Beirut, March 2015

A few years ago, Dana and I flew from Qingdao, China to Hanoi, Vietnam. Although I knew better, part of me expected to see abundant examples of Communist drab as well as the scars of the American-Vietnamese War. Logic and endless numbers of articles in the Economist and the New Yorker about Vietnam's "tiger economy" should have led me to assume that I was about to land in a country where development was well established. I am ashamed to say that I did not assume this notion. Instead, I allowed the past to shape my expectations. Rambo held sway over Thomas Friedman. So I was shocked to find that Hanoi boasts breathtaking urban parks, a vibrant artistic community, a myriad of fine cafes, and a pulsing night life (not that I participated but it certainly kept me awake). Shame on me for allowing the past to shape so much of my present.

Fast forward to 2015. Dana and I need a break from Cairo and so we book a long weekend in Beirut. Did I learn anything from my experience in Hanoi? No, I did not. I am an idiot.

There is a bit of backstory that comes into play, a splash of history to explain my lunacy. In late 1983, as I approached my 18th birthday, I was legally obligated to register for the Selective Service System. Though a draft had not occurred for well over a decade, I walked to the post office that day to register, brooding over the likelihood of the government reintroducing conscription. Recent events weighed heavily on my mind. In October of 1983, just a month before I registered for a potential draft, U.S. troops were participating in the fighting in the Lebanese Civil War. In fact in October of '83, some 250 U.S. troops were killed when a suicide bomber attacked a U.S. military installation near ... Beirut. If a draft had happened in 1984, it seemed to me at the time that the most likely place I would have been sent to fight was Beirut.

Over 30 years later, I am hesitant to say that I am landing in Rafic Hariri International Airport expecting to see the visible remains of Lebanon's Civil War; the one that ended in 25 years ago. Damn the past.

Flying in, Beirut looks a lot like a smaller version of Athens. The city proper sits on a rocky promontory that juts out into the Mediterranean. Surrounded by pine-clad mountains that slope right into the sea, Beirut's location and situation could not be more majestic. With four distinct seasons, nearby skiing and hiking, sandy beaches and kilometers of relatively unspoiled coast, the city has much to offer. During our three day stay here, we find even more.

We arrive at our hotel in the late morning, ditching our bags and setting out to explore the city on foot. Although we try to avoid making comparisons between Beirut and Cairo, we cannot avoid taking note of a couple of stark contrasts. First, Cairo has a garbage and trash problem. Beirut doesn't, at least not moreso than any other developed urban cluster. Beirut and its streets are clean; no dust and very little trash. Second, Cairo has kilometer after kilometer of vacant buildings, the result of the Mubarak-era housing bubble bust. Beirut's existing buildings seem to be occupied and many new skyscrapers are being erected. Beirut is developing into an ultra-modern city, although we can still see skeletons of bombed-out residential hulks in almost every neighborhood. Here in Beirut, markets of fresh produce abound, something similar to Cairo, but the local produce merchants operate out of small "super" markets reminiscent of the "hypermarkets" I found in London and Edinburgh. I do not see the empty, dusty store fronts and the buildings, completely vacated and forlorn, that I do in Cairo. Instead I see flower shops (hundreds), sweet shops (dozens), boutique clothing stores (hundreds), cafes, bistros, cigars shops, nut roasters, etc., punctuated by the occasional urban petrol station. This is not the war-torn city of my selective memory, and it certainly is not a city like Cairo. I admit that I do not feel as if I am in Paris, but I could easily imagine myself in Athens or Barcelona. 

We spend the next couple of days, blithely walking through the city, absolute beginners and complete tourists. We eat in several quaint bistros, spending extra time and change splurging on decadent desserts and cappuccinos. With a couple of friends from Cairo, we tour the local caverns and a nearby winery. We travel just north of the city to the ruins of Byblos, an impressive expanse of ancient settlements. In Byblos, we can make out distinct layers of ruins: Neolithic, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Phoenician, Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Crusader. We take in the small but meticulously curated National Museum. We walk around the city's central mosque which stands adjacent to the city's main Christian cathedral, an aspect of Beirut that seems to defy history from repeating itself.

Early on in our stay, we find ourselves lulled into the easy, progressive rhythm of the city, forgetting that Hamas and Hezbollah conduct clandestine meetings and operations within the city walls. Bombs still detonate in Beirut, albeit infrequently. A little under a decade ago for example, former Prime Minister and national hero, Rafic Hariri, along with 22 others, died in a horrific bomb blast right in the heart of the downtown area. In the past five years, 1.5 million refugees from neighboring Syria have poured into the country, increasing the population by almost one-third. These refugees are desperate, and desperate people sometimes act in ways that they ordinarily would not. Beirut is not perfect. We see this and we know this, but it is a concept that is at times difficult to believe.

By the end of our three days, we feel as if we have just scratched the surface. On the ride to the airport, Dana and I are already planning to return. She wants more time to scour the beaches, and I want to travel south to see the ruins of Sidon and Tyre. We both want added time to explore more of the city and to get out into the countryside.

Flying out and over the city, I watch as the glistening lights of Beirut begin to fade, merging with the purple horizon. I feel like I owe the people of Lebanon and Beirut an apology for being such an idiot, assuming the worst about the country; that nothing had changed during the last quarter of a century. I am more than a little ashamed of myself. I should know better. I should keep up. I should read more that just the front page of the WSJ. I should give CNN a break and make better use of the miracle that is the Internet. I should talk with people who have travelled more than I ever hope to; and I should listen a little better than I tend to do.

Next time I visit this majestic city - and there will certainly be a next time - I will open my eyes and ears, taking the time to put the past into its proper perspective.

Say "Cheese."

Once per week, Dana and I buy a couple of blocks of Australian cheddar cheese produced - of course - by a local dairy firm here in Egypt. The quarter-pound blocks that we purchase are about the length, width and breadth of your outstretched hand, that is if your hand was square and vacuum sealed. When unwrapped, the tawny, blond cheese has a fresh, rich aroma and a creamy, buttery taste. A versatile cheese, the cheddar works well in cooked dishes and in salads, or is perfectly fine as a stand-alone snack. We love it.

Although I do not know this, I assume that this particular variety of "white" cheddar is synonymous with the cheese making industry in Australia. I know it is not of Egyptian origin. Cheese making in Egypt goes back thousands of years, but the local cheeses are either the soft white mounds that we often associate with Greece, or a hard, smelly Parmesan-like thing called, "Roumy." My sole experience with Roumy happened in late 2013 and lasted for approximately five very unpleasant minutes. That's how long the aftertaste loitered on my tongue. Dana and I were walking through the dairy aisle at a local supermarket and happened upon a booth where a sampling of all kinds of local cheeses was arrayed. I thought that the local Parmesan might be worth a try. Innocently poised at the end of the toothpick, the nugget I selected looked just like Parmesan. It wasn't. It wasn't Parmesan and it wasn't innocent. Far from it. It was mummy's ass. That's what I remember thinking at the time. That was right about the time when the lady behind the booth pronounced this stale, dusty bit of putrefaction as being "Roumy."

I know I made a face. I couldn't help it. I couldn't dial in my disgust quickly enough, having just ingested the dusty, moldy, assy insides of some series of faraway sarcophagi. I swallowed the nasty little blob without further chewing. It slimed down down my throat like a boogery hawker. Through gritted teeth, I forced a wincing smile, thanking the woman at the booth. I wheeled around, Dana trailing after me. She was giggling.

"That bad?"

"Unbelievably. Terrible. Mummy ass," my voice was weak.

"You're being overly dramatic."

"We can go back. I think there might be another sliver of butt left."

"I think I'll pass. You gonna be alright?" Still giggling. Not helpful, especially given the strong aftertaste of mummy tuchas still shaking its can in my mouth.

But I digress ... We love the local "Australian" cheddar. It's lovely and creamy and whitish-yellow, just like cheddar should be. If this opinion about the color of cheddar is true - and I now wholeheartedly believe that it is - then what in hell kind of orange-tainted shittiness have I been eating all of these years? American singles? Waxy and orange. Velveeta? Gooey and orange. Okay, maybe American singles and Velveeta don't qualify as being cheeses, but even a decent Winconsin cheddar is orange. And the hats that the Packers fans in Green Bay wear? They're orange, too. What gives? I was raised in a universe where cheddar is orange. Why the change?

I have been troubled by this issue enough recently to bother to try to find an answer. According to Cecil Adams of the The Straight Dope, we have the English to blame. Cecil claims that years and years ago, cheese lovers in England began to equate orangish-yellow cheddar as being of a higher quality than the tawny-colored cheddar. Back before the days of industrialized farming and cattle being cannibalized with human-produced feed made from grains and offal, dairy cows were always fed a diet of grass in the summer months and hay in the winter months. The cow milk in the summer was rich in beta-carotene, the vitamin that helps to give carrots their lovely orange hue. Not to say that summer cow milk was orange, but it was apparently a different color that the cow milk in the winter. Customers began to demand the "more wholesome" cheese made from summer milk and so farmers obliged by adding a little annatto seed coloring (a natural orange colorant) to all of their cheese-making endeavors. The dye gave the cheddars a consistent color throughout the year and the specific orangish shade that early English consumers believed to be synonymous with cheese greatness.

So much for the history lesson. Thanks, Cecil.

Now that I have a little intellectual capital at my disposal, I know enough to say that I don't like my cheddar being orange. Here's why.

I looked up some information on the annatto seed, the stuff used to make the dye that cheese makers put into cheddar. The seed is naturally occurring and innocuous enough. Annatto is apparently flavorful and may even have some health benefits. But the tree that produces the seeds is a tropical tree, and so those little seeds, the ones that are eventually crushed into the dye that turns my cheddar into something resembling the color of a carrot, have quite a carbon footprint. These days I prefer to dine locally when I can. I would like to believe that my preference for local foods may actually help local people. If I were in the tropics, I would be okay with eating orange cheddar. In Egypt or in Tennessee, I would prefer a less well-traveled, less global cheese.

I am also thinking that annatto oil is probably a little pricey, pricey enough to tempt a few wily cheese makers into using using chemical equivalents - like perhaps F, D & C powdered dyes - as substitutes for a natural oil. I'm old, and that means I have eaten enough crummy things to clog up my arteries and constrict the blood vessels in my brain. I don't need any more gunk. So I will pass on the powdered dyes and food coloring agents.

I also like the idea of eating foods that are coming to me in a more-or-less natural state in terms of color and taste. Some barmy English hill-jack a couple of hundred years ago decided that orange cheese was better. That does not mean that I have to blindly follow this decision. Indeed, now that I have a choice, I would like to make a different decision altogether. I would like to have my cheddar look a little more cheddar-like and a little less carrot-like.

So despite the ridiculousness of the idea of purchasing Australian cheddar in Egypt, I will stick with the local variety of dun-colored cheese produced here in Cairo and not dyed with a seed transported from far away, or worse, colored with some chemical agent. I will not however, go completely local to switch to the local "Parmesan." Nope, I will enjoy my expensive imported Italian Parmesan along with its massive carbon footprint. My liberalism does, after all, have its limits.

Graduation at the Pyramids

I have a guilty admission to make, a type of admission that many a New Yorker or Londoner or Memphian could make. Manhattanites don't visit Lady Liberty and Londoners rarely tour the Houses of Parliament. Just like a surprising number of Memphians never make the pilgrimage to Graceland. Here's the admission: Dana and I had yet to make it to the Pyramids until June of 2014. The closest ancient structures to our flat in Ma'adi, and it took us almost a year to cross the river to Giza to see the last Wonder of the Ancient World still standing.

In our defense, we arrived in Cairo in late July of 2013 just as former president Mohammed Morsi was being booted out of office. Then there were the violent clearances of camps of protestors. Note: ancient wonders lose their allure when bullets are whizzing about and barrel bombs are being ignited. And there was the damn curfew and the massive street protests every Friday after prayers. We follow a Muslim work week here in Cairo, so Friday and Saturday constitute the weekend for us. Another note: ancient wonders lose their luster when throngs of angry protestors are throwing Molotov Cocktails at nearby security forces. Most Saturdays we did not really feel brave enough to be driven down towards Tahrir Square to cross the river to Giza. By the time the situation here in Cairo was safe enough for us to easily go for a visit, we found that we already had other plans; we had shit to do. So we kept putting off a trip to the Great Pyramids.

Until June.

June is graduation month at Cairo American College (CAC), and the graduate Eagles of CAC have their graduation ceremony at the Pyramids. Yep, every year the school rents out the sound stage just in front of the majestic structures in order to host the two-hour graduation ceremony. The place has to be the all-time, Top-5 greatest graduation venues in the universe. Let me tell you, the ceremony is THE most important tradition at CAC, full of pomp, processions, and speeches. And the spectacle plays out with the the Great Pyramids and the somber face of the Great Sphinx in the immediate background. 

Let me tell you something else, the ceremony is an absolute mother----er to prepare for. Planning begins almost a year in advance, characterized by preliminary negotiations with the Ministry of Antiquities and with the U.S. Embassy. This year these negotiations were more than a little difficult. Following the preliminary meetings, there are security details to plan out, seating arrangements for a couple of thousand spectators to be arranged, and local police with whom to consult. Then there are more meetings. At one point this year during a later round of negotiations, the Ministry of Antiquities jacked up an already astronomically high rental fee. At another point this year, the diplomats at the U.S. Embassy expressed their fears that they would not be able to permit their families and their CAC graduates to attend the ceremony due to security concerns. When a suggestion was offered to perhaps hold the ceremony in the gym, the outrage expressed made Tea Partiers seem sane and tame.

So the tense negotiations finally end and the decision is made to go ahead with graduation at the Pyramids. CAC grads and their parents heave a huge collective  sigh of relief as Dana and I make plans to attend. One of our colleagues scores a great rate at the historic Mena House Hotel just across the street from the Pyramid complex and so Dana and I make arrangements to stay. The hotel is over 100 years old and has played host to royalty, celebrities, and scores of politicians. Back in the late 70s, Anwar Sadat, Menachem Begin, and Jimmy Carter met at the hotel for one of the rounds of peace talks between Egypt and Israel. One of my favorite authors, Arthur Conan Doyle, stayed here as did both Winston Churchill and Dwight Eisenhower. Walking the marbled halls, peering into paneled oak rooms filled with trophies and old guns and over-stuffed red leather chairs, it is easy to imagine Ernest Hemingway and his buds here, getting absolutely sloshed while planning their next big hunt. That is the kind of ambiance the Mena House Hotel possesses.

The day before graduation, we set out from our school to the hotel. We are being driven in one of the school vans. Thank goodness too, because the neighborhoods surrounding the Pyramids and the Mena House are poverty-stricken. At one point while stopped at a stop sign, beggars and cart-drivers run up to the sides of our van, beating against the sides and demanding money. It is a little bit frightening.  

A few tense minutes later, and we are ushered through the gates of the hotel. Check in goes quickly. We are on foot now, walking through the lush gardens of the hotel, a far cry from the streets just outside of the hotel walls. Passing through several sets of metal detectors, we are gently escorted to our room, one of the rooms with a Pyramid view. And the view is astounding.

We are now gypsies in the palace. We eat at what is reported to be one of the finest restaurants in Cairo. We stuff our faces full of Indian food. We watch the sun set behind the Pyramids. We order room service.

It is all lovely until 4:30 AM the next morning. That is the time I have to get up in order to catch the bus over to the ceremony stage. The venue owners will not allow us to set up the night before, so we must complete the ceremony preparations the day of graduation. The bus ferries us, groggy and sleepy-headed, to the venue where we are greeted by an army of CAC and security staff. They have been waiting for a while, and by the looks of them they are already well into a second pack of cigarettes and a fourth or fifth cup of tea.

With scores of able-bodied individuals to help, the set-up goes quickly and efficiently. The graduates, resplendent in their crimson and white robes, arrive right on time. Proud parents and equally proud, if not a little relieved, faculty stream through the security checkpoints to take their seats. Invocations are made by imams and pastors, Muslims and Christians. Students take to the podium to deliver well-rehearsed speeches. Parents cry as graduates cross the stage to received their diplomas. Tassels rake across mortar boards and then those very same mortar boards are tossed high in the air.

And all the while, the silent stone faces of the Great Pyramids peer down upon us from on high, watching impassively as the ceremony draws to a close.

As parents and graduates slowly exit the venue, Dana and I walk towards the timeworn monoliths. Today's ceremony has been a metaphor for our year here: lots of planning and preparation punctuated by unforeseen events and peppered with a healthy dose of chaos. But amidst the chaos, there is a beauty and a timeless sense of majesty looming in the distance, providing a rich backdrop against which we play out our daily lives. We go to work, spending our week days in much the same manner that we did when we were in Memphis. We have similar ups and downs, we share similar school-related triumphs and frustrations. Different from our existence in Memphis however, we are foreigners in an ancient land. We are amazed at some of the sights and sounds of our foster country. Sometimes we are frightened because this can be a dangerous place and these are dangerous times in Egypt. 

And all this time, the sun rises and sets on the Great Pyramids and on the Great Sphinx. And the Nile flows gently and easily just as it has done for thousands and thousands of years.