A Night in Beirut: Mesmerizing, Insatiable
Your head throbs. The construction noise has been relentless, as loud as the headache. The sun floods through white curtains, you part your eyes slightly to check the time. 11:10 am. You sigh, reach for the water, you really shouldn't drink this much. You reach for a cigarette and puff as you try to recollect bits and pieces of last night.
Image credit: Flickr/Ahmad Moussaoui
Okay, the ending is a bit blurred, so let's begin with the start of the night. You meet up with Jason at around six for happy hour. He chooses the Rabbit Hole, a dimly lit hub for locals who enjoy a discussion about international politics or literature, and even finding a girl sketching across the bar seems at home. The American exchange student's Palestinian scarf, or Keffiyeh, loudly clashes with his blue eyes and blond hair, but his look nonetheless seems to fit into this city. You show up and Jason is chatting the dread-locked bartender about life in the US and Jason's thoughts about immigration. You ask for a green Almaza, a Lebanese beer, to quench your thirst before Lara, the Francophone fine arts student, joins you.
Image credit: Flickr/abdallahh
Two Almazas later, Lara scoffs, "Let's go somewhere more lively, it's Saturday night!" You and Jason reluctantly agree in an attempt to be considerate to her recent breakup. You make your way through Makdisi Street in the central part of town with its abundance of bars, while occasionally stopping to chat with familiar faces drinking on the sidewalk. The buzz of happy hour spills over the sidewalk pubs, and the energy of the night is contagious. You reach the dreaded alleyway, but Lara drags you fiercely through the intimidating crowd to reach Dany’s. It’s a down to earth atmosphere, its walls saturated with stick-on cartoons and layered graffiti, the sort of place you can be yourself. Women walk by in tight skirts and high heels while a man on a motorcycle parks across from you, everyone seems very aware of being seen. Another three Almazas, but to get the night going, you get a round of Doudou as well, feeling in the mood for the local's favorite tequila/vodka combination topped off with an olive and Tabasco. The music clashes between the bars, with hip-hop, commercial techno, and lounge techno all competing. Someone pushes you as they attempt to sit on the stool behind you. Okay, it’s time to move on.
“How about Zakaria?” you suggest. Jason nods in agreement. Lara rejects this saying, “Had I wanted to hear Ziyad al Rahbani," a prominent Lebanese musician famous for his political and social commentaries, "I would have gone to Abu Elie, the communist-themed bar."
Image credit: Time Out/Patricio T. Demucho Suárez
You suggest a compromise: “Okay, how about Radio Beirut?” It's not very close by, but its crowd rarely fails you. Plus it’s Saturday night and Mar Mikhail, the Christian part of town that has an abundance of pubs and bars, is only a 10 minute drive from there. You walk around the corner from Dany's to the main street of Hamra to hail a cab and bargain with the cab driver who asks each of you to pay for two seats, saying, “It’s crowded tonight!” Jason has picked up Lebanese bargaining skills and says it’s one seat each or nothing, the cab driver agrees. You sit in silence while you listen to the driver's monologue about the country going to ruins, the garbage crisis and his attempts to ask about your origins, religions and political inclinations.
Image credit: Facebook/RadioBeirut
Radio Beirut is lively as excepted. The crowds on the sidewalk spill over to merge in the street and you can no longer make out whose drink is from which bar, although the partiers who got their beer from the small supermarket, or dekane, in between the bars still stand out. After two more Almazas, Lara decides to go for a double Jameson no ice. Even though she says she despises whiskey, she likes the way it makes her look. You sit on a stool and study the DJ behind the glass box with the "ON AIR" side behind him. You wonder if it’s called Radio Beirut because they broadcast the music live. You don’t ask anyone, the music is too loud. In comes a rapper from the underground scene, you struggle to maintain your composure. You last heard him at Metro Al Madina, a stage in Beirut that fosters many talented performers, and you’re still a little tongue-tied. By God knows what luck, he ends up scooting next to you to yell his drink at the bartender. The bartender nods and mouths it back. He raises his thumb to assure him he got his order right. You chug your Almaza, ask for a gin and tonic, while you muster up your courage and then lean in. “I really liked your last album,” you smile shyly. “Thank you,” he replies with a warm recognition. He raises his glass, cheers you, and walks away. God, Beirut can be surprising some nights.
Your lurking lasts up until Lara snatches you by the arm. “We’re going to BackDoor, there’s a live Jam session.” You maneuver your way through the sidewalk crowd, it’s only a three minute walk but with the loud honking that never seems to cease, it takes effort to not let the head spin set in. You make your way behind the sushi place and into the parking lot, where it’s already a little quieter. Once down the stairs, into a seemingly abandoned place, you can’t hear anything. As soon as you make it around the corner, however, the bluesy guitar spills over. The warm room is crowded with familiar artists, poets, activists, and a few unrecognizable faces. Jason is single handedly supporting the Lebanese beer industry with his Almaza drinking, while you stick to gin and tonics, and Lara to her double Jamesons. Jason leans over to pull you out of the music. “Let’s get back to Hamra — Sarah’s there.” The three of you slip out of the room unnoticed, up the stairs, around the corner, back to the buzz of Mar Mikhail. At this point it's only 11 pm. The music is louder, the streets more crowded. You have to walk to the main highway to find a cab that’s not enveloped by traffic.
Image credit: Flickr/Ahmad Moussaoui
“Service Wahad” Jason negotiates again. "One seat!" Reluctantly the cab driver agrees. You hop in. He chooses the route through the downtown, an industrial commercial part of town that’s been rebuilt after the war to look like a pseudo-version of its old self, with yellow lighting, brick stones, fountains and shopping districts. It’s not quite the eyesore, you hate to admit, even though Jason calls it the waste center, Al Wasakh Al Tijari. The driver decides to take a longer route and you pass by the seaside. Rawshe, also known as the Pigeon Rocks, can be seen jutting up from Beirut’s Mediterranean and it never ceases to make your eyes wander towards the horizon. You crack your window a little before asking if you can smoke. “Tabaa’n” the cab driver replies as he offers you a cigarette. “Of course.” Your wandering gaze doesn’t last long, as the driver takes a turn up and you find yourselves on Bliss Street, bordering AUB, the American University of Beirut. You glance over at the AUB gate, lit by the neon signs of restaurants and supermarkets, and its towering arches remind you of your midterm next week. It’s Saturday night, you chide yourself. Al layla khamer, w ghadan amber, you whisper to yourself: "Let us drink tonight, and leave the worrying until tomorrow."
Image credit: Flickr/Frode Ramone
Finally, you arrive to Makdisi Street, ready to visit the grungy charm of Captain’s Cabin. The door slightly creaks as you push it open, causing Andre, the bar owner who’s been here for over 20 years, to glance up from behind the bar. He welcomes you with a smile reserved for regulars. He’s heard one too many stories about your failed love affairs, when you'd sought solace at Captain’s after bad dates. You look around, debating whether to sit outside in the guarded garden with dusty plastic tables, or on the cushioned benches near the pool table and dart board, but opt for the side tables inside. While Lara continues to cringe while she sips her Jameson, you find yourself chatting with a group of expats who overheard your conversation about a paper on sectarianism in Lebanon and decided to share their thoughts. They offer to buy shots. Tequila? That would explain the severity of this hangover. Laughs, another round of shots, Jason cursing Zionism loudly, a lot of absurd jokes on Trump… And another round of shots?
Image credit: Flickr/Ahmad Moussaoui
Your phone buzzes. You part your eyes a little more this time and reach to grab it, cursing the construction workers. It’s from Lara, she’s asking if you made it home alright from Zack’s rooftop party in Achrafie. Ah, another series of events begins to surface, bits and pieces coming back. The construction noise stops for a minute. You sit up and lust after the small slice of the azure shoreline that lies shyly between two cement towers. Exhausting, mesmerizing, aggressive and insatiable... Beirut, how can you be all of them at once?
