Read Online Avoiding Prison & Other Noble Vacation Goals by Wendy Dale - Free Book Online Page B

encompassed in an awe-filled silence. After paying their respects, your host Michael (he won’t always be named Michael) will inevitably break the quiet with the following compliment: “Wow. You really aren’t dumb like most Americans.”
    By this point in the conversation, the Brits will have gotten pretty drunk (and the Americans will have gotten pretty offended), so it’s time to move back to the subject of sex. On this particular evening five days into my visit to Beirut, sitting in the comfortable and cozy living room of Peter’s friend Michael (okay, so it’s possible that he
will
always be named Michael), the category is dominated primarily by Giles, who has an awful lot to say on the subject of orgasms, especially for a person who doesn’t have them. This is because orgasms are unhealthy, he informs us. He has embarked on the Taoist journey, which encompasses many beliefs none of us really wants to hear about; we want to talk about Giles’ not having orgasms.
    It’s not that he doesn’t ever do the dirty, he explains. In fact, he does it rather well. He goes for hours, but he just doesn’t finish the job. Not for himself anyway. Penetration is fine, he tells us, it’s just the loss of those vital fluids—wouldn’t want to sap his psychic energy, you know. I tell him I completely understand and quietly slip him my phone number under the table.
    This segues brilliantly into our next topic of conversation: the fact that Michael’s sister strategically places bowls of water in her hallways to help the cosmic energy flow more evenly throughout the house.
    At this point, I decide it’s really about time to be hanging out with some more Lebanese.
    Five days of my ten-day trip had already been eaten up, and Peter felt terrible about having to go into work. As we ate a breakfast of flatbread, yogurt, and fresh fruit on his balcony, I tried to convince him that I’d be fine in his absence.
    â€œAre you sure? I promise we’ll go out for dinner this evening,” he said.
    â€œOf course, I’ll be okay,” I insisted, stuffing a fig in my mouth.
    Peter had mentioned his job to me once over the phone. I remembered that it had something to do with journalism. What was it exactly?
    â€œI’m the anchor for the English news.”
    No, that wasn’t it. He wrote some kind of newsletter or something. What was it?
    â€œThat was my old job. Now I’m on TV every night. I sit in a studio in front of a live camera and read off the teleprompter.”
    This information came as kind of a shock. The man who used to measure out tequila as if it were NyQuil, handing it to me with the concerned look of a mother tending to her sick child, now put on a suit and tie and provided the nation’s international citizens with their daily dose of news. I had never imagined seeing Peter on the news before—in the same way that I hadn’t counted on opening up my closet and running into Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw. There were people you saw on television and there were people you saw in your closet. When these lines got blurred, the whole world stopped making sense.
    However, Peter explained to me that this was the job he had always wanted: He got to apply his vast knowledge of Middle Eastern politics, he put his journalism experience to use, and no one was trying to kill him. At his last job, on his first day, the coffee boy had come up and introduced himself to Peter by saying, “You American? I hate American. I kill American. New Jersey kill my brother.” It had not been an auspicious start to his new position (but on the bright side, it was the excuse Peter needed to finally give up that nasty addiction to coffee).
    â€œYou can watch me tonight,” Peter explained. “When you and Hadi get home.”
    Hadi was Peter’s roommate, a good-natured Beiruti who seemed excited at the prospect of playing tour guide for an American