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!