Days 5, 6 and 7
By Roz
We left you in Sibiu, with the promise of an imminent move to the Transylvanian countryside. It is probably best to draw a veil over the rest of that evening, and the vast quantities of very excellent pizza which we consumed and the two ice creams which Layla then ate as we wandered through the squares of Sibiu back to our flat (I only had one). Best, because otherwise you might think us (and particularly Layla) greedy…
Over coffee in the Orient Express café next morning we decided to head to Medias, an ancient village which we’d heard much about, as a good way to warm ourselves up to Transylvanian proper countryside. We headed to the train station and just as Layla was producing a suitably smug face at having procured us tickets to Medias (despite her lack of Romanian), we were told that the only train back from Medias was at 7 that night (and would take a couple of hours). Since this was rather later than we had planned to return – and horrified by the thought of having dinner late two nights in a row – we stood perplexed in the train station contemplating our options. “I know”, said Layla, “there’s a train leaving in three minutes – why don’t we just get on it and then get off at some point and see how that works out”. This seemed an excellent idea to me and I pointed out that, since we wouldn’t have the right tickets, if asked we could just look stupid and claim to have got on the wrong train. We dashed for the train, and sat there confidently as it set off, glad to have taken adventure into our own hands. Until Layla pointed out that just because the train leaving Sibiu had been at a convenient time, there was no clear guarantee that a returning train would be at a convenient time. We resolved to get off somewhere that looked popular (popularity, in our logic, equating to lots of trains back to Sibiu). Then, a ticket collector approached. My plan to just look stupid turned out to be slightly more challenging than I’d anticipated, since the time of the train we were booked on was written large and clear on the tickets. Fortunately looking very dim indeed comes naturally – and the ticket collector was very kind (or, perhaps more accurately, pitying). He told us to jump off at the next stop and get a train back. This rather dashed our plans of getting off somewhere popular…but we were by no means the only people to alight.
This was because, as it soon became clear, people were returning to their village with absolutely nothing in it, from their big trip to the city. To be fair the houses were quite pretty and pastel coloured and we even saw a church spire (though this may have been a mirage since the church itself was elusive). And there was an occasional dog. But nevertheless the excitements were soon over, and so we swooped upon the only shop which in the village and consoled ourselves with an ice cream on the return to the station. All of which would have been fine, had it not been the same train conductor on the train back…he could have at least let us ride to the end of the line with him…
After all this excitement, we retired to one of the squares for lunch, followed by a little light postcard writing and, naturally, another ice cream. We could postpone our departure for no longer, and hailed a cab to Cisnadioara, which is to be our base for the rest of the holiday. We met up with the owner, Di, who showed us to our home for the next 4 nights, a pretty two-bedroom house on a dirt street next to the river in the village: the last house in the village before the forest begins. No sooner had we dropped off our bags, they drove us up a big hill and deposited us at their pride and joy local restaurant, Apfelhouse. This is a 1980s chalet-style hotel with food and pseudo-luxury. It had already gone wrong when the wine we ordered turned out to be not only expensive but also rather sweet. Then our vegetarianism proved a major challenge for the menu. We cobbled together some salad, potato and cheese items and had a fairly pleasant dinner overlooking the mountains. Or if not pleasant, then scenic. On embarking on the descent back to the village, Di’s husband Jez randomly appeared and gave us a lift home. Pleasing.
An episode of the West Wing and a cup of tea and it was off to bed for what we’d hoped would be a nice relaxing night. It was not to be. I woke up in the middle of the night, had a glass of tap water, and ten minutes later was violently vomiting. Layla woke up and fed me tablets from her medicine collection as I clutched my stomach in agony. It is deeply unfair that the first time I succumb to a dodgy tummy is not in India or Eritrea but in the EU! I was bitter.
This morning I felt better, however – and in fact managed to prepare and consume a large and delicious breakfast from the items that had been left us (scrambled eggs on toast, pain au chocolat, melon, blood orange juice… I can recover fast with the right inducement!). With the sun blazing at last, we set out on a road through the mountains to a nearby town, Cisnadie. After our little village it felt bustling, with several shops. We walked to the market and stocked up on lovely fresh fruit and veg and cheese to assist in avoiding the offerings of the potentially dodgy Apfelhouse. And then, just as we stood baking in the midday sun eyeing the upwards hill homewards with little temptation, Jez and Di drove past and gave us a lift. Layla, who was by then exhausted (despite the fact that I was carrying all the shopping!), could have kissed them. I was also persuadable into a lift…
We have just had a lovely lunch in our house’s patio (having stolen some salad items from the vegetable garden), and are about to head out to the main house, which is 10 minutes’ walk away (and where we’ll be staying for the last five nights) for a swim. At last this feels like a summer holiday! Though rather a bizarre one in the mountains in the middle of nowhere…
Monday, 5 July 2010
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Haircutting insults and lots of polenta
Days 3, 4 and 5
By Layla
We left you at the Orient Express cafe where Roz had a normal drink and I had a massive hot white chocolate drink – am enjoying the Romanian drink-as-dessert mentality (though possibly not first thing in the morning…). After my sugar fix we strolled through the old town and along by the city walls, then a bit further, to get to Sibiu’s lovely park – big, pretty, lots of beds of roses, and beautifully marked tracks criss crossing over wrought iron bridges. It was lovely – we joined the locals for a wander, and a prolonged book-stop, reading on a sunny bench next to the stream, surrounded by flowers. All very lovely. Afterwards we wandered back into town and had lunch and jugs of lemonade at an outside café. Then the weather started to change so we retreated back to our little flat for a nap (the rain is turning this holiday into an excellent rest cure) before venturing out again for dinner, this time to Hermania, a pretty restaurant that yet again boasted Sibiu’s one nod to vegetarians: polenta with sour cream and cheese. Fortunately I am rather a fan of this particular dish, but it is getting a tad repetitive… We had planned to go out for a glamorous bar hopping night out but the torrential rain persuaded us otherwise and we nipped home via Billa supermarket to stock up on wine and chocolate before sprawling on the sofa. Ah it’s a hard life…
Yesterday I, at least, was up bright and early. The day before, upon wandering across the square, Roz and I had happened to notice a hairdresser’s salon. This observation coincided with the fact that I haven’t had my hair cut or coloured for a very long time and in fact the holiday photographs so far have proven the truth in Roz’s polite hints that this is not to the advantage of my appearance. I had resolved to take the matter in hand urgently. 'Revolution Cuts' was through an archway and down in a little recess that resembled someone’s house. I tried with hand gestures and speaking loudly to make the Romanian staff understand what I wanted (a trim and highlights). I was plonked down in a chair and feared the worst. And yet, I was soon to learn that I’d already had the worst. My hairdresser was a rather camp-looking boy with fashionable blue patches in his blonde hair. He was meticulous. I remembered too late that I usually only have part of my hair dyed and he embarked on a spectacularly slow and thorough highlighting epic. In London I noticed that people use tiny bits of tinfoil for this task and wrap them neatly; less so in Sibiu: my head resembled a roast chicken going into the oven. I feared for my poor tresses. However my concerns were unfounded – the highlights turned out perfectly normal. And so to the haircut. He started trimming. He looked worried: “I do not know how to translate - wait”. He held a heated conference with the receptionist in Romanian. He drew in a waiting customer. I waited in suspense while they all debated. Finally he had the translation. “Your current haircut – it is like shit”. Not an advertisement for Camberwell’s finest hair salon, then! He made me promise never to return there, and proceeded to give me a haircut that he clearly deemed not ‘shit’.
I eventually emerged, looking acceptable, and met up with Roz. We had a pasta craving and tracked down a nice outside restaurant on the square. Then we decided to have a quick potter around some of Sibiu’s nine museums, of which they are extremely proud. We went into the pharmacy museum, a very sweet old fashioned pharmacy shop, then tried to go into a modern art museum, though found ourselves in a shop instead (capitalising on tourists being drawn to the word ‘museum’, they clearly chose to display a misleading sign), stepped over some very energetically snogging teenagers (intriguingly, Sibiu is known – rightly – for its impressive public displays of affection – Roz and I are feeling the need to hold hands just to fit in!), and finished off by climbing up the church tower, which gave fab views over the square and across to the countryside and mountains.
After popping home, we went out to explore the lower town, which is rather less pretty and tourist friendly than the upper town. We walked to the river, which is pretty, but any plans of a romantic riverside walk were foiled by a motorway lining each riverbank. We retreated to the fruit marked and bought some cherries, then retired to Café Wien for more mohitos. Later we went out for dinner to another cellar restaurant. I accepted the inevitable and ordered polenta, sour cream and cheese. Roz tried to cobble together some starters for a change and ended up with a large plate of chopped tomatoes and some cheese fritters. We then walked to the famous, reportedly bohemian-style and cool Arts Café. We entered to find a dark, uninviting bar with one table full of non-inviting people (perhaps the staff and their friends), and a dark cavern of empty tables. We looked at each other and fled to a cheery outside café on the square for cocktails. No sooner had we sat down than the sky turned slate grey, flashed, thundered, and we fled again, this time to the indoor -and 10 metres from our flat - Orient Express bar. We got there just in time: seconds later the heavens opened. We snuggled in with beers and chess and rather crap live piano and watched Sibiu’s less enterprising population running, drenched, down the street into the night as the rain pummelled them.
Today we were up rather bright and early again (the sun seems most reliable in the morning) and after Roz whipped up scrambled eggs like a hero, and we grabbed a quick coffee at the Orient Express, we caught a taxi and ventured outside the borders of Sibiu for the first time. Our destination was a famed open air folk museum which featured hundreds of different types of houses and farm buildings brought from all over Romania and set in pretty grounds around a lake. It was interesting and fun to wander around, climbing into wooden windmills and sheltering from the rain in grain sheds. We had lunch there (the vegetarian option was particularly pitiful…) and got home by an amusing route of tram and bus, as we peered out of the window and wondered how we’d know when we were there. Fortunately we jumped off somewhere that forced us past an ice cream shop on our way home…
I am now sitting at a nice outside café on the main square, sipping a jug of lemonade and making use of the square’s free wifi, while Roz does a conference call (she may have escaped work for a fortnight but not her duties as a board member for Queer Up North, Europe’s biggest gay arts festival). I am watching her fleeing the square, trying to escape the clanging of church bells that mark 8pm. The bells are probably reverberating all the way to Manchester…
Tonight is our last night in Sibiu. Tomorrow we move to the next leg of our holiday – a house in the Transylvanian countryside.
By Layla
We left you at the Orient Express cafe where Roz had a normal drink and I had a massive hot white chocolate drink – am enjoying the Romanian drink-as-dessert mentality (though possibly not first thing in the morning…). After my sugar fix we strolled through the old town and along by the city walls, then a bit further, to get to Sibiu’s lovely park – big, pretty, lots of beds of roses, and beautifully marked tracks criss crossing over wrought iron bridges. It was lovely – we joined the locals for a wander, and a prolonged book-stop, reading on a sunny bench next to the stream, surrounded by flowers. All very lovely. Afterwards we wandered back into town and had lunch and jugs of lemonade at an outside café. Then the weather started to change so we retreated back to our little flat for a nap (the rain is turning this holiday into an excellent rest cure) before venturing out again for dinner, this time to Hermania, a pretty restaurant that yet again boasted Sibiu’s one nod to vegetarians: polenta with sour cream and cheese. Fortunately I am rather a fan of this particular dish, but it is getting a tad repetitive… We had planned to go out for a glamorous bar hopping night out but the torrential rain persuaded us otherwise and we nipped home via Billa supermarket to stock up on wine and chocolate before sprawling on the sofa. Ah it’s a hard life…
Yesterday I, at least, was up bright and early. The day before, upon wandering across the square, Roz and I had happened to notice a hairdresser’s salon. This observation coincided with the fact that I haven’t had my hair cut or coloured for a very long time and in fact the holiday photographs so far have proven the truth in Roz’s polite hints that this is not to the advantage of my appearance. I had resolved to take the matter in hand urgently. 'Revolution Cuts' was through an archway and down in a little recess that resembled someone’s house. I tried with hand gestures and speaking loudly to make the Romanian staff understand what I wanted (a trim and highlights). I was plonked down in a chair and feared the worst. And yet, I was soon to learn that I’d already had the worst. My hairdresser was a rather camp-looking boy with fashionable blue patches in his blonde hair. He was meticulous. I remembered too late that I usually only have part of my hair dyed and he embarked on a spectacularly slow and thorough highlighting epic. In London I noticed that people use tiny bits of tinfoil for this task and wrap them neatly; less so in Sibiu: my head resembled a roast chicken going into the oven. I feared for my poor tresses. However my concerns were unfounded – the highlights turned out perfectly normal. And so to the haircut. He started trimming. He looked worried: “I do not know how to translate - wait”. He held a heated conference with the receptionist in Romanian. He drew in a waiting customer. I waited in suspense while they all debated. Finally he had the translation. “Your current haircut – it is like shit”. Not an advertisement for Camberwell’s finest hair salon, then! He made me promise never to return there, and proceeded to give me a haircut that he clearly deemed not ‘shit’.
I eventually emerged, looking acceptable, and met up with Roz. We had a pasta craving and tracked down a nice outside restaurant on the square. Then we decided to have a quick potter around some of Sibiu’s nine museums, of which they are extremely proud. We went into the pharmacy museum, a very sweet old fashioned pharmacy shop, then tried to go into a modern art museum, though found ourselves in a shop instead (capitalising on tourists being drawn to the word ‘museum’, they clearly chose to display a misleading sign), stepped over some very energetically snogging teenagers (intriguingly, Sibiu is known – rightly – for its impressive public displays of affection – Roz and I are feeling the need to hold hands just to fit in!), and finished off by climbing up the church tower, which gave fab views over the square and across to the countryside and mountains.
After popping home, we went out to explore the lower town, which is rather less pretty and tourist friendly than the upper town. We walked to the river, which is pretty, but any plans of a romantic riverside walk were foiled by a motorway lining each riverbank. We retreated to the fruit marked and bought some cherries, then retired to Café Wien for more mohitos. Later we went out for dinner to another cellar restaurant. I accepted the inevitable and ordered polenta, sour cream and cheese. Roz tried to cobble together some starters for a change and ended up with a large plate of chopped tomatoes and some cheese fritters. We then walked to the famous, reportedly bohemian-style and cool Arts Café. We entered to find a dark, uninviting bar with one table full of non-inviting people (perhaps the staff and their friends), and a dark cavern of empty tables. We looked at each other and fled to a cheery outside café on the square for cocktails. No sooner had we sat down than the sky turned slate grey, flashed, thundered, and we fled again, this time to the indoor -and 10 metres from our flat - Orient Express bar. We got there just in time: seconds later the heavens opened. We snuggled in with beers and chess and rather crap live piano and watched Sibiu’s less enterprising population running, drenched, down the street into the night as the rain pummelled them.
Today we were up rather bright and early again (the sun seems most reliable in the morning) and after Roz whipped up scrambled eggs like a hero, and we grabbed a quick coffee at the Orient Express, we caught a taxi and ventured outside the borders of Sibiu for the first time. Our destination was a famed open air folk museum which featured hundreds of different types of houses and farm buildings brought from all over Romania and set in pretty grounds around a lake. It was interesting and fun to wander around, climbing into wooden windmills and sheltering from the rain in grain sheds. We had lunch there (the vegetarian option was particularly pitiful…) and got home by an amusing route of tram and bus, as we peered out of the window and wondered how we’d know when we were there. Fortunately we jumped off somewhere that forced us past an ice cream shop on our way home…
I am now sitting at a nice outside café on the main square, sipping a jug of lemonade and making use of the square’s free wifi, while Roz does a conference call (she may have escaped work for a fortnight but not her duties as a board member for Queer Up North, Europe’s biggest gay arts festival). I am watching her fleeing the square, trying to escape the clanging of church bells that mark 8pm. The bells are probably reverberating all the way to Manchester…
Tonight is our last night in Sibiu. Tomorrow we move to the next leg of our holiday – a house in the Transylvanian countryside.
Adventures in Transylvania, Romania: the first 2 days
By Layla
We left a beautifully warm and sunny London in a rickety Blue Air plane, which deposited us, three hours later, in a misery of torrential rain in Sibiu, a city in Transylvania, Romania, and, for no specific reason, other than it being named a European City of Culture in 2007, our holiday destination. We were met at the airport by Di, an English woman who runs both the Sibiu flat we’ll be staying in for five nights, and the guesthouse in a little Transylvanian village for the following nine. She was very cheery and optimistic despite the current weather situation, and drove us to our little flat.
Our Sibiu flat is lovely – big and pretty and comfortable, with a kitchen for Roz to whip up scrambled eggs and a DVD player to ensure I get my West Wing DVD fix. Which was fortunate as the weather did not indicate embarking on any activity other than hiding in the flat. Not a problem as we were both completely exhausted after an unpleasantly busy run of work. But we couldn’t resist a little explore so we donned our waterproof jackets and braved the torrent.
Our flat turns out to be in a great position, just under Liar’s Bridge – so named either because of the merchants who used to hawk goods at inflated prices on it, the lovers who promised to love each other forever in order to obtain a kiss on it, or folklore that if you lie while standing on it the bridge will collapse. It’s the boundary of the upper town which is fairy tale pretty, with cobbled squares and towers and pastel coloured buildings and tiled roofs which have something called ‘eyelid windows’, essentially roof windows that look like the eyes of sleepy monsters. And an occasional incongruous Vodafone shop... We had a quick look around and bought some snacks and essential food items in a nice little supermarket before heading back to dry out and read and watch some sleepy DVDs while a neighbour’s dog howled incessantly. But soon it was dinner time and we headed out again, this time to a little cellar restaurant on the square which was decorated in folksy sheepskins and traditional outfits and ceramics and such. The menu certainly favoured the offal-eater, but we had a brilliant cheese dish, and then a lot of polenta – our staple while here I suspect. And some rather nice desserts. I’m not sure this will be a slimming holiday…
The next day was raining again but the dog had thankfully found other interests and was silent. We went out in search of the tourist office to obtain a map, then for breakfast, which proved a challenge. Finally we did as the locals did and bought sort of circular pretzels which we munched as we walked along the street to Sibiu’s only bookshop café, Erasmus, where we contemplated the maps over hot chocolate (me) and grown up coffee (Roz). We walked through a little park back to the main street and The Gallery, as by then it was lunchtime. Roz opted sensibly for soup; I found myself rather accidentally with a plate of boiled potatoes with sour cream on them which was random, though to be fair, not unpleasant…
We received an e-mail from Di telling us that her neighbour’s goats have predicted the sun was about to come out. Sure enough, the rain abated and we wandered to a new square, hosting Sibiu’s most popular bars, and retired to an outdoor café on the square where Roz sampled more of the local beer and I sampled the hilarious lemonade-served-in-a-jug-with-a-straw staple of Sibiu. We were yet again exhausted so crept home for a rest, and then headed out for a pre-prandial cocktail. We found a lovely spot at Café Wien, in the shadow of a pretty church and overlooking the rooftops of the lower town, we sipped superlative mohitos to the sound of a man playing rather pleasant live music on a keyboard. We got a little lost seeking another cellar restaurant and ended up on the square, eating delicious pizzas outside and watching the world go by. It seems possible that Monday is Sibiu’s Sunday (most things seem closed on Mondays) and so Sunday night was the going out night for Sibiu’s population. After dinner we slipped into The Orient Express, a little bar next to our flat, and had excessively strong cocktails and played chess in bizarre but cool surroundings while being serenaded by live guitar music. And then home for another mammoth sleep. Both of us are starting to feel rejuvenated…
Up this morning and Roz has made us French toast – an excellent start to the day. And the goats were right – the rain has stayed off. Maybe the weather coupled with our newfound energy will tempt us further afield… but first to the Orient Express, where we will use their wifi and have morning coffee…
We left a beautifully warm and sunny London in a rickety Blue Air plane, which deposited us, three hours later, in a misery of torrential rain in Sibiu, a city in Transylvania, Romania, and, for no specific reason, other than it being named a European City of Culture in 2007, our holiday destination. We were met at the airport by Di, an English woman who runs both the Sibiu flat we’ll be staying in for five nights, and the guesthouse in a little Transylvanian village for the following nine. She was very cheery and optimistic despite the current weather situation, and drove us to our little flat.
Our Sibiu flat is lovely – big and pretty and comfortable, with a kitchen for Roz to whip up scrambled eggs and a DVD player to ensure I get my West Wing DVD fix. Which was fortunate as the weather did not indicate embarking on any activity other than hiding in the flat. Not a problem as we were both completely exhausted after an unpleasantly busy run of work. But we couldn’t resist a little explore so we donned our waterproof jackets and braved the torrent.
Our flat turns out to be in a great position, just under Liar’s Bridge – so named either because of the merchants who used to hawk goods at inflated prices on it, the lovers who promised to love each other forever in order to obtain a kiss on it, or folklore that if you lie while standing on it the bridge will collapse. It’s the boundary of the upper town which is fairy tale pretty, with cobbled squares and towers and pastel coloured buildings and tiled roofs which have something called ‘eyelid windows’, essentially roof windows that look like the eyes of sleepy monsters. And an occasional incongruous Vodafone shop... We had a quick look around and bought some snacks and essential food items in a nice little supermarket before heading back to dry out and read and watch some sleepy DVDs while a neighbour’s dog howled incessantly. But soon it was dinner time and we headed out again, this time to a little cellar restaurant on the square which was decorated in folksy sheepskins and traditional outfits and ceramics and such. The menu certainly favoured the offal-eater, but we had a brilliant cheese dish, and then a lot of polenta – our staple while here I suspect. And some rather nice desserts. I’m not sure this will be a slimming holiday…
The next day was raining again but the dog had thankfully found other interests and was silent. We went out in search of the tourist office to obtain a map, then for breakfast, which proved a challenge. Finally we did as the locals did and bought sort of circular pretzels which we munched as we walked along the street to Sibiu’s only bookshop café, Erasmus, where we contemplated the maps over hot chocolate (me) and grown up coffee (Roz). We walked through a little park back to the main street and The Gallery, as by then it was lunchtime. Roz opted sensibly for soup; I found myself rather accidentally with a plate of boiled potatoes with sour cream on them which was random, though to be fair, not unpleasant…
We received an e-mail from Di telling us that her neighbour’s goats have predicted the sun was about to come out. Sure enough, the rain abated and we wandered to a new square, hosting Sibiu’s most popular bars, and retired to an outdoor café on the square where Roz sampled more of the local beer and I sampled the hilarious lemonade-served-in-a-jug-with-a-straw staple of Sibiu. We were yet again exhausted so crept home for a rest, and then headed out for a pre-prandial cocktail. We found a lovely spot at Café Wien, in the shadow of a pretty church and overlooking the rooftops of the lower town, we sipped superlative mohitos to the sound of a man playing rather pleasant live music on a keyboard. We got a little lost seeking another cellar restaurant and ended up on the square, eating delicious pizzas outside and watching the world go by. It seems possible that Monday is Sibiu’s Sunday (most things seem closed on Mondays) and so Sunday night was the going out night for Sibiu’s population. After dinner we slipped into The Orient Express, a little bar next to our flat, and had excessively strong cocktails and played chess in bizarre but cool surroundings while being serenaded by live guitar music. And then home for another mammoth sleep. Both of us are starting to feel rejuvenated…
Up this morning and Roz has made us French toast – an excellent start to the day. And the goats were right – the rain has stayed off. Maybe the weather coupled with our newfound energy will tempt us further afield… but first to the Orient Express, where we will use their wifi and have morning coffee…
Monday, 5 April 2010
One hike, two caves, and lots of food and cocktails
by Layla
Having left you in an internet cafe in Achrafieh, we didn't seem to find another internet source, thus the gap in communication. After our internetting we proceeded to the local ABC Mall to have lunch on the roof terrace in a restaurant called Waterlemon where Roz had a halloumi sandwich and iced coffee drink... and I had a big plate of chips, with a giant chocolate milkshake. The shame. I'm afraid I was having a Western food craving. Satisfied, we headed off with plans to visit Sioufi Garden, a really lovely sounding park that Google Maps claimed was a mere 11 minute walk. Half an hour later, with the heat of the sun blasting upon us as we walked along a motorway, we had to concede we'd missed it and took a service taxi to the Corniche.
We were fast bonding with the Corniche - such a lovely idea to have a seaside promenade in the middle of a city. It was full of people wandering along, running, cycling, swimming, and generally hanging out. Having strolled along for most of its length, we decided to go to another cool, artsy/intellectual Hamra cafe. This one was even more obscure than the last, inside a dodgy-looking shopping centre, and involved me getting us extremely lost in my doomed zeal to walk through the American University Beirut campus, as enjoyed by the author of a book about Lebanon's political and religious tensions, Paradise Divided by Alex Klaushofer, that Roz and I had both been reading. Alas we could not find the entrance and eventually found ourselves in the quirky t-marbouta. Furnished appropriately with beer, mint lemonade, and chocolate muffin, we settled down for some competitive domino playing to while away the rest of the afternoon. On our way back to the hotel, we strolled past the headquarters of the Lebanon gay association, but it looked completely anonymous and unmarked, and there were random men lurking at the entrance, so we didn't dare to proceed. It is a little uncomfortable holidaying in a place where being gay is illegal...
That evening, after a stop-off at our hotel, we dined at Margharita's, a pretentious but tasty Italian restaurant on Rue Gouraud, in our district of Gemmayzeh. The price clearly wasn't intimidating anyone else - it was crammed full of all sorts of people, from glamorous groups of party people to families. After dinner we returned to the lovely Bar Godot for some more exemplary cocktails.
It had to be home to bed fairly early, for a challenge was upon us: we had to be up and ready at an early hour for an all-day hike in the Adonis Valley run by a company we'd read about in Roz's guidebook (she was smug) called Esprite Nomade. This rather lovely valley, nestled in the mountains of north Lebanon, is where Aphrodite and Adonis first kissed, and where Adonis was killed, apparently. We bought a picnic lunch and joined up with a group of about 30 hikers, all locals, and headed off in two minibuses into the mountains. After some rather hair-raising bends, we eventually stopped in the middle of nowhere, and started our hike. I had been a little concerned about a 17km hike in the mountains, given my previous ankle injury, but it had improved, so I set off with my elasticated bandage firmly in place. I need not have worried. While the hike took us up hills, and deep down into the valley, the group moved at snail's pace. And it is not often that I find a hike too slow! Indeed it has never happened. More intriguing, there was zero macho competitive behaviour. Everyone just pottered along the vague track, enjoying the sun and the scenery and chatting peacefully to each other. It was all rather serene. Lunch was at the bottom of the valley, sitting in the sun next to a lovely waterfall and a gushing river. And after lunch, and a hike up into the mountains again, and past some tiered farms, apparently quite common in these parts, we jumped into the minibuses and headed back to Beirut via a fantastic ice cream shop. I love the style of these people!
Home and showered, we headed out again, this time to a bar called Time Out, that we didn't quite know whether was part of the famous Time Out brand or not. Having sampled it, we are none the wiser. In an old Lebanese house in a quiet Achrafieh street, furnished with comfy sofas, we arrived at 8pm to find ourselves the only people there, save the owner and a cat (a much more healthy looking beast than our own dear Nelson). Thirsty, we had some beers, and then as the place slowly filled up, stayed for dinner. Which alas was the worst we had had in Lebanon (particularly the microwaved mini-pizzas), and grossly overpriced. The atmosphere was odd - we couldn't quite figure out what type of people favoured the bar, and at the end, the owner approached us to find out how we had heard about the bar, as it was never advertised, and advised us not to tell our friends about it. Strange...
The next day started with breakfast at Paul, i.e. the French bakery chain. Apparently all the glamorous folk of Beirut breakfast at Paul on Sundays. And us... Very tasty. And then off on our next expedition: Jeita Grotto. These famous caves are nominated to be designated one of the new 7 wonders of the natural world. They were a tad tricky to get to though. Of course the glorious Lebanon public transport system started us off nicely. As we approached the main road, a minibus immediately drew up and agreed to take us to the highway turn off, from which point we could take a taxi (they also obligingly offered to take us the whole way, but for more money than we wanted to pay). One minibus and a taxi into the hills later, we found ourselves at an incongruously Disney-esque tourist attraction. It started by us taking a cable car up a small hill, which was quite pleasingly picturesque, if not especially necessary. Then the Upper Cave. This massive cave is absolutely full of beautiful stalactite and stalacmite formations in pinks and yellows. They have a nicely designed walkway, along which we wandered slowly, admiring the sight. And then it was down to the Lower Cave, which has an underground lake, so it is explored by a fairly brief boat trip. Apart from the rather long queue for the boat, and children screaming to enjoy the sounds of the echo, it was a magical experience, floating down into the amazing cave and imagining being the first person to discover it.
After the caves, we took a taxi and minibus back to Beirut and indecisively tried a few places for lunch, before choosing one that was not very good. Feeling disgruntled, we couldn't figure out what to do, until we realised we were mainly sad at the thought of leaving Lebanon. Roz came up with the good idea of taking a service taxi back to the Corniche. We settled ourselves in the pretty seaside restaurant that we'd found on our first day in Beirut and had mint lemonade and hummous and gazed out at the sun dancing on the sparkling blue sea and tried to preserve it in our minds for our return to the greyness of London. Wondering how to keep ourselves cheery, we called the glorious Mayass Restaurant, where we had had our most beautiful meal in Lebanon, and convinced them to squeeze us in for our last supper. After a last stroll down the Corniche in the sunshine, and popping home to change, we took yet another service taxi to the restaurant and enjoyed a glorious meal. Albeit an overly extravagant one. The lovely staff kept recommending dishes, and we felt powerless to decline. By the time we had finished, we could barely breathe from being so full. And lamented that this holiday has likely done nothing for our diets... Resting between mouthfuls, we were interested to overhear a conversation between a gay-looking man and a waiter, which sounded rather as though the latter were advising the former of the location of a gay venue. Or maybe not, but if so, this was the first sign of anything gay in Lebanon...
After finally having to admit defeat with the beautiful dinner, we walked down to Gemmayzeh, and, having rapidly rejected our plan of trying the reputedly exclusive cocktail lounge called Behind the Green Door, due to the clientele looking like ladies of the night, we found a really lovely little bar called Gem where we had some excellent cocktails. And a barman tried to pick me up, haha!
After drinks we reluctantly headed back to our hotel, along Rue Gouraud, feeling sentimental about the area and really hating to say goodbye. When we woke up this morning, the brilliant blue sky taunted us as we sadly packed our bags, caught a taxi, and headed back to London.
Having left you in an internet cafe in Achrafieh, we didn't seem to find another internet source, thus the gap in communication. After our internetting we proceeded to the local ABC Mall to have lunch on the roof terrace in a restaurant called Waterlemon where Roz had a halloumi sandwich and iced coffee drink... and I had a big plate of chips, with a giant chocolate milkshake. The shame. I'm afraid I was having a Western food craving. Satisfied, we headed off with plans to visit Sioufi Garden, a really lovely sounding park that Google Maps claimed was a mere 11 minute walk. Half an hour later, with the heat of the sun blasting upon us as we walked along a motorway, we had to concede we'd missed it and took a service taxi to the Corniche.
We were fast bonding with the Corniche - such a lovely idea to have a seaside promenade in the middle of a city. It was full of people wandering along, running, cycling, swimming, and generally hanging out. Having strolled along for most of its length, we decided to go to another cool, artsy/intellectual Hamra cafe. This one was even more obscure than the last, inside a dodgy-looking shopping centre, and involved me getting us extremely lost in my doomed zeal to walk through the American University Beirut campus, as enjoyed by the author of a book about Lebanon's political and religious tensions, Paradise Divided by Alex Klaushofer, that Roz and I had both been reading. Alas we could not find the entrance and eventually found ourselves in the quirky t-marbouta. Furnished appropriately with beer, mint lemonade, and chocolate muffin, we settled down for some competitive domino playing to while away the rest of the afternoon. On our way back to the hotel, we strolled past the headquarters of the Lebanon gay association, but it looked completely anonymous and unmarked, and there were random men lurking at the entrance, so we didn't dare to proceed. It is a little uncomfortable holidaying in a place where being gay is illegal...
That evening, after a stop-off at our hotel, we dined at Margharita's, a pretentious but tasty Italian restaurant on Rue Gouraud, in our district of Gemmayzeh. The price clearly wasn't intimidating anyone else - it was crammed full of all sorts of people, from glamorous groups of party people to families. After dinner we returned to the lovely Bar Godot for some more exemplary cocktails.
It had to be home to bed fairly early, for a challenge was upon us: we had to be up and ready at an early hour for an all-day hike in the Adonis Valley run by a company we'd read about in Roz's guidebook (she was smug) called Esprite Nomade. This rather lovely valley, nestled in the mountains of north Lebanon, is where Aphrodite and Adonis first kissed, and where Adonis was killed, apparently. We bought a picnic lunch and joined up with a group of about 30 hikers, all locals, and headed off in two minibuses into the mountains. After some rather hair-raising bends, we eventually stopped in the middle of nowhere, and started our hike. I had been a little concerned about a 17km hike in the mountains, given my previous ankle injury, but it had improved, so I set off with my elasticated bandage firmly in place. I need not have worried. While the hike took us up hills, and deep down into the valley, the group moved at snail's pace. And it is not often that I find a hike too slow! Indeed it has never happened. More intriguing, there was zero macho competitive behaviour. Everyone just pottered along the vague track, enjoying the sun and the scenery and chatting peacefully to each other. It was all rather serene. Lunch was at the bottom of the valley, sitting in the sun next to a lovely waterfall and a gushing river. And after lunch, and a hike up into the mountains again, and past some tiered farms, apparently quite common in these parts, we jumped into the minibuses and headed back to Beirut via a fantastic ice cream shop. I love the style of these people!
Home and showered, we headed out again, this time to a bar called Time Out, that we didn't quite know whether was part of the famous Time Out brand or not. Having sampled it, we are none the wiser. In an old Lebanese house in a quiet Achrafieh street, furnished with comfy sofas, we arrived at 8pm to find ourselves the only people there, save the owner and a cat (a much more healthy looking beast than our own dear Nelson). Thirsty, we had some beers, and then as the place slowly filled up, stayed for dinner. Which alas was the worst we had had in Lebanon (particularly the microwaved mini-pizzas), and grossly overpriced. The atmosphere was odd - we couldn't quite figure out what type of people favoured the bar, and at the end, the owner approached us to find out how we had heard about the bar, as it was never advertised, and advised us not to tell our friends about it. Strange...
The next day started with breakfast at Paul, i.e. the French bakery chain. Apparently all the glamorous folk of Beirut breakfast at Paul on Sundays. And us... Very tasty. And then off on our next expedition: Jeita Grotto. These famous caves are nominated to be designated one of the new 7 wonders of the natural world. They were a tad tricky to get to though. Of course the glorious Lebanon public transport system started us off nicely. As we approached the main road, a minibus immediately drew up and agreed to take us to the highway turn off, from which point we could take a taxi (they also obligingly offered to take us the whole way, but for more money than we wanted to pay). One minibus and a taxi into the hills later, we found ourselves at an incongruously Disney-esque tourist attraction. It started by us taking a cable car up a small hill, which was quite pleasingly picturesque, if not especially necessary. Then the Upper Cave. This massive cave is absolutely full of beautiful stalactite and stalacmite formations in pinks and yellows. They have a nicely designed walkway, along which we wandered slowly, admiring the sight. And then it was down to the Lower Cave, which has an underground lake, so it is explored by a fairly brief boat trip. Apart from the rather long queue for the boat, and children screaming to enjoy the sounds of the echo, it was a magical experience, floating down into the amazing cave and imagining being the first person to discover it.
After the caves, we took a taxi and minibus back to Beirut and indecisively tried a few places for lunch, before choosing one that was not very good. Feeling disgruntled, we couldn't figure out what to do, until we realised we were mainly sad at the thought of leaving Lebanon. Roz came up with the good idea of taking a service taxi back to the Corniche. We settled ourselves in the pretty seaside restaurant that we'd found on our first day in Beirut and had mint lemonade and hummous and gazed out at the sun dancing on the sparkling blue sea and tried to preserve it in our minds for our return to the greyness of London. Wondering how to keep ourselves cheery, we called the glorious Mayass Restaurant, where we had had our most beautiful meal in Lebanon, and convinced them to squeeze us in for our last supper. After a last stroll down the Corniche in the sunshine, and popping home to change, we took yet another service taxi to the restaurant and enjoyed a glorious meal. Albeit an overly extravagant one. The lovely staff kept recommending dishes, and we felt powerless to decline. By the time we had finished, we could barely breathe from being so full. And lamented that this holiday has likely done nothing for our diets... Resting between mouthfuls, we were interested to overhear a conversation between a gay-looking man and a waiter, which sounded rather as though the latter were advising the former of the location of a gay venue. Or maybe not, but if so, this was the first sign of anything gay in Lebanon...
After finally having to admit defeat with the beautiful dinner, we walked down to Gemmayzeh, and, having rapidly rejected our plan of trying the reputedly exclusive cocktail lounge called Behind the Green Door, due to the clientele looking like ladies of the night, we found a really lovely little bar called Gem where we had some excellent cocktails. And a barman tried to pick me up, haha!
After drinks we reluctantly headed back to our hotel, along Rue Gouraud, feeling sentimental about the area and really hating to say goodbye. When we woke up this morning, the brilliant blue sky taunted us as we sadly packed our bags, caught a taxi, and headed back to London.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Some ruins, a creepy hotel, an ambassador, and some Beirut nightlife
by Layla
After finishing off my last blog in a Baalbek internet cafe, Roz and I headed to the main attraction: the ruins. These ruins date back to the 3rd millenium BC but most are Roman, and quite a fantastic example of them. Lots of temples were almost intact, with massive towering columns, and bright courtyards. We were able to climb amongst the ruins as we chose, which was lovely, and they were almost deserted. As we lay on huge slabs of stone, gazing up at the brilliant blue sky, we decided we really must go on holiday more often...
After the ruins we sat in a little cafe where Roz had beer, I had ice cream, we wrote postcards, and considered our evening options. It seemed that Baalbek was not a bustling metropolis. Indeed, our rather mad hotel, which is supposed to have a restaurant, informed us that it was closed. On further questioning regarding where we might find a bite to eat, a vague muttering about a restaurant on the sixth floor of a shopping centre in a souq was offered. We retired to our room to plan. However our room was so very cold that our intention of a relaxing read was terminated by shivering, so we crept down the dark, marble hallways and staircases to the 'snug bar'. If anything was less aptly named, I would not like to see it. The snug bar was in darkness, but when we asked if it was open, a sinister, silent butler type man slowly turned on the lights. We sat down, alone, on a hard bench, and ordered beers. The butler plodded slowly off and eventually returned with the beers on a tray. Having given them to us, he vanished, leaving us in silence. Soon we reverted to a game of 'I Spy' to keep our spirits up. Having polished off the beers, we elected to skip a next round and proceed, at rather an early hour, to the mythical restuarant on the sixth floor...
A little hunting around the souq and it seemed as though the restaurant was not to be found. Then Roz spotted a sign. We followed the signs into a weird and darkened shopping mall, and to a lift that looked as though it had not worked for a hundred years. We tried to retreat to the stairs, but as we mounted, a random man halted us and ushered us helpfully back to the lift. Under his enthusiastic gaze, we pressed the button and eventually it arrived.
Six floors later and we arrived in a neon-lit, deserted restaurant-cum-giftshop. We gazed around, dazed, and were soon ushered to a table by a lonely waiter. Our table was next to the window with a fantastic view over the ruins, which were rather tastefully lit in the dark. We ordered our usual mezze and Blanc de Blanc wine, and tried desperately to spin it out. Alas, there is only so long that one can munch on hoummous and vine leaves to the sound of silence punctuated by an Arabic soap opera involving lots of guns and melodrama. Try as we might, we had finished by 8:30pm and braved the clattering lift back to street level, where no further entertainment presented itself. On our return to the hotel, the 'snug bar' was in eerie darkness, and we proceeded to our room. As Roz clutched the bannister to climb the stairs, it came away in her hand and she crashed against the marble stairs. Two silent and sinister butlers gazed on, dispassionately, as she clutched her elbow in pain. The one plodded off into the darkness and returned with a frozen water bottle. We grabbed it and fled to the sanctuary of our room. Which was still freezing. I called one of the butlers to help us with the mad gas burner, similar to the previous hotel's, except with the flaw that it didn't seem to work at all. After much fiddling with it, the butler disappeared, only to return with an electric heater. Phew! We procured a glass of wine to distract Roz from the pain (she is now fine) and then settled down to read. When I turned to ask Roz something at 9:15, I realised she was asleep. I persevered with my book for another 10 minutes, and turned off the light myself. A happening night in downtown Baalbek...
The next day was lovely and sunny and we returned to the pretty grassy location of our new favourite cafe where we had orange juice and falafel sandwiches and planned our return to Beirut. One of the glorious things about Lebanon is that wherever you want to go, there is no waiting around for transportation. After a potter in the internet cafe, we walked up to the main road, proclaimed 'Beirut' and within 30 seconds we were in a bus going to Beirut. However this bus wasn't due to depart for another few minutes, so it drove us to a second bus and we were off.
Another scenic drive through the mountains later, and we descended back into Beirut. Massive traffic left our bus driver depositing us on a random intersection, but the French-speaking woman next to him told us to take a number 4 bus home. We stood, staring hopelessly at the road. Within 5 seconds a minibus ushered us inside, where Roz promptly spotted its 'number 4' sticker. Hooray. It dropped us at the end of our road and we walked down to our new hotel, the Port View Hotel.
It wasn't the Albergo, but Port View Hotel was quite charming, and certainly friendly. We dropped off our things and changed, and headed out to downtown, and to the much-anticipated event of the holiday, Roz's meeting with the UK Ambassador to Lebanon. I drank mint lemonade and read the new edition of Time Out Beirut while awaiting her.
Roz's Ambassador Meeting Report:
And what a nice lady the Ambassador, Frances Guy, turned out to be! Helpful, funny, and interesting. And Scottish! We met in Costa coffee in the Downtown area (which is new and shiny and controversial with the locals, because it was rebuilt very quickly, and without any arts facilities at all) and within two seconds of saying hello, she'd already been approached by a passerby and this was a constant feature of our discussion. We speculated about whether this happened to ambassadors in all countries (I certainly couldn't recognise any of the ambassadors in the UK - despite having met a couple of them) and concluded that it was probably because of the particular circumstances here. But also, I would guess, because she sees a major part of being an Ambassador as getting out to meet local people. She was immensely inspiring and enthusiastic about her life and what she'd seen and done. It was interesting to find out the downsides (not being able to join a book club, for example) but all in all I was left all the more enthusiastic about a career as a diplomat. Layla was relieved to hear that doctoring is a fine profession for an Ambassador's wife. I was less relieved to hear that there is no escaping improving my language skills...
After Roz saw the ambassador, we met up and went for dinner at a nice downtown Lebanese restaurant. A bottle of wine later, we wandered back to Gemayzeh, our new neighbourhood, which under the cover of darkness had turned into an extremely cool nightlife district. We found our way to a sweet little bar called Godot, apparently frequented by the arty, intellectual crowd, and had an array of cocktails mixed for us by an enthusiastic barman late into the night. Well, late-ish. While the youth of Beirut prepared to club til dawn, Roz and I made our way, past a television show being filmed in the street, to our hotel and fell asleep to the sounds of revellers.
Up bright and early today, we had breakfast at the hotel and then explored a cool area of quirky boutiques and galleries called Saifi Village. We had mint lemonades at a very cool cafe, sitting outside and wishing we lived here. Aferwards, a grand quest for an elusive internet cafe commenced. We hopped into a service taxi (which appeared at our whim) and are now in Sassine Place in Achrafieh, planning a day of relaxation in downtown Beirut.
After finishing off my last blog in a Baalbek internet cafe, Roz and I headed to the main attraction: the ruins. These ruins date back to the 3rd millenium BC but most are Roman, and quite a fantastic example of them. Lots of temples were almost intact, with massive towering columns, and bright courtyards. We were able to climb amongst the ruins as we chose, which was lovely, and they were almost deserted. As we lay on huge slabs of stone, gazing up at the brilliant blue sky, we decided we really must go on holiday more often...
After the ruins we sat in a little cafe where Roz had beer, I had ice cream, we wrote postcards, and considered our evening options. It seemed that Baalbek was not a bustling metropolis. Indeed, our rather mad hotel, which is supposed to have a restaurant, informed us that it was closed. On further questioning regarding where we might find a bite to eat, a vague muttering about a restaurant on the sixth floor of a shopping centre in a souq was offered. We retired to our room to plan. However our room was so very cold that our intention of a relaxing read was terminated by shivering, so we crept down the dark, marble hallways and staircases to the 'snug bar'. If anything was less aptly named, I would not like to see it. The snug bar was in darkness, but when we asked if it was open, a sinister, silent butler type man slowly turned on the lights. We sat down, alone, on a hard bench, and ordered beers. The butler plodded slowly off and eventually returned with the beers on a tray. Having given them to us, he vanished, leaving us in silence. Soon we reverted to a game of 'I Spy' to keep our spirits up. Having polished off the beers, we elected to skip a next round and proceed, at rather an early hour, to the mythical restuarant on the sixth floor...
A little hunting around the souq and it seemed as though the restaurant was not to be found. Then Roz spotted a sign. We followed the signs into a weird and darkened shopping mall, and to a lift that looked as though it had not worked for a hundred years. We tried to retreat to the stairs, but as we mounted, a random man halted us and ushered us helpfully back to the lift. Under his enthusiastic gaze, we pressed the button and eventually it arrived.
Six floors later and we arrived in a neon-lit, deserted restaurant-cum-giftshop. We gazed around, dazed, and were soon ushered to a table by a lonely waiter. Our table was next to the window with a fantastic view over the ruins, which were rather tastefully lit in the dark. We ordered our usual mezze and Blanc de Blanc wine, and tried desperately to spin it out. Alas, there is only so long that one can munch on hoummous and vine leaves to the sound of silence punctuated by an Arabic soap opera involving lots of guns and melodrama. Try as we might, we had finished by 8:30pm and braved the clattering lift back to street level, where no further entertainment presented itself. On our return to the hotel, the 'snug bar' was in eerie darkness, and we proceeded to our room. As Roz clutched the bannister to climb the stairs, it came away in her hand and she crashed against the marble stairs. Two silent and sinister butlers gazed on, dispassionately, as she clutched her elbow in pain. The one plodded off into the darkness and returned with a frozen water bottle. We grabbed it and fled to the sanctuary of our room. Which was still freezing. I called one of the butlers to help us with the mad gas burner, similar to the previous hotel's, except with the flaw that it didn't seem to work at all. After much fiddling with it, the butler disappeared, only to return with an electric heater. Phew! We procured a glass of wine to distract Roz from the pain (she is now fine) and then settled down to read. When I turned to ask Roz something at 9:15, I realised she was asleep. I persevered with my book for another 10 minutes, and turned off the light myself. A happening night in downtown Baalbek...
The next day was lovely and sunny and we returned to the pretty grassy location of our new favourite cafe where we had orange juice and falafel sandwiches and planned our return to Beirut. One of the glorious things about Lebanon is that wherever you want to go, there is no waiting around for transportation. After a potter in the internet cafe, we walked up to the main road, proclaimed 'Beirut' and within 30 seconds we were in a bus going to Beirut. However this bus wasn't due to depart for another few minutes, so it drove us to a second bus and we were off.
Another scenic drive through the mountains later, and we descended back into Beirut. Massive traffic left our bus driver depositing us on a random intersection, but the French-speaking woman next to him told us to take a number 4 bus home. We stood, staring hopelessly at the road. Within 5 seconds a minibus ushered us inside, where Roz promptly spotted its 'number 4' sticker. Hooray. It dropped us at the end of our road and we walked down to our new hotel, the Port View Hotel.
It wasn't the Albergo, but Port View Hotel was quite charming, and certainly friendly. We dropped off our things and changed, and headed out to downtown, and to the much-anticipated event of the holiday, Roz's meeting with the UK Ambassador to Lebanon. I drank mint lemonade and read the new edition of Time Out Beirut while awaiting her.
Roz's Ambassador Meeting Report:
And what a nice lady the Ambassador, Frances Guy, turned out to be! Helpful, funny, and interesting. And Scottish! We met in Costa coffee in the Downtown area (which is new and shiny and controversial with the locals, because it was rebuilt very quickly, and without any arts facilities at all) and within two seconds of saying hello, she'd already been approached by a passerby and this was a constant feature of our discussion. We speculated about whether this happened to ambassadors in all countries (I certainly couldn't recognise any of the ambassadors in the UK - despite having met a couple of them) and concluded that it was probably because of the particular circumstances here. But also, I would guess, because she sees a major part of being an Ambassador as getting out to meet local people. She was immensely inspiring and enthusiastic about her life and what she'd seen and done. It was interesting to find out the downsides (not being able to join a book club, for example) but all in all I was left all the more enthusiastic about a career as a diplomat. Layla was relieved to hear that doctoring is a fine profession for an Ambassador's wife. I was less relieved to hear that there is no escaping improving my language skills...
After Roz saw the ambassador, we met up and went for dinner at a nice downtown Lebanese restaurant. A bottle of wine later, we wandered back to Gemayzeh, our new neighbourhood, which under the cover of darkness had turned into an extremely cool nightlife district. We found our way to a sweet little bar called Godot, apparently frequented by the arty, intellectual crowd, and had an array of cocktails mixed for us by an enthusiastic barman late into the night. Well, late-ish. While the youth of Beirut prepared to club til dawn, Roz and I made our way, past a television show being filmed in the street, to our hotel and fell asleep to the sounds of revellers.
Up bright and early today, we had breakfast at the hotel and then explored a cool area of quirky boutiques and galleries called Saifi Village. We had mint lemonades at a very cool cafe, sitting outside and wishing we lived here. Aferwards, a grand quest for an elusive internet cafe commenced. We hopped into a service taxi (which appeared at our whim) and are now in Sassine Place in Achrafieh, planning a day of relaxation in downtown Beirut.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Farewell luxury, hello faded glamour
by Layla
Roz left us relaxing on the massive bed of the Albergo Hotel's lovely suite, using their laptop provided to us to update this blog. From there we have come far. But first a final piece of luxury: dinner in Al Dente, one of Beirut's fanciest restaurants. With some risotto to die for, and an amazing chocolate dessert, accompanied by much wine, we soaked up the decadence of the holiday.
Next morning bright and early found us lugging our suitcases down the hill from posh Achrafiye to less posh but more quirky Gemmayzeh, the neighbourhood of our rather less posh hotel, the Port View Hotel. En route I managed to slip down the hill and twist my ankle. Quite badly, it turns out. But it seems to be on the mend, thanks to Roz's conviction that it needs elevation and ice (as a doctor, I never have a clue about such things). So we found the Port View Hotel, dropped off our suitcases, grabbed some breakfast (accidentally in a pub that looked like a cafe) and hopped in a taxi to the Cola roundabout, transport hub to all places in Lebanon, it seemed. I spent the ride convulsed in silent backseat laughter as poor Roz, in the front seat, was subjected to a barrage of declarations of love and hand kissing from the driver until finally Roz,rather severely, started enquiring after his wife and children...
At the Cola roundabout, after a false start where the drivers misinterpreted our request to go to Zahle as being somewhere entirely different, they sent us to the right side of the road where our cry of 'Zahle' found us on a little minibus with a range of other passengers including police, tourists, and mountain dwellers. Off we went slowly out of the city (traffic in Beirut is shocking) and finally onto the open road of the Chouf Mountains. Great to see some mountain scenery, with snow in the distance and the air becoming fresher (and all Lebanese occupants of the minibus glaring at me for keeping the window open). Eventually we made it to Zahle, a Christian mountain town in the Bekaa Valley, hopped off the bus, and caught a taxi to our hotel.
Having checked in, and been too scared to comment on our single beds, we walked up the side of the river to Zahle's main draw, the Birdawni Cafes, riverside cafes known to have the best mezze in Lebanon. We rounded the corner to find that they were all closed with builders doing significant works to the place. Oh dear. Ah, but wait: one of them was open after all! Okay, so they may not have been expecting to have to cater, but they met our pleas and before we knew it, waiters were rushing from inside to set out a beautifully laid table by the river, with the clanging of workmen above us. The sun shone and we helped ourselves to some fantastic hoummous, vine leaves and Lebanese cheese, washed down with some local wine. And only felt a little bit odd in this otherwise deserted riverside area...
After lunch, we caught a taxi to the Ksara Winery, one of Bekaa Valley's biggest wine exporters. Ksara wines had featured on every wine list we'd seen in Lebanon so we were intrigued. We were directed to a video about the 150 year history of wine making in Ksara, followed by a wine tasting at an odd little bar. We favoured the Blanc de Blanc. After the tasting came a tour of the wine caves, huge lengths of cool caves lined by barrels full of wine. And piped Elton John muzak... Fun. After the tour, and walking past the 'Sauvignon blanc garden' etc, we caught a shared service taxi back into town. The other passenger, a local boutique owner, recommended a rather random cafe for us to drink mint lemonade (my new favourite drink) and read our books.
Later, I went back to rest in the Hotel AKL room, which was basic and pleasant, with a river view, but had become rather chilly... while Roz went to find a pharmacy to buy me an ankle support bandage. Mission accomplished and bandage in situ, we gazed around and eventually returned to the same restaurant that we had been in for lunch. Again we were the only guests, though in the chilly evening we settled ourselves inside with a nice bottle of Ksara Blanc de Blanc and a large pile of excellent mezze. As the evening wore on, the power cuts started, and as there were clearly to be no other guests, the waiters plied us with random food (including strawberries: mmm) and supplied a giant bag of ice for my ankle. I sat with my foot on a dining room chair covered with ice and we all watched part of a Meg Ryan film before we decided it was time to head home to bed.
The lovely woman at Hotel AKL told us smilingly that she had put on the heater in our room. 'Thank goodness!' we thought, until we entered the room... With no sense of smell, I sat down in happy oblivion, while Roz incomprehensibly flung open all the windows. Apparently our heater had filled the whole room with gas! We turned it off and I spent the night in my single bed, waking up regularly to make sure we were both still alive.
This morning,after breakfasting in a nice Lebanese bakery, we hopped on another minibus, this time to Baalbeck, a site of ruins dating back to the 3rd millenium BC and one of the most important ruins of the middle east. Rather misguidedly, we checked into a mad hotel called the Palmyra, which exudes faded glamour (Lonely Planet says 'One of the most wonderful colonial era relics dotting the Middle East')and is in fact rather run down. A bit like the Addams Family, complete with a Lurch-esque butler who checked us in for quite a large sum of money. The curse of the twin beds again... We debated checking in elsewhere but lost our nerve and went out to find lunch.
Baalbeck is a small town with limited lunch options. We found a random little garden where people seemed to be eating, and stationed ourselves at a table. Eventually a man came and offered to bring us food. It did seem to be a restaurant, and certainly we did receive the food, which was delicious. But we couldn't help fearing we were sitting in somebody's garden! Nevertheless, the sun shone, and we basked with our books.
Now it is off to the ruins for us...
Roz left us relaxing on the massive bed of the Albergo Hotel's lovely suite, using their laptop provided to us to update this blog. From there we have come far. But first a final piece of luxury: dinner in Al Dente, one of Beirut's fanciest restaurants. With some risotto to die for, and an amazing chocolate dessert, accompanied by much wine, we soaked up the decadence of the holiday.
Next morning bright and early found us lugging our suitcases down the hill from posh Achrafiye to less posh but more quirky Gemmayzeh, the neighbourhood of our rather less posh hotel, the Port View Hotel. En route I managed to slip down the hill and twist my ankle. Quite badly, it turns out. But it seems to be on the mend, thanks to Roz's conviction that it needs elevation and ice (as a doctor, I never have a clue about such things). So we found the Port View Hotel, dropped off our suitcases, grabbed some breakfast (accidentally in a pub that looked like a cafe) and hopped in a taxi to the Cola roundabout, transport hub to all places in Lebanon, it seemed. I spent the ride convulsed in silent backseat laughter as poor Roz, in the front seat, was subjected to a barrage of declarations of love and hand kissing from the driver until finally Roz,rather severely, started enquiring after his wife and children...
At the Cola roundabout, after a false start where the drivers misinterpreted our request to go to Zahle as being somewhere entirely different, they sent us to the right side of the road where our cry of 'Zahle' found us on a little minibus with a range of other passengers including police, tourists, and mountain dwellers. Off we went slowly out of the city (traffic in Beirut is shocking) and finally onto the open road of the Chouf Mountains. Great to see some mountain scenery, with snow in the distance and the air becoming fresher (and all Lebanese occupants of the minibus glaring at me for keeping the window open). Eventually we made it to Zahle, a Christian mountain town in the Bekaa Valley, hopped off the bus, and caught a taxi to our hotel.
Having checked in, and been too scared to comment on our single beds, we walked up the side of the river to Zahle's main draw, the Birdawni Cafes, riverside cafes known to have the best mezze in Lebanon. We rounded the corner to find that they were all closed with builders doing significant works to the place. Oh dear. Ah, but wait: one of them was open after all! Okay, so they may not have been expecting to have to cater, but they met our pleas and before we knew it, waiters were rushing from inside to set out a beautifully laid table by the river, with the clanging of workmen above us. The sun shone and we helped ourselves to some fantastic hoummous, vine leaves and Lebanese cheese, washed down with some local wine. And only felt a little bit odd in this otherwise deserted riverside area...
After lunch, we caught a taxi to the Ksara Winery, one of Bekaa Valley's biggest wine exporters. Ksara wines had featured on every wine list we'd seen in Lebanon so we were intrigued. We were directed to a video about the 150 year history of wine making in Ksara, followed by a wine tasting at an odd little bar. We favoured the Blanc de Blanc. After the tasting came a tour of the wine caves, huge lengths of cool caves lined by barrels full of wine. And piped Elton John muzak... Fun. After the tour, and walking past the 'Sauvignon blanc garden' etc, we caught a shared service taxi back into town. The other passenger, a local boutique owner, recommended a rather random cafe for us to drink mint lemonade (my new favourite drink) and read our books.
Later, I went back to rest in the Hotel AKL room, which was basic and pleasant, with a river view, but had become rather chilly... while Roz went to find a pharmacy to buy me an ankle support bandage. Mission accomplished and bandage in situ, we gazed around and eventually returned to the same restaurant that we had been in for lunch. Again we were the only guests, though in the chilly evening we settled ourselves inside with a nice bottle of Ksara Blanc de Blanc and a large pile of excellent mezze. As the evening wore on, the power cuts started, and as there were clearly to be no other guests, the waiters plied us with random food (including strawberries: mmm) and supplied a giant bag of ice for my ankle. I sat with my foot on a dining room chair covered with ice and we all watched part of a Meg Ryan film before we decided it was time to head home to bed.
The lovely woman at Hotel AKL told us smilingly that she had put on the heater in our room. 'Thank goodness!' we thought, until we entered the room... With no sense of smell, I sat down in happy oblivion, while Roz incomprehensibly flung open all the windows. Apparently our heater had filled the whole room with gas! We turned it off and I spent the night in my single bed, waking up regularly to make sure we were both still alive.
This morning,after breakfasting in a nice Lebanese bakery, we hopped on another minibus, this time to Baalbeck, a site of ruins dating back to the 3rd millenium BC and one of the most important ruins of the middle east. Rather misguidedly, we checked into a mad hotel called the Palmyra, which exudes faded glamour (Lonely Planet says 'One of the most wonderful colonial era relics dotting the Middle East')and is in fact rather run down. A bit like the Addams Family, complete with a Lurch-esque butler who checked us in for quite a large sum of money. The curse of the twin beds again... We debated checking in elsewhere but lost our nerve and went out to find lunch.
Baalbeck is a small town with limited lunch options. We found a random little garden where people seemed to be eating, and stationed ourselves at a table. Eventually a man came and offered to bring us food. It did seem to be a restaurant, and certainly we did receive the food, which was delicious. But we couldn't help fearing we were sitting in somebody's garden! Nevertheless, the sun shone, and we basked with our books.
Now it is off to the ruins for us...
Monday, 29 March 2010
Candyfloss for the road...
by Roz.
Layla and I have a habit of taking two guidebooks on holiday, and each of us adopting one of them, and extolling its virtues to the other. Thus, I was very glad that the Hedonists' Guide to Beirut (which I had initially been sceptical of adopting, given that I lack the clubbing zeal - and wallet - of the true hedonist) led us to the lovely De Prague cafe in Hamra. We'd not previously bonded with the area, but here was a true rival for Bean Scene (of Scotland) and Grey Dog (of NYC) - a cool place to hang out, read, and while away a few hours whilst sipping a beer or nibbling a cake. Or indeed two chocolate biscuit cakes in Layla's case...
Fully sated, we returned to our marvellous hotel, where Layla discovered the real reason why her parents discouraged her, when a youth, from using bubble bath in a jacuzzi... Having removed the majority of the bubbles from our flooded marble bathroom we escaped to dinner. I'd consulted my guidebook (naturally) and led us to the lovely Mayass restaurant, one of Beirut's best. We persuaded them to squeeze us in and contemplated the menu. Originally they'd said we'd need to be gone by 9 (no hardship given my current inclination for sleeping at least 11 hours), but once we'd ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu (pleasingly only twenty-five pounds) and amazed them by our water drinking capacity (my view being that a large bottle of water is a challenge) and (presumably) winning ways, they weakened and said we could keep it till 9.30. Of course this meant that our indulgence with the mezze (hummous, vine leaves and halloumi obviously, but also a nice Armenian salad (strange but true) and an amazing baked feta dish) meant I was uncertain about dessert. Fortunately Layla had no such qualms and tucked into a strawberry and cream dish (in fact, pure cream and 8 strawberries), whilst I had another glass of wine. The restaurant manager approved of my choice, though presumably less so when I told him that he and I were "on the same page", a colloquialism which, in retrospect, I realise may have been a little challenging. Whilst having our dessert and wine, a lovely Armenian guitar player seranaded diners with a selection of songs from local folk to Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon. We were sent on our way with "candyfloss for the road" (which in fact turned out to be boiled sweeties, which were very nice) and Layla congratulated me on my excellent choice of dining establishment. I was smug.
I was, however, less smug when I failed to find the Time Out bar recommended by my guidebook - which I had suggested we visit for a nightcap. On the other hand, I persuaded myself and (I think) Layla, that in fact the stroll was even nicer than a drink would have been and we made our way back for another long sleep in our fabulous four-poster bed.
This morning we sprang out of bed (well Layla did - I sadly seem to have been crippled by yesterday's walking and am most stiff) and went to the cafe on our road, Tribeca, for a bagel and coffee. The majority of this was taken up by discussion how we should spend the day plus me screwing up the courage to call the UK's Ambassador to Lebanon who I have been emailing and who I'd promised to ring on my arrival in the UK. Fortunately for my nerves, I was able to leave a voicemail, and during the course of the day we emailed to work out when to meet for a coffee. We also resolved to stick to Layla's original plan of heading to the ancient town of Byblos, home of the alphabet.
Being a wuss, I'd originally secretly hoped to persuade Layla into getting a cab. However, when even our fancy hotel told us we should get a service taxi (ie a shared one), I resigned myself to this. Having hailed a cab, however, he told us most defintely to get a bus - but obligingly drove us to the bus stop for not much money. The trip turned out to be most pleasant (as well as cheap) and quick (it being an express bus) and after not very long we found ourselves in a random town in Lebanon walking in the wrong direction (Layla's map reading skills not being what they might be). Having established that a 180 degrees turn was in order, we shortly found ourselves on the tourist trail, much to our disgust and relief. Before tackling the ruins (crusader castle, ancient temples and the like) I felt the need for a light snack. Leaving the cafe, we spotted the holy grail: a snow globe. Not, I should clarify, because either of us has a love of such things, but because Hugo (my best man at our wedding) does. We'd thought it an impossible dream, but we clearly underestimated Lebanon. Hugo: I hope you are excited!
After our snow-globe purchasing, we wandered round the ruins. I had a brief moment of enthusiasm for climbing, until Layla displayed an equal enthusiasm for taking pictures of me clambering ungainly over ancient bits of temple / ancient ampitheatres. It was all very nice, though there were a few too many tourists (even if not western) for our taste.
From there we went for our second lunch, in a cafe overlooking the harbour. We nibbled vast amounts of tabbouleh, and read our books and I felt very pleased to be here, and not dealing with the joys of my job.
Heading home, a local bus hailed us to ask if we were going to Beirut. On learning we were, he insisted we get in. Alas this bus turned out to be very far from express. However, the slower pace was enjoyable (for the first hour or so), coasting along by the sea, with the windows open and only locals on the bus. We precipiously launched ourselves off the bus, having seen signs for Achrafieh, which is where our hotel is. Finding ourselves completely lost, some local men took pity on us, and found us a service taxi which took us home.
From there, we went to the hotel's rooftop bar for some pre-dinner drinks on our last night in this very very lovely hotel. Sipping a gin and tonic, and listening to the call to prayer, it all felt very wonderful. But not as wonderful as taking Layla to a lovely restaurant tonight will be: nothing can beat the smugness of a good guidebook recommendation.
Layla and I have a habit of taking two guidebooks on holiday, and each of us adopting one of them, and extolling its virtues to the other. Thus, I was very glad that the Hedonists' Guide to Beirut (which I had initially been sceptical of adopting, given that I lack the clubbing zeal - and wallet - of the true hedonist) led us to the lovely De Prague cafe in Hamra. We'd not previously bonded with the area, but here was a true rival for Bean Scene (of Scotland) and Grey Dog (of NYC) - a cool place to hang out, read, and while away a few hours whilst sipping a beer or nibbling a cake. Or indeed two chocolate biscuit cakes in Layla's case...
Fully sated, we returned to our marvellous hotel, where Layla discovered the real reason why her parents discouraged her, when a youth, from using bubble bath in a jacuzzi... Having removed the majority of the bubbles from our flooded marble bathroom we escaped to dinner. I'd consulted my guidebook (naturally) and led us to the lovely Mayass restaurant, one of Beirut's best. We persuaded them to squeeze us in and contemplated the menu. Originally they'd said we'd need to be gone by 9 (no hardship given my current inclination for sleeping at least 11 hours), but once we'd ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu (pleasingly only twenty-five pounds) and amazed them by our water drinking capacity (my view being that a large bottle of water is a challenge) and (presumably) winning ways, they weakened and said we could keep it till 9.30. Of course this meant that our indulgence with the mezze (hummous, vine leaves and halloumi obviously, but also a nice Armenian salad (strange but true) and an amazing baked feta dish) meant I was uncertain about dessert. Fortunately Layla had no such qualms and tucked into a strawberry and cream dish (in fact, pure cream and 8 strawberries), whilst I had another glass of wine. The restaurant manager approved of my choice, though presumably less so when I told him that he and I were "on the same page", a colloquialism which, in retrospect, I realise may have been a little challenging. Whilst having our dessert and wine, a lovely Armenian guitar player seranaded diners with a selection of songs from local folk to Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon. We were sent on our way with "candyfloss for the road" (which in fact turned out to be boiled sweeties, which were very nice) and Layla congratulated me on my excellent choice of dining establishment. I was smug.
I was, however, less smug when I failed to find the Time Out bar recommended by my guidebook - which I had suggested we visit for a nightcap. On the other hand, I persuaded myself and (I think) Layla, that in fact the stroll was even nicer than a drink would have been and we made our way back for another long sleep in our fabulous four-poster bed.
This morning we sprang out of bed (well Layla did - I sadly seem to have been crippled by yesterday's walking and am most stiff) and went to the cafe on our road, Tribeca, for a bagel and coffee. The majority of this was taken up by discussion how we should spend the day plus me screwing up the courage to call the UK's Ambassador to Lebanon who I have been emailing and who I'd promised to ring on my arrival in the UK. Fortunately for my nerves, I was able to leave a voicemail, and during the course of the day we emailed to work out when to meet for a coffee. We also resolved to stick to Layla's original plan of heading to the ancient town of Byblos, home of the alphabet.
Being a wuss, I'd originally secretly hoped to persuade Layla into getting a cab. However, when even our fancy hotel told us we should get a service taxi (ie a shared one), I resigned myself to this. Having hailed a cab, however, he told us most defintely to get a bus - but obligingly drove us to the bus stop for not much money. The trip turned out to be most pleasant (as well as cheap) and quick (it being an express bus) and after not very long we found ourselves in a random town in Lebanon walking in the wrong direction (Layla's map reading skills not being what they might be). Having established that a 180 degrees turn was in order, we shortly found ourselves on the tourist trail, much to our disgust and relief. Before tackling the ruins (crusader castle, ancient temples and the like) I felt the need for a light snack. Leaving the cafe, we spotted the holy grail: a snow globe. Not, I should clarify, because either of us has a love of such things, but because Hugo (my best man at our wedding) does. We'd thought it an impossible dream, but we clearly underestimated Lebanon. Hugo: I hope you are excited!
After our snow-globe purchasing, we wandered round the ruins. I had a brief moment of enthusiasm for climbing, until Layla displayed an equal enthusiasm for taking pictures of me clambering ungainly over ancient bits of temple / ancient ampitheatres. It was all very nice, though there were a few too many tourists (even if not western) for our taste.
From there we went for our second lunch, in a cafe overlooking the harbour. We nibbled vast amounts of tabbouleh, and read our books and I felt very pleased to be here, and not dealing with the joys of my job.
Heading home, a local bus hailed us to ask if we were going to Beirut. On learning we were, he insisted we get in. Alas this bus turned out to be very far from express. However, the slower pace was enjoyable (for the first hour or so), coasting along by the sea, with the windows open and only locals on the bus. We precipiously launched ourselves off the bus, having seen signs for Achrafieh, which is where our hotel is. Finding ourselves completely lost, some local men took pity on us, and found us a service taxi which took us home.
From there, we went to the hotel's rooftop bar for some pre-dinner drinks on our last night in this very very lovely hotel. Sipping a gin and tonic, and listening to the call to prayer, it all felt very wonderful. But not as wonderful as taking Layla to a lovely restaurant tonight will be: nothing can beat the smugness of a good guidebook recommendation.
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