I haven't been as faithful to my blog as I usually am. Apologies. But I was on vacation. I will however share the rhapsodies of my trip which I took with my best friend Curls. We met up in L.A. and then flew to Vegas for my birthday --two girls hitting the town like it's supposed to be done.
L.A. kind of reminds of Beirut. There are beautiful women walking the streets, bathing under the sun, parading their bodies. Expensive sports cars and heavy duty hummers roaming the streets. And all people seem to do all day long is lay at the beach, eat for hours on end at a good restaurants and end up at a hip bar. Now it's true, there are more blonds there. And there are about twenty different traffic laws to think about every time you press the gas pedal. And the beach is clean and completely free. The nightlife is, I have to say, almost as glam as in Beirut, but everything shuts down at 2am. Remember when they tried to do that in Gemmayzeh? I wonder why that didn't take.
And then there's the smoking. Or the no-smoking, rather. It's a hell of a guilt trip for us puffers, because you always have to go outside and people stare at you like you're committing a crime against humanity so you inhale as deep and as fast as possible and don't enjoy a second of it. There's also valet everywhere you go, which is a first I see in America. But it's 15 bucks, not 5,000LL. Now we went to some really amazing, mouth-watering restaurants --not that we don't have our own good bunch in Beirut-- except that in L.A., there's paparazzi at the door and Michelle Pfeiffer having dinner at the table next to yours. I wanted to snap a picture as proof, but didn't want to look like some lame-ass tourist in front of people who see celebrities everyday. So I pretended I barely recognized her and left all the excitement boil up inside of me: OMG I love Michelle Pfeiffer. I am Sam. Up Close and Personal. The Story of Us! Yes, I do love that movie.
And yet, although I was I don't know how many thousand miles away, accross the world, facing the Pacific Ocean and having melt-in-your-mouth gnocchi with Michelle in my eye-sight, one thing inevitably hit home: all the people around my table were Lebanese. We always seem to find each other, at all corners of the earth. Now the enjoyable difference was, for once, instead of dinning with bankers and entrepreneurs, they were all in the movie business. Two producers, a director, an actor... and I tried to brag about the little part I play in Beirut I Love You but it was hard to impress the Hollywood People.
I guess L.A. doesn't really remind me of Beirut. But I'll pretend it does so I can keep it with me a little longer.
Now Vegas however... now that reminded me of Beirut. Well except for the lights and the slot machines at the gate in the airport. And the strip-clubs. Well actually I know a couple of Rats who have a secret map to the many strip-clubs of our city. Difference is, in Vegas, girls are alowed in. Better yet, girls have their own strip shows custom made, with guys, very very hot guys, entertaining. Speaking of hot guys, that's also something unfortunately not as common in Beirut. Ask any girl in Beirut and she'll tell you, there are no men --but fear not, girls, expat season is right around the corner.
In Vegas though, the great thing is that the eye-candy isn't just for all the guys. Curls and I were in the pool one afternoon, and three men approached us. Well, actually, one man approached her, because, as it turns out, her frizzy hair is the biggest turn on for any man in Vegas. Seriously, she got hit on by at least a dozen guys a day, all coming up to her with the same opening line: "I really love your hair... where are you from?" So this guy, and his two friends, all with equally amazing six-packs you can spot from two miles away, start flirting with us at the pool. "Oh, you're Lebanese! Isn't that like in Eastern Europe?" It didn't matter that their IQ was below average. They were our version of bimbos, and we loved it.
And everyone in Vegas seems to have a friend from Lebanon. The guy who checked us in at our hotel said he has a friend who's Lebanese who used to work here in Vegas but now he is the manager at the Four Seasons in Beirut. The bartender at the pool has a friend who went to high school with him who teaches at the American University of Beirut. Everywhere we went, it was "You're from Lebanon? Oh Wow! Long way from home! I know a guy..." Yes, we know a guy too.
And of course, it wouldn't be Vegas without the gambling. The first night, we played Blackjack, and we lost. We were at a table with two very angry Chinese guys who were taking the game way too seriously, and our dealer was a cranky old woman past her bedtime. The next day though, when we wanted to gamble "just a little bit" to see if we could win back what we lost, something amazing happened: we did it. And it was a combination of the good vibe and the good mood and the two old ladies who were telling us when to hit it and when to stay, and the dealer who was encouraging us, and the French guy who loved that we spoke French and kept swearing in his mother-tongue, and the guy who looks like a bouncer who supposedly keeps an eye out for cheaters who kept coming back to our table making faces to make us laugh. And at one point, I was really up. And then I went back down. And I told myself I would do one last bet. I bet triple my usual. The first card was a Seven. My heart was beating fast. The second card was a seven. I looked over to the old ladies and they shook their heads, saying "you got to go with your instinct this time." And I had a thought: that's the way life is, sometimes, isn't? You take a risk, and you either lose big, or you win big. Sometimes you even push. I told the dealer to hit me. And the third card was a seven. 21. It's what this whole year has felt like.
As for what happened in Vegas --well, you know what they say. But I will leave you with one word: firefighter.
L.A. kind of reminds of Beirut. There are beautiful women walking the streets, bathing under the sun, parading their bodies. Expensive sports cars and heavy duty hummers roaming the streets. And all people seem to do all day long is lay at the beach, eat for hours on end at a good restaurants and end up at a hip bar. Now it's true, there are more blonds there. And there are about twenty different traffic laws to think about every time you press the gas pedal. And the beach is clean and completely free. The nightlife is, I have to say, almost as glam as in Beirut, but everything shuts down at 2am. Remember when they tried to do that in Gemmayzeh? I wonder why that didn't take.
And then there's the smoking. Or the no-smoking, rather. It's a hell of a guilt trip for us puffers, because you always have to go outside and people stare at you like you're committing a crime against humanity so you inhale as deep and as fast as possible and don't enjoy a second of it. There's also valet everywhere you go, which is a first I see in America. But it's 15 bucks, not 5,000LL. Now we went to some really amazing, mouth-watering restaurants --not that we don't have our own good bunch in Beirut-- except that in L.A., there's paparazzi at the door and Michelle Pfeiffer having dinner at the table next to yours. I wanted to snap a picture as proof, but didn't want to look like some lame-ass tourist in front of people who see celebrities everyday. So I pretended I barely recognized her and left all the excitement boil up inside of me: OMG I love Michelle Pfeiffer. I am Sam. Up Close and Personal. The Story of Us! Yes, I do love that movie.
And yet, although I was I don't know how many thousand miles away, accross the world, facing the Pacific Ocean and having melt-in-your-mouth gnocchi with Michelle in my eye-sight, one thing inevitably hit home: all the people around my table were Lebanese. We always seem to find each other, at all corners of the earth. Now the enjoyable difference was, for once, instead of dinning with bankers and entrepreneurs, they were all in the movie business. Two producers, a director, an actor... and I tried to brag about the little part I play in Beirut I Love You but it was hard to impress the Hollywood People.
I guess L.A. doesn't really remind me of Beirut. But I'll pretend it does so I can keep it with me a little longer.
Now Vegas however... now that reminded me of Beirut. Well except for the lights and the slot machines at the gate in the airport. And the strip-clubs. Well actually I know a couple of Rats who have a secret map to the many strip-clubs of our city. Difference is, in Vegas, girls are alowed in. Better yet, girls have their own strip shows custom made, with guys, very very hot guys, entertaining. Speaking of hot guys, that's also something unfortunately not as common in Beirut. Ask any girl in Beirut and she'll tell you, there are no men --but fear not, girls, expat season is right around the corner.
In Vegas though, the great thing is that the eye-candy isn't just for all the guys. Curls and I were in the pool one afternoon, and three men approached us. Well, actually, one man approached her, because, as it turns out, her frizzy hair is the biggest turn on for any man in Vegas. Seriously, she got hit on by at least a dozen guys a day, all coming up to her with the same opening line: "I really love your hair... where are you from?" So this guy, and his two friends, all with equally amazing six-packs you can spot from two miles away, start flirting with us at the pool. "Oh, you're Lebanese! Isn't that like in Eastern Europe?" It didn't matter that their IQ was below average. They were our version of bimbos, and we loved it.
And everyone in Vegas seems to have a friend from Lebanon. The guy who checked us in at our hotel said he has a friend who's Lebanese who used to work here in Vegas but now he is the manager at the Four Seasons in Beirut. The bartender at the pool has a friend who went to high school with him who teaches at the American University of Beirut. Everywhere we went, it was "You're from Lebanon? Oh Wow! Long way from home! I know a guy..." Yes, we know a guy too.
And of course, it wouldn't be Vegas without the gambling. The first night, we played Blackjack, and we lost. We were at a table with two very angry Chinese guys who were taking the game way too seriously, and our dealer was a cranky old woman past her bedtime. The next day though, when we wanted to gamble "just a little bit" to see if we could win back what we lost, something amazing happened: we did it. And it was a combination of the good vibe and the good mood and the two old ladies who were telling us when to hit it and when to stay, and the dealer who was encouraging us, and the French guy who loved that we spoke French and kept swearing in his mother-tongue, and the guy who looks like a bouncer who supposedly keeps an eye out for cheaters who kept coming back to our table making faces to make us laugh. And at one point, I was really up. And then I went back down. And I told myself I would do one last bet. I bet triple my usual. The first card was a Seven. My heart was beating fast. The second card was a seven. I looked over to the old ladies and they shook their heads, saying "you got to go with your instinct this time." And I had a thought: that's the way life is, sometimes, isn't? You take a risk, and you either lose big, or you win big. Sometimes you even push. I told the dealer to hit me. And the third card was a seven. 21. It's what this whole year has felt like.
As for what happened in Vegas --well, you know what they say. But I will leave you with one word: firefighter.
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