Beirut, I Love You, I Love You Not

There's a mini-series that's been running on LBC for the last three months, called Beirut I Love You, I Love You Not. It's a show revolving around the lives of five young Lebanese: the good, the bad, the funny, the tragic --you know, life.

I love it because every character has a story we can all relate to. The guy who has a dream but is stuck in his bureaucratic life. The girl whose torn between her new love, and her old love. The guy who made a life for himself from scratch. The mother who wants to live her dreams vicariously through her children. The one who can't let go of his ex. The mom who lives in the past. The hypercondriac who can't find a job and is socially awkward. The dreamer, the lover, the player. There's a little bit of each of them in each of us.

But what I love most about it, is behind the scenes. This isn't a post about a cool TV show you should all watch (though you should) --this isn't that kind of blog. I write about relationships, connections, experience.  And this is all of that. It's become personal.

I've talked about my love for acting before. I've mentioned countless times how my biggest dream was to be an actress, and how it got lost along the way. But these last few months, the dream is back, and it's changed my life. You see, I got lucky enough to get involved because the talented duet who created this series are friends of mine. And their energy and motivation was contagious. I had forgotten what it felt like to be passionate about something. To get up in the morning and be excited about my day. But they reminded me. It's not just the camera, or the acting, or the script, although all of that is great. I wake up at 7am on a Sunday morning because I want to. I rush to the set and I'm excited about everything: putting make-up on the actors, acting when I have a part, helping out with art-direction, and whatever it is I do, it all feels organic. A year ago, I had to drag myself out of bed on any given day, with no sense of purpose and zero excitement. Today I have ideas.

I didn't love Beirut when I came back from New York three years ago. I loved my boyfriend, I loved my family, I loved my friends, yes, always. But I felt like this city was going to rob me from my ambitions. And I let myself believe that for a while. Blamed Beirut for my lack of motivation. It was easier than to look in the mirror and realize that I could do something about it. And then one day, I was inspired. I saw a group of twenty-somethings who took what this city has to offer and turned it to their advantage. Made a dream where there was none. And I realized it wasn't Beirut that was the limit, it was myself.

the walk home

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” Matsuo Basho


There are days when the walk home stands out.

When I lived in New York, I'd walk in between skyscrapers, with my ipod blasting "Suddenly I See" at full volume; I'd take a short-cut through Central Park holding a Starbucks Tall Skinny Late, and watch random people jogging at any given hour with their dogs running at the exact same rhythm. I'd feel like I was part of a movie-set or something. And that thought always made me smile. "I live in New York," I'd remind myself. But when I'd get home, to that 6th floor apartment on East 20th street, with nothing in the fridge and a pile of laundry waiting for me, my heart would sink. I missed the smell of caramelized onions in the kitchen, and the feeling of freshly ironed sheets. My roommate worked 23hours a day, and home was most often a combination of Grey's Anatomy, a soup from the downstair-deli, and me.

One of my worst walks home in Manhattan was on a hot day in August, when I stepped into a store for ten minutes, and by the time I got out, it was pouring rain. And when I say pouring, I mean the streets turned into a river with strong currents. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Never mind that I was drenched from head to toe, and that every car that passed by splashed me with disgusting sewage water... the worst part was when I had to cross the street and the current was so strong that it removed my flip-flop from my foot, and dragged it away before I could catch it. Walked half-barefoot the rest of the way, trying not to think of all the diseases I could be catching. Needless to say, I was never so happy to get home.

But most memorable of all was me going through the walk of shame like it was a scene out of Sex and The City. Long story short (and to spare me from sharing too much) I was leaving the Four Seasons Hotel at eight o'clock in the morning, in my clothes from the night before --and as I was stepping down the entrance stairs of the biggest hotel in New York, hangover and in heels, I fell.

The walk home, that's the journey. Sometimes it's the best part of the day. It's three o'clock in the morning, and that gorgeous guy you met is with you, and there are butterflies in your stomach because you wonder if he's going to kiss you. And sometimes it's tortuous. It's raining and you don't have an umbrella, your phone falls and breaks in ten different pieces, and your new shoes are ruined.

And on days like these, it's uneventful. I walk home every day from the office. It's a three minute walk, and not a lot happens, except for the valet-parking guy who feels the need to make a disturbing comment every time I walk by. Now the days of skyscrapers and the Four Seasons feel like they never even happened, just memories among others. But still, they're my own. Part of my journey.

"listen to your mother"

"and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again."
Caliban, The Tempest, William Shakespeare


I stayed up all night to watch the Oscars live until almost 7 am. It's kind of a tradition that I've created for myself since I was thirteen years old --no matter what, every year, I watch the show live. It may seem futile to you --I could watch the replay at a decent hour the next day, and not be at work downing coffee after coffee on  Monday morning, having only slept two hours. But to me, watching the Oscars is more than finding out who won Best Picture. The truth is, when I first started my tradition, watching was all about the dream to be a part of it one day. I would sit and smile and visualize myself walking down that red carpet in a signee-something gown, embracing Tom Hanks and having a laugh with Nicole and Sandra, giggling at the joke some reporter made. I'd rehearse my acceptance speech in the shower, varying it a little from time to time, switching from funny to emotional or mixing up both. Eh. I wanted to be one of those people who dream big and actually make it.
A lot of girls dream about being an actress when they grow up. Maybe you dreamed of being a singer, a dancer, a football player; and maybe you're not surprised that it didn't happen.
Now I watch the Academy Awards, and it's a reminder of what I didn't do. I look at the young and upcoming stars on red-carpet, the Hailees and Jennifers who are nominated on their first time around, and I remember that I never even tried --that I gave up before giving myself the chance. I remember what I once was: ambitious, motivated, hungry.
And now I realize that I sound like I'm 80 years old and my life is behind me. But I'm not. I'm 25.
One of last night's winners, David Seidler, who won best original screenplay for The King's Speech, is 73 years old. In his speech he laughed it off and said his "father said he would be a late bloomer." So we never know... Maybe I'll surprise myself at age 70 and be up there after all.
But my favorite part of the show last night was something director Tom Hooper said when he won. He told the story of how his mother went to a stage version reading of The King's Speech, came back and told him she found his next film. "The moral of the story is: listen to your mother."
Yes, I'm a sucker for mother tributes and such. And this made me think that maybe every time I feel lost and dwell in the misery of my quarter life crisis, I should listen to my own mother. Problem is, she died three weeks before my 16th birthday. But a lot of the times, I forget that she left me a really important, and quite specific message. On that first birthday she missed, my father presented me with a gift, from her. He said she had them run around the city for weeks trying to find the one she had in mind: it was a beautiful silver quill and ink set. And her message to me was: never stop writing.