Paola's Unfading Memories of Lebanon.

It was Sunday and I still woke up early as usual. The house was quiet, everyone was still asleep. I was in Broummana for the summer. I quickly put on my clothes and walking shoes. I carefully tip-toed down the stairs of the three-floor building which has been my childhood home for many years. The door on the second floor was closed, an indication my uncle's family behind it were still asleep. On the first floor, the door was slightly open. I smiled as I watched a playful kitten trying to squeeze through it. A little cough coming from somewhere inside told me that my dear old Teta must be awake. I couldn't wait to come back for a hot bitter cup of coffee with her.

I skipped down the rest of the stairs and stepped out of the front gate. The crisp early morning air filled my lungs. I inhaled deeply and noticed the hint of pine smell. A cricket had already started singing, a slow monotone song indicating a warm day ahead. Above me the sky was a glorious clear blue color. I started walking up the hill in the shade of the big trees. There was a sleepy early morning silence around me, broken by the sharp crunching noise of dry pine needles under my footsteps, and my rythmic deep breathing.  I arrived at a bend in the road and paused to admire the magnificent view across the valley. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the faint echo of an early church-bell. I absent-mindedly did the sign of the cross. I wanted to capture that peaceful moment, imprint it into my memory, so I could replay it to myself when I am back in Australia.

In the houses around me, people were just waking up. A man with a white singlet was smoking sleepily on his balcony. From another home I could hear the clanking sound of coffee cups. I crossed the road to avoid a stray dog sniffing at a pile of rubbish and I came face to face with an old woman watering her plants on her veranda. She smiled at me. "Bonjour", I breathlessly managed to say. "Ahla, tfaddale" she replied, and offered me a white gardenia flower. I thanked her happily and placed the cherished gift in my wrist-watch, a habit I proudly inherited from my grandmother, and I went on walking with my wrist on my nose, inhaling the strong sweet perfume of the flower.

I arrived at the main road which was surprisingly calm, except for a few cars zooming past every now and then. A bakery ahead was filling the air with the delicious smell of its irresistable pastries. I walk in and a dark sweaty man greets me loudly.  I ordered some mna2ish and watched him expertly wrap them up as I sipped on a cold bottle of sweet-tasting, Lebanon mountain spring water, the best-tasting water ever.  I couldn't wait to take the pastries home and see the delight in my son's eyes as he hungrily bites into the warm stretchy cheese. I quickly walked back home before the mna2ish could get cold, stealing tiny zaatar bites the whole way, savouring the little pleasures of my homeland, priceless pleasures that money and prosperity anywhere in the world can never replace. I love Lebanon.