Public Space in Beirut

It is that time of the year when the heat is pretty intense in Lebanon, and the only thing we want is to go to the beach and enjoy the little breeze that comes from the sea.

One of the big challenges one faces is a) going to an awesome beach that happens to be a beach club, where you have to pay loads of money to enter, listen to techno music and be maybe the victim of discrimination (see St. George Beach Club story here)  or b) go to a public beach were you can face poor maintenance and very dirty water (according to a local newspaper 85% of household water ends up in the shore without any treatment). Add to this little regulation on how beach fronts get exploited  (or no respect for regulation as this article indicates) and you find yourself with a coastline that is increasingly privatized, "VIP" and exclusive.

Little options for the simple, non- Louis Vuitton, beach goer.

But the beach is not the only public place that is getting very private in Lebanon. I have recently heard accounts of people regarding Beirut's exclusive marina, Zeitunay Bay.

Photo credit: Lebanon Pictures

This place is very fancy, with a series of exclusive restaurants overlooking the water. Everyone who is anyone in Beirut can be seen here, sipping a cappuccino or having a meal with friends and family. If you want to know what the latest fashion trends are in the world, just come here to see the Lebanese ladies display their best outfits.

This is all good. The downside is that there are LOADS of things that you cannot do in Zeitunay Bay (including not speaking loudly), as the guards around it and the signs gently (and not so gently) continiously remind you.

Photo credit: author's own

Two friends of mine have recently gone to Zeitunay Bay with a book and a sandwich to seat down and spend a quiet moment while enjoying the view. In both cases they have been told that they cannot eat  seating on the benches. You can sit there, you can drink a to-go Mocha, but you cannot eat. In other words, if you can't afford the restaurants, you don't eat in Zeitunay Bay.

And I guess that would be somehow OK if this was a private space as the sign point out, but let me clarify that this is a very public space. Yes, you pay to park your boat here, yes you pay to eat at the restaurant, but the access to the deck is open to the public, since it is, afterall, directly connected to the street. A friend of mine, which is not one to be shy to argue when she sees an injustice, sat down with the guard and then the manager asking them to tell her exactly where it is written that she cannot have a sandwich in that place. Besides an "it is our policy", they were not able to produce anything more substantive. And they could also do nothing to prevent her from continuing to eat. She was, afterall, doing nothing illegal.

Which brings me to my last point: public and private space in Beirut. I recently talked with a Lebanese friend who happens to be an anthropologist, specialized in Lebanon. She was telling me that one fascinating thing about the Lebanese is that the concept of public space doesn't really exist. It is more of an inside/outside phenomenon, where inside (my home, my relatives' homes, my people's space) is to be protected, cherished, polished and cleaned (indeed, Lebanese houses are gorgeous, spotless and tastfully decorated... on the inside) and outside doesn't really matter. Outside is not mine, so why bother taking care of it?

No surprise then that streets are dirty, people litter, there are no parcs and the little open space left is privatized. If the sense of public is equated to "not mine" then it is also subject to be made "mine" by paying a bribe, building a fence around it and charging to get in. I am afterall letting you in "my" space now.

So my question is... What happened to "our" space?

Soccer in Lebanon

It is the final. Tonight. Italy vs. Spain. And I am not watching it (please don't hate me).

The past couple of weeks have been a little disorienting. I have really felt like I was in Mexico. Except I am in Beirut. And people here seem as obessesed with the Euro 2012 Soccer Cup as they are back home. Mind you, neither countries are in Europe. But I guess that is just a minor detail.

When there is any sort of soccer related event, Mexicans go crazy. I mean, life literally stops. I used to date this guy who would tell me never to call on Sunday afternoon, because that's when soccer was on (that relationship didn't last much). Also, I remember this place where I used to work in Mexico during the 2002 world cup. The director decided to buy a TV and put it in the office, since no one was showing up to work. It was a smart move...

The last few weeks my Facebook page has been occupied by 50% people cursing because of the presidential elections in Mexico, and 50% cursing because this and that team lost/wan.

In Lebanon it is the same. But what I like about the Lebanese is that they really went full out with the Euro 2012. The square near my house is virtually covered with European flags. I actually didn't need to watch the games, as every time a team lost, the flags from that country would be taken down (who would want to buy flags of a losing team, anyway).

Tonight, the square is covered in red and yellow. Some little flags of the non-Spanish team are flown here and there. But I am clear the Lebanese are going for Spain (don't ask me why, I don't know either). I was just at the mall and I couldn't even hear myself speak, people were yelling so loud. Giant screens were on in every restaurant, in every floor on the building. People have those noise makers that you would actually bring to a 100,000 people stadium (and that I am sure can make you deaf if you stand next to them in a confined space). Teenagers have flags as capes and their faces painted. Young girls shriek everytime, what's his name- Shakira's boyfriend, enters the screen. I decided to escape. And spend some alone, quiet, soccer-free time in my house.

I guess I just didn't know the Lebanese were that much into soccer. Which brings me back to my point. The past couple of weeks have been a little disorienting. Because the more I spend time in Lebanon, the more I feel like I am in Mexico. The more I feel like home.

Who do you call in Beirut?

A couple of days ago there was a big fight in the street, just outside of my building.  I heard screaming and a big commotion and when I went to the balcony, I saw about 12 guys going at it. Swearing and punches and a lot of yelling. I quickly moved away, as I thought that someone might be armed.

I looked around and saw all my neighbors in the buildings in front of mine in their balconies, just watching the “show”. No one seemed ready to intervene or even to try to call the police. And that’s when it hit me… There is no police to call in Lebanon.

I mean there is a police. And an army. And sometimes army guys stand outside private houses as guards. Or tell you not to park somewhere. While the police is coordinating traffic, but sometimes the army is. Listen, it is very confusing. I wouldn’t even try to understand who does what.

But that was what alarmed me the most. Without clear roles, in a moment of stress, I didn’t know who to call. The fight ended up eventually. But the feeling of vulnerability didn’t leave me. Who would I call? Who do Lebanese call?

I sat down for lunch the following day with a Lebanese colleague. I shared with him the experience and he just smiled. And then he told me “You call your uncle. He will call his friends. And in 15 minutes, you have 30 guys at your house ready to help”.

He continued “ In Lebanon you call your people when you need help. You don’t rely on the government, or on your neighbors. Your people are the only ones you can count on for your safety, for survival. “

As things get tense in Lebanon these days, these words resonate more and more in my head. That is probably what happened on my street that day. Two people had a problem, and they called their people for the fight. And when we see the ongoing fighting in this part of the world, although at a different scale, it is not that different. People fight for their own, and against the “other” because there is no common identity, institution or sense of citizenship that binds them together. My family, my friends, the people of my same religion, sect, tribe, group are my people. The other ones are outside. I fight for my own because if I don’t a) no one will protect the people I love and b) the group won’t be there when I need them.

Looking at it from this perspective, the conflicts that comprise the every day struggle of the Lebanese make a little more sense. And it also overwhelms me. Where do you start building unity? How can one trade a sense of group, safety and survival when no one else will have your back?

Beirut on wheels

Until recently, the only wheels I had been on in Beirut were my car's.

Beirut is not what you would call a bike-friendly place (and by bike I mean bicycle, not a motorbike. There are plenty of those in Beirut).

First of all, the driving in Beirut is not what you would call, hum, disciplined. As soon as there is a little room on the side of the road, it is occupied by a car, or a vespa (or both). So an attempt at biking in the city would be basically a death wish. And trying to introduce anything remotely resembling a bike lane would be a) naive and b) probably laughed at.

So, to my surprise, I saw an ad in TimeOut Beirut about a night ride in Beirut. Cool! I haven't been on a bike for... basically the time I have been here, and I love, love, love riding bikes. Plus, it's a different plan for a Friday night. So off I go, equipped with my helmet and blinking lights (and not my orange reflective vest, since my husband thinks it looks dorky).

After renting my bike (and arguing with the guy at the rental place who was trying to convince me that girls, according to him, don't need the front brake), I went to Cyclo Sport on Gouraud St. in Gemmayzeh. I meet there about 50 ciclysts in a parking lot. We are all crammed in a corner, since it is an active parking lot, and there are cars coming in and out. A lady is passing energetic drinks for free. People are chatting and showing off their super cool outfits and matching bikes (Of course! This is Lebanon. What was I thinking, bringing those old jeans for the bike ride?).

A whistle blows, and off we go. All very orderly, at first, following some professional looking riders that had lots of brands on their outfits, so they must mean business.

The ride through Gemmayzeh, down the Corniche and Hamra was frankly fun. I had never felt in Beirut the feeling of wind in my face that only a bike ride can give you. And the organizers were very good a stoping the traffic, so we could all pass. I would have never dared crossing some of the larger roads on a bike in Beirut, but in the middle of a sea of bikes, I felt safe.

Some of the areas in Beirut are definitely not meant for biking and going up and down the hills was pretty exhausting. So I wouldn't recommend this bike ride for people who are not in shape. Because you don't want to fall behind (that is what eventually ended up happening). When the group spreads out, it starts getting harder to manage for the organizers and more dangerous for the bikers.

By the time we reached the National Museum, everyone was super tired, and going at different paces. This left long empty spaces in the group between bikes that car drivers promptly took advantage of (dorky reflective vest would have come in handy here). The result was that by the end, the bike ride was quite dangerous, and not so fun.

But overall, I think the experience was worth it, and I would recommend it, if you are looking to bring a bit of an adrenaline rush to your life in Beirut. These bike rides happen quite often as I understand it (Check out their Facebook Page or visit Cyclo Sport). You can rent a bike with them for a whooping LL5,000/hour (includes helmet), or go to BeirutByBike and rent your bike there for the same price.

This, by the way, would not be an appropriate activity for kids. The route is long (3 hours) and the pace is rather fast.

Enjoy the ride!

Bullets over Beirut

One thing that I love about having visitors over is that they remind me of the things I used to find incredible about Beirut, and that I have grown accostumed to over the years.

So I was very "amused" at first when my family asked me to stop the car to see buildings filled with bullet holes. I guess it has become so common for me to see them that I barely notice them now. My family wanted to take photos.* They wanted to know what the story behind the building and the bullets was.

Little by little, I started remembering how impressed and scared I was at the sight of bullet holes when I first arrived to Beirut. Because of what those holes meant.  With my family here, every time we saw a building filled with little holes there was silence in the car for a moment and someone would ask me "Are those... bullets as well?"

That crazy egg stucture in downtown. The Holiday Inn. The tower as you go up towards Achrafieh. These are buldings I pass very often. And I have just stopped noticing.

Why did I get used to bullet holes?

Was it because there are so many? Was it because I never witnessed the actual moment when the bullet pierced the wall? Was it because I just stopped caring?

One of the highlights of my family's visit was the walking tour around Beirut with Ronnie. I never miss a chance to introduce my family to this fellow, whom so eloquently explains the history of his city.

One of my favourite parts about the tour is the bit about Martyr's Square. There is something about the place that is so moving. There is the history yes, this is a site of protest and where the Lebanese come when they want change. But there is something about the statue in Martyr's Square that just brings tears to my eyes.

Source: TripAdvisor

The lady with the torch represents freedom. The fellow she is holding represents Lebanon. You can see the statue is filled with bullet holes. It has become a symbol of everything that was destroyed in Beirut during the civil war. I think this statue represents the city, the country, so well. The fellow is filled with holes, has lost an arm, but keeps standing. And for one reason or the other his bullet holes haven't been "repaired". Like all the other bullet-studded buildings. Like so many other things in the country, including the people.

I have met so many people who walk this city with their bullet holes, real or metaphorical, still piercing, still acking. So many who have learned to live with bullet holes inside of them, and have forgotten, like me, to notice the bullet holes all around us.

I really hope we won't see any new bullet holes anytime soon. But I mostly hope we won't grow unsenstive to what they mean. They are not trivial. They are not to go unnoticed. Those holes mean someone or something was killed. Slowly or instantly, phisically or metaphorically. Those bullets were meant to anihilate something. A person's joy, freedom, feeling of safety, compassion, or even life.

Those little holes are reminders. Of what has happened, and might still happen in Beirut. And when fighting might seem like a good idea, I wish we will all look around and see the bullet holes. And remember that they could so easily happen again.

*Thanks to M for letting me use his gorgeous photos from his trip to Beirut!

The Lebanese Scooter Diver (or LSD)

Lebanese Scooter Drivers, otherwise known as LSD- because you think you are hallucinating when you see them- are some of the most common individuals you encounter in your everyday life Beirut. They are everywhere and deliver all sorts of things.

They are the first thing that scares you when you first get here, especially when you cross the street. You curse them for a while, but in time, you learn to appreciate their bravado (or stupidity depending from which angle you choose to see them). You just get used to them coming from all sides. And I must admit, they make me smile at least once a week.

You see, the LSDs have some special characteristics that make them fascinating individuals to me. Please allow me to recount them so you get a sense of their uniqueness:

LSDs are artists: they just don’t drive around a scooter in the streets of Beirut. They create their route. This can include driving on the sidewalk when there is too much traffic (zigzagging among pedestrians if necessary), doing a 3-point turn in between cars in a traffic jam or driving in the opposite direction of traffic on a highway. Pure talent.

LSDs are practical: If they have 2 kids and need to get somewhere, they’ll squeeze them in the front. If their giant German shepherd needs to go to the vet, they’ll squeeze it in the front (I have seen this with my own eyes). If they need to deliver an arguileh (water pipe) to someone’s house, they just squeeze it between their legs, drive the scooter with one hand while holding the burning coals on the other. Anything can be transported on a scooter. The sky is the limit.

LSDs are renegades: if someone wants to pass them, they go faster. If you are on their way (on the sidewalk) they’ll honk. If someone asks them to wear a helmet, they wear it without the strap (which makes me wonder why they are wearing it in the first place). If it rains, they’ll build a metal roof on their scooter. If there’s a little space to squeeze into, they’ll take it. They leave by the motto “You snooze, you loose”.

LSD defy the law: Nature’s, reason’s or traffic’s . No rules apply to them. If they need to deliver a sheet of glass during rush hour, they’ll bring it on their legs, it won’t cut them. If a car comes to a crossing, they’ll speed up, it won’t hit them. If there’s a red light or a do not enter sign, it doesn’t apply to them. They don’t follow rules. They make them.

It takes some ballsy dudes to be LSDs (and sorry for the “dudes” but I haven’t seen any scooteryet in Beirut so far). Not any-one is allowed in this very selective club. I guess some of us just prefer the lameness (and safety) of our cars.

So here’s to all LSDs out there. May the road keep them safe.

PS: This blog post is dedicated to my beloved C and his month-old scooter (and his safety).

Once a Lebanese, always a Lebanese...

This Mexican went to Mexico, that is why there were no blog posts.

So after a couple of days at the beach, visits to Mayan temples, a lot of tacos and everything you can put inside a tortilla, and some good tequilas with friends, I have many things to report.  Which in a way have given me even more motivation to write this blog. Because Mexico and Lebanon are so connected. They really are.

During this trip, and to my surprise, a lot of people approached me to tell me about their Lebanese roots. I had no idea. And these are people I have known for years. But I guess people with Lebanese roots are so integrated in Mexican society that the question just doesn't come up. What is funny is that I ran into my friend Ziad, my friend with last name Karime (I am guessing Karam at some point), or my friends whose mum's a Khoury (Kuri in Spanish)... I know now that these names are from Lebanon, but when I was in Mexico I just didn't consider this.

But what I wanted to write about is our very own Carlos Slim Helu. The richest man in the world. A Mexican of Lebanese origin. Not that I particularly care about the man, but you can't help "bumping into him" while in Mexico. Indeed, there is a saying in Mexico that "we all contribute daily to his pockets", and this is not far from the truth. The guy owes the telephone company for the whole country after all, just to name one of his businesses.

One of the things Mr. Slim did recently was opening a museum to display his art collection. He called it "Soumaya" in honor of his late wife. I visited the museum and was at first not impressed with the design of the building. I didn't think it really matched or harmonized with its surroundings.

Source: Fodor's

Once I was inside, I was happy to see that the museum has no entrance fee. The museum's interior design reminded me of the Guggenheim in New York, with its spiral corridor. But the museography was poor, unfortunately. There was not a very clear narrative; it felt just like someone with a lot of money had bought a lot of stuff and had displayed them matching them by... color (or some random logic like that). I am not an expert, but this was my experience.

What really called my attention was the upper room. This is were the Lebanese in Carlos came out (with all respect to my Lebanese colleagues and friends for this broad generalization).

Man, this room was a display of wealth.  This room was an in your face "I am ridiculously wealthy".

Source: Atlas Obscura

You see, Mexicans like to display their wealth, but we are a bit more discreet (or subtle) with it. Out of need (because of high crime rates) or just because overwhelming displays of wealth are considered of bad taste. Walking through this room felt like walking in Beirut, in front of LeGrey Hotel next to someone in his Ferrari and LV outfit.  This was like the botox lady with diamond rings in each finger. This was the Swarosky studded Tag Heuer mobile phone.

Indeed, all those black things on white pedestals you see in the photo are actually Auguste Rodin's originals. And Dali's. Yes, you read it right. This man OWNS not one but dozens of Rodins. Like you and I own socks.  And the way the art was displayed was such a slap in the face.

Don't get me wrong, the pieces are gorgeous. But the feeling you get in the room is "Wow, this man is loaded". It's almost overwhleming. It has almost nothing to do with the art itself. So I guess Mr. Slim has remained a bit Lebanese at heart. He likes to show he's got money. He likes to show who's boss.