Holidays in Hell: In Which Our Intrepid Reporter Travels to the World's Worst Places and Asks, "What's Funny About This" by P. J. O’Rourke Page A
Authors: P. J. O’Rourke
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man.
While we were asking directions in Bsherri, a young man
named Antoine attached himself to us. He got us into the Gibran
house, which was supposedly closed for repairs, then took us home
for a Lebanese sit-around with his mother, aunts, sisters, cousins,
etc. Hospitality is a must in the Middle East whether anyone wants
to have it or not. Pomegranate juice is served, lots of cigarettes are
smoked and tiny cups of coffee are drunk while everyone smiles
and stares because you can't speak Arabic and they can't speak
English, and Lebanese are the only people in the world who
pronounce French worse than Americans.
Antoine's house was extraordinary. Like Gibran's it was
carved into the side of a hill. The main room was windowless,
floored with layers of Persian carpets and hung wall and ceiling
with ornate cloths. There were stuffed falcons, brass things, photographs and religious statuettes all over the place and a dozen
Mafia-Mediterranean-style dining room chairs. Antoine let us
know he thought Kahlil Gibran's house was underdecorated. Antoine's mother told us that she'd lost five sons in the war so far,
though that may have been the usual polite exaggeration of the
Levantine.
Ahmed, though Moslem, was a great hit with Antoine's family.
He brought them up-to-date on Beirut politics and then told Syrian
checkpoint stories. Syrian checkpoint stories are the Polish jokes
of Lebanon.
A Syrian soldier stops a Volkswagen Beetle and demands that
the driver open the trunk. The driver begins to open the luggage
compartment at the front of the car. "No!" says the Syrian, "I said
the trunk."
"This is the trunk," says the driver.
"I am not a donkey," says the Syrian, pointing to the back of
the car. "Open the trunk!" So the driver does as he's told, exposing
the VW's engine. "Aha!" says the Syrian, "You have stolen a motor.
Furthermore, you have just done it because it's still running."
Another of Ahmed's stories-and he swears this one is trueis about a checkpoint on a hill where the Syrian soldier wanted to
inspect a car trunk. "I can't get out," said the driver, "I have no
emergency brake, and I must keep my foot on the brake pedal or
the car will roll away."
"Don't worry," said the Syrian, "I will sit in the car and hold
the brake pedal." So they changed places. "Now open the trunk,"
said the Syrian. The driver opened it. "All right," yelled the Syrian
from inside the car, "is there any contraband in there?"
What the Syrians are looking for in your trunk, by the way, is
Playboy magazines. Be sure to carry some.
We sat and smoked more cigarettes. Lebanon is not the place
to go if you're trying to give that up. Everyone over the age of six
chain-smokes. Long-term health effects are not, these days, a
major concern, and it's the worst sort of rudeness not to offer
cigarettes at every turn. George fell in love with Carmen, Antoine's
sister, a beauty of about fifteen. George could talk of nothing else
for the rest of the trip but getting married and becoming Maronite.
Maybe the feeling was mutual. Antoine took me aside later and
asked me if George was a Christian. I assured him most blond,
blue-eyed Americans over six feet tall are not Druse. He then
nicked me, instead of George, for the two hundred Lebanese
pounds it allegedly cost to get in the Gibran house.
We went on up into the mountains to the Cedars, one of only
three small groves of these trees left. Once the country was forested
with them, a hundred feet high at full growth and forty feet in
circumference. It was from these the tall masts of the Phoenician
galleys were made and the roof beams of Solomon's temple and so
forth. The trees in the Bsherri grove look like they need flea
collars, and the grounds are a mess.
We found a good hotel, the La Mairie, about ten miles west of
Bsherri in Ehdene. Ehdene is notable for the country's bestlooking martyr pictures. There are martyr pictures everywhere in
Lebanon. The
While we were asking directions in Bsherri, a young man
named Antoine attached himself to us. He got us into the Gibran
house, which was supposedly closed for repairs, then took us home
for a Lebanese sit-around with his mother, aunts, sisters, cousins,
etc. Hospitality is a must in the Middle East whether anyone wants
to have it or not. Pomegranate juice is served, lots of cigarettes are
smoked and tiny cups of coffee are drunk while everyone smiles
and stares because you can't speak Arabic and they can't speak
English, and Lebanese are the only people in the world who
pronounce French worse than Americans.
Antoine's house was extraordinary. Like Gibran's it was
carved into the side of a hill. The main room was windowless,
floored with layers of Persian carpets and hung wall and ceiling
with ornate cloths. There were stuffed falcons, brass things, photographs and religious statuettes all over the place and a dozen
Mafia-Mediterranean-style dining room chairs. Antoine let us
know he thought Kahlil Gibran's house was underdecorated. Antoine's mother told us that she'd lost five sons in the war so far,
though that may have been the usual polite exaggeration of the
Levantine.
Ahmed, though Moslem, was a great hit with Antoine's family.
He brought them up-to-date on Beirut politics and then told Syrian
checkpoint stories. Syrian checkpoint stories are the Polish jokes
of Lebanon.
A Syrian soldier stops a Volkswagen Beetle and demands that
the driver open the trunk. The driver begins to open the luggage
compartment at the front of the car. "No!" says the Syrian, "I said
the trunk."
"This is the trunk," says the driver.
"I am not a donkey," says the Syrian, pointing to the back of
the car. "Open the trunk!" So the driver does as he's told, exposing
the VW's engine. "Aha!" says the Syrian, "You have stolen a motor.
Furthermore, you have just done it because it's still running."
Another of Ahmed's stories-and he swears this one is trueis about a checkpoint on a hill where the Syrian soldier wanted to
inspect a car trunk. "I can't get out," said the driver, "I have no
emergency brake, and I must keep my foot on the brake pedal or
the car will roll away."
"Don't worry," said the Syrian, "I will sit in the car and hold
the brake pedal." So they changed places. "Now open the trunk,"
said the Syrian. The driver opened it. "All right," yelled the Syrian
from inside the car, "is there any contraband in there?"
What the Syrians are looking for in your trunk, by the way, is
Playboy magazines. Be sure to carry some.
We sat and smoked more cigarettes. Lebanon is not the place
to go if you're trying to give that up. Everyone over the age of six
chain-smokes. Long-term health effects are not, these days, a
major concern, and it's the worst sort of rudeness not to offer
cigarettes at every turn. George fell in love with Carmen, Antoine's
sister, a beauty of about fifteen. George could talk of nothing else
for the rest of the trip but getting married and becoming Maronite.
Maybe the feeling was mutual. Antoine took me aside later and
asked me if George was a Christian. I assured him most blond,
blue-eyed Americans over six feet tall are not Druse. He then
nicked me, instead of George, for the two hundred Lebanese
pounds it allegedly cost to get in the Gibran house.
We went on up into the mountains to the Cedars, one of only
three small groves of these trees left. Once the country was forested
with them, a hundred feet high at full growth and forty feet in
circumference. It was from these the tall masts of the Phoenician
galleys were made and the roof beams of Solomon's temple and so
forth. The trees in the Bsherri grove look like they need flea
collars, and the grounds are a mess.
We found a good hotel, the La Mairie, about ten miles west of
Bsherri in Ehdene. Ehdene is notable for the country's bestlooking martyr pictures. There are martyr pictures everywhere in
Lebanon. The
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