A love letter to Beirut

It’s occurred to me that living in Lebanon is not dissimilar to being in a relationship with someone who has ‘so much potential’ and is ‘actually quite brilliant’ but is utterly self-destructive and incapable of making good life choices. You’re left beating your bruised and bloodied head against the wall and thinking to yourself, this isn’t so bad…right? It would be a shame to let this relationship go…right? A Lebanese friend said to me once that living in Lebanon is not unlike being in an abusive relationship in which your partner hits and humiliates you time and again, but in between beatings they have moments of brilliance that make you want to stay. 

I understand what he means.

Beirut, I don’t know that I’ve ever fallen so hard for a city so quickly before. You’re an absolute incoherent mess of architectural styles, zoning, urban (non)planning, unruly drivers, terrible air pollution and congested neighborhoods. But I love you. I’m going to miss the vibrance, contradiction and cognitive dissonance that make you so fascinating and just beyond my reach. The hours I spent strolling through your streets and discovering hidden gems while narrowly avoiding potholes, dog poop and drivers who aren’t paying attention…irreplaceable. 

It’s been a tough couple of years for you, what with thawra and then Covid. If we weren’t confined to our homes because of burning tires, riots and road closures, it was lockdowns and curfews. But as with all impediments, you find ways to navigate economic collapse, meaningless destruction, asinine politics, and laughable infrastructure to make a life for yourselves and your families. 

I shall miss your eight-directional intersections where everyone has the right of way and the traffic cops have no idea what’s going on. I feel it’s a metaphor for the country at large: the state would do better to get out of the way and just let the people figure it out.

I shall miss your coffee and your cocktails. No city in the world does pubs and cafes as well as you do. Your baristas and bartenders and interior designers are world class, and I hope they can keep making a living wage since it would be a travesty to lose them to other metropolitan cities (although New York City could surely use some of you; strangely, I’ve never had a satisfying cocktail in Manhattan). 

I shall miss your delightfully dark humor that only gets better as circumstances grow worse. Although I have a love-hate relationship with your irreverence for rules, news headlines like “The number of fines handed out for curfew violations now exceed number of Corona cases” fill my heart with mirth.

August 4, 2020 is a memorable day for two reasons: One, it was the day I met my now fiancé in person for the first time after two months of talking over WhatsApp (it’s his fault I’m leaving you). Two, it was the day Beirut’s light went out. Minutes after picking William up from the airport in Gothenburg, I started receiving text messages with videos of this mystery explosion at the port. Nearly a year later, I’m still not over how dark the skyline is. It’s unnatural for a noisy city to look so muted. 

Yalla, the light will come.

Finally, dear Lebanon, with all of your rich landscape, your fine wines, your beloved cuisine, your dreamy coastline and flashy cars, please don’t forget to look after your best asset: your people. They are the most delightful, obstinate, cosmopolitan, hospitable, enterprising, resilient, traumatized people I know. And they love you. Yet most of them have left or wish they could leave. Please give them a reason to stay.

With all of my love and hope for a brighter day,

Annika 

Confessions of a worried ex-pat

I’ve been peripherally following the rise of ‘woke-ism’, critical race theory, the BLM movement and cancel culture from my overseas perch, and because I haven’t had permanent residence in the United States since 2007 and don’t feel like I have an emotional stake in the game, I’m going to share my unsolicited thoughts and let the chips fall where they may. 

I sympathize with the fact that there is a lot of inequality in this world. I hate the income disparity I see; I hate the exploitative form of capitalistic consumerism that’s been rotting our societies from the inside; I hate the corruption and the greed and the disregard for people’s dignity and intrinsic value; I hate evil and injustice and all the rest of it. I also hate entitled attitudes and victim mentalities. 

First, to lend my overseas perch some credibility, let me tell you that I live in Lebanon. I deeply love this country, but I’m going to be honest about it. Although it’s arguably the most religiously and societally free country in the Middle East after Isr*el (though talking about Isr*el here could land me in trouble), it’s still a tremendously unequal, blatantly racist, endemically corrupt, fractured and unstable society. Just since October 2019 we’ve seen: 1) three governments resign (and we’re still waiting for our fourth  government to form); 2) the currency spiral into hyperinflation (we’re just behind Venezuela and Zimbabwe); 3) the pandemic cause a debilitating lockdown in a nation that has no social safety net; 4) half of the population fall below the poverty line; 5) the banking sector collapse as it was revealed that the head of the Central Bank had been running a Ponzi scheme with the nation’s finances for decades. Oh, and 6) a devastating and entirely avoidable explosion that wiped out whole districts of Beirut, leaving thousands of people homeless and severely injured (200 people died). And this isn’t even the half of it. 

Lebanon is busy dealing with real problems.

I would submit to you that I think America ran out of real problems a long time ago. For decades the United States has been the most powerful country on earth, it’s been the most prosperous, it’s had the most freedom, it’s been the dream destination for the most immigrants…. and somewhere along the line we just ran out of real problems. And since human nature abhors a drama vacuum, I guess we felt the need to create some.

When I see videos of ivy league university students screaming at their professors, disrespecting people in authority, indiscriminately airing their grievances and blaming people who are not to blame, something in me turns. First of all, if you’re a student at Yale, you’re pretty stinkin’ privileged. And if you’re able to scream at and say disrespectful things to a person in authority without experiencing any legal or political repercussions, then this is a GLARING example of your privilege. Try living in Hong Kong for the past couple of years. 

Also, let’s be accurate with our terminology. I hear the term ‘systemic racism’ being thrown around a lot, and while I don’t deny that people experience racist treatment, for this behavior to be deemed systemic I would argue that it has to be embedded in our system of governance and civic behavior. I’m no civil rights expert, but I believe that the Civil Rights Act of 1964 outlawed the discrimination of any individual based on race, color, sex, religion or ethnicity, and ensured equal access to public spaces and employment. It effectively took racism out of the system. It’s one thing to experience racist treatment in certain pockets of society; it’s another thing to assert that this experience is systemic. I hate that people of color in America still experience racist treatment today - it should not happen and I hate that it does happen - but the reality is that in America, we have legal and civic recourse to fight the injustice. If you are a minority in the United States and you feel like the system is built to oppress you, then I encourage you to read about what the Chinese are doing to its Uighur population. That is an example of a system that is actually out to get you. 

And don’t get me started on critical race theory. Demanding that white people admit they are racist oppressors simply because they’re white is not only nonsensical but laughably racist. Not to mention completely counterproductive and patronizing towards black people. I have yet to hear a plausible argument for how fighting racism with more racism will bring about positive societal change. If that’s even what you’re going for. It seems to me that the end game here is lawlessness and anarchy, not racial harmony. 

I think what’s missing in the current cultural climate is a sense of proportion and perspective. I posit that people of color living in the United States are not as oppressed as they think they are. For kicks, I’d invite them to visit Lebanon and see what actually systemic racism looks like. This is a country that has embedded in its social fabric a system called kafala, which in practice is very much akin to human trafficking and slavery.  

Kafala is basically an industry and standard practice that brings foreign domestic workers into Lebanon to work in the homes of Lebanese middle and upper classes as cleaners, cooks and nannies. Most of these workers are from east Africa and southeast Asia, and it’s an open secret that many of them suffer abuse at the hands of their employers. Not all, but some are forced to hand over their passports to their employers, they’re not allowed to leave the house without their employer’s permission, they don’t get paid what they were promised, their employers beat them, and some get turned out on the streets to be picked up by local police and sent to jail where they are basically left until some human rights group advocates for them (my church runs an ongoing project to collect money for phone cards so that these women can call their families from jail).

Last year, the Ministry of Labor and human rights activists tried getting a measure passed that would implement a standard employment contract system so that that these domestic workers could receive a degree of legal protection and be granted some basic rights while living in Lebanon. But the court ruled in favor of an appeal filed by the recruitment agencies that stood to lose a lot of money and power if this measure succeeded.

With the current monetary crisis that Lebanon is experiencing, domestic workers aren’t being paid in USD as they were promised and many of them are wanting to return home, but the kafala system does not allow this without the employer’s consent. What do we call it when a person is held against their will and forced to work for free?

Last year, a Lebanese man posted on Facebook that he was looking to sell his Nigerian house worker for $1000. He received backlash on social media and was arrested by police though it’s not clear if he was ever convicted. Regardless, what must a society’s systems and attitudes toward other races be like for a citizen to think this was acceptable behavior? 

Everyone’s pain is painful to them, and I don’t want to diminish an American’s experience of racism as long as that’s what it actually is. But again, we need to be accurate with our terminology, because if we just throw words around and start changing their definitions to better support our narrative, we’ll have no credibility left when we most need it. 

One more thing. I am deeply troubled at the direction America is headed with regards to free speech. If we think people shouldn’t be free to say what they want to say, even if it’s false or hurtful, we’ve clearly never lived in a society where speech and independent thought were suppressed (or read accurate accounts of history for that matter). I would go so far as to say that most Americans have no idea what un-freedom looks like (but ask a recent immigrant and I bet they could tell you). I once heard a psychologist say in an interview something to the effect of: People who don’t learn to control their own emotions compensate by trying to control everyone else. This is exactly what we are seeing play out as the super woke silence anyone who does not see the world as they do. But here’s an obvious question: If you go around ‘canceling’ people because you don’t like what they say, what in the world makes you think that down the line someone won’t ‘cancel’ you because they don’t like what you say? 

If we think being woke is going to make the world a better place, we should probably re-read Orwell’s 1984. Freedom, democracy and mutual respect aren’t the natural, default state of human nature. Control, totalitarianism and hatred of the ‘other’ are. That is where America is headed, and this ex-pat is worried. 

 “A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both.” Dwight Eisenhower, 1953

Links for reference: 

On university students screaming at their professors:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJbHkWTHiZ0

On Hong Kong:

https://www.dw.com/en/the-end-of-freedom-of-expression-in-hong-kong/a-53672202

On Uighurs in China:

https://www.cfr.org/backgrounder/chinas-repression-uighurs-xinjiang

On Kafala:

https://www.hrw.org/news/2020/07/27/lebanon-abolish-kafala-sponsorship-system

https://www.the961.com/lebanon-shura-council-kafala/

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2020/4/24/lebanon-arrests-suspect-for-putting-nigerian-worker-up-for-sale

Covid Chronicles, part 3: Temper tantrums, Puccini, and dating apps.

Since there is just SO MUCH TIME for reflection, here’s a list of things I’ve learned about myself during this Covid season, in no particular order:

When God tells me to do something (like go live in Lebanon), I’m in it until I hear otherwise. Come rain or shine, garbage crisis or financial crisis, I’m in it. But this does not mean that I won’t have moments in which I just wanna get the hell out. Don’t you worry; I’m not leaving (and I couldn’t since the airport is still closed, ha!). Just know that I will throw a temper tantrum periodically because I need to be difficult.

To temper the tantrums a bit, I decided to download a bunch of operas and listen to a different one each evening. I’m not a sophisticated theater goer and I’ve only been to see like three operas in my life, but coming from the family I come from, I felt I should put more of an effort in. Sooo… Still not a connoisseur, but I think I like Puccini’s melancholy the best. Verdi and Bizet aren’t bad. Mozart is too sanguine. Definitely don’t like Wagner. Too angsty. 

Speaking of angst, dating apps. OH. MY. WORD. Until now I refused to engage because they made me nervous and I still cling to the illusion that I possess sufficient people skills and geographic mobility to meet someone in person. But because mobility is limited and people skills are superfluous for the foreseeable future, I decided to give it a shot. For kicks. So I downloaded three apps that had been recommended to me and I set up my profile and started surfing. But it’s a complete and utter gimmick. They tell you you’ve received 30 messages but you can’t read them unless you either get two friends to sign up or you pay the whatever dollars per month for a subscription. Also, they don’t bother to ask any insightful, character-based questions, just conversation-starter type stuff. So basically, I’m dealing with a lazy algorithm. And the most exasperating thing of all: they limit you to your geographical area. First of all, my geographical area is exactly why I felt the need to enlist the help of dating apps. Secondly, my location registers like this: 

Welcome to Beirut urban planning. I feel like this is a metaphor for my love life.

Anyway, the point is: I don’t want to meet guys in Beirut. I want to meet guys in Europe. Because just like every other single, young-ish person living in Lebanon right now, I’m hoping to (eventually) leave and go somewhere else, like BACK TO EUROPE. Duh. Creators of dating apps should make allowances for the geographically restless. And maybe also read up on some geopolitics. One of the apps so generously gave me the option of widening my search to a radius of 400 km, which for me just means Syria and Israel. Syria is out for obvious reasons, and even though I found the Israeli guys to be the most handsome and intriguing, Lebanon’s secret service would track me down and kick me out of the country for liaising with the enemy. So that’s unhelpful. 

Fed up, I deleted all three apps after 48 hours. Then I tried registering on two other UK-based sites but couldn’t get past the very first step because they wouldn’t accept my email address (I suspect they can tell by my IP address that I’m in Lebanon). RUDE. 

Screw dating apps. They make me angry. 

On a more positive, but still depressing note, I’m not too good at keeping things alive. Empirical proof is found in the fact that I’ve managed to nearly kill both of my aloe plants, and even my spider plant looks like it’s longing for heaven. These are supposedly resilient types of flora (I mean my word, aloes are built to thrive in the desert), yet under my apparently not so maternal mothering, they’ve decided to give up on life. I’m tempted to do the same. But because I refuse to accept that I have the touch of death, I bought a new aloe plant, a rose bush, two cacti, and a bonsai tree and spent my Sunday gardening. (Just to be safe though, I made sure the plants were cheap enough that I can afford to have them die on me, should they wish to.) 

Covid Chronicles, part 2: All things new

Last week was Holy Week, and if there’s any week that a Christian is supposed to have ‘the feels’, it’s this week. But I had none of the feels. I tried listening to podcast sermons, tried praying contemplatively (as seems to be the trend now), tried feeling broken about the state of my soul and the world. But nothing. I just felt pretentious.   

So finally on Good Friday I watched The Passion of the Christ. I don’t think I’d watched it since college, but I figured if anything was going to get me into the right headspace for Easter, this would. Thankfully, I wept through most of it (my heart still beats!), but the moment that broke me most was when Jesus is carrying his cross to Golgotha and he stumbles. His mother runs to him, compelled by maternal instinct, and he turns to her and says, “Behold, I make all things new.” 

The thing about me is that I tend to have delayed emotional reactions to tragedy. For the duration of whatever is currently tragic, I feel emotionally detached from what’s happening and cerebral about what needs to be done. Feelings of grief or loss come later. Sometimes much later, sometimes never. And what the world is experiencing right now is tragic. Not only because of the high number of deaths that many countries are experiencing, but also because of the enormous number of people who are losing their sources of income, who are being forced to shelter-in-place in toxic and abusive home environments; it’s tragic because of the sharp uptick in usage that I imagine porn sights are experiencing, and the relational fallout from that breaks my heart.

I suppose it didn’t help that I spent the past two weeks listening to three different podcast series hosted by investigative journalists who followed and/or broke the stories on Harvey Weinstein, Jeffrey Epstein and Bill Cosby. How so much evil and depravity can exist in a single person is devastating to me. The earth is groaning, and not just from pollution. 

I desperately needed to hear Jesus say, “Behold, I make all things new.” 

This Covid19 season feels to me like a forced sabbath, like a forceful hit on the "pause" button. Humanity is exhausted, the earth is exhausted, the humanitarian community is exhausted, capitalism and globalization are exhausted. But no one was actually going to do anything to stop the reckless speed we’re moving at. Not really. I’ve never been a faithful observer of Lent (I tried to engage this year and failed miserably), but I can’t help thinking that Covid19 was interestingly timed with this Lenten season of collectively waiting for Jesus to make all things new by triumphing over darkness. I can’t help hoping that there’s something deeper at work here. 

It’s easy to see God making things new in the fact that families who have been too busy with work and school and hobbies to spend proper time together are now getting nothing but time together. It’s easy to see God making things new for a planet that has been ravaged by our lack of mindful stewardship. Now city birds are chirping, the skies are clear and creation is breathing a collective sigh of relief. It’s easy to believe that God is making things new within the systems of finance and commerce that have for too long been the driver of gross exploitation and inequitable practices. I sincerely hope the disruption results in our thinking differently about material wants and needs. 

That said, I’m having a harder time seeing how God is making things new in the lives of the countless people all over the world who are losing their sources of income, the millions of informally employed people who have no safety net to fall back on when their governments revoke their ability to make a living. It’s hard to see God making things new for those people who live with abusive partners or parents and who now have little recourse for escape. 

In just the last five to ten years, the lid has been ripped off for many of the powerful men who sexually preyed on women with impunity, and for many religious figures who have been caught out in the same sin. But for every instance in which a sexual predator is held to account, just as many cases are covered up. How and when is God going to make that new? 

To be clear, I don’t ask that question out of doubt, but out of impatience. I struggle with the fact that God is so patient with us. The longer He is patient, the more evil we commit and the more people fall through the cracks. It does not make natural sense to me. So I’m challenged by 2 Peter 3:9 where Peter says, “The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness [that’s me!]. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.” It makes me think of Habakkuk’s heated discussion with God in which God responds, “The revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and not delay.” (2:3)

God does not tarry. He has promised to make all things new. But this doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll make all tangible situations new right now. His work is more often than not conducted in the realm of the unseen and eternal. In the movie, Jesus says “I make all things new” when he’s walking towards his crucifixion, but in Scripture he says it at the end of the story, in Revelation 21:5. 

We haven’t yet reached the end of the story. 

Until we do, my hope is in this promise found in Zephaniah 3:

At that time I will deal with all who oppressed you; I will rescue the lame and gather those who have been scattered. I will give them praise and honor in every land where they were put to shame. At that time I will gather you; at that time I will bring you home.

The Covid Chronicles - Part 1

Wow guys. This will be an era for the history books, huh! 

I’m sitting in my living room. It’s Day 10 of Lebanese lockdown. Every day there’s news of another nation following suit. I’m working from home while blowing through my classical music album collection, drinking copious amounts of tea, reading reading reading, assembling a 1,000 piece puzzle, and generally just puttering around my apartment. 

But wait…isn’t that basically what I do most days? Being an introvert who lives alone, I practice self-isolation pretty regularly. Imagine my surprise to learn that this lifestyle is actually called 'self-quarantine'. Huh…

In addition to working from home and trying not to bake too much (since no one is around to eat the results except me), I’m trying to not let my mind descend into total Netflix lethargy. It’s hard though. I appreciate solitude, but two weeks of it is a bit much to be honest. I’m starting to get a little nutty.

Thankfully, I have a bird story to tell y’all. 

Because people are mostly staying put, the air quality in Beirut has been amazing. I spend a lot of time on my balcony just looking out over the blue Mediterranean and thinking gosh, the coronavirus may be decimating our economy, but it’s sure doing wonders for the environment. Anyway, because of all of this clean air, a relatively unusual phenomenon has surfaced in the form of birds hanging outside my terrace door. Yesterday morning, two of them were fluttering around, pecking at the window, and pooping all over my outdoor chairs (the audacity!). Every time I approached they’d fly away, only to return a few minutes later. Annoying, but whatever. The earth is happy. 

This morning, I woke up to a strange noise. I went into the guest bedroom (where my terrace door is) only to discover that one of yesterday’s birds had flown in through the crack and was flapping around in disoriented fashion. I’m a city girl, right, so I don’t always know what to do when undomesticated animals find their way into my house. I slid the door all the way open, thinking the bird would find its way out. But for some reason, this bird - who had found it fully doable to fly through the barely-big-enough crack between the sliding door and the wall - could not for the life of it find its way out through the now wide open doorway. Instead it flew into my bedroom where I rushed to open the balcony door, hoping it would find its way out there. But no, it smashed into the wall just above the door, then into my mirror on the opposite wall, then Ianded in the corner and stayed there for a bit. 

I approached very slowly and tried to pick it up (let’s face it, I’m just as scared of the bird as the bird is of me), but I didn’t get a good enough grip before the bird freaked out and flapped around some more, this time knocking itself out by rushing headlong into the mirror again. It landed on my dresser, breathing heavily and twitching a bit, its neck at a peculiar angle. So I picked it up and placed it outside on the terrace, hoping it wouldn’t die on me but also lacking the necessary bird resuscitation skills to prevent said death. (I’ll spare you the video version that shows it twitching as some of you are sensitive people and might experience trauma.) 

I returned to my bed, trying not to get neurotic about this bird possibly dying on my terrace. I peeked in on it a couple of times. At one point it had ended up on its back several inches away from where I’d placed it. Still breathing heavily. Still twitching. 

And I’m thinking to myself, Dear God, I really can’t handle a bird death right now. Too many emotions for the current situation. 

A couple of hours later I checked up on it again, and this time the bird was looking decidedly more put together, even though it was still on its back. I got closer, thinking I could try to turn it over so it would at least be on its feet. But before I could reach down, it miraculously flipped over and flew promptly away. 

So that’s that. The bird is alive, I’m alive; we're on our backs, we're breathing heavily, some of us are twitching. But we’re all going to survive this Covid-19 madness. Hang in there. 

Airplane confessions

I’ve lived in Lebanon for two and a half years and I love it. I really do. But I confess: I tend to have ungenerous thoughts toward Lebanese people when I’m with a large number of them on airplanes. 

It starts in the gate area. A certain slice of the Lebanese demographic have around 2.5 kids who are usually pacified by iPads while their botoxed mothers take selfies. For the other Lebanese demographic, the more the merrier, and at least four of their 7+ children are crying hysterically. Maybe because they wish they had iPads (in those moments, I certainly wish they did). 

When it’s time to board, I will be shamelessly cut in line. Generally, it’s the men who are guilty of this - maybe I look blonde and dumb - but the audacity! Next time, I’m going to shame them into orderly conduct by making a show of letting them go ahead of me. More than anything, the shame tactic generates results in this country. (Well, shame and bribes.) 

Always without fail, once we’re on the plane and busy finding our seats, a verbal spat will break out among passengers who didn’t look carefully at their boarding passes and mistook their seat numbers. Or they’ll try to rearrange the seating assignments so that their party of 12 can sit together. It takes two or three crew members to calm everyone down. 

During takeoff, the grandma next to me crosses herself, praying to Saint Charbel to postpone her meeting with God. Then she’ll turn to me and ask me the usual placement questions: 1) where are you from, 2) are you married, 3) why aren’t you married, 4) do you have a boyfriend, 5) why don’t you have a boyfriend. Then she’ll look at me, half perplexed, half pitying, and say, don’t worry, I’ll find you a good Lebanese boy to marry. I roll my eyes. 

Once we’re in the air and the food is being served, they’ll ask for things that aren’t on offer. Like anything other than what’s in the food cart. It takes forever for the frazzled attendant to get to me, and I’ll smile at him or her sympathetically and just ask for water, their relief palpable. 

Upon landing and taxiing, at least 15 people will get out of their seats and start rummaging in the overhead compartments, ignoring the cabin crew who are exasperatedly trying to get them to take a seat…since the plane is still moving. And inevitably, at least one bag will fall out of the compartment onto some unsuspecting person’s head. Probably mine (it’s happened more than once). 

But once we’re at the gate and we’re waiting for them to let us off, everyone will be laughing and talking to each other, exchanging well wishes on their return to the homeland. The atmosphere is warm and exuberant. And I’ll heave an internal sigh and tell myself to get over it. For as long as I live here, these are my people. And as exasperating as they can be on an airplane, they’re still completely lovable on the ground… Most of the time.  ; ) 

Middle age, love handles, and incandescent happiness

I turn 35 today, and my celebratory instinct was to hide myself away in the mountains over the weekend in the company of a like-minded friend. (But with a view like this, I feel vindicated against anyone who would criticize my anti-social life choices.)

Modern life expectancy notwithstanding, I feel I have officially reached middle age. For one, I’ve never been able to envision myself getting old, and also, I don’t have a retirement plan. So death at 70 would be convenient. I’m very practical.

I’m trying to process the fact that in a mere five years I will be forty when on most days I’m still trying to imagine what being a real adult with actual property and insurance policies must feel like. Also, I’ve never felt a strong desire to have children, but what if I suddenly start to? Even if I met someone tomorrow and got pregnant the next day, medically I’d be considered a geriatric mother. I don’t know how I feel about that. 

Also, thresholds are changing without my consent. For one, I’m getting grumpy. I have zero tolerance for people who don’t communicate, people who smoke their acrid cigars in the stairwell, people who text and walk (or operate motorized vehicles) without looking up, people who don’t parent their children properly (because I’m a parenting expert), and general poor taste, immature behavior, pettiness and nonsense. Who. has. got. the. time. I’m too busy thinking about cheese. 

Speaking of cheese, my love handles are out of control. I feel like my metabolism this year decided to go on strike. Like, it shows up to work, but then it just sits at its desk and does nothing all day. I exercise regularly and I eat the same way I’ve done for years (which is healthier than the average person), yet I continue to discover folds of skin that never used to be there. Do I resign myself to defeat and buy larger trousers, or do I stop eating all the things that make life worth living? 

Speaking of resignation and defeat, no matter how many self improvements I manage to achieve, some things are just never going to change. My habits and preferences are entrenched. For example, I will always and instinctively offer words and phrases to finish your sentences. I know this drives some people nuts (sorry, mom). I’d like to think it’s my way of showing you that I’m engaged with what you’re saying. (In fact, if I’m not finishing your sentences, I’m probably not listening to you.) Also, there is undeniably a superior way of doing the dishes and stacking them on the drying rack, and my way is the superior way. 

Despite this increase in crankiness and rigidity (or, in the case of my love handles, lack of rigidity), there is at least one awesome thing about getting older, and that is that life just keeps getting better. The quality of friendships, the travels, the challenges, the experiences, the overall random, joy-inspiring, delightfully unexpected moments that prove to me that Jesus freaking LOVES me… they just get better. 

Like today. Stephanie and I wandered around the beautiful town of Deir El Qamar and were on our way to the ancient mosque when we were stopped in our tracks by an elderly man who asked us if we had been by his wax museum. (In fact, we had just come from having avoided going in.) We felt we could not say no to this insistent old man, so we let him lead us right back. He asked his equally elderly, nearly toothless assistant to give us the tour (which he did with broken English and gusto), and then he had us sit down for a glass of wine (which was very good), and then he had us stay for lunch (which was also very good). 

Come to realize, this man is terribly wealthy and hails from a noble family dating back many centuries. He owns two palaces in town (one of which houses the wax museum), several other estates around Lebanon, and a house in Paris. He’s been decorated six times in both France and Lebanon, and he knows all of the political elite in the country. But he is wonderfully simple, generously hospitable, refreshingly unpretentious, and endearingly frank. In short, it was just another random, joy-inspiring, delightfully unexpected moment that makes life so good. 

As I sit here in my beautiful room and type the last sentences of this post, I feel deeply, incandescently happy. I’m not where I thought I would be at 35, but then again, where did I think I would be? 

“Traveler, there is no path; the path is made by walking.” ~ Antonio Machado