FAQs -- First Edition

Good evening Americans, I am coming to you live from rainy Beirut. Unless you're reading this after I post it, in which case it is pre-typed. Hope you're all doing well and surviving your own rainy weather.

I finally got tired of avoiding the rain and ventured out to the mall today. I took a taxi from the mall back home and the bearded yet balding driver took one look at me and said in broken English, “Where are you from?” I've taken dozens of taxis at this point and there has not been one taxi driver that hasn't asked me this question.

I said in Arabic, “How do you know I'm not Lebanese?” He chuckled, which apparently was an appropriate response. The silence continued until I finally said, “America. How did you know that?”

“Your face.”

“My face? My face is American? Both my parents are Lebanese, how is my face not Lebanese?”

He said, “It's just different.”

A few moments of silence while I pondered this new information. Apparently if you raise a child in a different country their face will be from that country, even though genetically they are not. What does an American face look like, I wonder? Fat? Is my face fat?

“Ah, America!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I lived there for a few years. In Michigan! Where are you from?”

“California.”

“Ah! We're neighbors!”

Whatever, just get me where I want to go neighbor. I then wished to revisit my purchases and make sure that I got the correct change, although it's silly to do it in the taxi on the way home because what would I do if they didn't give me the correct change? It's a self-satisfaction sort of thing, I guess. So I stopped talking to him. And he started fidgeting with his own front seat objects so I assumed he didn't want to talk to me anymore either. Wrong.

“See! Look!” He pulled out his Michigan driver's license and began to flail it around the back seat while still attempting to skirt around cars driving too slow.

“Oh, wow. Michigan, that's great!” I said. “Lots of Lebanese in Michigan.” Dear God please stop swerving this car, how in the hell did they issue that license to you anyway?

“Yeah, you say hello to anyone and they greet you with 'Marhaba!'” To which he again chuckled wholeheartedly. It was now that I noticed he was missing a tooth and I couldn't believe anyone could fit the stereotype of an Arab taxi driver more than he until he said the following.

“What are you doing in Lebanon?”

“Oh, just getting to know the family.”

“Oh, yeah? How old are you?”

“22.”

“Oh, so are you getting to know your family or are you looking for a husband?”

Did I just hear correctly? What is this country where a woman over the age of twenty is strange when her immediate life goals do not include a man, a child, or an apron?

“Getting to know my family.” I said.

“No husband?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm too young.”

He scoffed this time. Well, aren't you a treat Mr. Taxi Man. He then said, “Surely, you want to get married.”

I almost said, “No, and don't call me Shirley,” but I don't think he would have laughed and that would have annoyed me more than I was already annoyed so I just settled with, “No, I really don't.”

“Doesn't your family want you to get married?”

“Yep, they do.”

“I think you will.”

“Okay, thanks, you can drop me off here.”

When he pulled over he gave me a big toothless smile and said, “Whenever you want to go anywhere you give me a call, I will take you anywhere because you are American and you are my neighbor.” And then he drove off without giving me his name or number. I stood there for a few seconds trying to figure out if that really just happened until I realized it was still pouring and my American face was freezing.

It almost frustrates me that I'm not being recognized as Lebanese. When I arrived here and the airport official looked at my Lebanese card and asked me, "Are you Lebanese?" I was so confused. Wasn't he looking at proof that I was? It's frustrating because I wanted to come get the experience of what it is like to live in Lebanon but I feel like I'm getting special treatment. Is this the fate of an Arab American? Never regarded as a full American but never treated as an Arab?

This is off topic but I would like to share a conversation happening this very moment between my grandmother and the maid, Rikka, who is not acting crazy anymore and stayed with us. She is trying to learn Arabic by asking my grandmother to translate phrases in English.

Rikka: I'm hungry.
Teta: You are hungry? Go eat.
Rikka: No, no. Arabic. I'm hungry.
Teta: You're angry?
Rikka: No! Hungry!
Teta: Oh, jaani.
Rikka. Jaani.
Teta: Go eat!

If you've ever wondered what Abbot and Costello would say if they were Arab then there you go.

Anyway, I have been getting a lot of similar questions from my friends about my experience so I decided to include a FAQs (frequently asked questions) entry because that is just how generous I am.

Q: Are you married yet?
A: No. But my grandmother whispers on the phone quite frequently about who was very impressed by me and who was asking about me and who was actually there just to meet me and I didn't know and don't dare tell me. She actually believes I don't realize what is going on here? (You hear that Mom and Dad and Aunt Layla? I know what she says when she's talking to you.) I'm not the type of girl who thinks that all the boys are after me but when you change seats three times and the same 32-year-old man sits next to you and asks you questions like, “So, what do you do? Where did you go to school? Isn't Los Angeles a desert?” then you can sort of figure it out. But I quickly channeled Elizabeth Bennet and spoke to him with detached class. Actually, I ran away whenever I saw him, so I think he got the point. Maybe he can spread the rumor that I'm a snobby and picky American who thinks she's too good to marry anyone, which I really wouldn't mind at all.

Q: How are women treated there?
A: I have not felt like I couldn't do something or go somewhere because of my gender, and for the most part, no man has made me feel uncomfortable or demeaned. Actually, the men here are quite respectful, especially when they can tell you aren't from Lebanon, which is apparently obvious in my case. Don't get me wrong, there is still a long way to go for gender equality. One of the bigger issues is domestic abuse. If a husband hits his wife it is not considered a crime. So basically a man can do whatever he pleases in his own home and there really wouldn't be anyone to tell him otherwise. And there are still hardly any women in government or religious roles. But I'm not a sociologist or gender expert so I'm not going to start analyzing that. I can just talk about my own experience, which is that the people who make me most uncomfortable about me being an independent woman are women. I have heard the phrase “she acts like a man” more times than I can count from my older female relatives, the television, even sometimes peers my age. And we already know how people react when I dare to say I don't want to get married. I'm sure they're talking about me behind my back, but I really don't care. When your family is Lebanese then someone will always be talking about you. But they'll talk about you less if you follow these rules:

1. Always have your hair and nails done. Do not put your hair up in a ponytail, this is messy. And do not step outside without make up on, people will think you don't care about yourself.
2. Make sure your eyebrows are always shaped. Try to get them tattooed, the more unnatural they look the more Lebanese your face will seem to taxi drivers. And remember, men don't want to marry a woman with a mustache.
3. Avoid the following masculine activities: hiking, camping, anything to do with nature that could possibly upset your hair or make up. The bare elements will bring out your bare elements, and Allah forbid anyone see your lips do not really have a dark red lining. (You can get that tattooed as well.)
4. Do not tempt men with too much thigh or cleavage. But also do not wear plain clothing that doesn't show off your body in a tasteful way. We're not in the stone ages, after all.
5. Don't be fat. But don't be skinny. Strive to be as beautiful as the images you see on television. But have a healthy body image!
6. Don't smoke, drink, or stay out too late. Don't let the neighbors see you come home late, especially if a man is dropping you off. After all it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single Arab man in possession of a mediocre fortune must be in want of a virgin.

Q: Is it diverse in Lebanon?
A: The first thing I noticed when I got here was that there sure are a lot of Arabs. So, no, not really. There are a few hip, young white people strolling about either studying abroad or traveling, mostly European. Most of the diversity comes from the working class who as I have already said come from South Asia and the Philippines.

Q: Do they speak English?
A: The Lebanese people have an unbelievable talent for languages. Most can speak Arabic, French and English. But I have never seen a country with such an identity crisis. They sing Happy Birthday first in English, then in Arabic, and then in French. And the poor kid just wants to make his wish and eat the cake already. Sorry kid, you can't have your gateau and eat it too. When they answer the phone they say, “Bonjour,” when you do them a favor they say, “Merci,” when they hang up the phone they say, “Bye.” There are a lot of complicated reasons for a lack of a Lebanese identity, which in my opinion is the root of all of Lebanon's problems. Maybe that is their identity, that they are Western and Arab all in one and that they are separated and united all in one. And I use the word “united” loosely. But that does not have to do with speaking English. Yes, they speak English.

Q: What's the hardest thing to get used to?
A: Well, I have quickly come to realize that Lebanese people are the same everywhere and that if you are raised in a Lebanese household you will not be shocked by the characteristics that could make Lebanese people a little bit, um, shocking. I am not afraid when someone who went to school with my grandmother's brother's middle son's cousin's neighbor's wife kisses me on the cheeks and hugs me too close to their old man armpits. I am not afraid when I see a table full of food and a chunky widow coming at me with a spoonful of tabbouleh. Quite the contrary. But they can be really frank about things that Lebanese Americans don't say because they have come to understand American faux paus. Such as they will call you fat, say your clothes don't look good, ask who you voted for, ask how much money you make, what your religion is, how much your house costs, why you're not married, if you're interested in a nose job, etc. etc. They're not trying to be rude, these things just aren't considered private matters here. Luckily most of the above has not been directed towards me because I think my family and friends are literally afraid of scaring me off. Except the nose job. That one was from my grandmother. What I simply can't get used to though is their lack of structure. They're really flaky. Again, they don't mean to be rude. Their way of life is, “Relax. No problem.” Which can explain why there are a lot of problems.

Q: How do Lebanese people feel about Americans?
A: As mentioned in a previous entry and which I'm sure you have memorized as you should everything I say, my grandmother is famous for remembering birthdays. Once she was rattling off every family member who had a birthday in December and she proudly said, “I'm pretty good at birthdays.” Her sister said, “Pretty good? Sister, I'm sure you know Bush's birthday.” In short, they don't like Bush. Sr. and Jr. And other than that I can't possibly tell you because Lebanese people are so divided in their opinions that I'm not even sure I can tell you how they feel about Lebanon. From what I've deciphered, they are generally positive about President Obama although they think he can be more daring when it comes to the Middle East. They think Americans are capitalists whose lives revolve around making money, and I'm not sure how wrong they are about that one. This apparently explains why I want to work and not get married. They like Baskin Robbins. They also love the movie 2012. Like really, really love it.

This entry is becoming extremely long so I will call this the first edition of FAQs and when I receive more questions I will update it. Although I'm sure this has all been so thorough that you could not possibly have any more doubts as to what Lebanon is really about. Why does everyone say summarizing the Middle East is so complicated?

Anyway, I start my job February 1st and I am quite excited! I go in on Monday for a “preliminary briefing”, which makes it sound like I'm the President and that is awesome. Finally, getting a little responsibility around here. I thought my American face and capitalist need for money would have gotten me a job sooner than this.

I've had a really homesick past few weeks and I miss you all so much. Please avoid tornadoes as I hear they may come visit you in Southern California and please also have an amazing rest of your week.

Hey, this isn't like Lonely Blanet.

Today I became an official Beirut girl. I was honked at by taxis, cursed at by angry drivers, and my wallet is now empty. But I'm very proud of myself because I explored a huge part of Beirut alone and without any help. I had a map and my Lonely Planet guide, so I knew where I wanted to go. But a map doesn't really help you when there aren't any street names or signs posted anywhere. And as far as senses go, direction isn't exactly my best.

Listen, guys, I'm not going to lie to you. This blog is an open area, a thick line of communication based on complete honesty. Well, I may lie to make myself look better. But in this case I'm not going to lie, I was nervous this morning when my cousin dropped me off in front of her college and said, “You'll know you're at Rue Hamra when you see stones.”

What? What stones? Where? Are the buildings made out of stone? Are the streets—where are you going?? Wait! Help me!

But then I thought to myself, “Nasrin, you're smart. You're educated. You're an adult. You must depend on yourself and believe you can do this.” I must not have looked so convincing, because that's when an older gentleman asked if I was lost and I nearly cried, “YES! Can you please point me in the direction of Rue Hamra?”

He literally said, “Blah blah blah blah right. Blah blah blah blah left.” I swear he wasn't speaking Arabic. So I smiled, said, “Shukran”, and walked in one of the directions he mentioned, all the while freaking out more and more. I wasn't sure of where I was going. Not at all. But I wasn't going to call anyone, I needed to learn for myself. I kept checking Lonely Planet, which was so structured and organized, it didn't match Beirut at all. A lonely planet it truly was.

Finally I decided I needed to figure out what street I was on so that I could get to Rue Hamra, and from there my map could help me. I walked into a dress store and up to the nice-looking owner. I said in the best Arabic I could muster, “Excuse me, do you mind telling me what street we're on?” Then she said, in the rudest Arabic she thought I could handle, “How am I supposed to know what street we're on?”

…wow, someone didn't drink their mete this morning. You don't know the address of your own store? Where the hell am I? But I bit my tongue, which I've quickly learned to do, said “Shukran”, and left.

I walked out of the store, and that's when it started to rain. Literally. Oh great, thanks God, thanks. That's exactly what I need. Needless to say, I was down in the dumps. At least I would have been if I could find them.

I started to question all of my choices. Why had I come here? Not just to Beirut, but to Lebanon? I wasn't even capable of shopping? How was I going to survive in a country that was supposed to be familiar but with every step was becoming more and more foreign?

I looked up, wiping away a tear. Or a raindrop, whatever. That's when I saw them. Stones! The street was paved with stones! The most beautiful stones. I had found Rue Hamra. All by myself.

With this renewed confidence I found the places Lonely Planet recommended. Through these points of reference I stopped by shops, book stores, the American University of Beirut. I sat in a cafe and read the newspaper. I even went to a museum. (Nerd alert: I bought Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in Arabic! But because the letter "p" doesn't technically exist in Arabic and is replaced by the letter "b", I actually bought Harry Botter and the Philosopher's Stone.)

I ended my day in Akil, an apparel store in the style of Ross. The only reason it's worth mentioning is because the music was so strange, I pretended to be browsing Abercrombie knockoffs when I really was just listening in shock. First there was an Elvis-style cover of Hot and Cold by Katy Pary, which was so weird. And by weird I mean amazing. Then there was Material Girl done in folk. I kept looking around to see if anybody else was reacting, but the only people in the store were middle-aged silicone ladies looking for trendy clothes. And when I say trendy I mean flashy, flashy, flashy. Makeup and flash, that's how to be stylish here. Which is why I came into the store in the first place. But I left as soon as a lounge version of Hey There Delilah began. Too flashy for me.

Overall, it was a wonderful day. Hamra, which was the area I was exploring, is a fun area where artists, hipsters, and students all hang out. I was able to see everything I wanted to see and best of all I did it all by myself.

I didn't make a mistake coming here! I'll be okay!

I hurried to my aunt's house excited to share the news of my accomplishment. But when I got there grandma told me there's a rumor that my parents sent me here because they were afraid I was dating an American guy and they didn't want me to marry him.

...I didn't make a mistake coming here, I didn't make a mistake coming here, I didn't make a mistake coming here, I didn't make a mistake coming here...

Anyway, pictures are coming as soon as I have a steady source of internet. Not having the internet is interesting. And by interesting I mean boring. Although, do you know how to play Spider Solitaire? I do. It's interesting. And by interesting I mean boring.

Your comments make me happy, thank you for your support! The Blanet doesn't feel so Lonely when I remember you're all on it, too! Hope you're all enjoying your holiday season!

Greetings from Shawarmaland!

I arrived safely and in one piece, although that one piece is slowly doubling in size. All I do is eat here. I'm sure I'm going to gain 50 pounds. Or should I say 50 kilos. Although that's 110 pounds, and that's no joking matter.

I'm sitting in an internet cafe right now. I feel like I'm in 1990. There are three kids here playing Counterstike. They have headphones on so it's quiet but then every once in a while one of them will scream and scare the hummus out of me. And one of them is smoking. Pure class, the joints I hang out in.

Anyway, between my family in Beirut and my family in the mountains, I'm really feeling the love. I didn't even understand what that phrase meant until coming here. I am so spoiled! My relatives have more than gone out of their way to help us find an apartment in Beirut or help me find a job. Not that they would take it, but I don't even know how to begin to repay everyone for the hospitality they've shown me just in the past week. My grandma and I haven't had much luck in the apartment department, but I'm on my way to making connections in the Lebanese entertainment industry and will definitely keep you all updated.

As far as the rest of Lebanon is concerned, I'm still trying to figure it out. One thing I know for sure and noticed immediately is that the driving is insane. I can't decide i Lebanese people are such horrible drivers that they completely disregard the rules or if they're such amazing drivers that they don't even need the rules. They drive around each other, through each other, if they could I'm sure they'd go over each other. Between the incessant honking and the brake screeches, I am white-knuckling it the entire time. A couple of days ago there was traffic on the highway and my great-uncle just pulled over towards the on-ramp and backed out. Exited the highway by reversing down the on-ramp. And everyone else in the car just continued the conversation, gossiping about a woman's apartment and how messy it was. The beds weren't even made! I was just about to roll down the window and scream, "HELP ME!" when I saw that he had started a trend and the entire highway was reversing down the entrance. That's when i realized no one would help me. Later when he drove over a curb my great-aunt said, "Be careful." Yeah, watch the curb now, we wouldn't want to be reckless.

I also know that everyone has a Filipino maid. Well, not everyone I'm sure. Some have maids from Bangladesh or Sri Lanka or Libya. Kidding, but it seems like a lot of households do have help. Aside from the task of cooking, which the matriarch proudly keeps for herself, the maid does the other household duties. My cousin said that when you have children or a job, it's hard to keep your house up to the social standards here. Especially if you're older or widowed, you need help. I can see that, you don't want people gossiping about how messy your house is while they're reversing off the freeway on.

Also: Lebanese people have magic metabolisms. I'm not sure I can divide the food I've eaten here into meals, since the word "meal" really describes a distinct eating event that happens a few times a day. Here, we just keep eating. There aren't meals necessarily, just certain times a day when you eat more. And one "meal' doesn't just mean the food on your plate. No, no, the entire table fills up with food that the host and hostess will force you to eat. I use the word "force" loosely, because usually I'm enthusiastically helping myself. After this we switch locations, maybe from the table to the couch. Then they bring out desserts, then the baked desserts, then they pour coffee or tea with cookies, then there's the fruit, then the dried fruit, then out come the nuts and that's when you know the cycle's about to start over. It's wonderful, really, but a few times a day I think, "This time I've really done it. I've really eaten myself to death." But somehow when the next smell wafts into the room I get over it.

Anyway, I've already spoken to a number of relatives about what it's like to live here and what it was like to be here during the wars. I've gotten unforgettable stories, but I'll save those for later. I sense a lot of frustration from my relatives, especially my younger friends and cousins. There seems to be a lack of structure and regulation here when it comes to things that are systematic in other places, like driving or housing, and my relatives complain about unreliable institutions that we take for granted in the U.S. It was a bit shocking to have my excitement about being here be met with my cousins' excitement for leaving. I haven't been here long at all so I can't even begin to figure this out but I can already tell this is going to be a very interesting trip.

Regarding marriage: my grandmother and her sisters, my aunts and older cousins, any neighbor that's even heard the mention of a single girl, are busily making plans. I told them I didn't want to get married until I was at least 26 and these were some of the responses:
"What if he wants to get married before that?"
"Lord, God, Heavenly Father, why would you wait that long?'
"No."

It was hinted that my second cousin would be a match. He was certainly nice. Mom and Dad: help me. Please.

Regarding shawarma: it's delicious. And one wrap costs 2,000 liras. Which is a $1.67. It makes being set up with your cousin worth it.

Anyway, I'm off to eat. Until next time, I miss you all and every delicious stuffed grape leaf is shared with you.

Away I go!

Earlier this afternoon, as I zipped up my packed suitcase and was about to sit down and rest, I heard a loud banging at the door. It sounded as if a group of angry rioters were ramming a large tree trunk into the wood, trying to break it open. I open the door and see a plethora of screaming fans demanding to know why I stopped blogging. "Nasrin, your old blog was the sunshine of our cloudy days," they yelled. That is when I lifted my hand, instantly inspiring silence. I said, "Well, people, you demanded it and I listened."

But what really happened was I decided to spend nine months in Lebanon and thought this was a great way to keep my friends and family updated on what I'm going to be doing. So here we find ourselves once again. Are you excited? You should be. Because you're about to go on a free trip to the Middle East courtesy of your family-friendly Arab.

Yes, there are family-friendly Arabs.

I'm hoping to update this often with hilarious misadventures and stories laden with wisdom and maturity. But what you will probably end up reading is, "I had my first suitor today. He seemed impressed while I served him coffee, so we should be engaged by the end of the week."

Just kidding. We all know I would spill that scalding pot all over him.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the popping of my American bubble. I'm sure I'm going to learn a great deal about myself and the life I want to lead. Here are more things I am looking forward to:
- Eating shawarma
- Eating tabbouleh
- Smelling, then eating, fresh saj
- Drinking 961 beer
- Hanging out in Beirut
- Getting to know my family

Let's pretend I said that last one first.

Some may ask, "Nasrin, why are you leaving us? What are we going to do without you?"

I believe more bullets can answer your first question. I am leaving to:
-Find a fulfilling job abroad where I can truly integrate into another culture.
-Eat food.
-Bar hop as often as possible.
-Eat a lot of food.
-Learn about Lebanese history from people who live it.
-Pour coffee.
-Inspire my writing with a new environment.
-Make it seem like I'm doing something productive instead of watching reruns on my parents' couch.

To the second question I reassure you that you will live, albeit quite sadly. To tide you over I gift you with this blog. But joking aside, I'll miss you all so much. I'll be thinking of you all as I board the plane tomorrow morning. Please email me regularly and update me on your lives, your shawarma, and your pending engagements. I want to know everything.

Note: The above paragraph is reserved for friends and family. Although if by a freak chance I do have an actual fan, you may also feel free to update me on your shawarma-related incidents.

P.S. Blogspot thinks the word "shawarma" is spelled wrong. I think we're going to have a problem.