Librarie du Liban

“Shit,” she thought, “an office job is still an office job, and office jobs suck, even in Lebanon, where people have Virgin Mary screensavers and the coffee machine produces what is essentially soil in a shot glass.”


But then they joined the office exodus at precisely four minutes to five. They drank arak and tried to learn to pronounce it properly. They went to the funfair, and rollercoastered in the air between the mountains and the sea. They watched fireworks over the valley, high above Harissa, breathing the scent of pines. They lay on the storm breaks in the marina, still warm from the heat of the day, and stared at the stars and talked of nothing.

There was still time to take turns driving Dina’s hummer on the roads where the couples go to escape their parents, and to sing along to karaoke tapes with the windows wide open. There would be work in the morning, but it would be easy to remember why you were there.

She walked to Le Charcutier Aoun in the violent pink sunset

There was certainly a moment at the airport. Hangover, check. Four hours’ sleep, check. Last minute frantic flat-cleaning; unable to force suitcase shut and having to discard ridiculous but sacred security blanket; 8am with obstreperous Royal Mail delivery office lackey unable to find package containing MP3 player and choosing not to understand “leaving the country” – check, check and check. So there was a moment, a moment of welling up and a desire for a period furious foot-stamping in the manner indulged in by so many other children at Terminal 3. Perhaps they, too, were all leaving lovely lives for unknown quantities and were finally feeling the reality kick in, having the inevitable thought – “What the badgering hell am I doing?”

But, but. Six years of chafing at one’s own country is more than enough. Adventure can and must be had. So, into the care of Middle East Airlines, and up, up and away.

And never fear, chaps. All was well. The man next to me on the plane spent $400 on seven different bottles of scent. His monumental Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses bore the colours of Lebanon. His child spoke French, English and Arabic with equal insouciance. In the endless visa and luggage queues, every turn of a head drenched the air with a different expensive parfum. I watched and listened and inhaled.

Under a perfect Islamic crescent moon, a taxi driver in a hurry did not care for my enquiry about the identity of a vast floodlit photo on a hillside of some bearded dignitary. "It is Jesus" he said, dismissively. "The King". In truth, a much smaller statue of the man was above the photo. Was it my French or his view of Westerners' areligiosity? In the garish streets of Beirut, a bride in sparkling white (both impressively whiter than, and adorned with sparkles) rode on the rear bonnet of a convertible car, escorted by tens of men on Harley Davidsons (sunglasses after dark, no helmets in the Beirut traffic), horns blaring for joy. Fireworks in the distance heralded her arrival.

And then there was welcome, there was an apartment ("flat" does not begin to do it justice) boasting acres of polished floors, there were a couple of nice boys upstairs who took me under their wings and fed me gin and tales of Lebanon in the company of one three-legged cat and another named after a famous Lebanese singer. All was hazy, but very well. There was more to come.

London

Well, London. As I throw my London Paper aside in disgust, try and fit three libraries' worth of photocopies into an increasingly recalcitrant suitcase, lay ghosts to rest, chase dust bunnies and pick blu-tack off the walls, I'm afraid I can barely summon a whisper of regret. Still, I am spending my last week in my favourite places with my favourite people, and I'll admit you have your points. I'll be back.

But for now - so long, London. It's been time for a long time, but now it's really time to go. I'll write, with love.