Rootless Without the Strength of Friendship

Kirkwood, Laurel Canyon 2010

My dad was scared shitless when I told him I was going to Beirut. I think everyone I knew was scared for me. The more I shared my plans, the louder the doubters and critics became, making me wonder if I should even go ahead with it.

My gut screamed "hell yes," my heart echoed "you have to," but my mind wavered. I told my mind to take a hike and followed my gut and heart—they'd gotten me this far.

Yes, they've led me astray before, but I refused to let fear hold me back—not this time, not ever. I have no regrets. That's the saying, right?

Every Thursday night as my departure loomed closer, my girls' nights heated up with more drama than a telenovela. "Seriously, how well do we actually know this guy?" one friend would ask, her eyebrows arched as if she were lecturing her teenage daughter. "Do you trust him? He’s mysterious, sure, and more talented than all my ex-husbands combined, but what’s your plan when you get there?”

“And the place you’re going to,” another chimed in, swirling her wine as if divining the future. “Isn’t it super dangerous? I mean, don’t they wear veils and stuff over there? What if you can’t breathe in it, and have a panic attack?”

Then there’s the friend who’s all about logistics, peering at me over her glasses: “Where exactly are you staying? And what about our sacred wine nights? You can't just ditch us for some adventure!”

Of course, there's always that one friend who leans in, her frankness intensified by a bold splash of cabernet. "Look, I just don't fully trust anyone who doesn’t drink. What if he's secretly part of something extreme, like Al-Qaeda or Hamas?"

I sighed, shaking my head. "He drinks, actually. He’s Christian, not that any of that really matters, and he’s very close to his family. The place he's from is sophisticated and complex; I won’t pretend to fully understand it.

Yes, they live in a refugee camp, he was born in one, but despite that, Joseph attended the most prestigious school in the country, equivalent to Harvard. He speaks five languages, has impeccable manners, and probably knows more about poetry, etiquette and politics than all of us put together."

Watching my friends try to reconcile their wild theories mixed with quick google searches with the reality of a cultured, multilingual refugee was quite the spectacle.

Their concerns hit me like the recent canyon mudslide, but deep down, I knew their bizarre and completely valid questions were just their way of expressing that they cared about me and they were worried. This was probably the craziest thing I’d ever done, even by my standards.

In the midst of the wine-fueled hype, I added a calming tidbit. "Actually, Lebanon is often called the Paris of the Middle East. Most people there speak English and French, and their pastries and bread are supposed to be divine. I've also heard that the wine is incredible, some even say it surpasses Italian wine!" This drew a collective gasp, especially from our resident wine connoisseur, who looked as if I’d just unveiled a grand secret.

"I think Joseph mentioned that I'm going to be staying with his family, or at their friend's place close by. In a private space that is really nice and completely safe. I'm going to be well taken care of," I reassured them, trying to dispel their wild imaginings.

"And honestly, I don’t think they wear veils there—at least, not like you’re imagining. That’s more a Gulf country thing. Lebanon used to be mostly Christian, but I think now it's about evenly split between Muslims and Christians. I'll definitely learn a lot more once I'm there."

Just as the mood began to lighten, the logistics guru threw me a curveball. "What about if you get your period there? Do they even sell tampons there, are they illegal?" That question made me pause, because I hadn't actually thought about the logistics of feminine hygiene there, and their concern was both touching and hilariously exaggerated, or was it? I needed to check.

Rolling with the humor, I quipped, "Looks like I’ll be roughing it a bit, so maybe I’ll just improvise—Canyon Girls style, right?" The table erupted in laughter, the tension melting away into our usual blend of silliness and solidarity. Really, isn’t that what girls' night is all about?

The privilege of being born in America, a stroke of fortunate circumstance, wasn't lost on me as I embarked on this journey. I left with just a few Arabic phrases and a basic grasp of Beirut's history—hardly sufficient for the complexities of Palestinian refugee camps or the array of experiences that awaited me. 

Nevertheless, I consider myself quite travel-savvy. Rooted in a lineage of adventurous pilots, my travel savvy seems almost inherited. My grandfather, stationed in China during the war, skillfully piloted C-46 and C-47 cargo planes over the Hump (the Himalayas), mastering precarious airstrips with finesse. His brother, based in England, flew P-47 and P-51 fighters and used his linguistic talents to serve as a translator between France and Germany. Continuing this family tradition, my dad marked a milestone by becoming one of the first pilots for Costco, demonstrating our family's enduring pioneering spirit in aviation. Today, this legacy is proudly carried forward by my cousins, who also pilot the skies.

I've been blessed to traverse the globe from a young age, each journey weaving new perspectives into the fabric of my understanding. My early adventures were self-funded by summer stints in Alaskan canneries, where the fruits of hardcore grit and labor blossomed into tickets to far-flung destinations.

Having ventured through the wild Outbacks of Australia and night scuba diving amidst the surreal underwater worlds of Thailand, I felt a familiar thrill of adventure stirring within me. These journeys were in the days before smartphones, when navigating meant we relied on Lonely Planet books and paper maps to find our way and picking up bits of the local language, often leading to unexpected detours. There was a real sense of adventure and discovery in this kind of travel that just doesn’t exist anymore.

I wandered through bustling market souks in Morocco, sipped mint tea in the hidden tea rooms of Fez, and tackled the rugged terrains of the Annapurnas in Nepal and Tibet, navigating through bureaucratic challenges as they came. Each experience added a layer of resilience and wonder to my spirit.

My adventures continued in Europe, where I backpacked through the scenic south of France and experienced the vibrant culture of Spain, including the beautiful Easter processions in San Sebastián. In Italy, I indulged in delicious pastas and explored renowned museums, embracing each moment fully without the convenience of digital maps or apps. The Swiss Alps brought to life scenes reminiscent of *The Sound of Music*, and in Germany, the thrill of the Autobahn was a highlight. Further afield in Indonesia, I marveled at the serenity of ancient temples.

Traveling in this manner, with a map in hand and a more direct interaction with locals, brought a richness to each encounter that shaped a profound narrative of exploration and discovery.

Now, as I faced the new horizon of Beirut's vibrant yet complex landscape, I whispered to myself, "This is just another adventure, right?" Memories of crossing vast deserts, diving into the depths of the sea, and climbing towering peaks played back like scenes from a seasoned traveler's diary. Yet, as I pondered this next chapter, a whisper of uncertainty echoed back—how different could it really be? With every corner of the globe offering its unique lessons and challenges, I realized that each step into the unknown was not just a continuation but a new exploration of the vast, intricate world we inhabit.