-If you’re hunting during the night, bring a flashlight.
-Once you find an object, take a photo of it on location.
-Once you bring it home, take a photo of its new location (you're welcome to include yourself).
-Post the two photos with a short story, if you may, on the FCBK group.
-Do NOT throw the objects (read, “If project is successful”)
What is the purpose of this game?
-To discover specific buildings, streets, certain views and neighbourhoods of Beirut, that are outside your routine and zone of comfort.
-To get to know Beirut better.
-To rekindle your love and passion for this unique city of ours.
If this project is successful:
-We will gather up all the found objects for an exhibition
-Efforts will be made to contact the national and international press and artistic community, so we can show them that we are capable of doing something new, that we are capable of working together, that we have given a new twist to the term urban intervention.
- People who have found the objects will be invited to start their own treasure hunt by hiding them again. The domino effect!
My approach with Lulu was one-of-a-kind. Would I dare approach a man now? I highly doubt it. I have become too proud and too easily frightened. I feel like I have a face to lose.
But is it self-deception when I blame the Lebanese society for my lack of initiative? Perhaps not entirely, there is some truth in that men react differently to a woman who takes charge. And by differently I mean that they come to the conclusion that she’s some kind of a desperate body bouncing from pelvis to pelvis. On the other hand, wouldn’t I want to end up with someone who has the capacity to think beyond those lines and who is not afraid of a girl with a little edge to her? It is a question with many an answer. A filter must be devised to let the scum pass through…
I do recall a situation where I did take charge, and it was right here in Beirut.
Back when Monot was still a crowded street, I went clubbing with a group of friends to a place that has had its name changed Nth times since.
I was in a good mood, dancing on surfaces meant for sitting, laughing at jokes that I pretended to hear, and giving my ex a little bit more hope than necessary.
The area next to our table was closed off; a private party for an office or something. He caught my attention. He was tall, over 6ft, definitely older, with longish hair, squarish glasses and a very large nose that even from a distance managed to switch on my buttons. He was above average. Looked smart. That was all I could come up with as my brain took some time out in Absolutspa.
Another thing it came up with was a strategy, and it went like this: approach the man in question, all the while dancing and never meeting his eyes, lean your back against his lightly and briefly to appear accidental and observe subject’s reaction, if reaction positive, proceed with leaning, and applying more pressure for a longer time. Within minutes, we were dancing glued back-to-back. I then started teasing him, by dancing away and then going back and then away and so on so forth. This lasted for a quarter of an hour until he disappeared. I had taken it too far.
A little while later, his back was back and his hand was searching the top of my jeans. Right there, I grew a little alarmed and slid my own hand to meet his so as to lay down the terms of his wandering. I felt a paper slide into my palm. I put it in my pocket for later.
We left the club at the same time as him. But he wasn’t alone. A co-worker in an emerald dress was walking next to him. He caught up with me, brushed his hand against my back and walked off towards his car. She got in too.
Was there a ring on his finger? I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
I waited a couple of days before dialing the number.
“Allo, c’est Nathalie.”
Naturally, not my real name. I had to tread with caution.
Apparently he wasn’t aware of such a thing.
He was married, with kids, and twice my age. He was a doctor, with a name, an address, a clinic. He called me 3ammo and I called him Freud. We called the coming Sunday a date.
A great shadow of emptiness looms over Beirut, and I'm standing on the edge, knee-deep, not knowing where to run...
The thought was circling in my head as I drove back home at 5 in the morning. It was over: the Beirut that I knew all this time, was forever gone. It was only at this particular hour, the city empty and silenced, that I felt at home. Cautiously, the ghosts of my hopes and memories emerged from their hiding places. The shy followed the brave, and soon enough the streets came alive from under the shuffle of their feet. Playfulness in numbers.
But with the movement of every car and human figure that charged from the darkness, the dream would burst into a cloud of feathers, and the colourful televised image would slowly fall to the ground in shreds. And as the inhabitants and pollutants of the city rose from their slumber, their dynamic manifestations would propel bullets that punctured this magical canvas until it hung by a thread, a shredded, disintegrated origami, twirling in the rising air that parted with the black asphalt.
During the day, I cannot recognize the city anymore. Within minutes I am consumed by the multitudes of cars and faceless people that I imagine to be driving them. I cannot recognize myself.
An umbilical cord of smoke and noise and poison sucks the life out of this urban embryo. Aside from the wheezing and gagging, there are the frustrated palpitations of an angry broken heart. We beat this child that our grandfathers raised, that our grandmothers sang lullabies to. We beat it all throughout the day, its fragile bones crashing into 4-floor-deep car parking basements. We cut, we drill, we scrape, we delete, we fill, and we are tired. We tell this child we love her and that this is for her own good, Li Beirut, 7abibti.
And then we dress her up like a Hollywoodian Virgin Mary, and send her stumbling into the night, to light the way and lead us to our chambers of perversion, where we rape her, rape her, irreversibly. Then sew her up again.
Yet we still insist she stand tall in 50 inch heels, a glamorous, glitzy, promising catch. We are selling our virgin daughter repeatedly.
Forgive my Parisian tone, but I'm sick of tourists, of tourists who have no idea of the price we are paying. Of happy, chatty white faces who will come back home with stories of shirtless ribbed men at Cotton Candies, of brightly made-up Solider-ity, of beer and wine flowing in the gutter, of the beautiful buildings that are being torn down, of the crazy traffic, of beautiful girls who seduce but, leave the European hanging, of handsome boys who seduce you and leave you waiting...
Will anyone ever stay long enough to come back and let everyone know that we are lost, our past crumbling, our culture in dusty books about Phoenicians, our boys waiting eagerly to dance with other boys once a month because it's the fucking pits being gay here, our girls saving the last dance for boys who can afford to keep dancing and dancing, our parents who will never forget who shot who first, our artists who are struggling to fill a void within and without themselves, our g0vernment who _____________________ <---- insert every offense here. Will anyone come back with stories and pictures of a Beirut more divided than ever?
My only hope is to vomit everything I know and to stop pinning hopes to where there is only empty frustration. To better navigate the city, to better filter the people, so that I can grow more efficient and not waste energy and time, so that I stop avoiding, start facing and do something.
I am hopeful, I heard a pin drop a couple of nights ago. I am not alone. There are people who have built fortresses against this perverse invasion and I stand in awe and admiration. I have much to learn. Thank you both.
I had three days left to act. The following day, I messaged Lulu thanking him for having taken out some time to meet us for the interview. He replied telling me that the next time I’m in town, I should pass by his theatre. “It was a pleasure meeting you girls.”
That’s it? No, I wouldn’t have it. I really wanted to just call him and tell him what had happened the first night I laid eyes on him, and ask him whether he had felt something too. But he was 24 and I was 15, he wouldn’t take me seriously, and even if he did, what then?
Up to this day, I do not understand the intense need to let the other person know how you feel about them. If the feeling is mutual, wouldn’t you feel it too? If the magnetism is that strong, then you can tell one another everything by saying nothing. It is a signal that we can pick up, unless we have been irreversibly desensitized. The look that lingers, the knees that barely touch, the hand that doesn’t move away, the body that calls to you, the smell of death by lust curled up in the curve of the neck, the silences that sit on your laps like fat cats purring, the lips that need constant licking and biting – delicate vibrations that build up to a resonance that we can unwittingly shatter with a single word. I say, do not ask, but listen with every cell in your body. It is a soft, sensual hum that cannot be missed.
But time was sand diminishing, so I asked him instead. I asked him whether he had recognized me from that night, and whether he too had felt the hum of intrigue pass between us. I swallowed my pride, and sent it.
My gulp got stuck in my throat, my heart played to psychedelic trance, my sweaty palms were skis. Minutes felt like days.
Beep beep, beep beep.
“Of course I recognized you. The air of intrigue was mutual. Call you after my rehearsal.”
The rush of adrenaline was so strong that I had to go use the bathroom.
He called me after a couple of hours asking me where I was. I was at the mall with my sister. He was there in 10min.
We sat down for a cup of coffee. The first thing I told him was that the interview was bullshit and that I was sorry for having concocted such a lie. He revealed that he had felt something fishy…
He had to go meet up with a friend, so we decided to meet up the following day, to spend more time together.
I was over every celestial object you could name and when I got home, the grin on my face brought forth a lot of questions from my mother. I told her.
And she forbade me to go see him. “He’s too old for you, you never know, he could slip something into your drink and then God knows what will happen! You know these actor types, they use all kinds of substances. Why are you putting yourself at risk?”
I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t have any of it.
The next day I spent my entire morning and afternoon sitting next to the window and looking out unto the street. I felt too heavy to do anything. It was raining outside, everything was wet and gray and I related, on a very deep, level with the clouds that had fallen from the sky in shatters of dirty muddy puddles. Stepped on and stepped in.
My mother approached me, “You meet him in a public place and don’t go anywhere private, you understand? You watch your drink and give me his name and phone number. Keep your phone where you can hear it and don’t let me wonder why you’re not picking up.”
Conditions? Fuck conditions, they were damn reasonable and it was then, at 15 that I learnt that my mother was human and that she too had a past beyond the day I was born.
I called up Lulu, and we were to meet at midday at the town square’s gellateria. Speaking of ice…
The following day was as sunny as sunny could get, but the temperature had dropped to -17 overnight and yesterday’s rain had turned into snow which the wind was now brushing against the cobbled stones in brief wisps.
I remember every single detail of that day. He walked in wearing a heavy black coat. He ordered vanilla ice-cream with cherry syrup. He let me taste it. He helped me put on my tan brown coat. We walked along the busy pedestrian street lined with stalls selling souvenirs. My hands were freezing. He bought me gloves. I wanted knitted wool, he wanted leather. We spoke about theatre and the middle east, his old brick and medicinal bottle collection, about love and how I reminded him of his ex, both in form and in thought. We walked past churches, up the stairs, into an art gallery, into a book shop, only to end up in a tea house just across from the gellateria. We sat next to each other, his knee against mine, his elbow against my arm, as we looked through the photos I had taken that day.
It was 16h, and he had a rehearsal to go to. Having nothing else to offer, I gave him a black rubber bracelet I was wearing, and he ran to his car to fetch his backpack. He pulled out a bead bracelet he had bought on his trip to Turkey.
We said goodbye, and walked in the opposite directions. The sun was setting now and the white walls and columns of the cathedral were painted an orangey yellow and I didn’t dare look back. The sky and the city looked like I felt and I just kept on walking deeper into the dream, etching the memory of that day into the path I walked.
The next day, when the plane was flying over the city, my tears were hot with grief and loss, and I collected them on my lower lip, so as not to lose any more.
The more I write, the more I remember. As soon as I formulate a memory into words, another one resurfaces. It’s as though they are stored in stacks, one underneath the other. Yet there is one memory which has a shrine of its own and that is the story of the very beginning, a story that predates Beirut.
I knew it was him, because my body started shivering; I couldn’t hold my cup, my feet were involuntarily tapping to silence and my lips were quivering so much, that I had to resort to writing to explain to my friend what was happening.
We were sitting in a theatre café, observing from beyond the immediate circle, a discussion amongst the cast and students of theatre production. He sat outside the circle too, though his head was turned towards them. He was two tables across from me. I would have probably shivered myself into a prune had he sat a little closer.
I recognized him as one of the actors that we had just seen perform on stage. Bizarrely, I hadn’t noticed anything special about him during the performance.
Our eyes locked thrice during the entire evening. They locked. It was the first time I didn’t shy away and I looked back with intensity so intimidating, that I myself was taken aback by my audacity. At that moment, I remember thinking to myself, “This is something beyond everything. This is something.”
Even now I wonder what it was exactly that I had felt. It wasn’t as simple as lust or infatuation because they are so primal in their definition that I would have recognized them immediately. The emotion was so strong that I was transfixed, so taken by it that I could feel it concentrate in my bones. I could feel my bones. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t feel good, my skeleton was just there like a thought. And with its presence, there came the knowledge that this man was very important to me. It was a fact. It was so clear and so true that I never questioned it, not for one second.
And I still know it now, even though I have let go of the pursuit of trying to make him see it and understand it. Even if he did, what could he do with me? What was he supposed to do with a 15-year-old girl whose eyes looked at him with a sense of direction for his life? How was he to place me in his world?
Why was he important to me? What was it about him that made my whole body and soul resonate? I tossed about the possibility of love in my hands and it didn’t feel heavy enough, it didn’t feel right enough. Love is not a truth, it is a choice, and I didn’t choose him.
Was I a victim of a panic attack and he the victim of my unoriginal explanation? Were we somehow connected in our previous lives, if such a thing exists? Will we be connected in an afterlife, if such a possibility exists? Will we cross paths again in this life? I didn’t know what to think, none of these explanations stood high enough to peer over the wall that kept me from understanding this state of being. All I knew is that I was his. If anyone owns me on this Earth, it is Lulu. I could feel my pride and ego gnaw at my bones as I surrendered to his spell.
It was getting late, the streets would start freezing over soon and getting home would become increasingly risky. I dragged my friend into the ladies’ room to discuss a possible course of action. I had to speak to him, I had to do something.
On our way out, we noticed that he wasn’t there anymore. I was beyond disappointed, on the verge of devastation really.
He was talking on his cell phone in the dark of the foyer. All I could think of was,
“Goodbye”
“See you”, he said.
When you’re young and naïve and quivering, that is sufficient to make you go mad with hope.
As we stepped outside into the snow, I was already imagining a happy ever after.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My head kept on playing and rewinding the episode at the theatre. He had worn a Prussian blue sweater, which intensified the blue of his eyes. His hair was black, a tad disheveled and the lower half of his face was dotted with speckles of a beard-to-come.
I decided to write him a short letter which I left with the doorman of the theatre the next morning. I didn’t even know if I had gotten his name correct; the poster of the play was my only source and there were three males in the cast…it was a game of darts in the dark.
I was travelling in a week, and the doorman had told me that he was originally with another theatre, which was on the other side of town, so the chances of him receiving it in time to reply were slim. My hopes were fat. My next step had to be overweight.
With my fingers crossed, I flipped through the obese phone book and found his name, but it wasn’t his entirely, it was a lady’s. I called anyway.
“Allo.”
“Hello, is this Lulu’s number?”
“I’m his mother. May I know who’s speaking?”
Never before have my neurons fired back a lie this fast.
“I’m a student writing an article for our school about young and upcoming actors, and I was wondering whether I could get Lulu for an interview.”
“Well, he’s not here right now, but if you want I could give you his cell phone number.”
“That would be perfect.”
“0000000000000”
“Thank you very much! Have a good evening.”
Was I fast enough to shut the phone before I screamed victory into the alleyway? I guess not.
I waited until I calmed down, and called the number.
“Hello, Mr.Lulu?”
“Yes?”
I told the same lie once more, and it was bought without any struggle. We had a date the next afternoon at another theatre.
That evening, my friends and I sat down in a café to come up with a decent list of questions. We tried to be original, but because we were only fifteen years old, “Briefs or boxers?” seemed to be original enough for us. Of course, we had more serious questions to compensate for our childishness.
The three of us arrived in advance so as to appear professional. We eagerly watched out the window. He drove up in a little black Golf, covered in multi-coloured stickers. I couldn’t imagine anything cooler.
He was cute and funny and modest and we took pictures with him. During the entire time, I watched him closely to see whether or not he had recognized me from the other night. I was so nervous, anxious that he was in on the whole thing.
In a couple of hours, the three of us sat down to watch him in Chekov’s “Cherry Orchard” and I discretely filmed snippets of him playing the idiot. I still have those clips.
Once the day was over, I was still feeling empty. I needed something more. Answers and videos weren’t enough. I had to put on my fat-suit again, and I had to get better results. I had to play it shameless.
But what do you do when you stare the only purpose, you’ve ever recognized, straight into the eye?
How do you put it forth into the world? How do you make it alive?
How the fuck do you deal with simultaneous realities that exist in parallel? How do you reconcile a reality, that allows for petty details - of blue eyes, Golf cars and questions about underwear - to spin a web that becomes our idea of the world, with a reality that assigns ideas [of purpose, connection and truth] to particular details and particular people who, in the worldly sense, are petty?
Or simply put, how do you deal with worrying about unmanicured nails and the search of meaning and purpose and value all at the same time?
