First—my apologies for not posting anything in a while. I have several half-written blog post
drafts, but—this being me—I didn’t want to post them until the writing was
perfect. The number of experiences
and sights I want to convey to you is increasing, however, so I need to bite
the bullet, stop agonizing over the placement of commas, and start posting more
before things start to slip from relevance and I don’t write them down at all.
On Wednesday night, I checked into the hostel I will be
staying at for the rest of my time here.
Like all other hostels I’ve been in, there isn’t much there to write
home about, so to speak—although I will anyways. ;)
The hostel is located in a different part of the city than
where I’ve been staying, so my taxi ride there was the first exposure I’ve had
to downtown Beirut. With the
window rolled down, the breeze whipping my hair, and my mouth dropped open in
awe, I’m sure I quite resembled a dog on a joyride. There is no other way to say it—I was SHOCKED by how rich it
was. The brand-new skyscrapers and
buildings are a sea of glass, steel, and stone—there’s a European feel to it, a
melding of modern and new architecture pretending to be old that I love
so much in design. The area is a
mix of apartments, hotels, offices, restaurants and boutiques; names like Dolce
& Gabbana, Alaia, Celine, and Tom Ford fly past my window—and for the first
time in my Middle Eastern travel experience, these aren’t the knock-offs.
Right outside of the downtown area, we arrived at my hostel,
and I have to say—after the opulence of a view minutes earlier, the crumbling
staircase, water-stained walls, and typically mismatched sheets (mine are
Disney princesses and camouflage) that met me was a bit of a letdown. Oh, if I could afford more!
In my rush to find a taxi and get my suitcase into the trunk
in heavy traffic (the incessant honking stresses me out), I had forgotten to
negotiate the price of the ride beforehand, so I ended up paying far more for
the ride than I would have normally, but such is the travel experience.
I am staying in a dorm-style room with two other
backpackers. The first roommate I
met was an American girl spending a few days in the city before she traveled
down south to teach English at the Palestinian refugee camps for the summer, after
which she will move to Amsterdam in September on a Fulbright grant. She and I talked about the city and
travel and life while I unpacked; it is these encounters with strangers that
become fast, transient friends that make the hostel experience so special—I
just wish the rest of hostel experience didn’t come with it.
I soon discovered that I had forgotten my towel and shower
shoes at my friend A’s apartment and, combined with the fact that I really
didn’t need to stay in a hostel yet (A was in America on a business trip so I
had her room to myself), I left shortly afterwards and stayed at her apartment
again that night.
The next night, Thursday, I fully intended on staying at the
hostel after I had showered at A’s (who would exchange a private bathroom for a
communal shower, really?), but then I received a call from my friend J. J and I had studied together in the
same Arabic class in Damascus three years ago, when he was on Fulbright
there. He has since graduated with
a master’s degree, is now working on his PhD in History at Princeton, and is in
Beirut for the summer doing research for his dissertation. He was calling because a friend of his
had access that night to a table at Pier 7, a hot Beirut club, and he wanted to
know if I wanted to join.
Now, normally I am a homebody. I like my routines, I like to read books before I go to bed,
and I can’t even say I’ve been to a real club before. But I made a resolution recently to stop saying “no” so
often, and start accepting invitations and opportunities that come my way,
unexpected or not. So I said “hell
yes,” despite the fact that I had to be ready in 45 minutes, needed to shower
and look “hot”, and all of my clothes and makeup were halfway across the city
in the hostel.
I jumped in and out of A’s shower, and then threw on a hat
to cover my wet hair as I stood on the street to catch a taxi. This time, I remembered to negotiate a
price beforehand, although my urgency led me to accept a price that I could
have worked down a little more had I tried harder. In the taxi, I rolled down the window and let the breeze air
dry my hair. Traffic was heavy,
and it was already past the time I had agreed to meet J beforehand. At the hostel, I ran a brush through my
now tangled but dry hair, applied some fast makeup, and threw on my only pair
of heels and the most club-like dress I had packed.
And then I stood on the street corner outside the hostel in
my short dress, heels, and red lipstick, and tried to flag down a taxi while
feeling every bit like a prostitute.
Several cars honked their horns at me, but not one was a taxi, and not
one stopped. I waited some more, J
called again, and we agreed to meet at the club instead when I finally got a
cab, which thankfully I did soon after.
The road to the club was winding and dark. I am not familiar with Beirut and was unsure
of the proper way to get to the club, but sitting in the back of a taxi that is
speeding through unlit, empty streets behind what appeared to be oil refineries
all while dressed like a prostitute (or at least feeling like one) is a little
bit of a terrifying experience. I
nervously peered out my window and rapidly tapped my finger against the glass
on my phone, until finally I caved and called J to confirm that I was, in fact,
heading in the right direction and was not on some rape-bound ride. Just as he eased my concerns that I
was, the taxi pulled off the backroad and up at the club’s door.
The club itself was a sleek black box, rimmed at the top
with a red neon strip. The entrance
into that box was a tunnel-like light box, the floor lit red from underneath
like it was a giant DDR game whose squares were all illuminated. Inside, we were greeted with a
two-tiered structure that was open to the sky and centered around a stage similarly
lit from the floor. That stage could
raise and lower, and at certain points throughout the night, it descended below
the ground and was replaced with acrobats performing above the hollow
space.
I won’t get into the particulars of the night, but it was
great. I met some new friends, we
had free bottle service at our table, and I danced (!) the night away. We literally closed down the club—although
apparently, as I just learned, we were politely escorted out after my friends
ignored several warnings not to try to dance on the center stage. One of the
guys in our party lived near me, so he drove me back to our neighborhood. We had a 4:30am breakfast at a
restaurant there before he dropped me off at A’s apartment. I posted a few pictures of the night on
my Facebook, so if you feel like looking check there.
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