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Sundays in Beirut are empty with something more than quietness. This Sunday was no different. My grandmother, armed with flour and olive oil, kneaded the ajeen dough on the balcony table until it bent to her will. She flattened the center with her elbow and said: half of the city is at the beach and the other half are back in their villages, and you have the luck of being with me.
Shuf, true Beirutis do not leave their home, even on Sunday. You never know who will squat in your house!
We stay here on Sundays because we enjoy the calm of the city. Not out of fear of squatters! You have the audacity to say this when your trip to Syria is next week. Allah Yerhamo, steheh! We go to Syria every year. Twice a week I would call my friend, Maya, and we would imagine we were celebrities living in Beirut. We acted out the ego, the confidence and the drama, but we did not know what our profession was.
One time she called and asked: did you send me those beautiful red flowers? The concierge just delivered them. Even though I was half asleep, I joined her act and said: No, I was sent some too. I called Ogero and requested an international line to Damascus. After a few rings I heard an excited Ghaith say: Maloukkkk, shlonak habibi?