Letter From Beirut, Vol. 2

October 3, 2009

In Memory Of My Only Uncle
Thirty hours after arriving in Beirut, I received word that my uncle, Dexter Below, the only sibling of either of my parents, had died unexpectedly in Vermont. The man was a force to be reckoned with the entirety of his too brief 67 years, and the news came as a total shock. He was the kind of person whom one felt would always just be there, like a mountain. My feelings were made more poignant by the fact of being on the other side of the globe, separated from and nearly unable to communicate with most of my family. The memorial service was yesterday, near his and my Aunt Donna's home in Connecticut. Today, weather permitting, the family was to scatter his ashes on Long Island Sound, where my uncle spent a significant amount of time on his beloved sailboat over the past thirty years.

I want to dedicate these words to him in the spirit of adventure and learning, insignificant though the gesture may seem. I come from a very small family and the loss of my uncle has affected me profoundly. After learning of his death, I was drawn to the sea, not inexplicably, and spent much of the following day gazing at the Mediterranean and imagining how much he would have loved to be out on those turquoise waters, which he would have called “blue-green”.

My Job
The movie I am working on is in prep until the end of October, which means long days at the production office near downtown, combined with driving around to scout prospective locations. As the first assistant director, I am responsible for breaking down the script elements and preparing the shooting schedule. Once we start shooting, I will be in charge of running the set.

Quiet, please, we’re rolling.

As I mentioned in my previous letter, the movie tells a story set in contemporary Iran, but we are shooting here in Beirut to stay out of Mr. Ahmadinejad's beautiful and well kempt beard. Being in the Middle East in general, and Lebanon specifically, where exists a rather colorful mixture of religions and races, and being so close to the Israeli border, shooting a film about Iran, with a crew and cast made up of Middle Easterners, Europeans, and Americans, there is no shortage of topics to avoid in conversation.

If ever there were a time when my sense of humor could get me into trouble, it is now.

Lebanese Culture
An Iranian friend from my college days recently described the feeling of experiencing a "great hug" from the Middle East. I recognized immediately what he meant. There's just no arguing with hospitality here, even when it's unwanted. The place takes you into its arms like a fat Italian grandmother, and if that was an ethnic slur or offensive to all you tub-a-lubs, I sincerely apologize.

I also heard from my cousin, a former US Navy pilot, who spent some time “nearby,” though not as a filmmaker, who had an understandably different take on the region. He described it as a "hornet's nest"—and I understood immediately what he meant as well. The underlying tensions here, when stirred up, often lead to unspeakable violence between what seem at present to be peaceful neighbors. It is a place of extreme contradictions.

The Human Being Is A Resilient Creature
Having lived the majority of my life in the United States, I have never been forced to consider the effect open warfare on one's home turf might have on one’s psyche. The Lebanese have no such luxury.

A Lebanese person my age saw open civil warfare in the streets from the age of three until eighteen, and has witnessed all manner of violent altercations since. Keep in mind this took place in a country one half the size of New Hampshire, though not nearly as mountainous. There was basically nowhere to hide. I have already mentioned the bullet holes in many of the buildings, most of which date to the civil war. In 2006 much of downtown Beirut was leveled by rocket fire during a brief but very deadly skirmish with Israel. I pass through downtown on my way to the office each day and I assure you it is quickly being rebuilt, and it looks like Las Vegas, only not as conservative.

As recently as 2008, a spate of car bombings targeting military and political leaders occurred in the very popular Hamra district. The locals say the popular nightclubs in the nearby Gemmayzé district were especially bustling during that wave of violence. Folks just gotta get the groove on! Only last month rockets were being launched from both sides of the border between Israel and Lebanon.

Money & The Cost of Living
As in any metropolitan city the cost of living in Beirut fluctuates widely depending on one's tastes. Last night four of us ate dinner in Hamra at a clean but not too fancy Lebanese chain restaurant called Kababji. The total cost of a rather large meal there was US$30, or $7.50 a person if my math serves me. The locals are immensely loyal to Kababji because it rather famously stayed open during the air strikes in 2006.

On the way home, we purchased several bags of household groceries which will feed the same four of us for several days. Total cost: US$22.

A tasty and filling shawerma sandwich (beef or chicken) from one of the many street vendors runs you a whopping two dollars. A delicious fresh falafel sandwich costs a buck-thirty. Western goods here, including clothing, electronics, and booze, are commensurate with Western prices. A drink out at a bar, which I swear I haven't been to yet, are expensive, up to $10 or more. Produce is abundant and costs pennies at the many stands markets around the city.

Beirutians use a mixture of US Dollars and Lebanese Lire (which they call Lebanese Pounds, or maybe it is the other way around). The two currencies are totally integrated and it is not uncommon to use a mixture of the two in a single transaction or to pay with one and receive the other back in change.

ATMs in Beirut dispense US dollars. Who knew?

How Things Are Rationed Here
I've mentioned the rolling blackouts and the generators used to combat them. There is a water tank on the roof of my apartment building which gets filled once a month, and that's it. When the electricity is on, there is high-speed Internet in Beirut, but at home one pays for it by the Megabyte, like an electric meter.

Service taxicabs take you as far as they feel like taking you, by whatever route, and they will pick other passengers up along the way. It’s a buck and a half and you ride in a filthy Mercedes. If you want a private taxi ride, you will pay four times as much.

Beirut Traffic, Redux
Q: Why did the Lebanese chicken cross the road?
A: Because it was impatient and suicidal.

I wrote that joke to demonstrate the driver-pedestrian social contract in Beirut, or the lack thereof. The Lebanese people come across as warm, generous, trusting, friendly, kind, protective even, but they undergo a Mansonification process when they get behind the wheel of an automobile. They truly become homicidal psychopaths, and will target everyone: women, children, old people, the handicapped, cute babies. Stephen King should pen a sequel to Christine and set it in Beirut: a city is terrorized by Mr. Hyde-like automobiles. My parents live an hour away from the guy. Maybe they could pitch the idea.

The Lebanese pride themselves on having the best traffic in the Middle East, with Cairo's being the worst.

As far as parking goes, fuhgeddaboudit. The rule of thumb is "put it anywhere." Cars park two-deep on sidewalks, on public stairways (!), at bus stops, and in the middle of intersections—reminding us that the middle of an intersection is, after all, wasted space. Certain side streets are transformed into parking lots during workdays.

After only three days, I've actually become bored of the topic of traffic, so this will be the last you hear from me about it, unless I start driving myself—at which point I will brag of running down pedestrians in my car.

Sounds
The ambient noise in Beirut is at times unbearable and for a New Yorker that's saying a lot. Taxis honk their horns constantly in an effort to attract customers. Additionally, and risking a small dose of cultural insensitivity, I will say that to my ear Arabic is a language to which whispering or speaking in hushed tones seems unsuited.

A building next to my apartment is being torn down, and all day long the rumble of dump trucks, jack hammering, and earth moving equipment can be heard. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that jack hammering is a national pastime here. And what’s with the welding? I've seen more welding in the streets and alleyways in the last week than I have in my entire life. Is there this much welding going on around the world and I've simply never noticed?

The Islamic call to prayer heard five times a day continues to be a welcomed antidote to the godawful street noise. The whole place really quiets down for those eight or so minutes, and the sonic atmosphere takes on an ethereal quality. Besides experiencing natural occurrences like a sunset or a full moon on top of a mountain, hearing these sound is the closest I've come to real life Magical Realism.

I've named the pre-dawn call God's alarm clock—my only beef with Allah being that he gets up a bit too early, especially on weekends.

What Else?
You could ask about the cats congregating around the city. I call them "gangs" and they remind me of South American street dogs, only they're cats. You could ask about the campus of the American University of Beirut. Or about how in certain places this city looks and feels like Rome, but in other places it’s like Las Vegas, New Orleans, Paris, or New York. There's so much character and variety and breadth and smog.