Beirut is a new city growing out of the rubble of the old.
Each day the long shapes of steel and stone and glass thrust their way skyward leaving the old and often charming Beirut, the Beirut that was once as much east as west, to survive, if at all. in the shadows.
But survive it does.
On a little street here, a tiny shop there, or on a quiet terrace by the sea. the old Beirut survives. Side by side with the Beirut of the tourist, the Beirut of the banker, the Beirut of fast cars and thundering jets, the old Beirut quietly holds on. its individuality undiluted, its spirit alive, its charm intact. You may not see it right away, for the big new buildings and the rushing traffic will distract you. But it is there.
All you have to do is look...
Wherever you go after Beirut you will never forget the smell or the taste of shawarmas, a large cone of lamb piled up in paper-thin slices that are soaked overnight in juices and spices, then roasted on a revolving spit, sliced verticaly into slivers and served in an envelope of fresh Arab bread stuffed with mint, pickles and fresh tomatoes...
Beirut is a bustling city. Its taxis race in fits and starts from point to point. Its tourists hurry off to see its sights. Its businessmen scurry to their offices. But amid the bustle, the easy pace of another time still remains, a pace that is suited somehow to a quiet boulevard by the sea. to a breeze in the gnarled branches of a tree, to a young man fishing in the sea in the stillness of the afternoon...
In Beirut, as in Paris, the old cafes are friendly places where a man can sip his coffee, and quietly read his paper in the middle of the morning...
In Old Beirut there live the aging men of another time who proudly wear the head-cloths of other days and other places, who pass their time in the pleasant sunshine outside a favored café or on the stone steps that lead down to the sea...
"Reading all about it" in Beirut is not hard. In Arabic, in French, in Armenian, in English, the newspapers of Beirut come off the presses like leaves from a tree. There are 35 daily newspapers, and more than 30 weekly and monthly magazines...
There are children of course. There are always children. But in Beirut they tell of another time when France ruled the land and the ways of France put their mark upon the people and upon their children...
Old Beirut lives outdoors most of the time. Under blue skies and a constant sun the people of the old city play and eat and shave or just sit in an old chair on a terrace above the sea and inhale the cooling smoke of a narghila...
Swiftly, inexorably, new Beirut, now just towers in the distance, is moving south. Where today a man can stroll in peace on a sandy shore, tomorrow he may have to pick his way among the swimmers crowded on a concrete patio by a tiled pool. But that is tomorrow. For now, today at least the old world lingers on...
