Hamra where he belongs”.

He hates Hamra by the way. Detests the place. He reckons all the people that go there communists. He can’t stand the fact that, in his words, people go out, have fun drinking only a couple of beers and their bill comes out as $10 per person: “Greedy bastards”.  Concurrently, he hates Skybar. He’s repulsed by people who go out and spend $300 partying: “Fucking show offs”.

I once organized a football game in Dahie. I called Rony and invited him along. He shut up for 5 seconds and then uttered the immortal phrase: “Je ne sais meme pas c’est ou Dahie”.

Once, exasperated listening to one of his interminable tirades on people from other religions, creed, color, sexuality and nationality, I asked him what principles he thought most differentiated him from them.

His answer?

“Tolerance”.

No Country for Gulf Men

The Lebanese love their foreigners.

Having a foreign friend visiting is a similar status boosting event as having a 4 digit license plate number or a sexy phone number. You show them off as much as you’d show off a new Blackberry

I’ve heard the older generation beam with pride as they say they’re bringing “un voyageur” to one of those big high society dinners. I’ve had clients tell me they’ll refuse to rent their flats out to non-westerners.

Yep, the Lebanese love their foreigners. Or rather, certain foreigners.

It depends where they’re from you see. If from the West, you’re definitely buzzing. If from the Gulf, you’re bang out of luck.

I once had colleagues from London visit. They wanted to go clubbing. As covered previously, that’s not really my thing. So I turned to a big party animal friend of mine and asked him to bail me out and take them to Skybar

The conversation went a little something like this:

- “Sure habibi, with pleasure. When are they coming?”

-“The weekend. Thanks a lot habibi eh?”

-“ Walaw bro! Are they all English by the way?”

-“ No. From Yemen, Egypt and I think Iraq”

-“ What?? Weir! Of course not, no chance. Forget it”.

Had they been from the West, you can be sure my pal would have been a little bit more enthusiastic. At the very least, their presence with him would have given the impression that he was a tad multi cultural, well travelled and internationally versatile.

But my colleagues? They wouldn’t really add anything to his status.  There was no chance my mate was having his table at Skybar filled with people he imagined would be dressed like Bedouins and ordering shisha. He could see only long lasting disastrous ramifications to his most prized possession: his image.   

It’s not like my mate is uniquely Arabaphobic. You won’t find a mother excitedly call her friends to tell them her daughter is marrying an Omani for example. American, yes. French, sure. Italian, definitely. Omani? Not a chance (On the unlikely chance any Omani is reading this, let me assure you I’d have no problem marrying my, as of yet, unborn daughter off to you, depending on the size of your bank account).

 It gets worse is in the summer. Friends will comment that the city is awash with tourists; say they spotted a bunch of Canadians (real ones! Not those ones with Lebanese roots who speak that dodgy sounding French!) wandering the streets. They’ll smile and beam with pride at how Beirut is cosmopolitan. How the Geneva of the Levant is back on track.

Concurrently, they’ll tell you with disgust on their faces of how the city is awash with Arabs. How Beirut in general, and ABC in particular, has become little Jeddah. How they have as much style and grace as me on a dance floor.

Maybe it’s not that bad. No country likes its neighboring country after all. The Dutch and the Germans aren’t best friends. The English and French hate each other. And there isn’t a community in the world delighted to find American tourists, with their ridiculously loud chatter, stupid baggy shorts and larger bellies, invading their city.

But surely nowhere else is there such a disparity between how different tourists from different nationalities are viewed. And it may have nothing to do with the poor Gulfies and Arabs.  Perhaps, it’s a just result of the inherent racism that forms the underbelly of our country, the horribly misguided inflated sense of importance the Lebanese place on themselves or the fact that that we’re all jealous of the Gulf’s wealth.

Or maybe it really is simply the fact they dress like Bedouins.

There's no Escape

It’s ridiculous isn’t it?

Living in Beirut is like living in those Nintendo consoles we had when we were kids: in 2D. Seriously. We make goldfishes in their bowls look like wildlife adventurers compared to us.

We’ve all heard the slogans about Lebanon: 10452km² and all that. But in reality, the vast majority of us could go through an entire year living our lives within a 10km² radius.

 Look at me for example. I live a couple of minutes away from a mall, 5 minutes away from work, a maximum of 4 minutes away from my best friends and family, 3 minutes away from the gym (not that I use it mind), 6 minutes away from my nutritionist, 2 minutes away from a shrink some of my friends see (just in case) and 6 minutes away from the best bar and restaurant street in Beirut. (That’s, of course, not considering the traffic. Multiply by 10 all those figures in normal times).

A walk on the wild side for me is going to my massage place of choice that’s 9m away.

Once in a blue moon, at the start of a romantic relationship, I go to Byblos. And feel jet lagged by the time I get home…

Apart from that, 95% of my life is spent in my own little cocoon.

I’m in no way alone in this. I got a mate who lives in Hamra who, literally, calls his travel agent when he needs to leave the area. I’m still not sure, to this day, whether he realizes he doesn’t need a visa to come to Achrafieh.

So we live our lives in a tiny area of the country. It does have its plus points, I won’t lie. Your life is unbelievably easy for a start. And, when you get back from holiday and bump into people you know all the time, you feel like a celebrity for the first week.

I’m friends with an English professional footballer who’s played for one of the biggest clubs in Europe, won a lot of trophies, is on TV every week, has appeared in 2 world cups- but in Beirut, when we’re together, I’m recognized a lot more than he is.

It’s extremely gratifying.

And I’m nothing special. A lot more people have a lot more notoriety than me and bump into more people they know. In celeb terms I’d be more Danni than Kylie Minogue…

Live like we do and after a certain time, you feel like Jim Carrey in the Truman Show. You go the same places, see the same faces, have the same conversations, struggle to meet new people you don’t know and eat the same foods. It’s claustrophobic to say the least. There are people in jail cells that have more variety than we do.

And, of course, you do all that accompanied.

Because, the worst thing you can do in Beirut, is do something alone. It’s just not done you see. Going to a coffee place by yourself, grabbing lunch accompanied solely by a book or going to the movies en solitaire is NOT something you feel comfortable doing.

There are lots of reasons for this. First of all, you won’t be alone. You’ll bump into someone you know. This is a given. Wherever you go, there’ll be some guy there you haven’t seen since you wore braces. Second of all, you’re made to feel like a sad social case. People look at you and stare. You can read what they’re thinking too: “What an absolute loser”. You know this, because that’s exactly what you think when you see someone eating alone.

Not even the cinema offers sanctuary. I once went to the movies by myself. I arranged it with almost military precision. I wanted to see a movie playing only in Sodeco and Abraj. After 2 seconds of deliberation, I went for the more remote option- Abraj. Sodeco was way too close to home and thus, far too risky.

I deliberated whether to buy 2 tickets from the teller, but took a big breath and bought just the one. I can’t recall if I spoke French to give the impression I was a foreigner who’d just landed in Lebanon, but it’s possible. Still, I was happy with myself so far. I hadn’t bumped into anyone I knew and had successfully bought a ticket without feeling like a social leper.

I quickly made my way to the screen. Then, the usher took my ticket, stared at me, stared at it, stared back at me and asked “Alone?” I looked at the ground and nodded my head. I entered the theater with shame etched on my face, and disdain etched on the teller’s.

Still, that couple of hours alone were bliss. Dark theater surrounded by no one, completely alone, far away from my 10km² nation. I loved the anonymity the cinema provided and vowed to come back alone again.

Until the movie ended and the lights go on and I see my uncle staring at me.

I tried my best, chose the earliest possible séance, a remote theater and an artistic movie- and I still bump into someone I know. And a family member at that. What a joke.

When I can’t take the claustrophobic nature of Beirut life I travel to the UK and revel in being an absolute nobody. I roam the streets of London by myself with the freedom of a man just released from Death Row.  I turn down lunch dates with friends so I can eat alone. I do weird stuff, like read books on the tube. And no one knows who I am or asks why I’m by myself- they couldn’t care less. I’m about as significant to them as an ant.

But even the UK’s not full proof. During the dying embers of one night a couple of years ago, I went to a strip club with a couple of friends- and was greeted by a table full of Lebanese people I know, which included my bloody neighbor.

When you can’t even get a lap dance at 3am in a dingy London strip club while retaining your anonymity, then you truly know the game is up.

There’s no escape.

The Adventures of a Lover of Love.

My mate Danny is in love with women.

Not normal love, mind. Not the kind of love that most of us at one time or another have felt (or not). But crazy, obsessive love. He bestows on women the sort of adoration and devotion a mother bestows on her new born child. He's got an unquenchable thirst for it.

And I am talking about women. Not a woman. Women. Plural.

He’s loved every single girl he’s dated. Each girl he’s ever gone out with or tried to date was the love of his life. It doesn’t take much time for Danny to fall head over heels, it happens instantly. Sometimes it’s as soon as she smiles at him. Usually it’s when she gives him her number. Once, when he was trying to discipline himself, it only really struck him on the first date.

He’s always been like this since we were  kids. When we were teens, he stayed in love for 3 years with a girl who had once held his hand. He used to send her flowers on Saint Valentine’s for years thereafter. It never worked out.

He hasn’t evolved a single dot since that time. The process has remained the same for 3 decades:

Part 1: Infatuation

Part 2: Deep love and life plans

Part 3: Showering of gifts and devotion

Part 4: Breakup

Part 5: Depression

The first 4 parts usually take around a month. Part 5 has been proven to last up to 4 years.

His favorite movie is Jerry Maguire. Not for Cuba Gooding Jr. or anything like that. But for the scene where Rene Zellweger tells Tom Cruise: “You had me at hello”. He often repeats this line when we're talking about movies. He says those words very slowly, in broken English with his eyes semi closed and his head slowly shaking...

His longing for the true loving of a woman has led to catastrophic situations for him, and hilarious stories for his friends to tell.

For example, he had a weird relationship with a woman a few years ago who was, simultaneously, married and dating someone else. What exact role he played in her life I’m not certain, but we do know, for a fact, that he used to do her grocery shopping.

She’d sometimes have him pick her up and drive her to see her boyfriend. His justification for his behavior was that he’d rather she was with her boyfriend than with her husband.

She’d call him up from time to time and they’d have sex. Any normal person wouldn’t mind this arrangement, but Danny wasn’t happy. He’d been in love from  the moment he set eyes on her and wanted more.

He did everything to get her. He pampered her, bought her gifts and did her shopping. He started seeing her more as she fought with her boyfriend.

One day, as a testemant of his love, he bought her a plant called “Lucky Bamboo”. It’s supposed to be a good luck charm . Indeed it was. Not for Danny though, but for the woman in question. A couple of days later she made amends with her boyfriend and stopped answering Danny’s phone calls. He said his luck had nosedived the minute he bought her the Lucky Bamboo plant- we said it must have been as counterfeit as the DVDs we buy off the street.

The depression period started- my favorite part of the process. He’d spend his days looking at his phone with his puppy eyes, urging it to ring. He’d stare at it the way a father would observe his sick child in hospital:  with longing, love and anxiety splashed on his unshaven, baggy eyed face. I’d sometimes ring him up while sat next to him just to his eyes light up and  his body stiffen- but I’d then have to endure a multitude of swear words thrown at me as he realized it wasn’t her.

He stayed in love with her for ages- until the moment he met another girl. Then the process started again. He showered her with love, affection, devotion and plans of life. He, being the romantic he is, decided to buy her a new BlackBerry as a gift. But, as us Lebanese never pay for anything on the spot if we can help it, he divided the payments over 6 months.

2 weeks later she dumped him.

For the next 6 months Danny had to go to the phone shop and settle his monthly payment. He was thus, unable to forget about her.

While she was BBming with her new man, he’d wait in line and have nothing to think of but that girl he spent a month with. He’d reach the teller with his heart heavy, his eyes watery and his wallet lighter every month for half a year- all over a girl he’d decided, after she gave him a kiss, he loved.

It’s neverending. We have barely heard or seen him these last few weeks as he’s started dating someone again. He has shown no sign of life. Any other friend and we’d send out a search party for them. But not Danny. We know we’re nowhere near the top of his priorities right now.

Anyways, we’re not missing out on much. He’s not much fun when dating. But when it all comes down in flames, we’ll be there to pick up the pieces and hear the latest stories.

And then he’ll meet someone new and the whole process will start again. Because, as a lover of love, Danny will never stop believing. He's sure his luck will soon change. Like a boxer with heart who gets knocked down every round but always gets back up for more, Danny's spirit is unbreakable. The depth of his capacity and love for love is endless.

The depth of his wallet however...Well, that's another story...

 

I hate the Summer

It’s coming.

I can feel it. I know it.

The calendar says so.

We’re almost there. Dear God no. Please no.

People have been, for the last week, complaining about the weather. My mates cancelled football yesterday because it was too cold. Seriously. Last night it was 4 degrees in Beirut. At the moment, we’d make Merseyside look tropical.

But I love it. I love the cold. The rain. The storms. I sit in bed at night and open the window of my 14^th floor flat bedroom window. I lie under the covers and listen to the storm and the rain, welcome the cold that enters my room and go to sleep soothing to the sound of the wind shaking the now closed shutters.

I love the Winter.

The Summer, however I can’t stand. I literally start getting depressed the minute the winter ends. And as we enter March, it’s getting to the stage where winter’s on its last legs. It’s almost done.

Seriously, who likes the Summer in Beirut?

We start going to the beach in May, get bored of it in June and then it becomes too hot to go in July. Work grinds to a halt and you spend your days wondering how to fill your time. You try to organize a football game but people tell you they wont play in the heat. You finally managed to sort out a few players  but you stop running after 5 minutes, get dehydrated after 15 and need 2 days to recover. It’s the summer transfer window so you spend all the time on the internet reading some ridiculous rumors that you know will never pan out.

 You park your car in the garage, get sticky and sweaty by the time you get to it and need to wait 5 minutes for the steering wheel to cool before you touch it. You then curse the world as you burn your back while sitting in the car seat.

The roads are deserted. There’s no life in the city. Everyone’s at the beach complaining about the heat or in the mountains complaining about the heat. You take several showers a day, live in air conditioning, and dream of the winter.

By July you can’t swim in the sea because of the jellyfishes. You go to parties and gatherings but it’s so hot you can’t wait to get home and shower. You start dreaming of cooler climes, but you know we’ve only just begun. The days are neverending. The sun sets at 8pm but it feels like midnight. There’s no escape.

Ramadan starts and the roads are even more deserted and work slower still. People come from abroad and that’s cool for a while but then there’s too much traffic. You walk around in shorts and bermudas, feel like an American tourist, lose your sunglasses and go crazy at the sight of half-naked women.

You smoke indoors and get yelled at because you’re suffocating people that can’t open the window. You go outside to smoke and suffocate because of the humidity yourself. You have to listen to a bunch of idiots telling you how much they love the Summer…

It’s coming. Good God no. Please no…

The Unluckiest Ambassador in Lebanon

Is the ones from the Philippines. I really feel for him.

I've seen the way ambassadors get treated here. I wouldnt go as far to say that they're treated like royalty, but it's not far off.

They get invited to dinners, events, launches...They get interviewed in papers and magazines. They get included in the events of the high society of Beirut life. Their brains get picked for any information regarding a potential war.

They're superstars basically.

But the one from Philippines? Poor chap. I'd love to know how many times he's been invited to events. Not a lot I'd wager. I'd love to know how many times he's been asked for a coffee at these events. Every time I'd imagine.

There cant be many worse places for him to be stationned. It would be like the Irish one in Saudi Arabia.