A feverish night in Tyre. I ought not to have done so much swimming ! I take a deep breath and look for some inner strength, as well as for my towel and trunks which I’d left outside on the terrace. I have an appointment in Beirut at 11, and – eternal pessimist – give little credence to those who said it would take just two hours to get there. (They were right.)
The meeting was at the American University of Beirut, known to all as AUB, an enclave of English-language academia with fees of 35,000 dollars a year. Lovely landscaped grounds stepping down from Bliss Street (all coffee bars and student book-shops, my rumbling tummy be still !) to the sea-hugging corniche. They have huge spreading trees of the ficus genus here, non-native – so my host tells me – but none the less impressive. Also a banyan, with roots carving up the spaces between branches.
There was another giant ficus just below my hotel, in a much less smart part of town. Here is a Beirut unable to decide whether to pleasure me with louche decadent western disco music, or stiffen my sinews with strident Islamic sermons, or summon me back to the road with the roar of traffic. So the city just belts me all night with all three kinds of noise. Ah, but do I miss those ding-dong bells !
Earlier in this neighbourhood I had an altercation, which ended quite friendly, with a young man of the Khatayab (or Qatayab ?) party, whose headquarters I had in ignorance walked past. Also in reflex, having just avoided impaling my foot on its spines, I had shifted out of the way a metre-length anti-vehicle puncture strip strewn across the pavement. He insisted it was his right to put it across the pavement, and it was by gracious permission of his party that I was allowed to walk on the pavement at all. To avoid the risk of being punctured by this device I should walk in the road. Hmm. I think we need to discuss apple pie and higher things rather than get bogged down in knotty detail. Does Qatayeb believe in peace ? Of course, he said. Well, let’s leave it there.
Gardens of St Nicholas. Fine, French-style buildings many in need of restoration. The Pigeon Rocks (those iconic skerries just west of the city, with wave-worn holes that you can swim around or gaze down on from the corniche). I’m very selective in my sight-seeing. Most impressive of what I did see, especially at night with its floodlights, is the new-looking Mosque of Mohammed Al Amin: blue dome, vast size, multi-minaretted, multi-angular, multi-level. Think 21st century Aghia Sophia. I simply sat and watched as worshippers went in, men from the east and women from the west. And moved to view it again from the west. And again from the north.
The rest of the night I am like a lone wolf patrolling the streets to find anything affordable to stave off tomorrow’s pangs: hot chocolate and cookie, can of 7-up, hot dog and another can of 7-up, lentil soup, fried eggs, salad, mineral water, bread, olives, ore water back at the room.
This city means so much to the world. Standards and values confront each other here. Today, tonight, I am far too fragile for it. Pack up and go.
