My primary objective on our Tripoli jaunt on Saturday was to try to find an oud, but I knew beforehand that I probably wasn’t going to be able to find that sort of thing in the souk. After we wandered around for a while, I lost interest in not only my primary objective, but my secondary objective, which was finding inspiration for wedding rings. While there were many styles of jewelry represented in the souk, simple, classic, and not-tacky were not among them. However, we enjoyed wandering around and sampling the sights and sounds (and smells) and checking out the wares. One of the strangest things on sale were live baby chickens which had been dyed all sorts of unnatural colors. Though I took photos, I didn’t have the heart to capture the chicks’ live elder relatives. They were in cages behind a collection of some other family members who were less fortunate/alive and in various stages of disassembly. Amy remarked that when she went to Morocco, she bet her travel companion that it was cheaper to buy a dead chicken than a live one and she lost.
In the mid-afternoon we decided to head back via Byblos. On the bus we talked a bit with a very articulate student who had just finished high school. He explained that though he’s been to New York twice, he’s never been to Baalbeck, Beitedeine, or many of the other attractions of Lebanon. We’ve encountered this circumstance a lot. My impulse is to be shocked, but in the 8 years I lived in New York I don’t think I ever once went to the Guggenheim or the Museum of Modern Art or the Statue of Liberty, so there you go.
Once in Byblos, we ended up at Byblos Fishing Club. Not only does Byblos lay claim to inventing the alphabet and being oldest continuously inhabited city in the world (a somewhat hotly contested claim), it was also something of a premier destination for the rich and famous back in the 60s. The Fishing Club was apparently quite popular back then and the walls showcase many photos of the owner posing with the likes of Brigitte Bardo and Marlon Brando. The owner is nicknamed Pepe the Pirate and is/was apparently quite a character himself.
We had a leisurely lunch and listened to Supertramp’s Roger Hodgson soundcheck at the nearby stage that had been set up for the Byblos Music Festival. Earlier in the week, Amy had learned that one of our favorite bands, Franz Ferdinand, was supposed to play the festival, but cancelled. This was disappointing, though if the show gone on as scheduled, we probably would have found out about it the day after. Maybe we’re just not tapped in to the proper channels, but it seems like the only time we find out about an event is if it’s been cancelled or reviewed in the Daily Star after the fact.
There was a surprising number of people getting ready to enjoy the former Supertramp star. Granted I’m no musical scholar, but I was hard-pressed to name a single Supertramp song. Of course later, upon having access to the internet at home, intensive research revealed that they were responsible for almost a dozen songs with which anyone who’s ever listened to classic rock radio must be intimately familiar (for instance, the song shares a title with this post). I also learned that they got their start when a millionaire friend of the keyboard player offered to bankroll him to form his dream band. The support was quickly withdrawn after Supertramp released two prog-rock albums in the early 70s and they were left to fend for themselves.
After we finished lunch and completed some requisite wandering, we caught a minibus back to Beirut. The minibus cost 1000 LL and dropped us off at Dawra, where we caught a service taxi for double-fare. Amy mentioned that it was strange to pay 1000 LL to go all the way up the coast and then have to pay twice that to take a cab across town to our apartment. I think I may have inadvertently haggled with the driver because he ended up only charging us 3000 LL for the two of us.
We stayed home and disposed of the rest of the night quietly playing Scrabble. Despite putting down “queer” on a double-word score, I was still soundly defeated.
Aforementioned “punk chicks.”
Amy with some weird-but-tasty pods we bought in the souk.
This is the festival concert area where Roger Hodgson played (and where Franz Ferdinand would have played).
A view of Byblos’ port from the old fortifications at its mouth.
I didn’t take any more good pictures, so here is a gratuitous shot of my favorite brand of cookies.
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