Teaching with the Ghangida, or, Is there a Trash Can in this Classroom?

The title of this post is an homage to Jeff's great India blog (http://www.findjeff.blogspot.com), in which he recounts his adventures traveling, taking care of Kolkata's sick and destitute, and battling his own nasty gastro-intestinal bugs (a.k.a. "the ghangida").  
As you might have surmised, my first day of teaching began in the wee hours of the morning with overwhelming nausea, stomach pain, and some other yucky things I won't go into. My plan was to get into my office bright and early, do some last-minute photocopying, and generally prepare to meet my students for the first time. Instead, I spent most of the morning in my bathroom (did I mention how very thankful I am for indoor facilities?!). I did eventually pull myself together enough to shower, dress, and walk very slowly to campus. In my office I realized that although my office is wonderful--spacious with a great, sunny window-- it is one floor down from the nearest women's bathroom. A major liability.
 
Anyway, after making desultory conversation with some sympathetic colleagues (some ex-pats say the Beirut nausea never really goes away. Great.), I set off to meet my first group of students. First of all, my first class is in a lovely old-ish building with nice outdoor hallways (one walks along a covered balcony to get from one side to the other) and welcoming, modern classrooms. My American lit survey sudents and I had a lively good time doing a little word association: I asked them what comes to mind when they hear "American," "British," and "Lebanese." After a writing for a minute on each one, they shared their responses. "British" inspired thoughts of tea, stiff upper lips, and Shakespeare. "American" prompted ideas of fast food, Oprah Winfrey (BOTH my classes mentioned Oprah; only one mentioned George W. Bush. Hmm.), and a couple oddly regional responses: funnel cake and In-N-Out Burger. I'm assuming those students spent some time in the mid-Atlantic region and California, respectively. "Lebanese" elicited notions of cedars, nightlife, "the odd bomb here and there" (Tripoli, today), and lots of talk of food. It was by now about 35 minutes into a 50 minute class, and the talk of labneh (similar to plain yogurt) and manouchi (a flatbread sandwich) set off the waves of nausea again. It was when I started sweating and looking around to see if there was a wastebasket in the classroom--just in case--that I realized that I needed to wrap things up. A hasty handing out of the syllabus ensued, and they were on their way. I was ok enough in a few minutes to survive round two with my nineteenth-century students. Whew!
 
Now that I've got the first day under my belt (make that my comfy elastic wasteband), I'm realizing that my students appear to be just like students anywhere. Sure, they can speak several languages, and some of the women wore pretty headscarfs, but most of them seemed like pretty familiar types. I don't know why I was expecting anything different. It will be interesting to re-read this post at the end of the semester and see if my first impressions were accurate. Hopefully by then the ghangida will be gone and peace will reign...in my belly if nowhere else!
 

Stormy Weather

 
It rained today for the first time since I've been here--a brief but torrential downpour that left the air every bit as thick and humid as it was before. One benefit of the humidity is that it carries the scent of the jasmine-like flowers that grow thick on campus. It was quite nice today walking in the warm rain at sunset and hearing a traditional oud player announce the start of an Iftar dinner somewhere.
 
Of course, the title of this post also refers to the Tin Pan Alley ditty they play on Marketplace when stocks are down. I have been catching bits of news (cable tv!) about the continuing implosion of the big US banks and financial companies. I even saw George W. surface for a couple minutes, stumble over a few lines, and then flee back into the White House. It's funny--since I was an undergrad I've said that if I could just wait long enough to pay back my student loans, capitalism would surely collapse. All those grad-school deferments may pay off yet! 
 
Watching all this financial mayhem from a modern, cosmopolitan city where electricity is rationed so that most Beirutis endure daily two- to three-hour outages without blinking an eye reminds me of how very soft much of U.S. life is, and of how much wealth and waste there is. Here, even the most opulent, backup-generator-using buildings don't air-condition hallways. They just cool the rooms where people actually spend time. Similarly, toilets have barely any water in the bowls (don't worry, I won't subject you to a close-up of my toilet, flushing marvel that it is) and very little in the tanks. There are signs around that say "every drop counts." I'm not saying that mainstream American wastefulness is responsible for the financial meltdown. I'm just saying that a sobering reality check like this might result in people saving money and conserving resources, and that wouldn't be the worst thing. Meanwhile, I'm stockpiling my Lebanese Lira!
  

Signs

There is just something so cool about an Anglo-Arabic stop sign.

There are not many cypress trees left in Lebanon, but the AUB campus has several. One is dedicated to the memory of Rafic Hariri. His assassination seems to still be in the forefront of many people's minds here.

By contrast, the civil war (1975-1990, roughly), doesn't seem to get mentioned that often. I suspect that this is on purpose. Traces of the war remain, of course, such as this plaque memorializing one of the earliest acts of violence. Other traces pop up in the most mundane places: stumbling across this plaque while strolling across campus, or shopping for sheets and having the salesperson mention that the textile factory was blown up during the war. It's all still jarring and surpising to me. I can only imagine what the memory of that time is like for Lebanese people my age.

 

At Home

Forgive my self-indulgence, but this blog post is dedicated to...my apartment. There's been some reader interest in my place (you know who you are!), so here's a little description of my new crib.

First, it feels big to me. Granted, the ranger station at Wonder Lake was a bit bigger, but it was more public than private space. After spending the two years before that in my cabin in Chesterville, Maine, it feels very roomy here. All the furniture you see came with the place. Some of you may be shocked and appalled to see a tv placed prominently in the living room, but tv here is just too interesting to pass up. Most of the channels are in Arabic, but there are a few in English with Arabic subtitles. I like watching and listening to the Arabic news channels and trying to figure out what's going on. Oddly, there is also a handful of regular US cable stations, so I could watch "Animal Planet" if I wanted to. The Lebanese who watch it must think Americans are crazy for investing so much money and effort into taking care of their pets!

Let's move into the kitchen, shall we? It, too, is very spacious, with lots of cabinets and countertops. I got a coffeemaker right off, as there seems to be an odd affinity for instant coffee here: at all the school functions (and even at the fancy hotel), all the coffee offered comes in little packets from Nescafe, with a pot of hot water nearby. I'll also draw your attention to the toaster (with the wierd toast-holding arms on top): I got it cheap on one of my first days here, before I realized that...there's nothing to toast. Nearly all the bread is flatbread! It's great, but I wouldn't mind finding a bagel somewhere. I'll keep looking. Oh, and I included a photo of the gas stove, which, as you can see, has the gas tank right next to it. I need to call the gas guy and have him deliver a new one when I run out.

And now the piece de resistance--the bathroom! Yes, all the hot and cold running water and flushing action a person could want! Yeah! (this is a contrast to my Maine cabin, and to Wonder Lake in the early season). There's no bidet, but there is a funny little electrical outlet next to the mirror that operates on 150 or 220 volts and says "for razors only" on it. I'll just leave it alone.

And thus ends our tour of my new place. (The bedroom is far too messy to photograph right now.) Bear in mind that the average Lebanese person earns about $300 per month, I'm told, and so I'm sure it's very unusual to have such a roomy, comfortable place to live. I definitely feel like I'm living pretty luxuriously. I could get used to the running water!

La Corniche

I went for a jog today along the Corniche, the lovely wide sidewalk along the sea. It was Sunday morning, and there were lots of people out fishing, swimming, snorkeling, and just goofing around in the water. The Corniche itself was full of couples, families, dogwalkers, joggers, you name it, all out to soak up some sea breezes.
 
I jogged past the Manara lighthouse, which was bombed by Israel in 2006. I heard that it was the only target they hit in Ras Beirut (or 'head of Beirut,' the part of town bordering AUB). I suppose is was a high-profile one.
 
The funny thing is that there is an older lighthouse right nearby that has been swallowed up by tall buildings. I hear that there has been a lighthouse on this part of the coast since Ottoman times, if not before.
 
After my rather short jog (I'll attibute its brevity to the heat, and not to the fact that I haven't been to Karen's aerobics classes for some weeks now!), I strolled around on campus again. I noticed that one landscaped patch was full of giant aloe vera plants. After checking them out, I noticed that right next to them was a fragrant thicket of rosemary bushes. The campus never ceases to amaze. Nor do the feral cats, which seem oddly social with one another, though not all that interested in two-legged life forms.
 
All in all, another lovely day in Beirut. Let's hope it stays this way!
 

On Campus

The AUB beach (yes, the Mediterranean is visible from most of campus!):

Fisk Hall:
Main gate:

I've heard people claim that the AUB campus is the most beautiful in the world, and while I haven't seen most of the world's campuses, I will say that AUB's is awfully nice (even if it doesn't have UMF's leafy, snowy charm!) Above are a few images.

The main gate to campus is really pretty, and has the university's motto inscribed on it.

College Hall (the one with the clock tower) was the university's oldest building until it was blown up by a truck bomb in 1991. The clock tower collapsed in the explosion, with the time permanently frozen at 3:45 a.m. I don't know that anyone is certain who was responsible for it. College Hall was rebuilt in 1999, and is home to the admin offices.

Sadly, Beirut does not seem to have much green space, which makes the campus seem like a carefully-guarded oasis. Even the air seems cleaner, what with the Mediterranean breezes and all the trees exhaling into the atmosphere. While I understand why one has to show an AUB id to get in the gates, it seems a shame that most people here do not have access to an idyllic spot like this. I feel fortunate to get to work here, at least for a while.

What to Wear in Beirut

People have asked me how people—especially women—dress in Beirut. I’ll say right off that mercifully, Beirut seems to be pretty liberal in its dress code. Mercifully because it is so hot here that the idea of long sleeves makes me sweat just thinking about it. Lots of women—probably about half of the ones I see—wear tank tops, some of which are akin to those worn by UMF undergrads: tight, with spaghetti straps. Perhaps one out of every 10 women I see dresses in traditional hejab, with a long, flowing robe-type garment obscuring the shape of their bodies and covering all but hands and face. Perhaps one out of four women wears a head scarf. Even some in head scarves—especially the younger ones--wear fairly tight short-sleeved shirts and cropped pants. Some of the head scarves are really colorful and pretty. Even some of the full-length hejab robes that I’ve seen have really pretty embroidery on them. You won’t see people in shorts, however. Nor any skirts much above mid-calf. I can’t think of anything that would say “American tourist” quite like the sight of pasty-white legs sticking out from LL Bean hiking shorts, so I’m leaving mine in the drawer.

Quotes from Campus

“Some cities are dog cities, like Paris. Beirut is a cat city.” --MJD, a colleague from the English department who showed me around campus and the city.

I’ll write more later about the impossibly beautiful AUB campus, but the thing that caught my attention right away was its population of feral cats. They’re everywhere, and some of them are really cute. I hate to think what their presence means for the indigenous bird population, but I admit that I really like having them around.

Quote Two:
“Ah, there were glorious times here. But I don’t like to talk about the past.”

As I was wandering around the administration building, I ran into an elderly Lebanese man who said he had been a professor at AUB for forty-three years (which seems like an awfully long time, but who knows?). I told him that I had only been in Beirut for a few days, and that prompted his wistful remark about the glorious times in the city’s past. Nearly all the Beirutis I meet say that the city is great…as long as it is peaceful. The reality that it is not always peaceful here, and will likely get chaotic again seems to be very much a part of the popular consciousness.

Ramadan at the Hotel

The university put me up in a fancy five-star hotel until I found an apartment. Above is the view from the balcony.

My arrival happened to coincide with Ramadan (which lasts roughly the entire month of September), and the hotel lobby had a big display in the middle of it of figs, nuts, dried dates, and dried apricots--huge piles of everything. It took me about a day to realize that it was not just for decoration, and that it was ok to eat the dates. I later learned that it is traditional to serve dates and apricots to guests during Ramadan. Cool. Of course, people are fasting all day—not even drinking water from sunup to sundown, which I find astounding. It is so hot and humid here that I can’t step outside without sweating buckets (of course, I’m probably still acclimated to Alaska). People must get really dehydrated. The fast gets broken at a big sunset feast called Iftar. The hotel restaurant served a nightly Iftar buffet, complete with a traditional oud (lute-type thing) player and a bunch of nargileh (hookah-type water pipes for smoking tobacco) set up on the outdoor terrace. I didn’t realize that Ramadan had such a festive component; I thought it was somber, like Lent. Of course, I’m sure I’m missing a whole lot of important subtleties, but the Iftar looked like fun. Someone told me that a lot of people actually gain wait during Ramadan, because of the evening feasting. Who knew?

Arrival

I left Portland, Maine’s international “jetport” and flew to JFK on a bumpy little commuter flight. From there, I worked my way over to the international departures gate, and got ready to board a long flight across the Atlantic, destination Paris. While I was excited at the prospect of being in Paris again, if only in the airport, I’ll admit that while waiting in JFK I got a bit nervous about the whole “moving to Beirut” thing. It suddenly seemed pretty far away. However, once I boarded the plane and got comfy, things started looking up. I had my inflatable neck pillow (thanks, Karen!), my bag of snacks that my mom packed for me (thanks, mom!), and my favorite blue shawl that doubles as a blanket on long flights (thanks, Jeff!), so I was all set. At Charles de Gaulle, I found my way to the line of folks bound for very exotic-sounding places: Tangier, Casablanca, and yes, Beirut. I felt proud and excited that I was in that line, and not the more pedestrian-sounding gates to Berlin and Brussels and the like.

As the plane descended towards the Rafiq Hariri international airport in Beirut, I saw mountains giving way to sea, with the occasional palm tree here and there. The city appeared to be a warren of tall tan-colored buildings, and I wondered where among them I would be.

After the man from AUB (the American University of Beirut) Human Resources got me through immigration, I climbed into the cab that the university had arranged for me. The cab driver, Ragi, was a good sport about hefting my two huge suitcases, overstuffed backpack, and carry-ons into the trunk. As I looked around the city for the first time, two things immediately caught my attention. First was the many policemen milling about in grayish urban camouflage outfits, complete with floppy berets and carrying big rifles. The second was the gigantic three-dimensional KFC bucket announcing the presence of the Colonial’s fried chicken inside the airport. It was my first taste of the surreal grafting of western capitalism onto the cultural landscape of the Middle East.

Introduction

Hi everyone,

As most of you know, I'm in Beirut, teaching American literature at a lovely and well-respected university here. My contract is for two years; my stay could be longer or shorter, depending on how things go.

I thought I'd try to do a little blog to help me remeber some of the day-to-day details of life in Beirut, and to share some of my everyday life with anyone who might find it interesting. I'm calling it "My Life in Beirut" because that will be the main focus of the posts. I cannot promise profundity, astute political commentary, or meticulously-crafted essays. However, I will tell you, for instance, what I've been eating lately, how hot it's been, and how the US comes across in the world news.

Please comment frequently and copiously, ask questions, and let me know if you'd like a post on a particular topic. Thanks for reading. Shukran!