Sure, there’s just enough Homelandiness with sprinkled razor wire and heavily armed forces filling open-air Humvees to make you pay attention, but the people there don’t even notice. That’s just me and you watching too much 24 and Bourne.

The city has giddy gleeful romance.

The streets are alive with music and laughter and art and a sense that nothing could possibly go wrong even with the headline news that meets its borders. It is safe to go. I met many Americans. Beirut is a beautiful bubble of great food, sultry air, and the timeless hope that this tranquility will last forever.

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When I toured Byblos four years ago, there was a tiny shop tended by an distinguished gentleman who’d once bought artifacts from the workers at the dig for pennies and now he had a thriving small business selling them to tourists like me. I bought a small cobalt glass bottle and a palm-sized stone carving of a man’s face, and I think of that man every time I see those treasures in my home.

After leaving Baalbek on Saturday, a long day of climbing and unbreakable sun, there was another store, less curated than the one in Byblos, but the only store available. I went in with the expectation of finding another hidden gem, something to pass down, and there it was. A nicely polished cylindrical stone directly from the site where I had trampled all afternoon.

The next day, I showed my friend, an accomplished architect, my new find. His eyes narrowed as he inspected it, then looked at me. “How much did you pay.” I told him it was only twenty US, then he said, quite seriously, “See these grooves here?” I looked closer to see what he was pointing at. “And this is metal of some kind. See. Rust here or something,” as he chipped at it with his thumbnail.

Well, I’ll be. I bought myself a genuine bolt covered in rust and dirt. Now as far as I know, this type of machinery didn’t exist in the Roman Empire. And if that clarification by my pal wasn’t embarrassing enough, when I went through security at the Beirut airport, they pulled aside my bag rummaging through it until the officer found the treasure. I told the soldiers what happened and the four of them passed it around laughing and side glancing me, shaking their heads, then handed it back. I’d been royally…

WRITTEN 07/03/2018

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I had a 1:20a flight out of Yangon and I’m now nestled in an airport lounge waiting for the flight to Newark. The wound stings, especially when I walk on it, but hey, I guess that means it’s healing!

Much of Yangon is lined with 19th Century colonial buildings in disrepair, covered in years of moss, their former glory poking through, a bit like catching the Queen without her make-up.

The Strand Hotel was of another time, as well. All teak and white roses, impeccably restored, each room was a suite with a personal butler. Then there was Mark, who forced me to the doctor. I’m not sure how to thank him. A good TripAdvisor review seems inadequate.

I chose it months ago when I learned that Kipling and Orwell sat at the bar drinking inspiration. Somerset Maugham wrote “Rain” there, too, a short story about a preacher and a whore caught in a monsoon.

And I tried finding a preacher the entire time I was there.

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While I don’t know a lick of French and sometimes stumble into rudimentary Spanish as a default, the people have been nothing but gracious, some even finding my Americaness exotic. And I found romance.Some think that romance needs to lead to a destination, but it can also be that inexplicable connection for a moment or if lucky, a few days. And the afterglow can provide a lifetime of memories, a smile every time one of those images flash by.

I will remember us walking down the street toward a protest, excited to see Liberte on signs, the flags of France waving, playful music and our moment of horror when we realized we were suddenly in the middle of an anti-vax march as we hurriedly put on our masks. Or getting involved in a ridiculous arm-wrestling match at a bear bar when I turned to him as I struggled to keep my arm tightened against my opponent and told him to kiss me, our first kiss. Or holding each other tightly under the Eiffel Tower in a Parisian downpour, locked in bliss as if we were the only ones there.Romance can be fleeting and joyous, especially in Paris.

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Before the accident, it was a thriving town, the shops filled with items that were scarce everywhere else in the Soviet Union. The government wanted to show the world that living next to an enormous nuclear power plant was perfectly safe. It’s likely the Poliburo would’ve kept this mess their very own secret had the Swedish nuclear commission not discovered the rising radiation levels three days later.

Can you imagine three thousands buses pulling into a small American city and loading people onto them without full explanation? It’s enough to knock Miley Cyrus off the front page of cnn.com.

WRITTEN 12/23/2013

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WRITTEN 03/09/2013

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