Saint Charbel (1828-1898) was a Maronite monk who spent 23 years as a hermit and was an avid student of philosophy and theology. After his death, many healing miracles were attributed to him and he became a canonized saint of the Catholic Church.

When I visited the home of his birth (which has been turned into a museum and shrine of sorts) late one night, there were many people there, including several recently arrived Syrian refugees. People were praying, sleeping on the floor and huddled in groups lighting candles. After a few minutes of silent prayer, I began to weep uncontrollably. Soon…..everyone…..was weeping openly, in unison, as if at a funeral. Everyone looked at each other and acknowledged what was happening, and silently continued until they were finished. Many people still come here to pray for healing miracles and to celebrate the life and piety of this “Patron Saint of Lebanon.” I am not sure why I was crying…..perhaps it was the collective strife embodied in all the refugee families, or an amalgamation of all the heartbreak I have endured over the last few years in my romantic life, or the fact that I’d had a few vodkas at Maklouf’s Cafe earlier in the evening. At any rate, something was making me introspective and somber and it felt good to get it out.

The MARONITES are an Eastern Rite community of the Roman Catholic Church founded by Saint Maron, a Syrian hermit of the late 4th and early 5th centuries. Under the Pope, different traditions evolved from the 5 centers of Christendom which were Antioch, Alexandria, Constantinople, Rome and Jerusalem. Maronites come from the Antiochene tradition and migrated to Lebanon under threat of persecution. They were largely able to maintain their religious customs even under occupation because of their geographic isolation in the rough mountain terrain of Northern Lebanon. The liturgies are normally delivered in Syriac Aramaic as they would have been thousands of years ago.

My Dutch friend Saskia and I crashed a wedding being performed in Aramaic at the central church in the town of Tannourine (almost all of Lebanon’s spring water comes from here) and the burly, scary Russian mafia dude guarding the marital “car” let us take some photos before the wedding party exited the church. Later, as we were leaving town, we passed the reception party which was being held in a giant, half built concrete mansion over looking the valley. Cars were parked five deep and there was barely enough room to squeeze through without ripping the mirrors off the old fashioned rentals.  As we passed, we saw the blue-eyed Russian guard with the gold teeth. He waved at us as if we were old friends. Friends he would not hesitate to kill if necessary. Nothing personal, it’s just business.

The CEDARS of GOD (Horsh Arz al Rab) are located not far from Bsharri on Mount Makmel (although there is actually a larger Cedar Forrest in the Chouf) at an altitude of 6,600 feet. They are hardy, majestic trees that were once the dominant tree of this mountainous terrain, however, they have been exploited throughout history by everyone from the Phonecians (to build ships) and Soloman (to build the first temple in Jerusalem) to the Ottomans (to build extensive railroads) which has largely caused their near extinction.

There is a slow reforesting effort in progress throughout the country and the hope is that some of these beautiful groves can be restored. Honestly, walking through the grove (which is incredibly small….there is a much bigger, but not as famous one…in the Chouf) it felt a little bit like being in a battlefield after a long and bloddy war. The few soldiers left standing were limbless, exhausted and nearly defeated. The trees do have an energy, though, and an incredible smell. Maybe it is the smell of a certain majesty that has been lost, or of a certain quality of perseverance. While we were here the Lebanese army was taking up the whole backside of the park, unloading guns and backpacks and food from military vehicles and lounging around in the shade waiting for their next orders. It turns out they had just finished a unit “race” from another town and were packing up. I was happy to hear that, because it seemed like they were taking the place over and turning it into some kind of encampment. All the soldiers LOVED my Norwegian friend Eivid’s t-shirt which said, in Arabic, WAZAFUK? This means, “Did he hire you?” and is clearly a play on words by some clever smartass. I plan on buying several of these shirts and wearing them every day.

The Lebanese Cedar is considered the oldest known tree and is mentioned several times in the Bible. There are said to be several trees in the Cedars of God that are between 1000 and 3000 years old.

The city, or the “Paris of the MiddleEast” as it used to be called, has been reduced to rubble so many times it’s hard to count and many of the old buildings still show the pock marks of bullets and artillery fire. There is no comprehensive urban development plan for the city or legislation to protect some of these beautiful old buildings and the regulations that are in place are set up to benefit the real estate companies and the government, but not the people interested in historic preservation and beautification. There are also not many regulations in place about noise levels, quality of work or when work can be done and very late night or early morning construction projects are not uncommon.

Cranes and half finished high rises dot the skyline and many of the historic structures are being ripped down in favor of massive, big money projects with uncertain futures. There were close to 9 million new construction permits taken out in 2011. Beirut is a city of about 1.7 million people!

The only neighborhood being systematically rebuilt with a plan is downtown. Solidere, a company founded by former prime-minister Rafik Hariri (who was assassinated in 2005) planned and completed the reconstruction of the central district known as “Beirut Souks” in 2009 and they have many other ongoing projects including a huge seaside development on a landfill. Many people have accused them of turning downtown Beirut into an ostentatious, soulless area for the rich and I think there is a great deal of truth to that. Similar to a woman with too much plastic surgery, there is a hollowness to the downtown area and a certain sanitized quality that did not resonate with me. It felt like Epcott Center at Disney World or a sort of “Middle East Souk” theme park mall with the option of shopping at Zara and Tiffanys that only caters to big business and people that can afford lavish shopping sprees. I would like to see more green space, more historic renovations geared towards allowing small businesses and artists to flourish and, yes, I would like to see the preservation of the SOUL of the city…..because it is clear that once upon a time it had one. Still, Solidere, is the most actively traded company on the Beirut Stock Exchange.

Some people, at a neighborhood level are forming alliances and committees in order to help fight the intrusion of big corporations, add more green space and environmental awareness to the cities development projects and preserve some of the past. I will highlight these groups as I discover them because they are crucial and they deserve all the attention and support they can get!

― Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

Khalil Gibran was a man after my own heart. A poet, painter, sculptor, wanderer, philosopher, activist, dreamer and inveterate lover of love, he was born in the Northern mountain town of Bsharri, Lebanon in 1883 and buried there in 1931.

Bsharri, is named after ISHTAR the goddess of Fertility, Love, War and Sex who was worshiped by the Phoenicians in ancient times. Her cult involved sacred prostitution and she was the courtesan of the Gods, although she could be cruel and her love was often fatal. Her symbol was the lion and the eight pointed star and she was said to be the divine personification of the planet Venus.

The town, of about 100,000 people, sits high above the Qadisha (Holy in Aramaic) Valley which is a deeply spiritual place full of ancient monasteries carved into the sides of cliffs and old cave dwellings where famous hermits (five of whom became canonized Saints) used to pray and live. This Valley became the spiritual center for the Maronite Church in the 7th Century and was one of the centers of Christian resistance during the protracted Lebanese Civil War (1975-1990). Aramaic was still spoken here until well into the 19th century which contributes to the strong and peculiar local accent still audible today. It is one of the most ancient Christian monastic communities in the Middle East and it has a palpable, resonant power that is impossible to describe but that can be felt as soon as you step into the valley. It is possible to walk a winding trail that takes you to most of the twenty six monasteries in the region, all of them more than 1000 years old.

Born into a Maronite Catholic family, it is fitting that Gibran would be from a town historically associated with all of the complex sides of love. At his core, he was a lover……of words, of art, of truth, of women. This is especially true when it comes to his relationship with Mary Haskell, an older woman who he fell in love with at an early age and who became his mentor and confidant throughout the rest of his life. It was she who purchased the monastery in Bsharri that would become his final resting place and saw to it that he was returned to his native land. This is an excerpt from one of his letters to her:

Beautiful

“That deepest thing, that recognition, that knowledge, that sense of kinship began the first time i saw you, and it is the same now-only a thousand times deeper and tenderer. I shall love you to eternity. I loved you long before we met in this flesh. I knew that when i first saw you. It was destiny. We are together like this and nothing can shake us apart.”

Kahlil Gibran from Mary Haskell’s Journal

March 12, 1922

Hello. What woman would not want a hot twenty five year old poet/painter writing her letters (LETTERS…not SEXTS!) like that every day. I know that’s what I want. NEWSFLASH: accepting applications

But you have to have it all. Words, pictures, depth, passion, soul and the ability to write legible words on a piece of paper with an instrument known as a PEN or QUILL (oh…how very Marquis de Sade). No FB messages, pokes, tweets, tags or e-mails please. Better yet…..show up under my window at night playing your pain through the body of a clarinet. Okay?

A man of incredible intensity and depth of feeling, he was also a very talented painter and sculptor, many of his works being erotic nudes of women and couples. Several of them are now on display in the upper part of the Gibran museum which also houses his tomb and a selection of his personal effects from his art and writing studios.

Most well know for The Prophet (1923), he is the most famous Lebanese born author and the third best selling poet of all time. He wrote in both English and Arabic, having mastered both languages, and always surrounded himself with art and people that fed his soul.

This is the EPITAPH from his tomb:

An architect, businessman and former nightclub owner, Fady is a soft-spoken, wickedly funny man with a deep esoteric knowledge of the history of Lebanon and the largest hands of of any human being alive. He made the perfect ambassador and I took several trips with him during my stay. The first was to the dramatic CHOUF mountains Southeast of Beirut which form the heartland of Lebanon’s Druze community.

On the way we listened to Cuban “Son” music and began to talk about Druze philosophy. Fady comes from a half Maronite-half Druze family and grew up in these mountains where they still have a summer home surrounded by gardens and fruit trees.

This music really drives me wild. I am a “latin dance enthusiast” at home in the states and recently checked out the Beirut scene at El Gardel (every Wed. night in Gemayzze) It’s a very lively crowd with a bunch of incredible dancers, especially Nassib from AUB and the group from In Motion dance studio. Anyway, I swear to God…..when I hear this music…my culo just wants to MOVE. Fady pulled over and I almost danced my way off a cliff but I was saved by my good friend ERIC who is responsible, vigilant and kind. More on him later. He will get his own section, in fact.

The Druze religion is often considered an 11th century offshoot of the Ismaili sect of Shiite Islam whose focus is on the mystical path, the nature of God and the manifestation of truth and reality, however, it also interprets the three other monotheistic religions and includes the concepts of prophets and mentors as a tenants of the faith. These prophets include Jethro and Moses, John the Baptist, Jesus, Salman the Persian and Mohammed. They also hold the Egyptian Akhenaten, the Greek philosophers Socrates, Plato and Aristotle and Alexander the Great in high esteem.

There are no fixed daily liturgies, defined holy days or pilgrimage obligations and they are forbidden to eat pork, smoke, drink alcohol or marry more than one wife.

The sect is secret and closed to new converts with the rationale that the religion was open to new believers for a generation when it was first revealed and everyone was invited to join. Since they believe in reincarnation, and that everyone alive today is the reincarnation of someone who lived at that time, there is no reason to allow them to join today.

Druze religious books are accessible only to the initiates or the UQQAL (knowers) many of whom are women. The remaining members or JUHAL (the ignorant ones) accept the faith on the basis of tradition.

The majority of the approximately one million Druze reside in Syria and Lebanon, with a smaller percentage in Israel and the Golan Heights. there are also small, scattered communities throughout the world and many believe that a secret, important community exists in China.

The traditional symbol of the Druze is the colored, five pointed star. Each color holds the following meaning and is typically associated with a specific figure in history:

GREEN AKL (cosmic intelligence)

RED NAFS (universal soul)

YELLOW KALIMA (the word)

BLUE SABIQ (the cause)

WHITE TALI (the future)

Yes, it is true. Beirut is full of hairy people, especially men, and I was lucky enough to befriend the hairiest of them all, MR. ALLAN CHAARAOUI, whose names actually means HAIRY in ARABIC! Nice.

Allan is the hilarious, uber-talented lead singer and guitarist for the Beirut based band LAZZY LUNG. In 2011 Lazzy Lung was the winner of Rolling Stone’s Middle East Battle of the bands, Esquire’s Middle East musicians of the year and Capital Record’s “Homegrown to Hollywood” contest. Check it out here:

http://www.triplew.me/ray-ban/home-grown-to-hollywood-lazzy-lung-videos/1535-video-1-introducing-lazzy-lung

We met at RADIO BEIRUT (the coolest new venue in town) through my friend ERNESTO CHAHOUD (also hairy and named after Che Guevara because his parents were communists) who is the brilliant DJ who started the Beirut Groove Collective and continues to bring amazing talent to the Beirut scene as well as help revive the careers of old masters like funk super-star Rickey Calloway.

Ernesto and I were hanging out on the back porch after having run into each other by chance on the street a few minutes before. A week earlier we met when we shared a “service” taxi (Ernesto had been carrying a new vinyl album for his vast collection) but he exited so quickly, we couldn’t exchange numbers.

Allan walked in and Ernesto joked with him about his recent FAME and FORTUNE with the band.

“Yeah, man. It’s just NON STOP BLOW JOBS!”

said Allan…..

I knew I liked this guy.

And his music…….speaks for itself.

Check out the following links for more info:

http://www.rollingstoneme.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=1682

https://www.facebook.com/theBGC

https://www.facebook.com/radiobeirutsal

MA FI KOHREBA (there is no electricity) was the single most common Arabic phrase I heard this summer in Beirut, followed closely by “FI KOHREBA?” (is there any electricity?) The answer, in most cases, was an emphatic NO usually followed by nervous, apologetic laughter, a shrug of the shoulders and the follow up phrase: “Welcome to Lebanon, my dear.”

For several hours a day and often for days at a time (I think the record was 5 straight days in my neighborhood of Mar Mikhael Nahr) there was no power in large swaths of the city and outlying areas. At one point the entire AIRPORT lost power for several hours. Of course this means that during the 45 degree Celsius heat, there were no fans, ac, internet or refrigeration facilities. Every day the refrigerator melted and stank up the house and every day I walked by the electrical workers protesting in front of the EDL and wondered what the hell the problem was. Why was it so f-ing complicated to provide regular electricity to a needy population. I decided to find out.

It turns out that the problem with Lebanon’s failing electrical grid is multi-fold and has been going on for years. Since virtually all of the premiers, deputies, ministers and bureaucrats are in the top 10% of the population that can afford to spend a monthly minimum wage (400usd) on an uninterrupted supply of power, very little has been done to change the status quo, although there is certainly a lot of public posturing and blame trading. None of the people in positions of power, including the impotent Energy Minister, Gebran Bassil and the rest of his gang of thieves are actually PERSONALLY AFFECTED by the outages, so it’s very hard for them to relate to the public and get behind a concerted effort to change this. On top of that, there are several problems that come into play to create the massive goat-screw know as the EDL. They are as follows:

1. DESIGN PROBLEMS

The countries four main electrical plants were initially built to operate on gas and there WAS NOT even a pipeline connecting Lebanon to a gas producing country until 2009. They are now hoping that EGYPT can step in and help beef up the supply but there have been bureaucratic delays and security issues. They are also contracting some electricity generating BARGES from Turkey as a temporary solution but they will not be ready until the hottest part of the year is already over.

1. COST

60% of Lebanon’s electricity is produced by diesel turbines which is VERY EXPENSIVE (like in the range of 1.5-2.5 billion a year) The government provides subsidies for this BUT they do not necessarily favor the areas that need them the most and many people accuse those in charge of distributing these subsidies of widespread corruption.

1. CORRUPTION (known as FASSAD in Arabic)

This one speaks for itself. You know, someone gives you money to provide power for a small village and you give them power for….say….10 hours a day….then buy a yacht or finance your daughter’s wedding with the rest of the money. That type of thing.

1. THEFT

There is a massive problem with this, especially in the South, the Southern Suburbs and the North not only by individuals but by huge corporations that bribe government employees for more than their share of the grid. Again. FASSAD

1. LABOR

The EDL workers, who many believe got their jobs through a corrupt system of entitlement, have been shutting down the EDL facilities by occupying the main buildings and preventing the use of vehicles and equipment used to maintain and supply the grid. They are demanding the hiring of up to 2000 FULL TIME workers who would receive full salary and benefits under an already stressed system. Opponents say that this is simply NOT ECONOMICALLY FEASIBLE and that it would, in fact, create more corruption. Meanwhile, the Free Patriotic Movement has been accused of deliberately cutting the power and water supply in some neighborhoods in order to mobilize the people against the Workers Party. There are currently not adequate labor laws in place to control and monitor behavior by workers in situations such as this, so it is basic anarchy with the Lebanese Forces, Police Department and local politicians all taking sides and creating a chaotic, totally unruly environment which never actually results in a light being turned on.

1. PASSIVITY

Like I said…..people who can afford it either have back up generators on 24/7 or they pay or bribe their way to non-stop power so they never really feel the extreme heat, inconvenience and malaise of the general population where electricity is concerned. They are out of touch and, frankly, they don’t seem to give a damn.

Recently, the Energy Minister came on TV and told people to “Take to the Streets” to demand their right to free power. Really? Isn’t that HIS JOB? He really needs to grow a massive pair of COJONES. Immediately.

Tourism is definitely being negatively affected as the situation gets worse and worse. Nobody one wants to feel like their airplane might crash when the runway looses power just before landing or that the hospital will go black during their emergency appendectomy. I mean, a few hours of darkness can be romantic and cute…..but several days of blackouts are not, especially under such HIGHLY SUSPICIOUS circumstances.

As far as solutions to this problem……..Anybody got any BRIGHT IDEAS???

——Khalil Gibran

Omar, the sweet, environmentalist landlord of the place I was to be was renting in Mar Mikhael Nahr, picked me up the next night in his white Prius (the ONLY hybrid I saw while in Lebanon) and took me to the house to show me the room that I’d be occupying and give me the keys. On the way he explained that I couldn’t move in right away because there had been a

tragedy.

One of his friends, a 34 year old wise and bright eyed man from Spain, had been run over by a car and killed while crossing the street in front of the Rafik Hariri Mosque downtown Beirut. He was killed on a street that I would end up traversing many, many times this summer……and each time…..I thought of him……and his brothers (a maintenance man and a saxophone player) and his sister (a university student) who had to come to Beirut to collect his body, and to sort the mundane and not so mundane details of a life cut short, all while trying to control their own pain and loss. They had not seen him in five years.

They would be staying on the floor of my room in the house for a few days while they collected his things and dealt with paperwork and visited his favorite places, accompanied by his new, young, vibrantly beautiful Lebanese girlfriend… whom they had just met for the first time the night I arrived. In fact, theirs was a new love, a summer love. The way she described it, it seemed true… and timeless and instantaneous.

“It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created for years or even generations.”
——–Khalil Gibran

They met, on the street in Hamra where some of her friends were playing lively music. He began spontaneously dancing with her and his freedom captivated her and made her laugh. He was wearing black and white. He always wore black and white. This was one of the differences between them: he liked to keep life simple and mobile and he rarely accumulated any objects and she liked to dress in an elaborate, romantic style and to collect things, even empty cigarette boxes and old wrappers with interesting writing. She kept everything that he touched. She touched everything that he kept.

On the night they met, they decided to have a contest with a few friends:

WHO COULD STAY AWAKE THE LONGEST

They were the last two standing after almost 72 hours of movies, long walks, Dunkin Donuts binges, Zeit wa Zataar breakfast (the Lebanese Denny’s), jogging, you-tube marathons, beach, music, conversations, beer, coffee and questions on every known topic in the universe., It was like an abridged lifetime together. They mined the depths and managed to fight exhaustion at every turn.

And then she fell asleep with her head in his lap. He stayed there until morning so he wouldn’t wake her up.

After that they were together every single day of the summer. They ate a lot. They were ALWAYS hungry. She said “fuck” all the time and he never swore. He told her to put honey on her tongue so that everything would come out sweeter and it worked. Everything was sweeter and he was finally thinking that he’d found something that he’d like to hold onto. He drew suns and moons on her feet and he made her laugh with his silly jokes and metaphors and flirty behavior. They openly professed their love to each other and were willingly being carried away by something much larger than themselves.

Until:

“It takes a minute to have a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone… but it takes a lifetime to forget someone.”
——–Khalil Gibran

His girlfriend told me that she does not think that she will ever love like that again, and that at 22 years old she had reached the zenith of her romantic life with this kind spanish man whose light was recognized by everyone who met him. Perhaps she is right, but I am in awe of the courage it took to love like that and I hope that I will always remember to choose passion over comfort for however long it lasts.

Set behind the Coral gas station on Rue Pasteur next to the Tripoli highway which is always jam packed with cars and right next to the Charles Helou bus depot (in case you want to catch a ride to Damascus), it is a real refuge, always full of a mix of locals and international types of all colors, creeds and sexual persuasions.

I arrived pretty haggard and checked into a one of the private, high-ceilinged rooms which was simple, clean and thankfully had AC, hot water and a back up generator. After I showered and changed into a summer dress, I began to wander around the compound aimlessly, opening all the doors I could find and exploring the little gardens and patios. As I headed back up the main stairs to the street a man stopped me from behind:

“Excuse me, lady, you look for something?”

I smiled.

I really detest being called “lady” but I laugh every time it happens for some reason. I guess it’s better than being called “woman”. Maybe.

“Not specifically”, I said, “Just looking around.”

“You know shisha? You want smoke with us? Come…”

But I like being told what to do. Sometimes.

I declined the shisha (or Nargila…water pipe with tobacco and fruit like apple or lemon and mint) but sat down with HAKIM, who was wearing a t-shirt that said “SEX TEACHER: FIRST LESSON FREE”, and his Saudi friend HASSAN who was laying sideways on the stone bench and smoking slowly like a Fakir. A few minutes later it was dark and they were inviting me to drive with them to Rauoche along the Corniche and see the famous Pigeon Rocks. Normally not one to get into strange Hookah smoking, Saudi Arabian men’s cars, for some reason I agreed to this plan and off we went. Within the first five minutes of the ride we discussed:

ISRAEL and the 2006 Bombing

PEACE (Hakim claimed that he was a “Peace Guy” while Hassan said that he was a “Half Peace Guy”, whatever that means….I’m pretty sure that means the half that doesn’t include Israel)

THE SAUDI DRIFT

HEZBOLLAH

“You know where we are going?” Hakim asked me.

“No, but I like surprises!”

Hakim laughed…….”You sound like NASRALLAH….you know NASRALLAH? The leader of Hezbollah? He always say that…..he LOVE surprises….or maybe…..he like to make SURPRISES!”

He and Hassan laughed hysterically.

“Yeah, well….let’s hope he doesn’t have any surprises planned for this summer.”

“Oh don’t worry”, they said in unison, “we will protect you!”

Great.

As we pulled up along the Corniche in front of the rocks, Hassan, the driver, announced that he had to work early on Tuesday (it was Sunday) and that he would not be joining us.

Then I understood the scam. Just roll with it, I thought. You know remedial Kung Fu.

Hakim and I climbed under a fence and walked down a dusty hill scattered with trash, past a little cafe and an old military barracks and along a small, cliffside path that bordered the sea. It was remote and eerie. A great place for a murder or a sex crime. Nice.

Hakim motioned me to sit on a big rock with a view. I sat down and immediately jumped up in excruciating pain. I was on fire. Someone had left a small pile of shisha coals burning and my unsuspecting ass put them out! I spent the rest of the evening leaning uncomfortably to one side and wondering how this injury would effect my ability to hurl this guy off the cliff should he push it too far.

“This……is where I come to throw my problems into the sea”, Hakim explained with a sweeping gesture. He continued to tell me that, as a boy, he had jumped from those rocks many times, that it was a kind of “rite of passage” for all Beiruti boys, and that if he ever had a son, he would do it too.

Then he asked me for the first of many hugs.

I looked down tentatively and realized that my dress revealed just enough cleavage to make me look like the type of girl that might just “hug” random strangers now and again. Crap.

“Oh, look…..I can’t hug you”, I said, “I am in love with someone. I have a man.”

I even showed him a picture…..

“Well, okay, that is great for you but where is he?” He looked around ceremoniously and then answered his own question.

“He is not here.”

He also told me that the man in the picture was too young for me, his nose was too big and it would never work out. Then he explained that all men give women a three part exam when they first meet them to see if they are worthy of being a wife:

STEP 1: TAKE THEM SWIMMING (this way you can see them without 2 inches of make-up, false eyelashes, fake chicken cutlet boobs and hair extensions…..if you still find her beautiful….chances are she IS beautiful and not, as he called them, one of the “BEAUTIFUL MONSTERS”.)

STEP 2: INTRODUCE THEM TO YOUR FAMILY (big bonus points if your friends and family like the girl….because let’s face it….they are going to be spending a hell of a lot more time with her than you are)

STEP 3: TRY TO MAKE SEX WITH THEM (if they go with you….they will cheat on you with other men. A very bad quality in a wife, indeed)

“Give me a hug”, Hakim said again.

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Because my boyfriend is a very jealous man.”

Now this……..he understood.

My favorite thing about Buyukada is not the ruins of bloated exile’s splendor or even any of the amazing vistas from ISA TEPESI (Jesus Hill), but the intoxicating jasmine/citrus smell of a most incredible tree—the LINDEN

Known as the LIPA in Poland (where my family is from), it is considered a sacred tree and symbolizes divine power, valor and victory. The ancient Greeks thought it to be the home of the goddess of love and in ancient Christendom it was known as the tree of the blessed mother. The fragrant, nectar producing flowers known as the “lime blossom” have an almost narcotic effect on me each time I walk by…..which is often…..considering there is one right in front of the apartment and several more on my same street! It turns out, the blossoms are used in tea form as “anti-spasmodics”, “calming agents” and to cure various other ills so it’s no wonder I feel a bit like a junky going out to get her fix. I am going to have to find some arboreal methadone in Beirut!

The wood of the Linden was used by vikings for shields, is a favorite choice for guitar and drum makers and produces a pale but rich honey that is highly prized. Honey is one of my favorite things, in fact, I would go so far as to say that I have a fetish for unusual varieties of it. I also have several other fetishes to be revealed during the course of this journal…..but let it be noted that HONEY is FETISH # 1.

Many poets and writers, including Rimbaud and Goethe have written odes to this tree and after walking and biking the island for a week, I could see (and mostly smell) why. It has a kind of regal magnetism that pulls you into its shade and gets you drunk drunk drunk.

Linden Tree. I love you.

Linden Tree=Fetish #2

This morning I woke up with a horrible, cramping pain in my left calf muscle…..almost like a tendon had come loose and coiled up. I fretted and stretched and rubbed for a little while and then realized that the only way that I was going to get over the pain was to go through it. I rose, exactly at sunrise…..5:31am…and got on the bicycle that came with the apartment. I opted out of the heavy battery I could insert in the back in order to help me up the tough hills that circle the island and began to climb.

I rode passed many Ottoman style mansions, most of them painted crisp white with long narrow shutters open to the sea and steep, decorated rooftops. Some of them have been left a natural wood color and are falling into disrepair and a very few have been painted cotton candy colors like puffy pink and light turquoise. There were jasmine, honeysuckle, bouganvillas and hydrangeas and a beautiful dwarf pine that grows in the cliffs next to the sea, hanging on for dear life….drawing water from the rocks. The atmosphere is more mythological and less of the typical “tropical paradise” one thinks of when they imagine an island. Yes…..it was reminiscent of Homer, complete with three legged, semi rabid looking stray dogs lying in the middle of the road snarling in the heat. Can a dog be just a “little bit rabid”? I didn’t want to find out, so I was careful to swerve way to the right or left and not disturb their little gangs when I passed through. They usually growled menacingly, but were way too lazy to get up and give chase.

I rode around the Island to the very top of ISA TEPESI, passed the old Greek Orphanage, which is said to be the largest free standing wooden building in Europe. It is rigorously guarded by eight or nine attack dogs behind an iron fence who are probably as docile as rabbits once you let them out of their cage. I parked my bike and walked through a cedar forest blanketed with wild thyme and rosemary and the remnants of some stone military outposts, to a small grassy patch where a Dutch couple had pitched their tent and where an old woman was now herding her cows. A youngish man dressed all in white, sporting an enormous ottoman style mustache and carrying a “boombox” that was playing loud Dabka music wandered up to me, quietly exclaiming that he was “making movie” for his “sister wedding”….. and then disappeared.

I sped down the hill like a banshee and arrived back in the central square with the shortest clock tower in the world and walked towards the sea to shop called ROMA. I treated myself to a huge cone of mulberry and wild honey gelato and watched the fishermen bring in the daily catch….all before 9 am!

I could get used to this island life…….but……BEIRUT is CALLING!