onward bound!

I’m falling seriously behind on blogging, and heard of some anticipation today. That’s flattering, really: I’m glad some of you out there are getting a kick out of this—I welcome and savor comments and personal notes, so be in touch!

I had been meaning to write my last couple of Beirut posts during the twelve hours of travel time I’d have on my way to Belgrade. Obviously that never happened, so the nutshell long version (to be accompanied shortly by photos): four of us (EB, her friend Sammy, visiting from Egypt, Smuggler, and I) piled into EB’s new car for a road trip. We had each looked at maps and guides and come to similar conclusions. There were three main agendas: hike through some nature, visit a winery, and eat dinner before sundown (I fast for Yom Kippur, and it began the evening of our road trip).

We arrived at a small town by a nature reserve feeling rather famished. The ladies ransacked the packaged goods section at a small grocery, and while EB wasn’t looking, I ran off in search of fresh food. Noon was early for lunch, and quick food was surprisingly hard to find given the bustle of people. I avoided the sickly looking schawarma that looked suspiciously dated, and happened upon a man grilling chickens over charcoal. Some puffy bread from next door in-hand, I ran (literally) back to the car to avoid a confrontation over schedules and delays.

We had trouble finding the site, and stopped to ask directions from a man on the street. He turned to his friend, who had just parked his car, when he heard the American accents. So this delightfully cheerful chap greeted us in the most unexpected Australian accent. Not only that, but he got back in the car, and happily led us the fifteen minutes to the site, parting ways as he told us to follow a mysterious dirt road for ten more minutes.

Guidebook moment: it turns out there’s a nearby town in Lebanon that exported many of its finest citizens to Australia during the civil war. Many have since made their way back, and begun importing Australian foodstuffs.

We ate lunch out of the car’s rear under hot sunshine before departing on a two hour hike through beautiful terrain varied with chaparral and cedar woods. I must have tasted a dozen of the wild yellow plums I found occasionally in the dirt before finding one whose sour and bitter notes did not contort my face.

The drive onward to the Bekaa valley for wine tasting and dinner was long and arduous. When planning trips involving mountains and valleys in developing countries, it certainly pays to consider the elevation changes. We went from 1500m down to sea level, only to climb a rocky peak to its peak of 3000m before descending into predominantly Hezbollah territory (Nasrallah is a man of god, and loves his people, the billboards declare). The estimated one hour trip? More than three, it turned out. The winery was surely closed (boo hoo), and the sun was descending ever faster, but we made it to our feeding spot in time for my pre-fasting food fest.

Smuggler parted the sea of pedestrians as we walked to the river-side casino restaurant (Mehanna, in case you’re ever in the area). They were surprisingly accommodating, allowing Smuggler to sit with us (outdoor seating, but still amazing for this dog-fearing country), and even bringing a dish ashtray of water for him. The mezes we tucked into were outstanding, and we hurried out to wait in awful lung-wrecking traffic for the ride back to Beirut.

As I began my fast-culminating meal of leftovers the next night, I noticed a noise coming from the washing machine that EB had just started. It’s moments like these that remind you to hate on America’s litigious society for imposing door locks on washers, for EB had spied her IPod tumbling from behind the glass door. The MacGyver in me came out as I got the door open and quickly set upon fixing the problem. Lacking the proper tools, I used my semi-disposable paring knife to pry open the dripping music box. Into a warm oven went the disassembled machine, and to the airport went I, stomach beginning to churn.

The 3:10am flight was fine, though I’d spent some time chasing my tail in the airport, thinking I had lost stuff that was with me all along. I carried 20kg on my shoulders since my suitcase was overweight and the flight agent was strict (of course I was surreptitiously over the limit on my carry-ons). As my digestive functions were quickly deteriorating, I found myself chilled, achy, and unable to get any real sleep. The airport lounge (thank you, Diner’s Club) in Prague, where I stopped for five hours, allowed me a hot shower, snacks, and internet connectivity, but I was too out of it to take advantage. So I made way for Belgrade, seeing bathrooms in the light that had coined the term “pit stop.”

And here I was, thinking that I would actually be writing about my first few days in Belgrade. When I was younger and creative writing assignments were due I would have killed for this sort of verbal dysentery. I do apologize for the lack of editing, though one must realize this ailment is messy.