The last post

By now, AK must be be back and sharpening his pen – or putting on some calamine lotion to ease the inevitable sunburn. Welcome back, AK, we missed you. A big thank you from me for the honour and privilege to have been part of this extraordinary forum. Also a big, heartfelt thank you, too for all those who have kept the conversation going, and what a brilliant chat it has been. I am both humbled and proud to have contributed to it. Last but not least, AK, two apologies: one for going AWOL over the past two days and the other for losing Shunkleash, who will be genuinely missed on this blog.

But before I put a lid on it, a quick last post before I hand it back to the man who started it all. A quick journey into the late hours of a Saturday night in Lebanon.

I ventured North, last night, just as all news channels were warming to the likelihood of a breakthrough. And, while the impending doom and gloom seemed to lift, storm clouds of the more meteorological kind were gathering over a bloodshot horizon. Over the past few months, particularly at the time of assassinations, the night scene in Beirut had shifted partly towards Jounieh, where the pubs, restaurants and nightclubs had begun to mix Beiruti glitterati with the sturdier nightowls from Kesrouan and Jbeil. Of late, however, and at the height of the presidential crisis, even these spots had seen the number of punters dwindle to a trickle of the more hardcore elements of the night scene. Back in Beirut's Monnot Street – and even in the more resilient Gemmayze night spots, the mixture of fear and TV political soap opera could no longer compete against even the most potent cocktails the barmen could serve, and only the ghosts of wasted nights seemed to be ordering another round.

But as it began to dawn on us here that, well, we could be in for a serious political breakthrough, it just seemed that a growing number of frustrated patrons put on their sartorial best and just went out. Out. “Nodhar” as we say here. The Lebanese bon viveur’s favourite word. And suddenly, it’s Christmas. Suddenly, out from just a trickle, the traffic jam on the highway to Jbeil became a parking lot – and nobody seemed to mind. Suddenly, it was impossible to book a table. Suddenly, life returned to seemingly dried up arteries and the heart of Saturday night was beating again.

Much has been written about the Lebanese phoenix-like ability to rise from dust – and, boy, do these western correspondents wax lyrical about the Lebanese love of life – and this was testimony to every article of those. Much later, and on our way back to Beirut, the heavens opened, and a deluge of biblical proportions washed out streets, poorly-surfaced roads and the remnants of apprehension. By 3:30 AM, several nightcaps and looming hangover later, I, along with thousands of motorists, locked bumpers together in a city-wide metal embrace, for the almightiest of all early morning gridlocks. This country simply refuses to lie down.

On this optimistic note, I bid you farewell, ladies and gentlemen. Many thanks once more and see you on the comments pages. God bless.

Comments

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Naja:
Thank you twice. First, for giving us a glimpse in your last post of the relentless and unwillingly to succumb life in Lebanon and second, for the last five insightful posts that make you a de facto official blogger.
all the best,
EV

[Naja]

Thanks a lot for your contribution Naja this last one brought sucha vivid image of home "during hard times" as if I were there myself. I wish all lebanese safety and peace of mind.

[JoseyWales]

Thanks Naj,

For a job well done, and for putting up with us.

[AK]

Naja, thank you for a job well done. "El bay baytak", as we say, and this blog will always be open to your contributions. Thanks again.

[anon]

Thx naja.......