The Ruins of Baalbek, and Perks of Being a Solo Female Traveler

In a country like Lebanon, the paradoxes of being a solitary female traveler stand out in clear relief. It's not hard to imagine the inconveniences—the insatiable curiosity about my relationship status and sex life, the tendency of some men to see me as potential prey when I walk alone on a dark street, and the disregard for my ideas and opinions, no matter how well-formed. And though I have stories, and recent ones, about these inconveniences, today reminded me of a few of the joys and perks of being a solo female vagabonder. And as this is a topic that sometimes gets overlooked (and which I sometimes overlook), it's one I want to focus on now.

I traveled to Baalbek today, to the ancient pre-Roman city of the sun in the Bekaa valley of Lebanon. I wasn't sure what to expect from Baalbek. Especially since seeing Ephesus in Turkey which truly are spectacular and breathtaking ruins. But I found Baalbek to be quite stunning, especially in the warm, orange-ish light of the fading afternoon.

When I arrived and walked to the ticket counter, I saw the price was 12,000 LL so I pulled out two 10,000 LL bills but the man working at the ticket counter just smiled at me, took one bill and said, “You are a student.” I paused, processing the man's behavior before breaking into a laugh and thanking him, stating that though I wasn't student I was a teacher.

A man sitting near the ticket booth asked me, “A teacher of what?” “English,” I responded, and then we were off. The usual questions—where are you from, how long are you here, do you like it here, when will you go back?—but this time I didn't mind being asked. He was cultured and spoke perfectly and was charming and so the usual conversation was more interesting. He joked repeatedly about marrying me off to his son though said son was a few years younger than I, then about marrying me himself. “I'll divorce my wife,” he joked. Now don't take this the wrong way; I realize that without being there, without witnessing it, this conversation could seem obnoxious and all-too-typical. But he was kind and fatherly, gentlemanlike. His name was Mohammed and he had met Anthony Bourdain and showed me a picture they had taken together. He gave me his phone number and repeatedly offered me what would seem extravagant hospitality in most places, “but in Lebanon is normal. Our hospitality is famous.” He offered to come pick me up from the airport, should I ever return to Lebanon, “Just call me when you return and I'll be waiting for you at the airport.” He offered his brother's phone number in Chicago. “If you ever go to Chicago, just call me and I'll make sure my brother will take care of you.” So when he joked about me marrying his son, I laughed heartily—we both did—and when it was time to start exploring the Baalbek ruins, I thanked him wholeheartedly, we kissed on the cheeks three times, in Lebanese fashion, then he kissed my hand as I turned to climb the ancient grand staircase leading into the ruined complex.

How is this experience related my gender? A decent question. I don't think a young man would have so easily gotten such a warm reception. I think there is something about me, as a polite and soft-spoken young woman, that inspires parental affection in many of the people I meet. They long to protect me, to help me, to give me advice. And I, in turn, enjoy their stories and their genuine smiles, and the special treatment that often comes with those stories and smiles. I never expect extra help, and that is never the motivation for my kindness; instead I only expect kindness and some interesting conversations. I keep myself open, open to meeting people, open to conversations and it's not because those people have something to offer me. No, it is simply because I love people and I genuinely love talking to all sorts of people. Especially as a solitary traveler, I often fairly jump at the chance to talk to someone, anyone, to exchange a bit of kindness and affection with someone.

Once inside Baalbek, I walked through the bright and looming ruins, the huge standing columns sending their shadows down on me. The site was near-empty except for a small group of Eastern European tourists and a large group of Lebanese students in their late teens or early twenties. It didn't take long for one of the braver guys to approach me and ask where I was from. What he actually asked was (in English, no less), “Are you from Lebanon?” For a split second, the old Sarah threatened to emerge, the Sarah who would have quickly written him off or been brusque with him, seeing such an interaction as a waste of time. Instead, I laughed and told him. “Of course I'm not Lebanese, you know that otherwise you wouldn't have asked. And where are you from?” I flashed him a big smile. “We are students from Lebanon. Can we take a picture with you?” I responded in the affirmative and as we parted ways, he told me, “You are so kind and you are beautiful...” he trailed off so that I could barely catch the end of his sentence as his friends dragged him away.

Over the next hour or so, as we all wandered separately around the site, I would run into his friends and fellow schoolmates (one of whom told me proudly, “I'm from Canada. And Ukraine!”) and towards the end we met again, this time near the exit and it seemed that all the boys from the school were there and soon I was surrounded by about twenty or twenty-five young men, all looking at me, smiling with me, asking me questions, trying to make me laugh. It is impossible to describe just how much of an ego boost it is to be the center of so much attention, so much youthful male attention. As a traveler, it is often easy to tire of being the focus of curiosity—of receiving stares, countless 'hellos', all-too-personal questions—but the truth is that when that curiosity dries up, when you are in a foreign country surrounded by people going about their lives without a glance in your direction, after the initial elation of being left alone you really begin to feel lonely. You miss the conversations, the human interaction. You even begin to miss the impertinent questions and piercingly shrill 'hellos'.

 

The boys asked me about myself and I asked them where they studied. When they found that I was staying in Beirut, where they all lived, they tried to convince me to meet up. “We can hang out!” one boy said, using idiomatic English with ease. But when I found that they were still in high school, not the college students I had originally mistaken them for, I put an end to that notion. Nonetheless, they offered me a ride back to Beirut with them, but I opted instead to remain at the site a little longer—to read, to bask. The setting sun was casting long shadows from the tall columns of the temple of Bacchus and I wanted to soak up the view a little longer.

The perks I experienced today—kindness and laughter mainly—may have nothing to do with my gender and everything to do with my attitude. Catching flies with honey and all that. But I suspect that because of my gender and because I travel alone, I am more often afforded a glimpse into other worlds. I am invited into homes, into hearts. Though I don’t have an example from today, I know being female allows me access into the lives of women, which in this part of the world are restricted domains. So when an opportunity arises, I don’t hesitate to play up whatever qualities seem most advantageous.

I know some might disagree with my behavior, may think that I shouldn't act differently in different circumstances—that I shouldn't alter my behavior in such a superficial way just to gain help or benefits. But I think that view is overly simple. If the very qualities which sometimes cause me danger—my vulnerability, my solitariness, my open and trusting nature—can also be used to my advantage, can also help me connect with people I meet, then why I should I not play up those qualities? After all, they cause me trouble whether I like it or not. I feel fully justified in turning them on their ears and exploiting those qualities for my benefit.

 

Epilogue

I wrote this when I was traveling in Lebanon a few weeks back and I read it now with an ironic smile. After a few uncomfortable experiences in Jordan resulting directly from my openness, my trusting nature, and (to be brutally honest) my attraction to male energy, I’m not sure if I will continue to play up these qualities. What’s worse, I’m not sure if I can continue to approach people and situations with the same openness I once did.

I’m still mulling all this over. I certainly welcome comments and feedback.

Magical Za’atar

My first time tasting za’atar was in Tripoli, Lebanon when Walid, my self-elected host in the city, took me to eat a freshly baked za’atar man’oushe. Man’oushe is a flatbread baked in a special oven and topped with various odds and ends—cheese, meat, tomatoes, and in the only vegan case, a paste of za’atar mixed with olive oil. Now, I don’t normally eat much bread, preferring instead to fill up my stomach with veggies, fruits, nuts, and legumes, but after two bites of the za’atar man’oushe I was hooked. The bread was like the perfect artisan pizza dough—crispy but with soft, pillowy pockets and air bubbles—and the za’atar was an explosion of flavor unlike anything I’d ever eaten before—savory, herby, salty, with a bite of citrus.

What exactly is za’atar? Magic. How else can I explain its deliciousness and its myriad applications? Magic.

Apparently, it also refers to both a fresh wild herb and the dried mix commonly found throughout the Middle East (you can read more about it here and here and here). It often contains some herbs from the thyme family, sesame seeds, salt, and sumac, but every woman is said to have her own fiercely guarded za’atar recipe and every region has a slightly different take on the mixture.

From left to right: Jordanian, Lebanese, and Syrian varieties of za’atar

Knowing I would need more za’atar in my life, I bought three different kinds when I was in Beirut. According to the store owner, each kind is popular in a different country—the dark green is from Jordan, the light green from Lebanon, and the brown from Syria. They each taste subtly different. The Syrian za’atar has hints of cumin and a more hevily spiced flavor, while the Jordanian za’atar tastes more green, more herby, and the Lebanese variety is a bit more sour and nutty.

I’ve been cooking with the za’atar, adding the mixture to roasted veggies and beans, dipping fresh bread into olive oil then the za’atar. But I still think longingly of that first man’oushe I tried in Tripoli—a first taste of magic.

Falafels of Beirut. A Love Story

On my first night in Beirut my host told me of the best falafel in Beirut—a falafel from a restaurant so historic, so popular, so delicious that Charbel could barely form sentences as he talked about it. He was near-speechless and suddenly possessed of a strong craving. Needless to say, I could hardly wait until the next day to eat this famous falafel.

Apparently, the original shop, Sahyoun, was owned by a man with two sons. It was widely known that he made the best falafel, but when he died there was a bit of a falling out and so the two sons opened two falafel shops, side-by-side, both continuing to use the same name, Sahyoun. The story had me hooked, so on my first full day in Beirut, Charbel and I walked to Sahyoun for lunch and there I got to see the shop in action.

Sahyoun is a well-oiled (excuse the pun) falafel-making machine. There is always one man working the fryer, using a special falafel scoop which has a quick-release lever and forms perfect falafels every time. Meanwhile, a separate employee works the cash register, taking your order when you arrive. A third worker prepares and assembles each sandwich, slicing radishes and tomatoes in quick and even strokes. I was awed by their efficiency and by the number of customers I saw duck in and out in only a few minutes’ time. Charbel was clearly not the only person who thought Sahyoun has the best falafel in Beirut.

I found the falafels to be a bit different from what I’m used to. They were pure, simple, understated. No specks of green, no herbs, lightly spiced. Perfection. Instead of the falafel being the main source of flavor, it was the components of the sandwich which combined to create a wonderful, tasty whole.

Each sandwich had a layer of roughly chopped parsley and mint, sliced radishes and tomatoes. All these veggies were then topped with three smushed falafels, a drizzling of optional spicy pepper sauce, and a liberal dousing of tarator (tahini, lemon juice, garlic) sauce. The sandwich is traditionally eaten with a few pickled spicy green peppers.

Now, according to Charbel, the shop on the right is always crowded, always full of people, while the other brother's shop is often near-empty. He speculates that this means the first brother has the better recipe or the better technique—something that makes his the better falafel of the two. Not content to take his word for it, I knew I needed to eat from both Sahyouns and finally settle this important issue. Which brother has the better falafel?

After trying the shop on the right, I went back the next day to try the other brother’s falafel. I would love to say that there was an obvious answer to the question: Which is better? But the only difference I could distinguish was in price. The shop on the right charged 3,000 LL while the shop on the left only 2,500 LL (about $1.70). Other than that, both sandwiches appeared and tasted identical—perfect.

Having tried the best, I decided it was time to try the rest. I continued my falafel quest at Barbar, a popular fast food restaurant with two branches in Beirut. Barbar has all the favorite Lebanese snack foods, including fatayer (a calzone-like bread stuffed with spinach), manoosh (flatbread with any number of toppings, my favorite of which is zaatar), schwarma, mezzes (including tabbouleh, stuffed grape leaves, and fattoush), and falafel.

Barbar’s falafel differed from Sahyoun’s in a few ways. The first and most obvious was the falafel itself. Barbar coated each falafel in sesame seeds before frying—a delicious touch I approved of. Unfortunately, the sandwich itself was inferior. The tarator sauce was not evenly distributed, resulting in an overly dry wrap. And though it’s traditional, I found I’m not a big fan of the pink pickled turnips that Barbar includes in their falafel sandwich.

On another day, I tried a falafel from a nameless shop near Hamra and the American University of Beirut. This wrap was big and each falafel was speckled with parsley and more heavily spiced than usual—a change which I enjoyed. However, like at Barbar, I found the tarator sauce applied too lightly, resulting in a very dry and inferior sandwich.

What I discovered on my falafel tour of Beirut is that, as with orgasms, there’s no such thing as a bad falafel. But given a choice, I know where my next falafel in Beirut is coming from.

Tripoli with Wallid: Religion, Politics, Pigeons.

I am sitting on a bench in Tripoli, trying to orient myself, when a man approaches and begins talking to me. He’s interesting, speaks of politics, and his English is impeccable, but I can barely get a breath in, much less a word. Thirty minutes later, we finally introduce ourselves properly.

I spend the entire day with Wallid as he generously shows me around his hometown of Tripoli. The streets are cobbled and narrow, the remains from the Crusaders are interesting, the old mosques are lovely. Still, the most fascinating part of the day is the jumble of ideas that stream out of Wallid’s mouth. I get the distinct feeling that fact often blurs into fiction, so I take his pronouncements with a grain of salt; however, what he says is always opinionated, well thought out, and captivating. Here’s a taste.

On politics:

“Hezbollah is scared now. Hezbollah is allied with Syria and Iran and if Syria and Iran fall, then Hezbollah cannot stand.”

 

Wallid: “We have a saying here. Arab is garbage.”

Me: “Really? That's a saying?”

Wallid: “Yes because look at the Arab countries—we have oil, resources, skills, climate. But what are we doing with our resources? We have terrible leaders and we kill each other.”

 

On religion:

“It's all mythology. Why should we treat the Greek mythology any different than Islamic or Christian mythology. Apollo, yeah, Moses, Jupiter, Jesus. They're all the same.”

“Last Friday in this mosque, yeah, the Sheikh was talking about Libya, about how it was a shame to get help from Europe and the West because they just want our oil. We should only accept help from the Arabic countries. Isn't that stupid? He's an idiot. The Arabic countries are all having our own struggles.”

 

Wallid: “Christians hate Jehovah's Witnesses. Do you know why?”

Me: “I wasn't aware that they do. In the U.S. it seems...”

Wallid: “They hate Jehovah's Witnesses because they're not Christian. They deny the cross, yeah. How can you deny the cross and call yourself a Christian? They say the cross is a symbol of the death of Jesus, but that's not true. It wasn't Jesus on the cross; it was his likeness. And his likeness was on the cross to erase the sins of mankind. They deny the cross! How can they be Christian?”

 

On politics:

“In Lebanon, we don't hate Israel. We understand that they were only going after Palestinians and Hezbollah. We hate Hezbollah.”

“The whole Arabic world is changing now. Waking up, yeah. I just wonder why it took so long and if it’s too late.”

On pigeons:

“In Tripoli we say, any man who owns pigeons is a liar. In fact in court, yeah, they won't listen to the testimony of someone who owns pigeons. Because the only way to get pigeons is to steal them.”

  On religion:

“The only religion in Lebanon is money. The sheikhs, the priests—they're all the same. They have villas in France and Italy. My friend is a sheikh and he hates America, but if he hates America why does he buy American cars? He says “Salaam aleikum” to the poor on the street, but only if there's someone watching him. He doesn't care about the poor; he has millions of dollars and only worships money.”

“They go to Saudi, yeah, they say they are so religious. They want to build a mosque, but they come back here to Lebanon and what do they build? A villa.”

On religion:

[After seeing a dozens of soldiers walking the street] “Today is Sunday, yeah, so the soldiers are out just to make a statement. This is the day Christians go to Church and the army is making a statement. We protect the Christians. No one bothers them. Of course, no one ever bothers them. There's never a problem in Tripoli, never been a problem. But the army wants to make a statement anyways.”

On pigeons:

“One pair of pigeons is worth $100. That’s why people steal them.”

“I have a friend who quit his job, a good job, so he could watch after his pigeons.”

Beirut Impressions

Beirut, like all great cities, cannot be easily reconciled. At times it appears homogenous, as if its disparate parts—languages, politics, religions—have been shaken so thoroughly that only one culture emerges. But look at the city in a different light, stoop down and look from a different angle and that one Lebanese culture appears fractured.

This becomes apparent to me as I walk from neighborhood to neighborhood, starting in the predominantly Christian sector of Achrafiye where sun-darkened mechanics mingle with unpretentious and cosmopolitan 20-somethings, where a swank restaurant lies next to a bare-bones tailor shop specializing in modest, matronly clothing.

The crumbling but vibrant sector of Gemmayzeh sprawls next to Beirut’s golden downtown where mosques and churches are tucked away behind and in between giant, square, looming shops, where the streets are sparkling and clean, where not a single cobblestone is out of place. Here well-heeled women , beautiful and immaculate, totter from their cars into the nearest designer store while suited businessmen and women eat healthy lunches and watch the near-empty pedestrian streets.

But just when I started to notice how Beirut’s downtown out-Europeans many cities in Europe and how everyone I pass by is conversing in English, just then I begin to see scuttlings of a different downtown, an almost invisible downtown. It starts with the valet services and personal drivers—beautiful dark black men—then I pass a man whose cracked feet are slipped into tattered open sandals—a stark contrast to the polished leather and stilettoed shoes I see around me. I look up at him, a street cleaner in weathered clothes, his skin weathered and dark. Next I notice African women, their hair tightly braided, as they run errands and make deliveries from one shop to the next. Then I see construction workers wearing traditional red and white head scarves, learning later that these men come from Syria and wait at busy street corners for any available job.

I continue walking west toward the port and that’s when I notice, in the midst of a construction boom, a tall, abandoned, bullet-riddled building. From its location, I guess that it was the Hilton, a hotel with such a great vantage point of the city that it was used regularly by snipers during the war with Israel in 2006. Later, as I turn back, I notice more signs of war—in a statue filled with bullet holes, in other crumbling buildings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I see the large new, blue-roofed Mohammed al-Amin mosque and next to it the Crusades-era St. George Cathedral. At the foot of the mosque is a sprawling tent, a place for citizens to pay their respects to the ex Prime Minister who was largely responsible for the rebuilding of downtown before he was killed by a car bomb in 2005. Though clearly some citizens respect his vision, others guess he may have been involved in the embezzlement of millions of dollars and they dislike the rebuilding, the whitewashing of Beirut’s downtown.

But these are just impressions of the city itself, of Beirut’s people I can say that everyone I’ve met speaks at least three languages: French, English, and Arabic and often switch between an Arabic which is littered with French phrases and words to a fluent English. The switch is seamless, not self-conscious. One language seems to glide into the other, each language chosen because it is better suited for expressing a particular idea or notion.

The taxi driver who helped me find my host’s flat, the corner shop owner who let me use his internet free of charge, the waiter in the falafel stand—people who in other countries would often be the most conservative citizens—here they speak fluent English and they speak fluent European-ese. They express ideas and notions which are at strict odds with the general impression of a Muslim, Middle Eastern country.

It’s hard to reconcile this Lebanon, this Beirut, with images seen on the news. It’s hard to understand how this city and its citizens were caught in the middle of a brief and explosive war only 4.5 years ago.