Of all our planned trips for our time in living in Rome, Lebanon was the biggest question mark for me. For the first half of my life, it wasn’t high on my radar, and what little I knew of it was that it was simply a Middle Eastern country that had been plagued by war. Then I met Erin; a third-generation Lebanese-American on her dad’s side, it was through my relationship with her that I was first introduced to aspects of Lebanese culture.
Flash forward to a few months back. In our far-reaching discussions of where to visit during our time living abroad, Lebanon had come up. Erin had always desired to visit her ancestral homeland, but distance and safety had always been a barrier. From Rome, though, it was a little over three hours away by plane, and as easily accessible as it was likely to ever be for us. With distance mitigated, and Erin’s dad and his partner already scheduled to visit us in May, the timing made a lot of sense. The only major question mark that remained was, “Is it safe?”
As of our trip there, the US was considering Lebanon a Level 3 risk — “Reconsider Travel” — due to “crime, terrorism, kidnapping, and armed conflict.” Doesn’t sound like a prime candidate for a visit at first glance, and we weren’t about to bring our 5-year-old somewhere substantially sketchy. We did as much research as possible though, Erin in particular reaching out to a number of people who had visited Lebanon in recent years, and the consensus was that though there were a few areas of elevated risk (the Syrian and Israeli borders in particular), the areas we were planning on staying weren’t among them. Furthermore, those who had been there had nothing but fabulous things to say. With that in mind, we made the decision to move forward with it and booked our tickets.
That all said, it was difficult to shake feelings of anxiety as our trip approached. There was a lot of saber-rattling going on between Israel and Hezbollah, the Shi’a Islamist political party and militant group based in Lebanon. Additionally, it’s hard to shake notions that are ingrained into you at an early age. My research told me that Beirut, which would serve as our home for the five nights there, was a marriage of Middle Eastern and European culture, Islam and Christianity, with a thriving nightlife and a beautiful coastal setting. Aladdin, on the other hand, told me that the “Middle East” was dusty, chaotic, and barbaric. Thanks, Prince Ali. I knew rationally that it wasn’t the case, but our recent trip to the historic center of Marrakech, which frankly was dusty and chaotic (though certainly not barbaric), kind of further cemented that mental image into my brain.
As we descended into Beirut, an impressive, off-white skyline ringed by a turquoise coastline appeared. This helped to put the reptilian, irrational region of my brain at ease. Beautiful as most of the city was, it still bears some of the signs of its past turmoil. For all its high-rise, luxury apartment buildings and trendy restaurants, there remain a smattering of bombed out buildings adorned with the scars of heavy gunfire. Heavily armed soldiers can be found every few blocks. While they are present as a peacekeeping force, it’s still a strange sight to encounter so often as an American, even having spent a while in Italy, where armed soldiers in heavily trafficked areas are not uncommon.
Awaiting us at the airport was Pierre, one of Erin’s distant relatives, who would go on to act as our Lebanese sherpa of sorts. I can’t say enough about what an accommodating host he was. Several times, he drove the two-hour span between Beirut and his home in the village of Zghartighrine to take us around town, and eventually to and from the village. He stayed with us the vast majority of the five days and nights, taking the time out of his schedule and time with his own wife and son to make sure we had someone familiar to escort us around. Mind you, Pierre has never met any of us before this. He simply made it his mission to make us feel welcome, and he certainly did.
Our first full day was a day of sightseeing to the north of Beirut. After our tour guide collected us, we started off at Jeita Grotto, a connected pair of otherworldly limestone caves. The grotto is notable for some magnificent stalactites and stalagmite formations in the upper cave, and an underground river that flows through the lower cave, on which a short boat ride over the crystal clear waters is included as part of admission. Both caves are absolutely stunning. I’m sure there’s a valid reason for their strict no-photography policy, like preventing some idiot from collapsing a million-year-old rock spire with their selfie stick, but I’m still grumbly that I couldn’t take any shots there.
The next stop was the town of Harissa and the Our Lady of Lebanon statue, a 27-foot statue of the Virgin Mary, with a great panoramic view of Jounieh Bay below and Beirut off in the distance. When we’d had enough, we took a rickety cable car down the hill to reconvene with our guide and headed north to the ancient city of Byblos, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world (over 5000 years).
If there is one thing that stood out about the people of Lebanon we encountered, it was the abundant hospitality. One example that stands out was when we visited a fossil shop in Byblos. The owner of the shop delighted in watching Emilia “help” crack open a stone slab to unveil a fish fossil within, which he offered her as a gift. As he excitedly showed her around his workshop, I stood there happy to see how much Emilia was enjoying the experience, but fully bracing to find out how much this “gift” was going to cost. Not only was payment never requested, he politely, but firmly refused when I offered him a few dollars for his generosity. He just wanted to make a kid happy and get her excited about fossils.
Though that was a more stark example, the kindness and enthusiasm for helping was all around. Random strangers were all too happy to point us in the right direction, recommend a place to eat, or simply chat with us like old friends. It definitely left an impression.
After we returned to Beirut, I managed to insert myself into a stressful situation. Getting a SIM card had been a priority for me, as my anxiety was being amplified knowing that I had no means of contacting anyone if we got separated. As everyone else was catching a nap, I decided I would go to the nearest telecom place, about a ten-minute walk or three-minute drive away. This all seemed like a good idea as my Uber driver dropped me off at the address I’d designated. Beirut is physically divided into a Christian half, and an Islamic half. We had been staying in the Christian side of town, where the bulk of the signage was in English, and things didn’t feel so drastically foreign. Now though, I was in the Islamic half, where English was scant, and more importantly, Ramadan was in full swing. This meant the vast majority of the businesses were already closed for the day, and consequently, that my contingency plan to find somewhere I could connect to wifi in case of emergency had to be abandoned. As such, I found myself alone in a quiet, unfamiliar part of town, unable to read anything of use to me, and with no means to call anyone or request a new Uber. Basically, the exact situation I’d hoped to avoid by getting a SIM card. Nice.
At this point, the ol’ reptile brain kicked back in and my anxiety started rising quickly. I was thankful that I’m ambiguously ethnic-looking enough that I wasn’t SO visibly out of my element, and tried to project an air of purposefulness. Luckily, I’d downloaded an offline map on Google and it was a pretty simple route back to our apartment. I was starting to feel a bit more relaxed after a few minutes of nobody in the vicinity paying any attention to me, until I rounded a corner to find an enormous, building-sized banner of Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, looming over me. I’m not going to get into a deep dive into Hezbollah; in talking with some of the locals, it’s clear that there’s more nuance to the Middle East’s religious/spiritual conflicts than is presented by the American media, but regardless, the larger-than-life likeness of Nasrallah’s mug was not the friendly face I was seeking. In any case, after injecting a bit more urgency into my step, I arrived back at our apartment without issue.
We had dinner with friends of one of Erin’s Lebanese-American cousins at a swanky French restaurant that night, and then retired for the evening to rest up for a big day ahead of us.
Next: An incredible experience in a remote mountain village of Zghartighrine, and making our way around Beirut.
