I’ve been back in Beirut for almost two months now; and all
I’ve done is complain since I got here. I came back from New York, you see,
where I was isolating myself so I could write a book (live my dream) and not
have to deal with all the distractions of the Lebanese life. I forget
sometimes, that no matter how many times I’ve wished otherwise, this is where
I’m from.
I came back and the first thing my father told me is that I
think twice before flushing and that I can only take a shower once every other
day because there is no water in the
country, you know, it didn’t rain all winter, and we can’t get the “citerne”
every damned day. I came back and quickly forgot the pleasure of walking in
the streets of Manhattan, where side-walks are four times the size they are
here. I got in my car and remembered the infuriating tragedy of being behind a
wheel in this country, where scooters seems to have a law of their own. The
three kids that run to my car every time I stop at a red light, also I complain
about. I die a little inside every time I see one, and I don’t want to see them
mostly because they make me feel guilty about sitting in my little red car,
thinking about what a piece of crap it is and how I’ve spent way too much money
on repairing it –probably more money this little kid has seen in her entire
lifetime.
I complain that I can’t find all the organic ingredients I
had when I was in New York just a block away from the biggest organic
supermarket in the world, and that’s probably why I’ve gained a couple of kilos
since then. I complain about the lack of
recycling, about the smoking indoors even though it’s been banned, the state of
the country, the lack of president, the effing government, the electricity (I
had to climb 7 flights of stairs, twice) the valet parking in front of my house
whom I fight with everyday, the chairs they put when there’s a space open to
“reserve it”, the lack of parking spots, the ticket I got, the bank that closes
at 2pm, the internet connection that cuts in the middle of an episode of The
Good Wife. Yes, all that.
And then yesterday night, it was pouring rain outside and I
was standing at my window, and I saw a man on the stairs below. He was dusting
the floor with a blanket, then he sat against the wall that had was a small
roof, put his head on a big bag full of stuff, and slept there, all night,
under the rain.
I complain a lot, but I forget to be thankful sometimes.
Tonight I saw the man under my window again. He is still
here, sleeping outside on a blanket and a bag of his stuff, probably content
that at least tonight, it isn’t raining.
