Hi Everyone,

Just want to say "thank you" for the encouragement and positive response I am having from my blog, I never thought I would enjoy is as much as I am! After some thinking, I've decided to expand my blog to a more permanent title and place on the web:

Mum At Large www.mumatlarge.blogspot.com

This means I am migrating 'mums and bubs beirut' to this new address and I will no longer be updating this site. Mum At Large is already set up so come on over! I've even added a photo album feature as many of you back home have requested.

Facebook page has changed to the new title. You can find it here:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mum-At-Large/354104227988777

Thanks again for your support, keep the feedback and comments coming!

Cheers, Ann.

Buckle Up, You're In For A Ride

How can I come to Lebanon and not blog about the traffic? It's the Achilles in every driver's heel!

There are two types of traffic conditions in Lebanon, the first being "gridlock". If you are in a car during rush hour in Beirut, you can sympathise with those Lebanese who say in despair that the country is going nowhere. The other is "kamikaze". Lebanon has it's own traffic rules and people's desperate means  to get from A to B is not for the fainthearted.

To be fair on Mikey, he is an excellent driver and I don't have a problem getting in the car with him. But for long distances, I'm a nervous passenger and he usually gives me a pep talk to help calm my nerves before driving off "Just remember to breathe okay, breathe in-out-in-out. Relaaaax just go with the flow...that's why I don't use the mirrors I'm only concerned about what's in front of me."

"yea, on-coming traffic HELLO!" I heckle back like a proper backseat driver.

Breathe in-out-in-out. 

To create a calm, yet joyful atmosphere in the car Mikey usually pops on a nursery-rhyme CD "for Mateo" he says.  Heading down the highway, Mateo is safely strapped in his restraint in the backseat, blissfully clapping along to the music while I'm in the front seat intermitting between singing and screaming "if you're happy and you know it COVER YOUR EYES." 

It's true, being the driver is better than being the unfortunate passenger who has to sit quiet and take in the 'scenery'. And from my observations of Mikey's new driving habits, and the habits of those sharing the road, it made me consider the 10 worst. Any of these sound familiar? 

1. Overtaking in to on-coming traffic around a bend: Oh C'mon, everyone has 20/20 vision, besides, there's enough room for everyone! 

2. Speeding: It's hard to keep up with the Porsche, Lamborghinis or Ferraris, that's behind you beeping it's horn and flashing it lights to move you along. 

3. Tailgating: If flashing the lights and beeping the horn just isn't enough, try dodging between cars - relax I promise to miss you by a millimetre. 

4. Not indicating: I'm sorry, what's indicating? if I just swerve towards people they'll move out of the way. 

5. Crossing solid white lines: What are these lines of which you speak? Maybe they're underneath the rubble. 

6. Not knowing which lane you should be in: Oh that's easy, the fastest one. 

7. Roundabouts: Make sure you never, ever give way. Sticking your arm out of the window to direct traffic is the best way to cut across as you're about to miss your exit. 

8. Queue jumping: Who said desert safari is only for the desert? Why have a 4 wheel drive if you can't mount the curb and push that little Asian car out of the way? 

9. Not wearing a seatbelt: But kids love the seatbelt to swing from like Tarzan, and jumping on mum's lap is so much fun while protruding their little heads out of the window. 

10. Driving on the phone: How else am I meant to have a conversation with the lady in the car next to me, check my facebook AND tweet my road-rage: #traffic #SUX :( 

So, have I missed any driving habits you'd like to share? Feel free to add to the comments box 

Byblos

I've heard from the locals that it get "really" hot until July, and in August you just stop looking at the temperature as it all becomes irrelevant, it's just hot. The heat and humidity is so overpowering that walking outside feels like an outdoor sauna. And when the sun sinks, the temperature stubbornly refused to follow suit. 

Lessons already learnt. Do not attempt to walk in the middle of the day unless you plan to get heat stroke. Do not tell a local "it's really starting to get hot" unless you wish to be ridiculed. HOT?! Ha! This isn't hot?! 

Either stay indoors in air-conditioned rooms or ditch Beirut for somewhere cooler as many locals seem to do. For our first weekend escaped we head to the coastal town of Byblos (aka Jbeil). On a good run, Byblos is a 40min drive north of Beirut and it's a beautiful town that has it all: history, sea, souq, and seafood. 

Byblos has experienced a kind of rebirth since it's prewar heyday, a popular beach holiday destination and emerged as a stage for big bands - this month BB King, Slash and Snow Patrol graced it's shores. 

To the south of the ancient port is the glitzy playground of luxury beach resorts packed with bikini-clad, gold aviator shade partygoers; and to the north is more laid-back, family friendly Byblos. Unable to fit our 'wealth' and 'glamour' into our oversized bags stuffed with baby paraphernalia, we chose the north side. 

One of few beachfront budget hotels is Ahiram Hotel. True, the rooms are not like those of the Four Seasons, but it's rustic, friendly, well maintained, every room has an ocean-view balcony and access to the FREE public beach below. Best of all, 70's posters of Lebanon's landmarks hanging on nearly every wall in the hotel blissfully puts me in a relaxed, nostalgic state-of-mind. 

Waiting for the heat of the day to pass, the three of us lay on our bed enjoying a lazy slumber. The breeze carries the sound of the waves and children playing down below crash, squeal, crash, squeal. The sound transported me back to my childhood of summer holidays spent at sleepy seaside towns. 

In the early evening, we catch up with friends and take a brief history tour through the old town. It's an ancient port framed by pre-Roman ruins. The earliest record of Byblos dates back 5000 BC and believed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city. The small Neolithic fishing community developed into a major commercial port for ancient Egyptian seafarers buying cedar and is also the birthplace of our modern alphabet.

Following the winding road within the old port, we meander our way through a warren of cobbled streets, passing an old stone school and church. 

You can catch sight of a blue-domed mosque before walking through a stone archway which brings you to the beautifully restored old souq selling Phoenician-themed knickknacks and Lebanese kitsch. 

The striking brown stone walls of the Crusader citadel, Phoenicain ramparts, and Bronze Age ruins seem to want to talk about battles lost and won long, long ago. 

Dinner at Byblos-Sur-Mer is a must. The restaurant has an open terrace right on the port offering an exceptional view and a welcomed cool breeze. We feasted on mezze and mouth-watering catch of the day. Sipping on chilled wine, watching a spectacular sunset and enjoying great company is the perfect combination for a chilled evening. 

We look forward to more trips to Byblos for weekend escapes, especially when opposing August temperatures expect to hit new highs.

Expat Woman: is it in the Blood?

Two women talking at Muqattam, 1948 http://vintageegypt.tumblr.com/

Mateo and I were in the elevator this morning and a neighbour came on board. She asked where we are from and my immediate response was “Australia”. She smiled but seemed unsatisfied with my answer, my accent wasn’t enough. She’s was right, in addition I should have said “my roots are from Egypt hence our dark skin and oriental features, oh and, Mateo’s father is Swiss and…(stay with me now). But we reached ground floor before I could give her a true description of our intercultural family: quasi-Australian-Egyptian-Swiss, hold on there’s a nation missing - British.

You see I’m not the first expat woman in my family. My British Grandmother was a pioneer of the “modern international woman” in the first half of the 20th Century.

In her late 20’s Grandma was lured by Egypt’s magnetic attraction. An allure that was distinctly exotic but an attraction no doubt that began when she was a little girl when her mother used to take her to the British Museum to see the magnificent relics of Ancient Egypt. While growing up she was overwhelmed with an insatiable appetite to travel to Egypt.

Like the thousands of privileged tourists who flocked to Egypt during British occupation, Grandma was stirred by the city’s physical beauty, its jewel of the Nile, its grand temples, its fine restaurants and sidewalk cafes, its seductive music, and its lively and sometimes even decadent nightlife.

The Golden Age of Egypt in late 1940’s was glamorous, and so was she. I imagine her as a leading lady in Agatha Christy murder mystery novel Death on the Nile: a beautiful, confident, intelligent, slightly wicked, Gin swilling, carefree woman.

What I admire most about her is that she chose to use her freedoms in search for her own identity - a relatively new concept for women’s rights in her day. She was a self-exile who chose to leave a homeland, a depressing Post War London that she may have considered intellectually, politically, racially, or sexually limiting or even oppressive.

Unlike more casual visitors, Grandma worked, married a dapper, el macho Egyptian man and settled down with two children in Cairo for nearly 20 years. And when British occupation was ousted from Egypt, she did not return to England with the family, instead they migrated to Australia where my Mum met my Dad (a fellow expat Egyptian) and they say the rest is history.

This year my Grandmother celebrated her 90th birthday but sadly lost her husband - they were married for 60 years. Even though she’s quite mysterious about her past, it’s her entanglement with Egyptian culture that has the strongest impression and is of most interest to me. In her cockney English accent she can ramble off perfect fluent Arabic. She never speaks of her experience of The Blitz during WWII but loves talking about Kingdoms of Ancient Egypt like a true historian. I can’t remember her ever baking an English pie but she made a mean Molokhia!

And now that I am an expat mum in the Middle East, I have so many questions to ask her: How did she blend into her new world? Was it easy? I suspect not! Did Grandad’s family welcome her with open arms? How quickly did she learn to speak Arabic? How comfortable was she in her second-skin as a Cairean? Did she feel alienated from family and friends back in England? How did she cope with tough times?

No matter the answers, one thing is for certain she lived her dream with full gusto, regardless of her hardships. I am sure she nostalgically looks back at her life in Egypt and can fondly laugh at her language disasters, power cuts for days, cold showers, blocked pipes, and recollect silly wives-tales for treating mysterious illness’ (which also doubled for warding off the ‘evil eye’).

There she was, in one of the most ancient cities of the world creating not just a new history, but her future – and my future. As Elanor Roosevelt said “ the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams”. My Grandmother taught me to live my dreams. It’s her part of my heritage that loves being an international nomad. This inherited “itchy feet” feeling is a bit like a virus, which lives on in the blood regardless of place or circumstance.

I’ve followed in her footsteps in many ways. I began travelling solo in my 20s, finding my independence was extremely important and liberating. When Grandma graduated from university at the age of 70, she gave me the drive to pursue my academic interests. However I got one up on her, I got my driver's license (hehehe).

When I met Mikey, I knew he also had the travel bug in his blood and we amicably agreed that travelling would be factored into our future together. When the opportunity in Beirut came up, we were both incredibly excided about hitting the road; a piece of family nostalgia for me to return to the Middle East and new exciting experience for us as family, although I never imagined we would travel before Mateo’s first birthday.

But our world is a lot smaller than in my Grandmother’s day with the internet, skype, facebook, email, blogging etc. I feel I am in constant communication with friends and family back home.  Yet, it hasn’t been all smooth sailing and I haven’t been shielded from the stresses of adapting to life in a foreign culture.

Daily tasks can feel one hundred times more difficult to accomplish than back home and sometimes life feels anything but easy and carefree. I regularly wonder what on earth possessed me to give up my identity, support network, career! And as I sat at home sick for weeks on end (another virus hit me hard after my chicken pox) I felt incredibly lonely and helpless not being able to meet other women.

It crossed my mind, should we pack up and go home? This is not the expat life I had imagined! What would Grandma have done? But as I watched Mikey and Mateo adapt to their new lifestyle like a fish takes to water I just had to accept things for what they were and ride it out. And after several quiet weeks, finally I met up with a fellow expat mum and all of a sudden, I feel normal again (hello Daniela).

It all has to do with connectivity. Even though we are from different parts of the world, I met a woman who didn’t gasp when I told her about our reason for moving to Beirut, who didn’t think it was strange to live in a different country for a few years, and who had common stories of trials, tribulations and joys of bringing up a child in new surroundings.

I’ve come to realise that I belong to a tribe, a common throng of women who travel the world, many working or trailing behind their spouses, offering support and encouragement, bringing up children, finding their own way through the newness of each location.

Will I belong to this tribe forever? Maybe, possibly, hopefully. As long as my Grandmother’s adventurous spirit lives on inside of me.
 

Grandma, thankyou for leading the way. love you xxx

Laughter is the Best Medicine

I remember when I was young I desperately wanted to get chickenpox, I wanted those days off school real bad. I was jealous of every kid lucky enough to have the “varicella vacation” in the middle of school term. As the years went on, one by one, they bragged about it in the schoolyard “calamine lotion, oatmeal baths, lollypops, Atari” I cursed under my breath, why-oh-why not me?

Not in million-gazillion years could I imagine my time would finally come three decades later in blistering hot Beirut. Cheers. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry! I’m spotty, itchy, and bitchy. My suitable misery is however the source of good humour, I’m actually the last casualty in a line of infirmity which has plagued our household. They say bad luck comes in threes…

It all began when I started searching for a local pediatrician for “just-in-case”. Being an expat mum requires a bit of forward thinking, if a problem should strike you don’t want to be without one, right? When I went to ask at the local clinic for the name of a children’s doctor I was promptly given a phone number on a piece of paper. “Let’s hope you don’t need to call him inshalla” the receptionist thoughtfully wishes.

That afternoon little Mateo comes home from the nursery feverish and cranky. I’m thinking it’s nothing more than signs of teething but then he develops a rash overnight. "That’s odd, you’ve never had heat rash before" I inspect. Of course being a mum means you’re instantly an expert in skin diseases.

By end of the day his spots turn to blisters. I do a Google search and realise his symptoms are beginning to look more like chickenpox. I go to ask a pharmacist but he thinks it’s a heat rash “common this time of year” he says loading me up with lotions - just in case.

I’m now breaking a sweat feeling nervous about my own fate “what if it is chickenpox? Mikey is immune but what will happen to me?” My sudden bout of itching seems to jump all over my body.

Not taking any chances, I call the doctor. My voice is quivering, suffuse with panic. In 30 seconds I made my own diagnoses starting with a benign case of chickenpox and ending in leprosy. The doctor whispers in calm voice “it’s probably a heat rash but come to my clinic tomorrow - just in case. I’m currently supervising my student’s last medical exam for the year.”

WHAT? red with embarrassment I apologise profusely for calling him on his private mobile (I later learned calling doctors on their mobile is normal custom here how brilliant!). To relieve my anxiety I read up on people’s experiences of chickenpox on forums. Bad move. For young children it’s considered a rite of passage, they even throw parties for the occasion, but no one on this ENTIRE planet has a good thing to say about adult chickenpox. Period.

Surely I was vaccinated? I call mum to confirm but she has no record. Going back to Google, again it brings me no luck - vaccination in Australia wasn’t introduced till 2001. Now I’m having heart palpitations “search HEART ATTACK”.

At the doctor's clinic, I’m hearing the words “highly contagious”, “isolation for a week”, “no nursery for Mateo” and “pray you don’t get it”. I'm nervously thinking about our impending lock-down at home with a hyperactive child. It’s not looking good.

Sure enough, the following week at home was insane. Cooped up in the house, Mateo was like a bull in a china shop. Mikey would return from work to an unrecognisable home. Bewildered he assess’ the damage, collecting debris along the way: child intact ‘good’, mother seething ‘bad’.

Day 1. Mateo sorting the laundry "now you see it, now you don't"

Thankfully Mateo’s virus was very mild and after one week his few spots healed over. To celebrate his speedy recovery we eat out for Sunday brunch along the Corniche. Feasting on a banquet of different BBQ meats, salads and raw kibbeh (raw mince), everything was well again.

Scoffing down the kibbeh Mikey makes an insightful remark “Imagine getting food poisoning from raw mince, I recon it would be horrible, like really H O R R I B L E” licking his fingers.

The next day he comes home from work complaining of a migraine. I seem to remember hearing words like “hot”, “dizzy” and “cold sweat”. And then I hear horrible barfing noises coming from the loo, honestly it sounded like he was murdering a donkey. Acute food poisoning smacks Mikey flat for the rest of the week. Great. Another week in the house nursing casualty No.2.

Few days go by and just when I thought I got away with my fatal illness, I feel an itch in the back of my neck. Thinking it’s a mosquito bite I ignore it until the hot itch had spread to my chest. Looking in the bathroom mirror I cried in slow motion “NOOOO” seeing those dreaded pink spots.

Racing over to Michael still sprawled on the sofa moaning, “you’re going to the doctor with me, like, now.”

“Okay, I’m, coming…” he musters a slow vocal death as he’s peeling himself off the sofa.

By the time I actually made it to the medical clinic I was riddled with spots. The doctor makes a joke at my expense for being no “spring chicken” to be getting the pox (you can laugh too, haha). But when we were done with the small talk he moved onto serious words like “pneumonia”, “swelling of the brain” and even “death”. Yikes adult chickenpox is no laughing matter.

The good news is, because I acted quickly in getting a diagnosis (with 24hours of the spots appearing) antiviral medication will substantially lessen the shelf-life of the virus (yay) however there’s no consolation for another week of isolation (booo).

On our way out of the doctor’s office, the doc turns to Mikey and asks if he’s okay “you’re looking a little pale” he observes. Mikey manages to fumble a few words together “food, poisoning”. Doctor is laughing again, realising there’s good fodder for another joke “Can’t handle Lebanese food hey?! Maalesh it’s common for new comers - I recommend you stay away from kebbeh for example, raw meat - terrible!” Jovially slapping Mikey on the back.

So there you have it, three illnesses in three weeks, although it’s too easy to say it’s been a “poxy” start to summer. In time the queasy stomach will subside, the itch will recede and the spots will fade, however in years to come our tribulations will be remembered as another one of those funny travel stories.

Thank goodness I’m now at the end of my infection and came through remarkably unscathed. At least I can now say loud and proud “I got chickenpox and I survived!” Plus it’s never to late to feel you’ve made that ‘rite of passage.’  Best of all I want to say “thank you” universe for making everything happen EXACTLY as it’s meant to. If the three of us never got sick and laid up at home together Mikey and I may have missed a momentous milestone - seeing Mateo take his first steps. What could be a sweeter memory?!

Remember to turn 'This Switch' Off!

As a newcomer to Beirut everything is still a novelty: daily 3-hour electricity cuts, the sound of diesel generators kicking in, buying gallons of drinking water worried if I have to haul it up 8 flights of stairs if the elevator is out of order.  

I’m getting used to constantly asking someone where something is, or how it works, and relying on them to point me in the right direction. At least I can feel rest assured in the wee small things like flushing a toilet with a simple press of a button and hot water 24/7 – or so we thought.

About a week after moving into our apartment, home-life starts to take on a new rhythm, a new normality. Mikey is the first to wake, has playful wrestle with Mateo, shaves and showers, bids us farewell, and off to work he goes. All normal. One morning Mateo and I go to shower and out of the blue there’s no hot water. NOT normal.

Lifting a shivering Mateo out of the tub, I’m searching for a logical explanation, debating whether Mikey just took the mickey for not stating the bleeding obvious before leaving the house - plausible - or if he really has superhuman cold-water resistant qualities…hmmm. 

Searching for the cause to no avail, I probe Mikey “How was your shower this morning dear?” From the long pause at the end of the line I can tell he’s wondering if it’s a trick question, a trap! Then he comes clean “Oh yeahh, there was no hot water. I forgot to tell you...sorrry’. 

 
But no matter, I also dropped the white elephant in the “too hard” basket suspecting that this little inconvenience is going to take some energy to work out. Perhaps if I take no notice it just might miraculously come good by end of the day fingers crossed. 

So instead I turn my attention to a far more pressing “meltdown” unfolding outside our apartment window: a major protest at the state-run Electricite du Liban. Workers have hijacked the company’s headquarter setting tires alight and reportedly threatened to set the building ablaze if their employment demands aren’t met (they don’t do things by half measure here).

Thankfully the building is still intact but the national electricity isn’t. The Daily Star reports electricity supply has been deteriorating across the country due to maintenance works at major power plants, suspension of power imports from Egypt and Syria, ongoing strikes, and of course the real reason behind it all is political power play. 

The protests may be drastic but electricity, diesel, food and water are high priced commodities and a constant source of antagonism - as I’m just about to learn for myself.

As my afternoon presses on hope for hot water has well and truly dried up. It’s time to knock on my neighbour’s door (again). Our good Samaritan starts fishing around the apartment in search of our boiler, and to no surprise, he reports it’s stone cold. We then proceed to the kitchen and inspect the electricity unit above our fridge.

  

My good neighbour enquires ‘How long has ‘zis switch been on?’ Like a little kid who is about to get in trouble but doesn’t know the reason, I reply hesitantly “Since we moved in of course." Shaking his head frowning, "Zis is your diezel generator switch, you’re supposed to turn it on ONCE a day for 20 minutes to heat your water, THEN YOU TURN IT OFF!’ 

Yep, there's not a drop left in the diesel tank. Zero, Zilch. We’ve gone through enough diesel to last the WHOLE summer!! Four months worth fizzled up in 10 days. OUCH. My neighbour makes light of the situation “Never mind, it is a mizz-understanding, you’re not used to our way, yani ‘zis is Lebanon” he sighs apologetically.

Maybe when our landlady gave us a rundown of all the switches to the apartment (both inside and out) between our broken Arabic, French and English that vital piece of information got lost in translation. Malesh.

That evening Mikey and I cool off our $400 refueling woes over a beer looking out across buildings entangled in an incredible amount of switches, cables, and dishes strangling building facades, weaving down walls and interconnecting rooftops like jungle weed.

I turn to Mikey paranoid in mid thought “Have you turned the the switch off?”

Living A Fairytale

We have been at our serviced apartment/hotel for over a week and we're all getting very comfortable with the ‘service’ part of the deal. The room is cleaned daily and my heart skips with joy when the housekeeper delivers our package of pressed laundry. I'm all excited like a princess twirling in my heavenly-scented snow whites.  The thought of loading and (reloading) the washing machine is now a distant memory.

Even Mateo is happy with his digs. I caught His Highness waving from our balcony to a group of children playing at a nursery opposite our building. Seizing the opportunity, I hand him over to the nursery to play with the kids. Waltzing away I kiss my little prince goodbye “See you at 4. Ta ta!”.

What a difference a week makes. Everyone is LOVING their new found freedom! But our self-eviction had arrived all too soon and the ‘suite’ life had to come to an end. It was time to find our own apartment to call ‘home’- washing machine and all. 

After a disappointing week of apartment hunting around Hamra we realise we’re out of our league. Two factors are against us: (1) there’s a rental squeeze gripping Beirut, especially Hamra, and (2) high season is upon us which means an influx of foreigners moving in for summer. Unless you’re willing to pay a princely sum of $2000US per month (and over) the area is not worth a look. Anything under that amount apartments are either the size of a shoebox or plain shabby.

The DIY approach to renting in Beirut is time consuming and having no success on our own we opted for an agent to help us. Thankfully, he was a real find. He let it slip that he lived in Switzerland for over a decade and Mikey’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. The two hit it off instantly. “Don’t worry I’m going to help you find just what you’re looking for. Have you thought about moving to Achrafieh? It’s a family neighbourhood, safe, less expensive” he explains.

He was right. The second apartment we inspected was The One. We actually saw it advertised online however looking in awe at pictures of its grand views, big rooms and large kitchen we thought it was way out of our budget.  Thanks to Mateo, he sealed the deal for us. Laying his charm on thick with the landlady, she made us a deal we couldn’t refuse and the next day we had the keys to our very own palace.

View from apartment looking out to Journieh Bay

Like a happy fairytale ending we bid our farewells to the hotel staff and housekeeper. Life is bliss until...

When it came to settling the bill I almost dropped dead from shock. The laundry fee came to (gulp) $200US. I nervously handed back the statement “Oh no, no, no there’s a mistake, see there’s one too many ‘0’s, it should read $20”. The concierge - now turning into The Joker from Dark Night sneers “No mistake Madam, that’s how much your laundry cost”. For FIVE lousy loads of laundry!?!  Frozen in disbelief I felt the tiara slip off my head. Silly me for not asking the price for a bag of washing at a 3 Star hotel in Beirut. Oops lesson learned. “OK...” I regretfully respond throwing crisp $20 dollar bills down the gurgler “...its back to the washing machine I go heigh-ho, heigh-ho”.

Taking Our First Steps

"The best way to see colourful Beirut is on foot" I repeatedly read in travel blogs. What no one tells you is "...if you use a kiddy stroller you may as well have one foot in the grave."

On our first walking expedition, we get off on the wrong foot. At 10am it’s already a scorcher outside, Mateo is having his morning sleep in the stroller while Mikey and I struggle to dodge potholes and fleeting cars. Ploughing through jagged pathways and absent mined pedestrians, we’re working up a sweat just trying to refrain Mateo from catapulting across the pavement. We make our first 50 metres in 50 minutes. Lovely. Both in a stitch, wet from head to toe, we’re ready to call it a day. Bystanders gawking at us say nothing but their faces said it all: “Ha! a stroller in Beirut?!?! Goodluck!”

Our map is useless because street names don’t correlate to street signs (a mind boggling topic for another post) so we vaguely make our own way to The Corniche. The waterfront esplanade is a popular destination where people stroll, strut their stuff, and socialize. We see ageing, overweight men jog and stop for cigarette breaks; teenage boys throwing fishing lines into the rocky waters below; young men smoking nargileh on their car hoods, combing their hair to catch the attention of speed-walking women wearing Ray-Bans and visors. 

 I soon realise The Corniche is the only pram-friendly pathway in Beirut but as our week rolls on the more stroller-savvy we become. 

Venturing further afield we cross the Green Line that divided the city between Christian East and Muslim West during the civil war. We weave and wind our way from Ras Beirut past St Georges Yacht Club to the flashy new Beirut Souk (mall) in Downtown. We take a pit stop at Place de l’Etoile and refuel on sickly-sweet lemonade. We leg it across Place des Martyrs and lunch in Gemmayzeh Street at Le Chef (no-frills kitchen serving the best Molokhia in town). In the blazing afternoon sun, we drag our feet to the air conditioned ABC (mall) in Achrafiyeh...ahhh.

To the untrained eye, one half of the city is rubble the other half is a mall. On closer observation you can pick up on the distinct architectural renderings of the urbanscape. Between the dilapidated buildings peppered with bullet holes you will discover the remains of Roman temples; marvel at centuries-old Mosques & Churches standing side-by-side; admire refurbished French-style mansions, and gaze up at multi-story apartments towering above. 

It’s a city under continual re-construction and I can't help but admire the Lebanese people not only for what they’ve been through but what they always seem to do after a crisis: they dig themselves out, dust themselves off, and start building once again. 

At the end of each field-trip we'd return to our apartment tired but feeling enriched from our expedition. The three of us would huddle around the bidet to wash  our tired, blistered feet (previous post explains the bidet story). Watching the sunset from our balcony, the sky paints a pretty picture with hues of pink and orange. The call to prayer from the mosque drifts through the air. The muezzin sounds melodically peaceful, offering time to reflect.

Getting around Beirut is definitely no walk in the park but well worth the experience. Together with discovering new sights, sounds and smells of the city we learnt about Lebanese hospitality which transcends age, class and religion. Pedestrians and shopkeepers alike would stop us on our tracks to wish Mateo the warmest of welcomes. Accompanying  handshakes, high-fives and pinched cheeks people would shout “MARHABA!” “KAFAK!” “AHLAN YA HABIBI!” It’s a wonderful Middle Eastern gesture that universally means ‘hello fellow friend!’ 

Being on the receiving end of so much kindness Mateo never failed to warmly respond. Although he is yet to speak a coherent word of any language he is still able to return the greeting with great joy: a big grin from ear-to-ear, uttering ‘eh! eh!’ eh!’ and a tentative twist of his little wrist. A gesture that would make anyone fall head over heels.

Finding Our Feet

Everyone is welcome in the Western neighbourhood of Hamra, it’s well known as Lebanon’s secular haven, playing host to people from all walks of life. It’s a central hub for students & expats, Christian & Muslims alike to mingle at sidewalk cafes, posh hotels, restaurants, bars and bookstores.

We spend our first weeks in Hamra, but to clarify, we’re not living a diplomat’s lifestyle, no 5-star hotels and no silver service, just good old fashioned DIY expat living.

Before landing in Beirut, in trepidation I booked our 3-Star accommodation online, which had no reviews so we were either in for a shocker or a winner. It’s neither. Our modest one-bedroom self-serviced apartment off Rue Hamra is basic but clean. Everything is at our doorstep - including traffic. Even though we’re a block back from the main thoroughfare, the traffic noise from the 2nd floor is so intense we may as well be lounging in our pyjamas in the middle of the road.

Sleep? What sleep! Never mind the clamor outside, we requested a cot for Mateo but the rickety old thing couldn’t hold itself together let alone my son, so the three of us piled into the small double bed. Mateo was the only one waking up fresh as a daisy. Mikey & I ached all over convinced our son was a ninja in his past life. His erratic/impulsive sidekick to the ribs and karate chop to the face are LETHAL.

Thankfully, we were kindly given an upgrade to a two-bedroom apartment on the 10th floor. What a difference 8 floors make! The lounge is spacious, kitchenette is well equipped & the master bedroom has a queen size bed. I’m in Heaven. Our little ninja moved into his very own headquarters converting his bedroom into a giant crib by jumbling together our suitcases, pieces of bedroom furniture and dining room chairs.

From our large balcony we had panoramic views across Ras Beirut, the Mediterranean Sea and Lebanon Hills. Elevated so high up felt like we were on top of the world. Truth be told, I nearly gagged from vertigo every time I looked down, nonetheless, relieved to have more breathing space from chaos down below. 

Reminiscent of the ocean views back in OZ it felt comforting to look out to The Med and recognise our small but significant achievement in finding a suitable temporary home. “We have found our feet in Beirut” I acknowledge to myself.

I was about to put mine up on the sofa when I heard a hullabaloo in the toilet - sounded more like spurting water followed by squeals of laughter - so I went to inspect. And there I caught Mateo’s head deep in the bidet bowl fascinated by his dad’s demonstration of the porcelain throne. I cry out “Mikey, why have you got your FOOT in the butt washer?” His response was priceless “It’s for washing your feet…no?” he innocently replies.

I wonder what other innovative uses the bidet can offer? I’m sure my fellow travel buddies have some ideas, I’d love to know.

Through the eyes of a child

Welcome to Lebanon! We are finally here in Beirut. Knowing very little about the country before leaving Australia, except its delicious food and it’s not so tasteful history, it still feels really exciting to be somewhere unfamiliar, giving us a fresh perspective on life. In fact, literally and metaphorically, we will be experiencing Beirut through the eyes of a child as the three of us learn a new way of life as an expat family.

Our flight into Beirut went without a hitch. As we began descending my nine-month old Mateo was sprawled out fast asleep on my lap while Michael and I observed from our tiny airplane window the lay of the land for the very first time. Bordered on one side by the Mediterranean, and on the other mountain ranges, Beirut seems a city suspended between the sky and the sea. From arid hills to lush forests, fertile plains to sprawling city it truly is a land of contrast, who knows what to expect down below.

 

Michael and I stared wide eyed at each other with the same nervous expression - this is it, we are actually going to live HERE!

As soon as we touched down at Beirut airport, the young customs lady took a real liking to Mateo, already he is learning to flirt with the ladies (oldies included) and all thanks to him our exit was swift. He even received kisses on the cheek on the way out! Who said travelling with a nine-month old to the Middle East was a bad idea? Lebanese people LOVE kids and I have a feeling Mateo is going to be our winning ticket in this country.

Along with our four oversized suitcases, a stroller and baby seat, we squished into a classic black Mercades taxi. The driver was dismissive as he watched Michael fix the baby seat to the backseat of his cab “Yoou’re wasting yoour time, no one uzez zem ‘ere” he smirks. The way he was driving - a “maniac” is an understatement - I was slightly relieved Mateo was strapped in.

It was literally a white-knuckle ride. While the driver had one eye on the road, the other on us, one hand on the horn, the other gripping a mobile phone, full pedal to the metal I braced myself for what felt like our one and only ride in Beirut.

As a distraction, not that the driver needed it, we made small talk to kill time (pun intended). With our mix of English, French and Arabic we interconnected words to make conversation. Looking at Mateo in the rear-view mirror the driver shouts in his thick accent, reiterating with hand gestures “Wherre are yoou from? Yoour sun looks like won of us, yani, loook at his fase, his skin and his eyez!”

When I explained that we’re a multinational family a mix of Australian, Swiss and Egyptian he was so chuffed because he lived several years in Switzerland, has cousins living in Sydney, and Lebanese people especially like their Egyptian neighbours, so we’re definitely in the good books. “Yoou w’ll have no broblem ‘ere we like Ejypshians, they’re veery friendly! You are veery wellcom ‘ere” he warmly replies.

Thankfully we arrived at the serviced apartment in Hamra with shot nerves but in one piece. Feeling too tired to go out for dinner we ordered our first home delivery, a mixed grilled platter for two that could feed the Lebanese Army. Watching Arabic pop videos on cable TV stuffing ourselves with our oversizes feast of meat, dips, pickles, salad & Lebanese bread I looked across at Michael who’s reflecting the same smirk on his face - this is it we ARE actually living here! Its early days I know but I feel that we are going to be very happy in Beirut, I'll keep you posted.