Day Eighty

A Day Two

with the mum

and I'm rediscovering Lebanon.

Re-amused, re-experiencing.

I notice more

and I know where to look.

Lebanon does this to you the first time;

it overwhelms you.

A short visit 

enriches your visual bank so much that you have no time to spend

on deep observation.

Yet this time,

I did.

I had the time to look at all the ways Lebanon is special

in the pickled jars,

in the huge corns,

in the carpet settings,

in the polluted highways,

in the old driver who speaks

three languages in one sentence

in the way the sea meets the land

and in the way it makes me feel so aware of myself.

Day SeventySix

Salad.

How long has it been since I've had a salad.

As in, salad as a main meal

and not on the side of hummus & bread

and cheese rolls

and stuffed vine leaves

and etc.

Hanna causally comes to pick me up from work

and we stroll off to a supermarket.

'I'm gonna have a salad'

she says firmly,

and my mind starts picturing

flying lettuces

avocados

crab sticks

sweet corns

olive oil

and lemon

sauce.

'Yum.

I think I'm gonna have a salad too'.

We walk to our new home

make the salad

share the salad

go for a nap

and halas

happy to be alive.

Actually there were a few more highlights,

like trying to guess the age of a man

at tired o'clock 

and Hanna guessing he was 46 

when I had thought he was 32

and then I changed it to 34

turns out he's 38.

Nice one, Han.

Close!

Day FourtyFive

Day Trip

Crazy bus ride!

Eleven of us decide to visit Tripoli after a night of tequilas at Tequila.

#ifyouknowyouknow

And it's surprisingly organised and well timed.

Slow of course.

We head down the stairs and I make a count

'We're eleven, guys! Have that in mind'

Nobody seems to care much 

and I'm wondering how many ducks will make it back.

First stop- shawarma.

Ultimate hangover breakfast and pre set-off fiesta

as the kind man sets out chairs for us

on the pavement

while we listen to Arabic music and become 

an attraction for locals.

We set off in a bus that we half fill

with a driver who's slowly getting out of his shell of entertainment for us.

Twenty minutes in and an other man is driving

while our initial driver comes out to sit with us and shares some Arabic moves.

We get to Tripoli and split in smaller groups.

The four of us set out to a humble adventure around the city.

We're all in preference of a smaller, intimate,

walk.

Alex has lost her voice

Mallory is out of Beirut for the first time after arriving from Lesvos

Chadya is on her first trip

and I'm in Tripoli for the first time.

We venture out to the streets,

to the alleys,

to the markets and 

to the hills.

We come across a cemetery on the hill

and take a moment to appreciate the view

and the connection we feel with places of history.

We walk down Aladin neighbourhoods 

and express very little in words.

There's not much to say 

when the place says it all.

And it's the one place in the world that has managed to connect so many foreigners

With its real vibe.

On the bus we had come across a Palestinian man who spoke about Palestine in the most peaceful way. He explained he was born here and the ways he has been made to live outside his country yet not being a part of an other.

He kept turning back to look at us at the last row of seats and each time our eyes met he could see how deep my hurt was for his hurt.

Yet every time his eyes comfortingly spoke to me

to say that this is how it is and that you can't live or survive with bitterness.

There was so much love in his look

that humbled me to the extent where I couldn't grasp his strength.

So there isn't really much to say.

Our roads lead us to a patisserie where we try some freshly cooked delights and the man insists that we sit around for tea and coffee.

I'm not so eager but Chadya shows her French/Algerian manners and says of course!

We sit there,

have some coffee,

start being 'socially questioned'

gazed by the surroundings

and taken pictures of by the owners.

I find this extremely lol

and ask myself if this is really happening.

I hadn't realised Tripoli is not so popular with tourists.

Or female tourists for that matter.

We start to head off and hear music and fireworks literally bursting above our heads

as the traffic indestructibly continues to move

and we see a group of people in traditional dresses coming out of the building.

The man explains to us that it's a traditional wedding and we get to witness it!

We walk along them and they notice us.

We are as much of a sight to them as they have become to us!

They get distracted for a second and crack a smile.

'Mabrouk!'

I shout out as they enter their red Benz with number plates

Just Married.

I don't think the Tripoli experience could be any more Trippi at this point

as the groom responds

'Shoukran'

aka Just Married

They drive off for a happily ever after

and we head back to streets we don't know

trying to find our way back.

We're meeting the rest at the square at 6.

We haven't been checking the time

just cz we're on a Trip.

And the trip continues

on the crazy bus that has come to pick us up 

with more Arabic tunes,

more dancing,

more smoking,

more singing.

Welcome to Lebanon.

Day TwentyEight

Sometimes it's hard to post a blog piece every day.

Reasons include not having enough time to collect yourself and thoughts, or, not being decisive on the blog's context since all days seem to be extremely rich, or, even, 

what I'm experiencing today;

that the self is so overwhelmed by feelings that it lacks mental capacity.

The hostel life is fast;

and I like to take my time,

so,

this lifestyle is making me adapt 

to a faster digestion

of events

or alternatively 

gives me indigestion.

-

Today I went to Shatila.

Shatila for me is like a fix.

Can't stay far for too long and it fixes me when I'm there.

Reasons being the extreme realness of a community that only has itself.

People who only have each other.

And whether I have been fully accepted as a presence there

or not

becomes irrelevant to the amounts of love I receive from 

everyone who I do come in contact.

Linguistic communication is scarce -

with the teachers at the organisation, with the children, 

and with the teenage girls.

It all happens with the eyes.

It's through Abdullah's eyes that I know he's fully in love with me and that he knows I'm fully in love with him. He tries to be naughty by leaving his desk or by bothering other kids but the moment I look at him he returns to writing down the numbers. The fact that I'm giving him this attention; the fact that there is care and not demand in my look is what motivates him to go all the way through the lesson.

Zahra's the 8-year old version of me.

Dark brown features and growing to potentially look like Eva Mendez.

The class finishes and all three classes meet in the hallway. We start dancing and singing to Arabic and English children's songs. Zahra's at the other side of the big circle and she looks at me each time we are at an angle facing each other from the distance.

Then we all move to the dance hall and she's one of the few kids who make it to the stage 

(via random selection cz all of them wanted to be on stage).

And I observe her being so charming and full of universal awareness. 

A bright child.

She dances with charm and humbleness.

She's not doing it to be seen. She's doing it cz she feels like it.

The song ends and she runs and lands next to me on the hall carpet.

She leans on my crossed legs and makes my space hers.

She starts singing the next Arabic song and occasionally looks at me.

I look back and keep my eyes on her

a bit longer.

My eyes water and I'm not wishing for anything.

I just try to remember what happened 

between

me being her then and me being me now.

And I try to merge the two together; not having realised that I have been giving myself a lot less credits than I ever deserved.

'Al beitttttt' [home time!]

the teacher shouts.

She gets up, gives me a hug and runs out with the rest of the screaming kids.

Day TwentyFive

This friendly looking white man opens the door to our dorm at late o'clock and looks in without saying anything.

Four Mississippi seconds pass 

and I eventually say,

'...are you looking for something?'

Dumb question coming from someone working 

at the hostel, but I was off duty at the time.

'I booked a room but the note has the wrong name!?'

'Ok... what's your name?'

'Alexander'

'Oh ok, you're upstairs'

(Thank god I'm such a proactive worker man, I even know the late arrivals' names)

'How do you get there?'

(The awkwardness continues)

'You just walk up the stairs...!..?'

'Ok, thank you...'

He closes the dorm door and heads up the stairs.

The morning comes and I recognise newbie Alex at breakfast.

'Hello Alex,' I say with a cheeky provocative tone

'Did you find your room?'

We laugh as the ice breaks.

We move to the couches and have a lovely morning chat. He tells me he's from Canada and builds bridges in mountains as a job.

I say I'm from Cyprus and he says that's where I'm coming from!

Fastest comfort zone entry 

of the week!

Nice one Alex.

Day TwentyOne

Beoble Barty.

It feels like a real party when the celebrity walks in and makes everything right.

He puts people's worries at ease and with the comfort he creates he can put up a barty.

That's Sammy.

He's the one person who can walk in and facilitate in beoble bartying.

He makes you forget what you were worried about; 

making you wonder if your worries

were an illusion.

He's loving, supportive, yet completely control of situations.

He wants to mean the world to you and then he plays humble.

He plays and teases for the sake of reaction and emotion.

He might be the berfect bart to our hostel dynamics whis is currently missing.

Our female energy and sisterhood got a bit drowned in emotion these days- 

and,

as much as I would like to blame the moon,

it's true;

we miss Sammy.

p.s.: in Lebanese Arabic the letter 'p' does not exist so it is replaced by 'b'.

Barty Beoble.

Day Nineteen

As Sammy would say,

'Its all about the balance.'

And though he would mock me for putting so much emphasis on the importance of balance, 

it remains a universal truth.

It's all about balance.

But how do you find this balance when

your inner child is wounded

your flatmates don't wash the dishes

your service providers don't give official receipts

your couscous was watery

your eyebrows aren't shaped to perfection

your dorm mate talks too much

your mum is disappointed you haven't met your essay deadline

you're going to Larnaca and not Nicosia

you're anorexic

you're French

you're a Taurus

you're in need of some sleep but still go out.

Yeane, how?

Day Sixteen

Cedars.

Lebanese cedar is a popular and precious tree growing in Lebanon.

This is also the tree featured on the Lebanese flag.

Cedars are common for other regional countries yet they are all specific of location. For instance, cedars grow in Cyprus, Troodos mountain as well as Turkey, Taurus mountain

but they each have their own unique characteristics.

I get inspired and look into it a bit more.

It looks like before this flag Lebanon had the Persian flag which was also common for Cyprus and Turkey.

I start imagining how it must have been for all to be under Persian rule

 and I figure that migration, race mix and same culture are a few of the elements that have connected this region.

Although politically a lot has changed, I find my Cypriot self and half Persian girl friend completely grounded in the land between our own.

We met in Lebanon,

on a coincidental or otherwise magnetic draw

to our current home.

The past has brought us together

through familiarity of

migration

race mix

and

same culture

and we are now standing together;

growing like 

cedars

and

exchanging seeds.