Back to Beirut
How has this vibrant city changed in the last decade?
WORDS | ALISON THOMSON
ONE EVENING BACK IN 1996, I came home from my job in London to a message on my answering machine. How did I fancy going to work in Beirut? It couldn’t have come at a better time – I was itching for an adventure, although this was bigger than I had in mind.
I decided to go for it. “Lebanon? Is it safe?” friends asked. “Be careful you don’t get shrapnel between your toes,” joked my editor. Everyone thought it was a dangerous place. Despite the fact that the civil war had been over a full six years, the images of Beirut as a war-torn bomb site were hard to erase. I would soon discover it was far safer than where I lived in east London.
Meanwhile, I had other, more trivial, concerns. Was there electricity, I asked the editor of the Daily Star of Lebanon, the English-language newspaper where I was heading to work, over the phone one evening. (At least there were phones.) “We’ll supply you with candles,” he joked. Would I need to cover up? “You’d be surprised,” he replied. And, boy, I was.
Beirut had once been one of the most glamorous cities on the planet. In the 1960s it had a reputation in the Med as a playground for the rich and famous, but the civil war changed all that. When I got there, I found a city of contrasts and complexity. By day you could be watching a demonstration of Hezbollah supporters on the street, then by night find yourself dancing till dawn in a high-tech nightclub complete with sliding roof, listening to Ministry of Sound DJs.
The girls you’d see out at night were total glamazons — in the Mediterranean climate, who needs Puffa jackets and Uggs? It was little black dresses and Jimmy Choos even then. A decade later, I find the glamour quotient, if anything, has gone up.
My office was in Gemmayzeh, then a sleepy backwater of the Christian east, amid dusty antique shops, all-male cafés where old fellas would smoke nargileh (hubble bubble pipes) and play shesh-besh (backgammon), and a raft of elegant French-mandate-era homes. Nowadays the narrow pavements of Rue Gouraud are crammed with semi-naked teenagers on a Saturday night, tottering in high heels, arm in arm with friends as they bar-hop their way down the street. And you can forget driving there — unless you want to join the slow sports-car parade and make your own party.
This is the centre of the capital’s night scene, with bars such as Torino Express and Dragonfly leading the way. In the midst of this glamorama, I’m pleased to see the defiantly unglitzy old stalwart Le Chef keeps going, with the long-put-upon maître d’ Charbel still purveying some of the best food in Beirut.
A decade ago, Rue Monot was at the heart of the party. Just off the Green Line, which divided Christians from Muslims, east from west, during the war, the street heralded the start of Beirut’s nightlife revival. The war well and truly over, investment in infrastructure – motorways, bridges, even a new airport – and the renovation of the downtown area, had encouraged many well-travelled young Beirutis to return and set up business.
New, hip nightspots opened across the city almost every week, each more exotic and architecturally cutting-edge than the last. Monkey Rose and Zinc are long gone, although at B018, over in Karantina, owner Naji Gebran continues to draw a hip young crowd. The cocktails at Pacifico’s, at the end of Rue Monot, are still the talk of the town, although there have been several changes of identity for Circus (it’s Crystal these days — with Paris Hilton appearing the Saturday I was there). And the party isn’t over yet – the new roof-top bars in downtown, Sky and White, offer the coolest drinks in town.
Back in Monot, where I was lucky to live for two years, a more sedate crowd has moved in, with more trendy eateries than you can shake a shawarma at. The ancient Furn al-Nazra (Nazareth bakery), at the top of the street, which has been there since Jesus was a lad, still churns out the sweet brioche and flatbreads, stuffed cheese and spinach pastries that used to send such tempting smells up to my fourth-floor flat.
The view west from my old balcony has changed dramatically. I would once peer through rotting window frames into the remains of what resembled a stable, where refugees were camping out, the concrete floor smattered with straw. Today, the windows have been repaired, and glass put in; a quick lick of pale green paint, a few tables, et voila! – “What would you like on your pizza, sir?”
On the corner next to it, opposite Sodeco Square, on what is now prime real estate, stands the infamous Yellow House. During the war it was at a strategic point on the front line. In peacetime, it became derelict, and by the time I moved in, it was begging to be explored. A couple of friends and I clambered through the overgrowth one sunny afternoon and were shocked to find ourselves confronted by walls of sandbags protecting snipers’ nests on the top floor. Lower down there were piles of fabulously decorated tiles, the like of which can be found in many a traditional Lebanese house. Here they were all smashed up and unusable. In one room sat an old-fashioned dentist’s chair — who was the last person to go under the dentist’s drill before their peaceful existence was shattered, we wondered.
Looking further west across the Green Line, I once could see families living in buildings whose whole sides had been torn off by tank shells.
Kids would play on the balconies, regardless of the fact that there were no railings, just a sheer drop. Now those structures have either been pulled down or renovated. The Holiday Inn is a lingering reminder of the bad old days, as is Murr Tower, but for the most part there are far fewer scars of war to be seen on any buildings.
A restaurant called Babylone, just off Rue Monot on Abdel Wahab al Inglisi, was a regular haunt back then. It has become Julia’s today. New owner Gilbert Abela has a long-standing connection with the street. “I
It’s not just the nightlife that has had a revamp. Life on public transport was never straightforward in a city that for years didn’t even have traffic lights. Back then, anyone who owned a clapped-out jalopy could turn it into a serviwas shot 16 times, right over there. I never thought one day I would own a restaurant on the same street,” he tells me happily.ce taxi (and many did). New government regulations have seen many of the old diesel-powered Mercedes replaced by modern vehicles, even a few minibuses, all with plush interiors. The improvement in air quality is tangible: the heavy brown fug that used to hang over the city (especially noticeable on the drive back into town from the north) has vanished, and although this is a city in which it’s practically illegal not to smoke, the air is an awful lot cleaner.
My most memorable trip in a service was from the Charles Helou bus station: a Syrian farmer had just arrived from Damascus with a sheep in tow. I may not have known much Arabic at that point, but even I understood the driver wanted him to pay for the sheep, and the farmer was protesting that his animal was on the floor, and therefore not taking anyone else’s space. I can’t imagine the sheep would get anywhere near the inside of one of the smart new vehicles in operation today.
Beach clubs, always a key part of the Beirut social scene, are thriving, and several new ones have sprung up to compete with the Riviera, the Sporting and the Saint-George Yacht Club and Marina. The Saint-George is as swanky as it ever was, the only differences being that the floating gin palaces in its marina have doubled in size, and the backdrop now is less bullet-pocked hotels, more five-star gorgeousness. When I arrived, the Phoenicia was home to hundreds of refugees; it was lovingly restored to its former grandeur in 1999. Luxury hotels by Campbell Gray and the Four Seasons have recently opened, and there are two new marinas that will attract an ever-growing yacht set.
Over in Hamra, the heart of the Muslim west, the streets are buzzing. Shops selling all manner of bling are doing a roaring trade, and the American University of Beirut’s new intake of students are propping up the bars and fast-food joints just as their predecessors did. On the promontory of Ras Beirut, by the lighthouse, I see the Red House, one of the capital’s most remarkable old houses, has yet to be revamped. With paint peeling and wooden fascias drooping, it is a reminder of a bygone era. It can’t be long before a developer turns this prime plot into more luxury apartments; yet to my mind, none of the modern blocks is a patch on the character of this old place.
The renovation of Beirut’s central disctrict has given the city’s core a unique identity, and, gradually, upmarket investors are moving in. Vivienne Westwood opened last autumn, with Jimmy Choo and – it’s planned – Louis Vuitton following soon after, raising the bar in terms of high-end designer boutiques.
At times, it’s easy to forget that this country has a complex history, and trouble with its neighbours – most recently the Israeli incursion in 2006 – as well as internal conflicts, have had an impact. Yet with everyone from the Sunday Times to Condé Nast Traveller touting the capital as the city to visit this year, its fortunes are looking up.
In my experience, the Beirutis are a resilient lot, and – doubtless by necessity – they have short memories. The city just keeps bouncing back – and always with impeccable style.
WHERE TO STAY IN BEIRUT
Saint-George Yacht Club and Marina Ain Mreisseh, www.stgeorges-yachtclub.com
Phoenicia Minet al Hosn, www.phoenicia-ic.com
Le Gray Martyr’s Square, www.legray.com
Four Seasons 1418 Professor Wafic Sinno Avenue, www.fourseasons.com/beirut
