If New York is the city that never sleeps, Beirut is the city that never stops smoking. The scent is everywhere—fragrant, like the flavored argileh emitted from the hookahs in cafes and bars, or ashy, like the Winstons, Marlboros, and Cedars that droop from the mouths of shopkeepers and cabbies and are waved like sabers when conversations get hot. Diners smoke during meals, puffing grape and apple between courses at Laziz; over drinks, while the tables overflow into the back patio at Café Hamra; even when exercising—roller bladers, bikers, and the occasional jogger taking casual puffs along the Corniche, the coastal walkway overlooking the Mediterranean.
Beirut has long been known for its spirit of carpe diem, and smoking is only a part of that picture. A city that survived a brutal fifteen-year civil war from 1975-1990 and devastating Israeli shelling as recently as 2006, its denizens appear to approach life with the motto of “eat, drink (and smoke), for tomorrow we die.” The tobacco habit accompanies other high-octane pursuits—fast cars, strong coffee, expensive liquor, and the pulsing beat of the clubs that rage until dawn. “Inch’ Allah” a new friend shrugs when I agree to meet at Ramlet al-Baida beach the following Monday—in this city, one never knows.
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Despite, or perhaps because of, regional tensions, the mood when I visit Beirut in April, 2015 is more celebratory than fatalistic. With Syria and Yemen spiraling deeper into civil war and a new deal with Iran raising the hackles of an already hawkish Israel, Beirut feels like an oasis of peace. On the Corniche, well-dressed locals bask in spring sunshine while muscled young men in sports cars cruise past. Twenty-five years since the end of a civil war that splintered the city, the pursuit of pleasure appears to coexist easily with religion; the Islamic call to prayer is heeded throughout the day (the country is at least 55{f601acc48c7c49652e30f2fab106e7de4a69edf8d5e7b04da5e5a3c80b338d5d} Muslim), as are the Maronite Catholic church bells on Good Friday. Beirut embodies the complexity of the Middle East—religious and modern, pious and secular, multicultural, and devoted to fun.
In central Beirut there is plenty to keep a first-time visitor occupied. With my companion, I wander through Little Armenia, where sweet vendors ply us with free samples of namoura and knafeh—honey and pistachio pastries—and a few friendly words in English and French. I take photos in Ashrafieh, its French and Ottoman mansions dripping with colonial ambiance, stroll Hamra street at night with its hip cafes, bars, live music, and clouds of grape smoke, and enjoy the Corniche with its view of the ocean and Pigeon Rock. We take in the Grand Mosque and cathedrals in Centre Ville, the bistros and pubs of Gemmayzeh, the Sunday races at the Beirut Hippodrome where the betting is still done in French though the crowd is Arabic speaking, and the National Museum, where Lebanon’s rich history of culture and conquest is on display.
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Though its high-end construction projects show optimism for Beirut’s future, the surviving buildings display numerous reminders of its recent past. Twenty-five years since the end of the civil war that divided the city along religious lines there are still skyscrapers riddled with bullet holes; others were demolished and never rebuilt. Though the city’s tropical beauty calls to mind the well-heeled beach towns of Miami or Monte Carlo, Ashrafieh’s crumbling French mansions are mostly devoid of inhabitants, except for the feral cats that roam them. Beirut by night could be L.A. or Hong Kong—except that so many buildings are dark. Rather than glittering lights, one sees the ghostly outlines of war-scarred skyscrapers not yet rebuilt.
Precisely because its past is so visible, Beirut resists the easy label of “city of contradictions.” It’s more that the past and the present determinedly coexist: where one floor of a mansion is pockmarked by shrapnel, another is painstakingly restored. Bullet holes on the side of a building are painted over with graffitied declarations of romantic love. At the Jeita Grotto, one of the largest displays of stalactites in the world, a guard whose job is to stop tourists from taking photos says the caves were once used by Christian militias for storing their arms. And while viewing the sixth century Mosaic of the Good Shepherd in the National Museum, it is impossible to ignore the gaping hole in its lower left corner, left by a sniper’s bullet.
With pressures from inside and out, it’s no wonder Beirutis are so good at blowing off steam. In a tiny country bordered by war-ravaged Syria to the East and Israel to the South, there’s a palpable feeling of being hemmed in. It is crowded, Lebanon having recently absorbed a whopping 25{f601acc48c7c49652e30f2fab106e7de4a69edf8d5e7b04da5e5a3c80b338d5d} of its base population in refugees fleeing the neighboring conflicts. Since the roads from Beirut are continually jammed, two lanes become three, and traffic swerves in and out, forging new inroads along the white lines. Even up in the mountains there’s little free room. Sports cars dart dangerously through the space left by other cars, prevented by traffic from reaching full speed. The claustrophobic feeling may explain why, in a place where cigarette smoking has increased 475{f601acc48c7c49652e30f2fab106e7de4a69edf8d5e7b04da5e5a3c80b338d5d} since the end of the civil war, the gyms are booming. Working out, clubbing, smoking, and driving fast cars are all part of modern day life in peaceful Beirut.
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For a visitor, Lebanon’s troubled past lends more poignancy to the warmth of its people. On my three-week trip, though I speak fewer than ten words of Arabic, the locals go out of their way to accommodate me. When my companion and I order zatar—a popular snack of flatbread and herbs—in a mountain village, we are presented with two. “Free,” the young father says, a gesture of his hospitality. This happens again and again—in the pastry shops I find it impossible to pay for any one treat that I want to try and am instead handed two. On buses I am helped by passengers offering to guide me.
We encounter this same friendliness on our numerous side trips throughout the country. Entering a small restaurant outside of Baalbek, I initially feel hesitation. In a place where we stand out as foreigners, I am the only woman inside not wearing a veil. After our shoddy attempt at ordering, a man who has spent time in Toronto offers to translate. While we are eating, a family sends their young daughter over to recite a story in English. By the time we leave the restaurant, a patron at every table has offered a friendly “Hello” or “Welcome,” an experience impossible to imagine in my home country.
Although as a visitor I’m impressed by the city’s sanguine spirit, some Beirutis are wary. The hairdresser on the corner, a handsome septuagenarian named Khalil Bedeir is one such Beiruti. Also known as Mike, or “The Barber of Bliss Street,” the long-time local is often quoted by English-speaking media because of his uncanny ability to sense the fault lines beneath Beirut’s seeming calm. In April, 2015, Bedeir is nostalgic for Beirut’s pre-war past. He laments the tight community ties that were lost in the war, declaring “a people without manners is like food without salt.” He decries the crass commercialism that has replaced Beirut’s intellectual capital saying, “It used to be no money and a lot of brains—now it’s no brains and lots of money.” Unwilling to go into specifics—“freedom of speech doesn’t work that way here”—he cites corruption as his main concern in present-day Beirut. Ali, an undergraduate at the American University of Beirut, is also cautious. Though at 21, Ali was born four years after the end of the civil war, he notes that the war’s “sectarian aspects are still ongoing.” While Ali believes Lebanon is “relatively stable compared to before,” he is troubled that many of the same political factions are still in power.
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Still, at the end of the day on Hamra Street, joie de vivre rules. Airy cafes are crowded with laughing women and handsome young men drinking coffee, eating hors d’oeuvres, and puffing on flavored argileh. Though I’ve spent three weeks in Beirut, I still have not smoked. Near a casual outdoor drinks kiosk, I seize my chance. Anas is in his late twenties, with an easy smile and gracious manner. He came to Beirut from Jordan to get into “hubbly bubbly,” or hookah tobacco, but found the business not all it was cracked up to be. Homesick for Amman, he now works in a hotdog shop near the AUB campus. After a few friendly words of English, Anas buys me a juice from the kiosk and offers his pipe, which I gladly accept. Though my first attempt to draw on the snake-like contraption is awkward, I am pleased by the taste. The smoke is fruity, fragrant, and moist—nothing like smoking cigarettes, much more like chewing grape gum.
With the help of his tablet-based dictionary, Anas and I talk. His brother recently moved to the U.S., and Anas wants to visit but is afraid. Since arriving in Ohio, his brother has already been robbed at gunpoint and had his car stolen. He works at a vape shop inside a gas station, but plans, with Anas’ help, to bring Middle East-style hubbly bubbly to the Midwest. Anas and I smoke and talk for nearly an hour, during which time he encourages me to visit Jordan. “Petra!” he proclaims, in reference to the renowned sandstone city, and kisses his fingers. I tell him I think he might like California but agree that he should be careful of “very bad men.” Time and again the subject turns to hubbly bubbly, and twice Anas refills the bowl. When I ask Anas his favorite flavors, he eagerly consults his tablet.
“Canteloupe, cinnamon, apple, and goiter.”
“Goiter?” I ask.
“Goiter!” he looks at his tablet. “Very nice!” and flashes a smile.
In the end, I smoke more of Anas’ pipe than I intended. When done, we exchange emails and well wishes. Walking Hamra Street that night, I feel at one with the city, as if I’ve been let in on a secret that I didn’t know. When I pass a veiled young woman drawing the pipe outside Café Yunes, I smile. When a man walking past me blows smoke in my face it feels good. I am eager to try more flavors the next day, though the fact that I don’t get to sleep that night and later feel sick to my stomach will snuff out my plans. Perhaps for a hubbly bubbly virgin it was too much too fast.
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At the end of my last day exploring Beirut, my friend and I hop on our usual transport, city bus number fifteen. The fifteen, a casual wave-it-down bus costing less than a dollar, follows a long loop along the Corniche. On this particular ride home something unusual happens, which we, due to language barriers, don’t understand. Just before the usual route checkpoint, the driver, apparently frustrated, waves all of his passengers off, assuring my friend and me we will arrive at our destination. In one jerky motion, the driver maneuvers the bus into first, then second gear, speeding around three lanes of traffic, forcing the bus between cars and around pedestrians, all of whom swerve to avoid him. In an instant he is in third gear, making a U-turn into oncoming traffic, then barreling through a roundabout by jumping two lanes. Coming out of the traffic circle he heads into a tunnel, the bus now traveling top speed, careening from lane to lane, passing every vehicle in his path. Emerging into city traffic, he pulls two more sharp turns, the speed causing the bus to list on its tires. He jumps more lanes of traffic, creates his own lane, narrowly avoids a fast-moving moped, speeds backwards down a one-way street and, several terrifying minutes later, pulls to a sharp stop near Zeitunay Bay.
When we stand up, the driver’s palm is outstretched. The coins I hand him are wet with sweat. He says, “Welcome,” the detour having apparently eased his frustration. On the street we are overcome with nervous laughter, grateful to be off the bus. We walk the bay several times to calm down.
When our nerves are restored, we hop on another fifteen bus. Though the ride is calmer, the traffic is stalled. Our new driver does his best to maneuver forward in an impossible jam. With a sigh of frustration, he lights a cigarette. The honking begins. Engines rev as drivers unable to move keep pressing their horns. It’s an exceptionally sunny day, the ocean shimmering beneath the bright light. Happy to move at a slow pace, I slouch in my seat. The window is open, letting in a mild breeze. To the right are Beirut’s skyscrapers, framed by the sea. Beyond the city Mount Sannine is covered in snow. The honking continues. The ocean waves crash. I turn and the driver exhales, adding his smoke to the cloud that will rise like a billowing, grape-scented phoenix over Beirut.