Beautiful Autumn

Well, we woke up to a beautiful weekend. Clear blue skies, warmth, and the roads full of cars. Now, that’s always a good sign in Lebanon. So, I went out onto the balcony – the one giving the view over Beirut. I wanted to compare what I was seeing and my mood to that of Friday late afternoon. It was the brightness that struck me the most. When the sun is shining over Beirut in the autumn there is a kind of clarity and freshness that you don’t get during the summer. Perhaps that’s why I wait for the “between seasons” of autumn and spring – my favorites. Seems I wasn’t the only one enjoying the weather, one of my colleagues was out and about doing something similar.

I couldn’t do much but stay at home; but I’m not complaining about that, I enjoy having to stay at home! With reports to write and a son vomiting all night long (he's better now) the prospect of doing anything else but stay in was not even on the cards. I took my coffee outside and couldn’t help but enjoy the way the light played on the different colours of the leaves on some of my balcony pots (faithfully watered by Charles).

Inspired I went out the back balcony to check on the “workers.” Our neighbours have plots of land that they dig and plant in just behind out house. You’d be amazed by the noise of the digging that goes on out there on a Sunday morning! Today was no exception. They were all there, busy. Working, chatting, then stopping to have the inevitable coffee brought down by one of their wives.

Living 20 minutes out of Beirut does have its up side…

Beirut Sunset

I stood on my balcony this evening and watched the sunset over Beirut. From my vantage point all seemed calm and strangely normal. There were no plumes of smoke, no unwelcome sounds; in fact, there were hardly any sounds at all.

I gazed towards the Mediterranean Sea, wishing I could just hold back time. Wishing I could prevent the inevitable sinking of the red glowing ball into the blue waters on the horizon. This seemingly perfect scene had sinister implications. This was the last sunset I would witness before the unavoidable hours, days, perhaps even months, of precariousness ensued.

It is now pretty certain to anyone interested that there will not be a presidential election before the end of Lahoud’s term. So, what does this mean to the regular folk of Lebanon? To those people who are just trying to live their lives amid crazy traffic, increasing prices, and a seemingly (until this week’s rain) endless summer? It means stress, anxiety, fear, confusion, and even tears, as we try to carry on with “life as usual.”

But nothing is as usual. Our lives are on hold. Who knows how this will play out? We’re back to the days when you ask yourself the question each time you leave the house, “Is this trip out really necessary?” Each morning going to school we’ll be wondering if anything will happen to make our journey home into an interminable 3 hour jam instead of the early morning 20 minute drive.

Yes, so as I watched the sun this evening you can understand my desire to push the pause button. To have just a few more hours of “normalcy,” the calm before the storm.

In Lebanon it just doesn’t work that way…

Goodbye to a Friend

Marinka was a good person. Anyone you ask will say that, without hesitation and without exception; family, colleagues, friends.

I met her back in 1993 when I went to work at Eastwood. She spoke little English and back then my Arabic was pitiful, but that didn’t stop the communication. She was everywhere. Whatever you needed, Marinka was the person to ask. A human dynamo! Any part of the day-to-day running of the school that she was involved in would be organised, performing like clockwork.

Marinka Saad was not an educated woman, but she was very smart. She was a quick thinker who wasn’t afraid of hard work. Another teacher and I would often muse that if she’d been given the chance of an education she would have gone far. But, the thing that impressed me most from the moment I first met her, and that others also noticed, was her humility. Whatever job she was doing, serving coffee, cleaning up the kitchen, standing in the rain on gate duty; she did it well, with pride, and with a natural humility and grace. Sometimes it seemed that nothing could ever get done without her. You would hear cries of, “Marinka!” coming down the hall. She would smile and say, “Yalla, Marinka khamse dollar!” (“Marinka, $5”) This was a joke we had, quipping that if she got five dollars for every time her name was called… well, she’d have had a far easier life.

Marinka was a hard worker. She raised her family, supported her relatives, and never stopped. She couldn’t stop. Life was tough and money tight. I remember a time when her husband lost his job. She didn’t moan or complain, although she must have been worried. She kept on doing what she always did, in just the same way she always did. She gave everything her best.

This afternoon as I walked towards the church memories of Marinka flashed through my mind. Her daily greetings, her hugs and empathy; her quiet, contemplative moments. I was determined to make this a celebration of her life, not desperation at her death. It was hard. The service, although all in Arabic, was touching. Seeing the people there, the very genuine sorrow etched on their faces, made it difficult to hold back the tears that were so close to the surface. Charles and I slipped away quickly and quietly at the end. I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. I wanted to stay quiet, with my “Marinka memories.”

As we left the church small droplets of rain were falling. Their presence fitted the mood perfectly. It was like “angel rain” – tears being shed for all those people Marinka was leaving behind to cope with life without her. My eyes were drawn Heavenwards, and that’s when I saw the beauty of God’s welcome to Marinka. From the horizon to the mountaintop behind us there was a dramatic sunset. Not a hot, postcard sunset – but a rich sunset in all its fullness. At the horizon it shone with red. As it ascended towards the clouds above it mingled with the grey and white to become a strangely beautiful pink hue. The clouds gave the impression of an oil painting. The display continued above our heads, getting ever darker as the fingers of the clouds reached out to touch the mountain, descending into blackness.

An amazing curtain call, totally fitting for an amazing woman.

Marinka wasn’t an educated woman, but she was smart. I learnt a lot from her, especially about humility, forgiveness and love.

I love you Marinka and I’ll miss you.

The Perfect Frame

It’s been a tiring week. I don’t want to sound too pessimistic and say exhausting. And, I don’t want to point out to myself that it doesn’t look like it’ll be the last such week. Having a son in his senior year of IB and on the Varsity Football Team should come with a health warning, “Could cause serious fatigue.”

At times like these I find myself looking for the positive. Didn’t I say I was an optimist! So, on Wednesday evening as I was eventually being transported home from school at 10:30pm, I was allowing the gentle vibration of the engine and rocking movement of the car to begin my mental and physical relaxation from the day. Although we were three, there was no need for conversation. We all needed some peace.

Suddenly, as we turned a corner in the road, I was treated to a sight that fitted the mood perfectly. It sat next to a friend, close enough but still with a distance between them that respected the peacefulness; the space. There was a warm, yet non intrusive glow. It engulfed me. I could feel the quiet; it was tangible. I instinctively sunk lower in my seat.

A perfect half circle balanced serenely just above the darkened silhouette of the mountain. It was huge, seeming to quietly dominate the whole mountain. A silver glow highlighted the upper peaks. The moon hung there. Its proximity allowing us to see each vein, each creator. As I nestled there I felt as if a grandparent was watching over me; “Old Man Moon.” In my weariness I closed my eyes for a moment and was transported back to childhood snuggles with my grandmother. The warm, safe feeling reassuring me that, “Everything will be alright,” and, “It’s nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

I had to break the silence. I had to make sure that Charles and Matthew had both been treated to the same sight. They didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. That’s OK. Passion is a personal thing.

In our professional development at school we have been invited to reflect upon our outlook on life and work by considering the difference between a “good frame” and an even “better frame” using the metaphor of photography. Last Wednesday I was treated to an “excellent frame;” recognizing it was the key.

Shh! Don't Pass It On

I mentioned previously that I would write more about the Orange House. I suppose it was about two years ago when I first heard someone mention it. I can’t remember who or where, but I can remember the feeling. It was as if I’d walked into the room when something really secret was being discussed. I felt awkward, like an eavesdropper. Innocently caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and wishing I wasn’t there.

Now I can, in some ways, understand the secretiveness. My schema kicks in and I draw parallels with the French Résistance movement during the 2nd World War. Letting the “wrong” person have important information at that time could have meant the difference between life and death. Well, we’re not talking life and death here, but a degree of secretiveness is in order.

The ladies of the Orange House do have a mission. Mona and Habiba have dedicated their lives to ensuring the propagation of the turtle population that comes annually to revisit their natal beaches. It’s their passion, and they have a refreshing, no nonsense approach to it. Being able to visit and share in their zeal for this worthy cause is a real privilege. If you’re a cat lover you’ll understand what I’m trying to say. You know how, when you want your cat to snuggle up next to you on the bed, they look at you and then walk away? There’s no doubt that they do need you, and at other times they will come and invade your space totally; usually for me when I have a pile of work and they want to sit right in the middle of it! It’s that kind of relationship that Mona and Habiba have with their guests. They DO want people to come, they need them to help finance their project, but they want to do the choosing…

I think taking this attitude is a necessary step for them. Lebanon is an unusual place; you can only really understand it if you live here. People are both highly sophisticated and uneducated at the same time. Does that make sense? I don’t want to offend - by uneducated I don’t mean book learning. I’m talking about “social” or “global” education. In fact, as far as book learning goes, I’ve met more highly educated people here than I ever did in my home country of England. I feel I can reflect on Lebanon in this way because I have lived more than half my life here. Someone once quipped that I was, “Lebanese by osmosis!” Eco-education is probably lowest on the list; hence the need to protect the Orange House.

We are really spoilt living in Lebanon. Attention is paid to our every need, we are totally pampered. Wherever you go there are armies of parking attendants ready to valet park your car. Scores of “men in green” patrol the streets picking up the rubbish that is thrown, indiscriminately (back to that eco-education bit) from cars and next to dumpsters. Even the bathrooms in McDonald’s sparkle in a way they never do in the UK. People expect, and get, everything picked up and/or cleaned for them. So, what am I talking about this for when I promised the low-down on the Orange House? Well, it’s all interconnected. These are the exact reasons why the ladies are so particular about who comes and stays.

Life at the Orange House is basic. Clean, but basic. There’s no one to open the gate when you arrive, you have to do that yourself. Your bags are your business, no valet parking here! When the electricity is off, it’s off; apart from a few hours in the evening when the generator is turned on. The bedrooms and bathroom are clean and simple; no frilly extras. You can use the kitchen to cook, but you have to clean up after yourself. No pampering here! Noisy people and children are not appreciated; they would unbalance the delicate “eco-system.”

The one “service” provided is breakfast. During the summer months, that takes place after the hour long walk along the beach searching for and recording information on the new nests that have appeared overnight and cleaning up the inevitable rubbish that blows onto the dunes. Breakfast is a mouth watering time. I’m not referring to the food – the simple country fare is a real feast, though – I’m talking about the conversation. You meet the most interesting and enjoyable people at the Orange House.

So, the Orange House is like an oasis for Charles and I. It’s a place that lets you forget the frustrations of life here. It’s charming, tranquil, and has a “sophistication” of its own. Please, don’t pass it on…

Massaya Vineyard

I checked the weather from our balcony this morning with more urgency than usual. It was pleasantly cool, so I took my freshly brewed coffee cupped in my hands to scrutinize the horizon towards the south. This is where all our "weather" comes from. A few puffy clouds sprinkled my view; not enough to cause any concern. Just as well, we were off to the Bekaa Valley today to visit the Massaya vineyard.

An interesting mixed bunch of intrepid wine tasters, including a four legged friend, boarded the bus in Hamra. Off we set for the hour and a half journey along the Damascus Road to our destination. Practically no traffic, clear blue skies, and a careful bus driver; where did you get HIM from, Robert?! This had to be one of the calmest trips I have ever taken along this particular road – my least favorite in the whole of Lebanon.

We left the highway just past Chatura and bounced along a dusty pathway leading to our destination. We took a short walk through the vineyards, now empty of fruit but with neatly trimmed lavender bushes on each side of the pathway. The even rows with spiky stalks, overlooked by the trimmer, appeared to guard the dormant vines. Our path led us to the restaurant. An oasis in the middle of the Bekaa Valley.

Rustic furniture with large cushions haphazardly tossed around the long tables; gently dappled by sunlight twinkling through the trees. The warm aroma of freshly baked saj bread drifted across the threshold to greet us – weary travelers! Armed with piping hot manoushie; zaatar, cheese, cishek, and glasses of wine we filled the chairs. It seemed as if we’d entered our own time capsule. For the next three hours we ate, drank, chatted, and relaxed. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, punctuated by the nargile smokers’ bubble sounds. The gentle pace was what struck me. Lebanon can tend to be a rather frantic place, but here, it was as if time were standing still.

Everyone changed seats at least four times, we all wanted to connect with each other, to share this tranquility, to add to our memories and make sure all were included. The games we’d brought lay untouched. It seemed that lethargy due to the “jaou” (mood) was winning as we stretched, sighed, and took another sip of wine. Nothing could break the mood, not even an annoying 4 year old screaming for attention from his unresponsive mother. Our “capsule” seemed to make it all flow right over our heads, drifting away… It was the kind of peacefulness you want to gather up and treasure, keeping it safe for a rainy day.

I’ve heard it said that much of what is wrong with society today is due to the fact that we don’t, “Take the time to share a cup of tea.” Or, could it be, “Sip a glass of wine…”

More Perfect Than This?

So, what could inspire such a title; I hear you enquire? Well, Charles and I just got back from two days, one night in the Orange House south of Tyre (another time I'll tell you all about the Orange House).

We probably, without even realising it, chose the best weekend of the entire year to go there. I should use the term "chose" with some reserve as it was really Robert and Carol Easton who chose for us and we tagged along. Isn't it great to have friends who prod you into doing things you might not otherwise do?So, we set off on Saturday morning, later than anticipated, and got to the Orange House at about lunch time; that's around 12:30. The trip down was quite uneventful, except that we still have to leave the motorway in two places where they continue to repair the bridges bombed in last summer's war.

Carol and Robert were there to greet us, sun kissed and sandy, straight back from the beach; already showing the tell tale signs of "lack of stress" that come after a few hours in this place.A quick sandwich later and we were all off, down between the banana groves, through the huge iron gate, and onto the warm sand. As we enter the beach there are a clump of white flowers, sitting like star bursts on the ground. Spectacular in their modesty. Humbly sitting there waiting for someone to come along and admire the intricacy of their design. They look like members of the daffodil family; a more exotic and subtle cousin with nothing of the bouncy loudness a group of their yellow relatives would engender.

Ah, the beach. Empty, as usual, the only sound being the gentle waves meeting the shoreline; half rolling, half dancing to the shore as if they don't want to disturb the peacefulness of this place. We take off our shoes and head for the water's edge, walking along towards the "best" place. We find our spot, about halfway along the beach where the flat rocks of the shoreline seem to have left a deliberate gap. Umbrellas planted, towels laid out, we're off! What does Carol mutter as we enter the water? "La tortura continua." (All spelling errors my own inventions!!) She explains that these were the words spoken by a mutual friend every time he came to this piece of paradise and finally got his feet into the sea...

The sparkling, clear water did not disappoint. Could it be? Is it possible that it's even better now in mid October than it was in the summer. The water is pristine, not a jellyfish in sight (we did enjoy the jelly wars in the summer, though), the temperature is perfect - hot enough so that you don't feel a chill when you're wet but not so hot that your head thumps as you labour through the sand to our preferred place. Once we get into the water it's confirmed; this is better than the summer. It might seem impossible to say, but there's not one thing I could have changed to improve on this scene.

Now, onto the serious topic of food. As usual, Carol and Robert have plans, and when it comes to cooking and their plans for it, I'm a happy follower. Rendez-vous in the kitchen for a "family" cooking session. Carol and Robert get busy preparing salad and chopping mushrooms for the chicken dish I can already smell even though the packet isn't yet opened. You guessed it, only in Lebanon can you get away with eating this much garlic and continue to have friends to talk to! I prepare my apple crumble which is greatly enhanced by the addition of some of Carol's left over plums in ginger syrup.

About a hour later, we find ourselves sitting on the terrace. A single candle adorns the middle of the table, another signals the edge of the stairs. They flicker as they cast an orange glow across the after-dinner scene before us. The empty wine bottles and contented sighs attest to the fact that dinner was GOOD! Carol calls her daughter, Emily, in Chicago to wish her a happy birthday. We text to try and find out what the rugby score is between England and France; but it's too early. The evening is cool. Not cool enough to even wear a cardigan, but cool enough to be comfortable. Charles' nargile bubbles away in the background. Somewhere in the garden one of the dogs barks; sending a warning to any potential furry invaders. We sit and chat, and chat and sit. Laughing, exclaiming our disbelief at the latest news from Emily; you get the picture.

Robert decides that falling asleep in bed would be better than doing so at the table, so, at 11:30 we all get up, stretch, and follow the candle path to the door.

And just think, we get to do it all again in the morning; now that's perfect!