Halfway Around the World, Treasures are Hidden in Camps

Beirut, Lebanon 2010 - Part 1

I arrived in Beirut via Paris, barely making my connecting flight by the skin of my teeth. Charles de Gaulle Airport seemed like the final resting place of an outdated hipster dream, struggling to remain functional as I dashed toward my gate. As I hurried, my thoughts drifted back to the last time I saw Joseph face-to-face, over a month ago, when he had to return to Beirut for visa purposes.

He asked again if I was willing to miss Christmas with my own family to spend it in a foreign land with strangers.

While he was thrilled to have me join the festivities, he couldn't help but express a slight concern about whether my family would be upset with me being on the other side of the planet for the holidays.

One of the main reasons I wasn't daunted by spending the holidays in Beirut—actually, something I was rather looking forward to—stemmed from the complicated dynamics back home in the PNW.

Since my parents divorced when I was five, holidays had morphed into a logistical and emotional puzzle. I had always cherished Christmas and the festive spirit it brought, but by the time I reached double digits, that sparkle had considerably dimmed. 

With divorced parents, every holiday turned into a diplomatic mission, and it was like picking where to spend time during the holidays was a guaranteed way to make someone feel left out. Even when both parents claimed they were cool with whatever we chose, you could totally tell someone was silently disappointed and sad. It was like being stuck in a never-ending rerun of a family sitcom where no one ever really wins, year after year. Whether we were with my dad or my mom, someone always ended up feeling excluded.

And to top it all off, my stepdad's MS was getting terribly worse, which just added another layer of tension and guilt to our already strained holiday season.

So, you see, Beirut promised a refuge from all of that—a chance to sidestep the emotional tug-of-war back home. Strangely, Joseph and I hadn’t spoken since our last meeting; our only interactions had been through Facebook about my arrival time. I had neither his last name nor his phone number—just hope, trust, and perhaps a hint of that Christmas magic to nudge things along. I wasn't banking on a full-blown Hallmark movie, but a little festive serendipity? That might just be within reach.

As our plane descended toward Beirut, I gazed out at the new skyline and the sparkling Mediterranean Sea below, which framed the city like a glittering diamond ring. I turned to the woman sitting next to me; her head was veiled but had an unmistakably American demeanor. "Have you been to Beirut before?" I asked. 

"Yes," she replied, "I run a foundation that does a lot of work here. How about you?"

"No," I said, "it's my first time."

"Well, it's a beautiful country," she said with a warm smile. "But it's a wild time to be visiting. Be safe down there." Her words carried a mix of warmth and caution, echoing the complex beauty and turbulence waiting below.

Once I landed, the scene at the airport was utter chaos. The crazy lines had everyone packed together like a herd of cattle—grabbing, pulling, and pushing with no sense of order. Everyone was trying to get out as quickly as possible. It was total pandemonium: no lines, no order, just a frenzy of movement. 

Ah, that smell—the unmistakable scent of a new and different country. That first whiff always hits differently. It's like your brain can’t quite register where you are because the aroma is so foreign. Your senses get this one shot of adrenaline; it’s never quite the same after that initial encounter. A concoction of new people's sweat, local spices, exotic perfume, diesel, fish, herbs, side of sewage mixed with the sea's saltiness, the food, layers of anxiety, peace, and history—all these hit me the moment I stepped off the plane and into Rafik Al Hariri Airport.

Delirious, and obviously out of place, I was quickly directed and shuffled into the "troublemaker queue," the line where they're pretty sure you're up to something fishy and insist on examining every inch of you before letting you in.

They knew I wasn't local, but it wasn't my appearance that clued them in; I blended in just fine. Instead, it was my travel-worn backpack that gave me away. After all, no Lebanese would ever be caught traveling with such a glaringly unfashionable piece of luggage, on their backs!

For whatever reason the authorities were on high alert. It vaguely reminded me of Morocco, though obviously, it was entirely different. Eventhough to my inexperienced American eyes, at the time, the Lebanese government personnel looked like a scary militia.

Here, the personnel were highly intimidating. When questioned, they wanted to know who I was visiting and why. I probably should have maybe prepped a tad better, maybe talked to Joseph before flying out, but he was already unreachable inside the country. Despite my racing heart and sweaty palms, I managed to respond calmly. I explained that I'm a teacher here for the holidays, which was indeed the truth, and that I was eager to visit the ancient relic sites. They then asked me where I was staying.

In a moment of what I can only describe as clairvoyance, I blurted out that I was staying at the Hilton in Beirut. Every major city has a Hilton, right? I knew better than to mention that I was actually headed to a Palestinian refugee camp—they probably wouldn't have let me through the gates if I had.

When they asked for my hotel confirmation, I pulled out my phone, with a touch of frazzle. "It's on here somewhere," I said, "but I guess I forgot to set up my phone for international travel, so I can’t actually pull up my reservation right now." Perplexed, they called over a supervisor. They seemed unsure how to handle my case.

I smiled at them, striking a delicate balance between naivety and sincerity, trying to convince them that I was indeed just a simple teacher from the US on holiday. I held my breath and spent over an hour in what felt like a holding tank, waiting for them to decide whether or not to let me into the country.

Meanwhile, I couldn't help but wonder if Joseph was still out there waiting for me. Maybe he'd left, given the mess with my flight and the holdup at customs. I mean it had been hours. What now? But as an American girl in Beirut alone, this would be a whole new challenge. I was scared shitless. 

They specifically inquired whether I had visited Russia or Israel, then scrutinized my records and passport. Having never traveled to either country, I appeared to match their profile of a harmless, compliant girl who puzzled them—but not enough to detain me, so they waved me through.

I stepped through the sliding doors, unsure of what awaited me on the other side. As I waited, the air thick with anticipation, the scent of thrill enveloped me. Five minutes passed—a brief eternity—until I saw Joseph approaching with two friends in tow. I hugged him tightly, overwhelmed by the reality of being in Beirut, and him there, waiting just for me.

In an era dominated by instant communication and ever-present smartphones, our inability to connect had thrown us back to the days of map-wielding, compass-spinning adventurers.

There he was—right in front of me. It was thrilling, exhilarating. I had made it to his side of the planet, passed through the barriers, and stood ready for what promised to be one of the most memorable nights of my life.

I climbed into his Jimmy, accompanied by his two friends who, I suspected, tagged along because they couldn't quite believe he was picking up an American friend coming to film with him. 

We drove through the bustling streets by the Mediterranean, stopping to savor the most delicious French pastry desserts I'd ever tasted. The city pulsed with vibrant energy, loud and lively, surprisingly bustling for so late at night. Feeling like an alien in this colorful and foreign world, I took deep breaths, my senses heightened by jet lag and adrenaline, eager to soak in every detail. Joseph was in his element—this was his home, a side of him no one would ever see back in LA.

As jet lag fatigue set in, I started to wonder about our final destination. Joseph suggested one last stop at an old pub. Here, I realized that Arabs seem to never sleep—they work hard, indulge heartily, and embrace life fully, perhaps driven by the ever-present shadow of war and uncertainty.

Surrounded by ancient cobblestones, we sipped wine and coffee, munching on delicious Kri Kri nuts. The conversation turned to my journey from LA to establish a Questioneer hub in Lebanon. They all agreed that Joseph was the best fixer around, well-connected and dependable.

When the topic of my accommodation came up, his friends expected tales of The El Royale, a five-star hotel, or perhaps a rented chalet on the beach. Instead, I casually mentioned, "I’m staying with Joseph and his family." Their faces dropped in disbelief. "You're staying in the camp with him?" one asked, astonished.

I nodded. Puzzled, I leaned over to the friend next to me. "Is Joseph’s house really small?"

"I wouldn’t call it a house, and I really don’t know," he confessed. "I’ve never been inside the camp."

"Never?" I pressed.

"No," the other friend added, a hint of shame in his voice.

"But I thought you guys were close, having been friends since you were young?" I whispered discreetly, disturbed by the revelation.

"We are," they admitted, "but visiting the camp just isn't something we do.”

"So none of you have ever been to where Joseph lives?" I asked. They all shook their heads. I glanced over at Joseph, bracing for an awkward and uncomfortable moment. Yet, no one seemed phased; to them, this was completely normal. Back home, this would have been seen as bizarre and downright weird.

If these guys, born and raised here and having known Joseph since childhood, have never even set foot in the camp to visit their good friend, what in the world have I gotten myself into? I guess I was about to find out.