The man under my window

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. 

what we're leaving behind

Another day, another bomb.

This weekend it was all about the piles of trash that weren't picked up by Sukleen. Last week it was a tie between the EDL strike, the STL trial and a blog post by my colleague about how only Christians can save Lebanon. The week before it was also a bomb; or was it the week before that? And there was the Chattah assassination, and the Christmas and New Year traffic and reunions, and the amazing article by Fifi Abou Dib in L'Orient-LeJour describing exactly what it is that we keep losing, as Lebanese.

I'm leaving on Sunday, on a one-way ticket to New York; I don't have a job waiting for me, I'm not one of those lucky many to hold another nationality, I don't have a dad with unlimited money and I don't know what I'm really going to do there, but I know I can't stay here any longer.

And I know very well what I'm leaving behind. It's not the bombs --that are more present on my Facebook feed than in my reality. The bombs will come with me, because every time I hear there was in explosion in Beirut I will frantically try to call my family and friends to make sure they are all ok. It's not the lack of government, or the social segregation, or the power held by Hezbollah, or the sunni/chiite/orthodox/maronite/etc. bullshit that I could never wrap my head around, or the towers of cement growing like mushrooms in Beirut --none of this is what I'm going to miss. It'll all be here when I return, whenever that may be.

What I'm leaving behind is my sister, the person I love most in the world and who I wont be around for every day. I'm leaving my dad, my childhood home, and all the places where the memory of my mother is still alive. I'm leaving my friends, the friends I made when I was just a little girl, going to school in this very neighbourhood where I lived through all of my most important memories. What I'm leaving behind, what we are all leaving behind, is the potential for something great that will unfortunately never be. I have travelled a lot, met many different kinds of people. As a journalist, I've heard and told many stories. And I have yet to see families love each other as they do here; or groups of friends form ties that last longer than anywhere else; or a diversity that I really believe could've made us special in stead of hateful.

What we are all leaving behind are the brave. The young hopefuls who create LiveLoveBeirut to shout out the love; the heroes like Nidal and Kholoud who defy all odds and fight to marry civilly, and have the first secular baby in Lebanon; the activists who fight for children, for the poor, for the sick, for the environment, even though they get no help and no encouragement. And so we go; writers, filmmakers, designers, finance tycoons and doctors and whatever we may be. We go, and we come back for the people we've left behind. In the country we've lost.

I'm going now, it's all very real

About a month and a half ago, I came back from New York City after having spent 5 weeks there, on pause. No work, no obligations, the city that never sleeps and a good friend was just what I needed to get my shit back together. I realise that I often lose my own path and find myself wondering again and again what I want to do, really. That trip made me realise many important things: first that I need to leave Beirut, at least for a while. Second that when I'm far away (i.e. 5,600 miles) I feel free from the family-related responsibilities that take up so much of my energy when I'm around. That my dream is still to write a book, and that I should just sit down and write it already. And that my life isn't going to change if I don't change it myself [basically, if I sit back and wait for change, well, it's never going to happen.]

So armed with all this new and wise information I've processed about my current situation, I decided to try my luck and move to New York. Note that I'm doing that with no real plan in sight, except for the hope to pitch some good stories and make some money working freelance, no money (well, that's a lie, a bit of money that could last me a month I guess) and no work permit (don't even get me started on that). Am I scared? I'm terrified. And absolutely excited about it.

Before I left New York at the end of November, I promised myself I was coming back. Even left a few sweaters at my friend's apartment (because they just wouldn't fit in my suitcase) and told everyone (and I mean everyone) that I was planning on moving back to New York in January. I told everyone so it would make it harder for me to back out on this decision. Because, as it happens, the more time I spend in this country, the more anxious I become about making the move.

Truth is, it's not that big of a risk. Worse comes to worst, I'll just pack it all up in a few months and fly my ass back here, at ground zero, where I suspect things will still be the same.

So two days ago, I received a payment which I had promised myself I would use to buy my ticket to New York. I didn't let myself spend a penny of it, I just immediately went online and picked a flight, return date back at the end of May. There we go. Paid. Done. I'm going now, it's all very real.

I should maybe have a farewell party, but I know I'll be back soon enough, we always do. Maybe I'll start a new blog when I get there, New York Rhapsodies or Rhapsodies in New York, don't know yet. The topic: Late 20s Lebanese writer decides to change her life and buys a ticket to New York with no plan and just enough savings to survive a month. She will crash on her gay best-friend's couch (for a little while, I promise!) and they will have lots of fun adventures to share with the world (I hope).

Writing this and posting it, just like telling everyone I was planning to move before I bought my ticket, also makes it more real for me. I'm doing it, even though I'm scared. I'm usually a planner, you see --my friends make fun of me because I need to make a list about everything and anything; it comforts me to know what's coming. Yet I also like adventure, and this is one I'm jumping at with both feet. Whatever happens, I hope I get good stories out of it. That's all that matters in the end.

why I haven't been able to write a word

I've been back from New York almost 3 weeks now. I'm currently not working which means I have lots and lots of free time, all to myself, with nothing to do but sit at my computer and write. Or so you would think.

I've sat down and opened Beirut Rhapsodies and tried to work on a new post --wrote something, read it, realized it was very "blah". Left it in the "drafts" folder and forgot about it.
I've tried to work on the story that I came up with when I was in New York, a really exciting project for a novel that I absolutely can't wait to get started on, yet I haven't been able to do anything about it since I've been here.

Every day I've woken up and told myself that today, I would get back to my active lifestyle and go to yoga. I check the schedule, pick the class I want to attend --and then don't end up going. I spent the last two weekends on my best-friends' blue couch, because it's my comfort zone: we each sit on a side, watch some ridiculously mind-numbing TV series and let the day go by.

When it rained last week (superstorm Alexa really wasn't that bad, was it?) I hid under my covers and listened to the honking cars outside, imagining the traffic and feeling delighted that I was completely avoiding it.

So what the hell is happening? Everything I'm describing is me at my most passive behavior. No inspiration to write when it's all I should be doing. But I recognize this feeling. It's me being in Beirut. I get sucked in this black hole of no motivation and no creativity, and the only thing I've actually been able to write about is just this: nothingness.

The truth is, I'm a dreamer. I don't like to feel insignificant, in my little life, driving my little car, running errands and taking way more instagram pictures than I should have time for. So I've been hiding.

But I want to come out now.

time to say goodbye

All good things come to an end. And this is just one of those things.

There are a lot of good things I've watched come to an end that I never wanted to see, but it's taught me to recognize when it's time to cut the cord.

You see, when I started this blog, I was unhappy. I was in a relationship that wasn't working, I couldn't remember any of the things I liked to do, I had no direction in which to pursue my career, I hadn't written in years and I didn't know what to do. And things evolved the way they should: A breakup, which taught me everything I needed to know about myself, my strengths, my expectations of a good relationship. Months of celibacy which helped me have fun again. Peaking my interest in different directions, like charity work, acting, film-making, writing for the screen. Traveling to the four corners of the world, visiting wonderful places from San Francisco to Thailand. Finding out who I am, what I am and how I want to live.

Last year like today, I met the boy who I've come to refer to as my Parisian... and as unexpected as my falling for him was, I have to say I am a really lucky gal. I'm won't overstretch on this, otherwise he'll get a big head, but in fewer words: it's been a full year now, and I am happier than ever. Because not only am I happy in love, I can now confidently say that I know what I want from my life.

So here I am, finally setting off to be what I've always wanted to be: a writer. I have decided to take a year off, move to Paris --because what better place to write than in the city that inspired the greatest writers in the world?

And so it is time to start a new chapter of my life. I am writing the closing lines to what has been an amazing experience and I am so excited to see what is ahead.  It is all thanks to the readers I've had following me through every post, hugging me on street (I swear, it's happened), telling me that what I write means so much to them, and giving me faith in my words. And now I'm ready to put those words on real pages.

So this isn't the last you'll hear from me, that's a promise.

Beirut, I'm sorry.

Dear Beirut,

I have to admit, I’ve given up on you many a times. I’ve insulted you, I’ve cursed you, I’ve tapped my feet in exasperation against you, I’ve yelled out my window at you, I’ve made fun of you, I’ve been ashamed of you, and I’ve hated you.

Even yesterday, I hated you. But today… what can I say, today?

Today I realize that whether I like it or not, whether I care to admit or not, I am part of you. And what’s worse, is that you, Beirut, are part of me.

Today I walked through the streets of Achrafieh, streets I’ve walked through my whole life. And they were darkened by evil. They were wrapped in smoke, stained with blood, screaming in fear. And I realized as I walked in front of these places where I order my food every other day, watching them sweep the broken glass from their windows just barely an hour after the blast, was that they were the places I knew the most. Because as much I love the streets of New York, Paris or Florence, they are not my streets. Not like the sidewalk where I had my first car accident with my mother 23 years ago. Not like the roads I went to school on every single day, not like the place I had my first kiss or where I smoked my first cigarette or the café where I spent hours and hours hanging out with my friends. Today, it was Achrafieh. The hospital where I was born was filled with more than 50 victims of a vicious crime. The same Achrafieh that just over a month ago, we celebrated with no cars and the most amazing sense of community. Today this Achrafieh, the neighborhood where I have spent most of my life, was blown up to pieces.

And you know what? I was blown to pieces too. Which is incredible because I really truly thought that I was over you. That my heart wouldn’t skip a beat. But I was wrong.

Today, I heard a sound that took me back seven years ago when I was an AUB student and Rafik Hariri was killed just a few hundred meters away from my campus. It took me back to 2006 when our city crumbled under Israeli fire. It took me back to those nights as a child, when the whole family was huddled up in the corridors and we lived by candlelight… And it seems like so long ago that I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it. But I didn’t dream it. I was there. Here. This is where I was born, where I went to school, where I made my friends, where I fell in love, where my mother is buried, where my home is. And even if I hate it, even if I wish I had another passport twenty-times a day, even if it drives me crazy, it’s my city. I’m a Beiruti. I’m an Achrafieh born and bred woman and whatever I am, in some way, has got to be impacted by you Beirut.

And so, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.

I wanted to say that even though I hate you, I love you. Because that’s just the way it is with things we really love. And I wanted to say that I hope, when I see a crowd spontaneously gather with candles to honor their neighbors, that we can get the chance to treat you right. To love you better. To have you always.

Yasmina.

feeding the status quo

I've been writing on this blog for over a year and a half, and sometimes I get terrified by the fact that I have nothing to say anymore. The truth is, when I began, I wanted to find a way to push my writing and get me to write a novel, which is basically my dream.

And I thought, "Beirut Rhapsodies," well that should be fun. I had a bunch of single friends who always had some kind of story about that girl or about that guy, I thought Beirut was this endless source of fun stories that I would always be able to incorporate in my blogs. I was wrong though. After a while, stories run dry.

The problem with this city is that we live in a box. As a person of a certain social class, it is very unlikely that you ever find yourself with people from different social backgrounds. It's not like in other big cities where anyone and everyone find each other uncomfortably close on a subway ride.

In the Beirut I live in, there are clear boundaries and there are walls closing in on us. Everywhere you go, you see the same faces, week after week, month after month, year after year. Someone told me the other day they went to White and "it was the exact same people sitting at the exact same tables" as last year, and that is a scary thought. But it's true. You go to any bar or night-club or rooftop bar --because frankly, there is not much else to do-- and you know exactly who to expect. And then you have the same conversations over and over again. And when you overhear someone else's conversation, you realize that they are talking about the same thing too.

As a writer, you get inspired by other people, by places and encounters. You feed off other people's conversations, you meet someone who will tell you a story, you see something that gives you an idea. Sometimes you just need to take a walk and look at things happening around you to get creative. Other times you just want to sit under a tree in a park and read a book to get your mind flowing. But here we have no parks. And if you take a walk in the street you spend half your time ignoring the idiotic sexual purrs of every other guy passing you by and the other half trying not to get run over. And although some people try, very hard to bring some culture to this country, by opening an art center or by throwing a film festival, it is very unlikely that it will get as much attention as a new fashionista clothing store, another Lebanese designs jewelry shop, or the latest bar in town.

This is what we do here: We take the status quo and we feed it, so that it becomes more snob and more blase, more induced in that heartbreaking comfort zone and more lazy, until we do nothing but try to make enough money to keep a lifestyle we're not sure we enjoy. Our lives revolve around relationships and jobs, and for many girls, about appearance and body image. It is what makes for most of our conversations, except on Sunday when we have a family lunch and someone has the grand idea to talk about politics.

And then we say we have the greatest country in the world. We can infamously "swim and ski" in the same day and the sun is out 9 months a year. But what's the point? We're so beyond closed up there are still people who decide to cross the street when the light turns green. And it's our own fault really. We find excuses for everything: We had 25 years of war goddammit. We need people of action in government in stead of a bunch of grumpy old men who want to settle their own personal scores but we're the ones who can't let go of them and keep them in office. We don't want to learn how to recycle or wear our seat-belts before more important things in the country are taken care of, because what's the point? And it's never, never our own fault.

The bigger problem is, we act the same way with our own lives. We drown in our own comfort zone, we stay safe, we get lazy. We complain but don't do anything about it, hoping someone else will. And secretly also hoping they wont, because change scares us and we're not sure we can handle it.

Beirut RATsodies: Raw Emotion

It's been a while since we've had the perspective of a guy around here. Someone who actually volunteered, without me having to beg him to write a few wise words for this blog. And I'm glad he did this because it's something I have to admit I never thought about. Girls complaining about the lack of men in Beirut is the ultimate topic of conversation we've all overdosed on. Yet here's something to feed your thoughts on --or are we too good to let go and use raw emotion? I like the way you think SmartRat*. 
[The Four Rats take offense when I label someone a Rat when he isn't one of the core. For the purpose of this blog, they're gonna have to oversee this offense and readers, please make note that this is not the work of one of the core Rats. Thank you.]

Beirut RATSodies: Raw Emotion

The other night I was getting drunk with two friends. As usual, they were complaining about the scarcity of men in this town. Trying to stay a little chirpy and up their morale, I tried to convince them that there must be hope. I looked around the bar and pointed at a few guys. After this little exercise failed, I quickly noticed the girl’s range of guys to look at was substantially smaller than the males is saw. They literally scanned the whole place in 1.4 seconds, when it took me a good minute to figure out whether one of those guys had potential. First I thought it must be a girl thing (they know what they want, what they look for etc…) but then I quickly realized that they had actually left out the guys working in the bar, which constituted about 40% of the males present. So here’s one of my biggest concern with the girls in Lebanon: They calculate. A lot. There's no room for raw emotion. To them, a guy working in a bar would NEVER make the cut, so there’s no point in even going there. 

I know were in a more traditional part of the world, and it is important not to bring home a bum who’s life plans are to live under a bridge. But at that moment in the bar, I was looking at a bunch of hardworking guys, that might or might not have quite interesting characters, with no chance in hell of ever dating one of my friends. It struck me as sad. Not in the “oh the world is such a sad place where a working guy cant get an upper class girl.” It was sad in a way that was more like an obstruction to the natural attraction process. 

Here’s what I mean. In western society, the image of the good-looking barman, construction worker, truck driver or what not has quite a different lure to women than it does here. Over there a guy like that can be attractive to women. Over here, he’s just: quote “niakkk!”. Now I know this probably has some socio-economic reasons in this part of the world, and that not all the girls here are like that, that it really depends on the situation etc etc. But bottom line is the chance of the average girl getting with a bartender here is probably 87 times lower than anywhere else. That sucks, especially for the bartenders. 

What this creates, I think, is this: the driving force behind a girl engaging in such a way abroad is raw sexual attraction. I think its very healthy. You find much less of that here. Our girls have been so brainwashed with the image of an ideal guy that will make their family, friends and finally them happy, that expectations are really too high and more importantly they are really anticipated. No chance is given to anything that doesn’t match the standards. Most physical encounters are calculated and little is left to a surrender of the flesh. I'm not saying the girls should all start acting like hoes and jump on whatever’s in front of them. But a little more ease in this domain would be appropriate. And the little ease that’s out there shouldn’t all be directed at the “perfect match” guys. 

By the way, I can vow for that. Many girls perceive me as coming from a wealthy background. And its gotten me much further in this city than it has in any other.

Of course its better if you end up dating a presentable guy from down the block whose family kind of looks like yours so that everyone gets along and your social status is maintained or improved. But this shouldn’t and can’t be the decisive factor if your looking for something real. Because odds are, that prince charming is not going to come to you on a silver platter. I do think he might come to some on a cheaper platter and some girls will be lucky to get the silver ones. But they cant ALL be silver.

I think western cultures are much healthier than we are in that way. Couples have more reasonable relationships based on real attraction there. Here, I feel a lot of girls mainly go for the guy that makes everybody else happy. And god forbid he s a foreigner!

Whats up with that? Lebanese girls never giving a foreign guy a chance? Every time my foreign friends (descent guys that are usually quite successful with girls) come to town they complain about how girls are so unapproachable or after a one night stand the girls act like they’ve never met the guy. I'm sure my friends are fine with that, but something’s messed up here no?

growin' up

My brother is 18 years old today and this is for him.

When he was born, I was 8 and we had just moved back from Paris to Beirut. It was 1993, still a city covered in the rust of war. We lived at my grandmother's, my little sister and me, and my mom couldn't leave the house because she was nine months pregnant and if the electricity cut off she'd have to walk up three floors.We'd pick up the phone and we'd have to wait patiently for the line to come; the only milk available was powdered Nido and I couldn't even stand the smell of it; and the only thing on TV were the local channels and "Mini Studio" was the only watchable show.

I remember when my mom taught me how to change his diapers and how he peed on her while we were changing him. I remember when she let a flock of his hair grow long at the back of his head. I remember when he was four years old and we teased him on how he had a big penis and he ran all over the house screaming and crying that no, no, he didn't have a big penis. I remember him in his superman costume that he'd wear as pajamas. It was a time when we had a full house, and we'd wake up Sunday morning, my sister, my brother and me and prepare breakfast for our parents. There was still five of us back then, coffee for two, pancakes for all.

Everything is different now. It's like we're on another planet living in a different dimension. The world changed for this little boy when he was seven years old and he lost his mother, but watching him changes my perspective of the world everyday. When she was no longer around, I would put him to bed every night and tell him stories about her so that he would never forget. We'd talk about all sorts of things before he'd go to sleep and once he told me "sometimes my penis wakes up before me" --and I thought it was the cutest and funniest way anyone has ever put it. It was at that time that we came up with Papadopoulos together, an inside joke that only a few will get. When I left for New York, he was still a little boy. Over the phone I would hear his voice change and barely recognized him when he picked up, and every time I would visit, I'd find him taller, with little hair starting to grow on his face. By the time I came back he was a fully grown teenager. He'd receive dozens of texts a day from a dozen different girls, all crazy in love with him. He is that guy, you see, the ones all the girls are in love with.

And today he's almost a man. The world he was born into --it doesn't exist anymore. What we've learnt along the way is that nothing is predictable and anything can happen. But what always remains, throughout, is the love that you can only share with your siblings. And when your brother tells you you're "the woman of my life," you know you've done something right.

one year of rhapsodies

Last year like today I wrote my first blog post, venting out my frustrations over 21st century relationships and how hard they were becoming. This is how started my year of rhapsodies. Three weeks after the first post, my boyfriend told me he realized that he would probably be happier without me. How ironic for me who was trying to "solve" the enigma of serious relationships, not realizing that if my relationship was going sour it was probably time to breakup. I'm glad he noticed though. Because otherwise I wouldn't have had the wonderful amazing life changing year that I did have from that moment on. Yes I started by crying every tear in my body, analyzed and over-analyzed every second of the previous six months to understand what I did wrong, how I could've saved it, blaming myself for letting him take me for granted, for not loosing weight, for getting too comfortable, until I finally realized that it wasn't just me who didn't make him happy anymore, that I too had been miserable for months. And that realization saved me. So I stopped with the blame game and finally moved on to the next level which was to focus on myself and what I wanted, for me. Yes I had a pile a self-help books before that and the pile tripled over the course of the next few months, because that's what I do, I read books and they make me feel like I'm going to change my life. The good news is, it worked.

I started the blog, friends began to read and share it, debate it around drinks, Rats inspired me to wiesel them in, I was motivated to write again --something I hadn't done in years. Then there was the Breakup, the depression phase, the best-friend moving to Canada, the constant hammering of the Rats for their help on how to get over it, the hours on the phone with Classy who was going through the same thing, the going through about seven dozen used and confused boxes of tissues. Went to Yoga class, took Italian lessons, traveled to Istanbul with friends. Fell in love with a city full of life and history and beauty and rhythm, realized the world was a lot bigger than me and that the possibilities were endless, started smiling again, had the best massage on the face of the earth and it felt better than sex. Reconnected with my childhood friend Rebellious, whom I hadn't seen a lot in the last few years, enjoyed going out again, enjoyed drinking, enjoyed my friends' company more. Wrote a blog-post about my parents which got 900 views. Liked a guy, flirted, kissed him, felt good to be in the "beginning" phase again. Liked other guys, enjoyed being hit on, piled up stories that the Rats laughed about and fed my blog. Went skiing for the first time in four years. Organized a cooking competition that lasted all winter, came in last place but had lots of fun getting there. Made a new friend, a girl, which is very unlikely of me. Asked a friend if I could act in her new TV series [Beirut, I love you] just for the fun of it, spent a day on set, fell in love with everyone, wanted to come back, started helping with anything and everything, spent every weekend on set and many evenings brainstorming scripts, did the makeup, helped with anything I could, made some amazing new friends, felt like I was 19 again, drank beers on the street sitting on the hood of a car, kissed a guy who fell, got obsessed with the shoots, was passionate again. Realized my oldest dream had come true. Marked the ten-year anniversary of my mother's death. Saw my ex for the first time since we broke-up, realized that I wasn't angry anymore and that I didn't miss him even though it was awkward and weird but how could it not be. Turned 26 in Los Angeles, walked into the Kodak Theater where the Oscars take place, went to Vegas and then San Francisco with my best friend, ate the best brunch in the world --felt like I cheated on New York. Took part in the 48hr film project in Beirut and won Best Film, felt like we had just won Cannes, smiled from ear to ear jumped up and down was overly excited. Saw my ex kiss his new girlfriend felt like throwing up in my mouth a litte but then finally felt free. Had the most overwhelming kiss of my life. Read 17 books, took an acting class, jumped from a rock 3 meters high into the sea, went camping, saw the Cedars, got a tattoo, acted a main part in a short film, discovered "The Healing Code" (everyone should read it by the way), cried of laughter until my abs were killing me and I almost couldn't breathe and got the best compliment of my life from a gay friend of mine who said to me: "Women like you make me wish I was straight."

Nothing about this year was as expected. Three-hundred and sixty-five days ago, I lived in a safe routine that I didn't realize was killing every ounce of creativity and passion I had. When writing scripts, we always look for a "catalyst," something that pushes the protagonist forward. This blog was my catalyst. I thought it would help me write a book --and I still hope it will. But now I know that I needed this time to really discover myself, and this is what got the ball rolling. This year I felt alive.

So thanks. To everyone who played a part in this snowball effect of amazingly random events. And to all of you who have been reading Beirut Rhapsodies, inspiring and motivating me.

yoyos vs frenchies

This is the new Beirut. In the olden days it was all about religious differences and whatnot. Today it's all about language. Forget Arabic, because even though it's our common link we just throw in some words whenever we need to make complete sentences.

On the one hand, you've got the Yoyos. They're the ones who went to IC or ACS, wore baggy trousers with pockets hanging down to their knees and played with that small ball thing that you pass around from one foot to the other. Then you've got the Frenchies. They're the Lycee-Jamhour-LouiseWegman crowd who had a wannabe yoyo phase back in the 90s when it was fashionable to let your boxers appear below your trousers.

Yoyos walk into AUB and LAU like they own the place, while the Frenchies are still trying to figure out what the hell "credits" mean and why the grades are over a 100. They're more Gemmayzeh than Hamra, and they go sit with their laptops at Balima, while their English counterparts prefer Cafe De Prague.

Yoyos are Rap and RnB bitches and ho's type of music, always bearing a too-cool-for-school attitude. Frenchies go to French Night every Wednesday because where else can they ever get to sing Gilbert Montagnier without looking ridiculously lame? Yoyos are loud, Frenchies are uptight. And when around each other, both groups have an odd sense of competition towards one another that makes you wonder if it really only is a language thing.

Of course, you've also got the ones who refuse to be branded as either, and who attempt to bring everyone together. They meet at "neutral" places like Torino and Dany's [and Skybar because everybody knows that's Lebanon's ultimate point of agreement].  They date from the opposite "clan" (because let's face it, meeting new and different people is getting pretty scarce), they mix their friends together, and then English tramps French because Frenchies speak both languages and Yoyos do not. And Arabic is spoken as a second language. Lebanese identity crisis at its best.

a Lebanese weekend

I want to tell you about my weekend. Mostly because it's the first weekend in 4 months where we weren't on set shooting for "Beirut I love You" and I was having some serious withdrawal symptoms. But then again, it's summer, and I haven't had a summer-like weekend yet so I went all in.

Friday night, I had dinner with one of my closest friends who was here "de passage," for a wedding of course, her seventh of the season. We did the whole "let's catch up in an hour and half" thing when you just give the highlights of the last few months and, in perspective, so many stories that felt important along the way don't make it to the final cut. Then I spruced up my  attire, adding high-heels and gold earrings in order to enter the epic Lalaland of Skybar. I usually risk it once a year, just so I can reaffirm my hatred when friends try to convince me to go. That way I can say with absolute certainty that yes, I still hate it as much as last year, and no, I will not be coming next Friday. Now I know it's part of our national pride or something, and should probably be in the runner against the Jeita Grotto for the Wonders of the World thing, but I hate it. And it's not Skybar itself that I hate, because it's a beautiful place, obviously, but that music; and those new screens with the light shows; and the fire; it's like what one of my friends called it "a modern day circus." Seriously, I know us Lebanese love to go and look at each other, males riveted by females wearing short dresses or mini-shorts, and girls starring at each other always finding a way to put down the beautiful girl who just walked in because "her toes are crooked" or "she's not a real blond" or "she actually has a fat ass if you look at it closely." And I'm not saying I've never done it, I'm just saying I hate that I actually stand there and participate.  Of course it wasn't all bad --mis-a-part my poor feet that really aren't used to a night in high-heels.

On Saturday, we got ourselves up early and were at our favorite summer place, Jammal, by lunchtime. It's an annual tradition for us to gather on the pebbles, tables and chairs in the water, eating fish until we burst and drinking Arak and/or Rose for about seven hours. There's usually 20 of us harassing the poor waiters assigned to our table. We laughed about each others sex lives (well mine mostly) and tried to be polite in front of newcomers, the respective dates of some of my friends --and we came to the  realization that all the guys on the table were attached, and all the girls (who weren't their girlfriends) were single. Makes you wonder. But every year people have come and gone from that table on the pebbles --some are gone for good; others, perhaps, have joined for good, but the core is always the same.

We stopped by McDonalds on the way back and each ate a full meal, with supersized fries and cokes. And we all felt like throwing up afterwards.

Now Saturday night was a whole new experience for me, as I attended a gay birthday house party. Don't get me wrong, three of my closest friends are gay and I love them to pieces, but this was still an experience. First of all, we don't have that many house parties in Beirut. Second of all, there was an agglomeration of thirty guys in a super cool and neat apartment, with a buffet of neatly cut and shaped fruit on the table. And I had the best time. Samantha, an Italian hot-stud who I so wish wasn't gay, told us the story about when his mama came to Lebanon and wanted to visit Sabra and Chatila wearing Chanel from head to toe and a big summer hat. Now imagine him telling this story with an Italian accent. Priceless.

On Sunday, my eternal brunch buddy came back to the surface after months of neglect. I went with him and Classy to have lunch at Tawlet. We spent the afternoon in the AC watching the most depressing movie of the year, Winter's Bone, and then we had to put thirty minutes of Gad Elmaleh just to change our moods.

At night, it was the BILU reunion [Beirut I Love You cast and crew] since I wasn't the only one having withdrawal symptoms. We went to have dinner in Bikfaya, at our director's beautiful house. We ate, we drank, we had a guitar. And we were all in the garden singing Bob Dylan and the Beatles and apart from the random beetles and insects that scared the shit out of me a few times, it was perfect. And this is going to sound cheesy but that's ok, we could all use a small amount of cheesy in our lives --we were singing Coldplay's "Beautiful World" and I had a thought: I had a very Lebanese weekend, from one extreme to the other. But what makes it Lebanese isn't Skybar or Batroun or Tawlet or Bikfaya. It's the human connection we encounter everywhere we go.

Cause everybody here's got somebody to lean on.

the travelling rhapsodies

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.