“Monsieur, vous attendez quelque chose?” (Sir, are you waiting for some-
thing?)
“Oui. Mon avion.” (Yes, my plane)
“But other passengers are complaining from you acting so bizarrely.”
“I cannot help it. I am too nervous. I have been stuck here in the US for two
months and have no idea what is waiting for me in Beirut, where I come
from.”
“I see. Maybe you should identify yourself to the crew when you board. I
will make sure for you to have an isle seat, you can walk easily.”
“No, I want to have the window seat, it will keep me distracted. Thanks any-
way. And sorry. I am just… too nervous.”
[Tires screeching]
[Gavel pounds]
I have seen these expressions countless times ever since I developed my
law&orderosis condition (Under its classical aspect, its more acute special-
victimsunitosis and its criminalintentosis ramification). With my hearing dis-
ability playing into factor, I had to mute the TV in order to read the captions
(Offered graciously by Toyota, get the feeling).
There was so much [gavel pounding] and [tires screeching] with moments
of truth looming and murderers getting away and motions to dismiss tossed
away.
In my head a [gavel] was [pounding] as the [tires] of the plane [screeched] as
we let the Dulles airport runway. The two girls sitting next to me, whom for
a strange reason I assumed to a couple of lesbians, were flying to Venice via
Paris. I pointed out some nice things to do – outside Venice which I did not
like – and showed them the way to go to Treviso, a neighboring town which
is just as charming and which lacks the Japanese and American tourists.
Suddenly I worried about my I-94 form. Did I give it back? Yes, I did. But
for a fraction of a second I imagined CNN interviewing people at the airport
who claim to have seen a man acting bizarrely and then purposely forgetting
to give back his I-94 to lure investigations.
The “Middle Eastern-style” seven-grain salad with salmon seemed fitting for
my final destination – a little avant-gout courtesy of my American friends. It
was followed – at least on the menu list, though not in the order of consump-
tion by - sautéed beef with vegetable sauce served with a vegetable medley
(or tricolor cheese tortellini with cream sauce), cheese, fruit yogurt, ginger
lemon cake, coffee or tea.

The three last items I decided to ditch, and eventually had the cheese tortel-
lini with its three colors looking a little fuzzy at 30,000 feet and a fastened
seatbelt.
Depending on the flight, we will serve breakfast or a light mean before
arrival. The flight was long enough to have a breakfast served on. I nib-
bled nonchalantly at what they termed a croissant, even if looked more of a
genetic mutation of an evolution gone wrong rather than a croissant.
At Paris Charles De Gaulle airport, catching sleep seemed as elusive as
catching it on board of the Air France plane. So I had some of the salted
crackers my sister in law packed for the trip.
It was only when the dish filled with “terrine de homard petits legumes,
poulet sauce safran poelée champagnarde ou penne sauce tomate basilic et
ementhal, fromages, tartelette, café – thé” arrived that I eventually woke up.
Somehow, the biblical 40 days I spent stuck in the US (above and beyond
the original planned trip) were about to finish. A look at the other passen-
gers confirmed their own mixture of hope and longing. You could see whole
families coming back, young girls who had their Parisian vacation extended,
and elderly couples coming back after spending some forced time with some
obnoxious daughter in law.
The blockade on the Beirut airport had not been lifted, and so a detour
through Amman was part of the trip: Officially for “refueling”, unofficially
for a security check by the Israelis. Fifty minutes down the line, the last leg
of the trip lasting 45 minutes started. Immediately, mascara, lipstick, founda-
tion, lotions, and other beauty accessories started popping up from ladies’
handbags. No respectable Lebanese lady would want to be caught dead
devoid of make up while landing after a trip.
Beautified, or in some cases uglified, the women were now ready for the
captain’s announcement “we are commencing our descent…” Anyone who
ever flew to Beirut knows that the best seat to have is a window seat on the
left side of the plane: Having seat 26A I was extremely privileged. I tried to
peak at the destruction, since the Southern suburbs of Beirut was just a stone
throw from the airport, but from the air everything seemed normal. Only a
veil of black clouds, a mysterious smog, mourned the city from above.
[Gavel pounds]
[Tires screeching]
Customary to Middle East Airlines landings, passengers clapped. I always
thought it was some sort of existentialist act: Does it mean that they were
happy that God did not let them down? Were they congratulating the pilot?

Were they jubilant to have come back home?... And yet, on the flight 1210
(Joint between Air France and Middle East Airlines) all passengers, including
the one in the seat 26A clapped. The young lady, who had just applied here
mascara, had it ruined by two tears.
“Could you help me with one of my luggage?”
“Sure. So, you were stuck in Paris?”
“Yes, I was on vacation. I had it extended.”
“Oh, the tag on the bag says you have the same family name as a friend of
mine from university days. Jean. Do you know him?”
“He’s my brother! Wow, it is a small world. I am sorry to have bothered you
with the luggage.”
After meeting my brother following taking my bag from the carrousel, and as
we made our way swiftly through the empty roads to go up to the village to
see my parents, I saw a great display of Lebanese entrepreneurship and mer-
cantilism: All billboards were covered by different support messages from
banks and financial institutions, praising the Lebanese on their resilience, as-
suring them of their presence (Read: Your next car installment will still have
to be paid on time). One standout huge outdoor billboard belonged to Johnnie
Walker, with their mascot “walking” with a backdrop of a bombarded bridge.
The ubiquitous “keep walking” carried much more meaning than ever, and
even if implicitly the message was “everything looks OK after a couple of
glasses of whiskey” the ad was genuine display of Lebanese creativity and
adaptation to situations.
By 9:30 I was too hammered and bid my parents goodnight and slept in my
bed for around eleven hours.
The Monday sun was dawning, it was August 28, and I was in Lebanon. A
women’s magazine had the motto “Ni tout a fait la meme, ni tout a fait une
autre” (Never exactly the same, never exactly another.) This applies to Beirut
so perfectly.