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

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.