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.

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?!

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.