Read Online Jasmine and Fire by Salma Abdelnour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Salma Abdelnour
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launched into Beirut life, having reconnected with familiar faces at the iftar and updated everyone on my time here so far. Still, I’m facing the fact that, for the most part, my social life is decidedly unrollicking. In the evenings, I often read or watch a DVD or take a walk. My night strolls throughHamra take me along sidewalks where tiny, hip-looking bars, so many new ones opening lately, start getting packed at nine P.M. and go until two A.M. or later. In recent years, it is mostly neighborhoods on the east side of Beirut, across downtown from the west side where I live, that have become famous for their nightlife, but the Hamra area is picking up steam again. This area hadn’t been trendy since before the war, and it’s nice now to see the side streets around my apartment come to life in the late evenings. I’m not feeling part of the scene yet, but my walks are motivating me to try to plug into it somehow: to make an effort to reconnect with a few childhood friends and try to lure some of my cousins away from their kids and out for drinks now and then. And maybe even to make some new friends here, if I can figure out how.
Living in Beirut, it’s hard not to feel pressure, real or imagined, to be out socializing on a regular basis. This is, after all, one of the world’s most hypersocial cities. There’s a definite partying imperative here. No matter how old you are, you’re expected to go out a lot, whether to dinners and lunches or, for the younger set (by which I mean anyone younger than fifty), to clubs and bars and all-night parties. I’m not sure exactly where this high-octane social life comes from, but here are some theories. First, plain old Mediterranean-style decadence, a love of eating and drinking and dancing and sitting around for hours talking, passions shared by our neighbors across the sea, the Italians and French and Spanish and Greeks—maybe it’s something in the water. Also, as a port town, Beirut has for centuries been a hub for travelers from around the world, and its historically mixed population has meant a more liberal attitude toward alcohol and partying. The Lebanese addiction to socializing fills more specific local needs, too—like catharsis, not just during periods of violence and fear but also asa way to numb stress from the ongoing unemployment crisis and political instability. Even parents with kids can go out all the time if they want to, since most Lebanese families from the middle class on up hire live-in nannies, immigrants from Asia and Africa who work for very low wages. The nightlife here is undeniably tied into Beirut’s self-image and into the way tourists from around the world perceive the city.
I definitely need a social life, not just to feel like a normal Lebanese with a pulse but also to avoid going stir-crazy or wallowing in loneliness and self-pity. Even though I’ve always liked spending time solo, succumbing to too much of that in Beirut seems pathological somehow. So far I’ve had some phone chats with my childhood friend Zeina, whom I’ve managed to keep up with over the years. She’s married, has a four-year-old daughter, and lives a half hour away in an eastern suburb, but we’ve vowed to hit the town together soon. One Friday night in mid-September, I’m holding a DVD of
Spirited Away
, an animated film by the Japanese director Miyazaki—I bought it for a buck at one of the many pirated-disk shops nearby, easier to find than decent rental shops—and I’m wondering if I should go ahead with a night of Japanimation. But on this beautiful Friday evening in Beirut, sitting home alone with a video seems a little too poignant. I wonder if I should call or e-mail Richard or one of my friends in New York, or try to find some random strangers’ party to crash.
The phone rings, interrupting my self-pity spiral. It’s Zeina. She and her husband, Marwan, are going to meet a friend or two later tonight in the hopping Gemmayzeh area on the east side,
Living in Beirut, it’s hard not to feel pressure, real or imagined, to be out socializing on a regular basis. This is, after all, one of the world’s most hypersocial cities. There’s a definite partying imperative here. No matter how old you are, you’re expected to go out a lot, whether to dinners and lunches or, for the younger set (by which I mean anyone younger than fifty), to clubs and bars and all-night parties. I’m not sure exactly where this high-octane social life comes from, but here are some theories. First, plain old Mediterranean-style decadence, a love of eating and drinking and dancing and sitting around for hours talking, passions shared by our neighbors across the sea, the Italians and French and Spanish and Greeks—maybe it’s something in the water. Also, as a port town, Beirut has for centuries been a hub for travelers from around the world, and its historically mixed population has meant a more liberal attitude toward alcohol and partying. The Lebanese addiction to socializing fills more specific local needs, too—like catharsis, not just during periods of violence and fear but also asa way to numb stress from the ongoing unemployment crisis and political instability. Even parents with kids can go out all the time if they want to, since most Lebanese families from the middle class on up hire live-in nannies, immigrants from Asia and Africa who work for very low wages. The nightlife here is undeniably tied into Beirut’s self-image and into the way tourists from around the world perceive the city.
I definitely need a social life, not just to feel like a normal Lebanese with a pulse but also to avoid going stir-crazy or wallowing in loneliness and self-pity. Even though I’ve always liked spending time solo, succumbing to too much of that in Beirut seems pathological somehow. So far I’ve had some phone chats with my childhood friend Zeina, whom I’ve managed to keep up with over the years. She’s married, has a four-year-old daughter, and lives a half hour away in an eastern suburb, but we’ve vowed to hit the town together soon. One Friday night in mid-September, I’m holding a DVD of
Spirited Away
, an animated film by the Japanese director Miyazaki—I bought it for a buck at one of the many pirated-disk shops nearby, easier to find than decent rental shops—and I’m wondering if I should go ahead with a night of Japanimation. But on this beautiful Friday evening in Beirut, sitting home alone with a video seems a little too poignant. I wonder if I should call or e-mail Richard or one of my friends in New York, or try to find some random strangers’ party to crash.
The phone rings, interrupting my self-pity spiral. It’s Zeina. She and her husband, Marwan, are going to meet a friend or two later tonight in the hopping Gemmayzeh area on the east side,
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