I briefly considered naming my daughter âBeirutâ. She was, after all, conceived within two hours of returning from my first visit there. In 2006, along with my crew, and a number of other foreign nationals, I had been taken off the beach by the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit and transported by LCU to the USS Nashville, and from there to Cyprus and home.
The experience left me with a deep love and appreciation for the US Navy and Marines, the now decommissioned Nashville (once referred to affectionately, Iâm told, as the âTrashvilleâ), and, of course, Beirut.
That experience changed everything for me. One day I was making television about eating and drinking, the next, I was watching the airport Iâd just landed in a few days earlier, being blown up across the water from my hotel window.
I came away from the experience deeply embittered, confusedâand determined to make television differently than Iâd done before. I didnât know how I was going to do itâor whether my then network was going to allow meâbut the days of âhappy horseshitâ, the uplifting sum-up at the end of every show, the reflex inclusion of a food scene in every act, that ended right there.
The world was bigger than that. The stories more confusing, more complex, less satisfying in their resolutions. As I noted in my utterly depressing last lines of Voice Over in the eventual show we put together: in the real world, good people and bad alike are often crushed under the same terrible wheel.
I didnât feel an urge to turn into Dan Rather. Our Beirut experience did not give me delusions of being a journalist. I just saw that there were realities beyond what was on my plateâand those realities almost inevitably informed what wasâor was notâfor dinner. To ignore them now seemed monstrous.
And yet, Iâd already fallen in love with Beirut. We all had. Everyone on my crew. As soon as weâd landed, headed into town, there was a reaction I can only describe as pheromonic: the place just smelled good. Like a place we were going to love.
You learn to trust these kinds of feelings after years on the road.
We soon met lovely people from every kind of background. We found fantastic food everywhere. A city with a proud, almost frenetic party and nightclub culture. A place where bikinis and hijabs appeared to coexist seamlesslyâwhere all the evils, all the problems of the world could be easily foundâright next toâand among all the best things about being human and being alive.
This was a city where nothing made any damn sense at allâin the best possible way. A country with no president for over a yearâruled by a power sharing coalition of oligarchs and Hezbollah, neighbor problems as serious as anyone could have, history so awful and tragic that one would assume the various factions would be at each others throats for the next centuryâyet you can go to a seaside fish restaurant and see people happily eating with their families and smoking shisha, who, in any other place would be shooting at each other.
Itâs a beautiful city, with layers of scars the locals have ceased to even notice. Itâs a place with tremendous heart. Itâs a place Iâve described as the Rumsfeldian Dream of what, best case scenario, the neo-con masterminds who thought up Iraq, imagined for the post-Saddam Middle East: a place Americans could wander safely, order KFC, shop at the Gap. Where dollars are accepted everywhere and nearly everybody speaks English.
That is an egregious oversimplification. But itâs also my way of telling you should go there. It defies logic. It defies expectations. It is amazing.
EVERYONE should visit.
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