On the way out to dinner, without noticing, I walked into one of the bollards that are strewn liberally down the narrowest Beirut pavements. I must have strode out particularly vigorously as it is really quite painful. Fortunately it was low enough to get me on the thigh rather than in the groin.
Our dinner was at a restaurant renowned for homecooked food. Sadly, I don’t think homecooked food might be particularly nice; it was the least good meal we’ve had.
On the way back we walked down an unaccustomed street and heard music and laughter from what appeared to be an art gallery. On its balcony, overhung by the inevitable jasmine, were laughing people and a young boy selling strings of jasmine, only $100, he assured us. We peeped inside the door and caught a glimpse of a made-up couple in the middle of the floor, dancing the slowest, sultriest portion of the tango. That seemed strange and magical, so just the right moment to step away.
It later became clear when an older man approached us and urged us to join the tango club. He was a dance instructor himself, and of course very keen on it all. I did not reveal my own absolute dread of dance (one of my worst memories at university is of going to a ballroom dance lesson).
We walked on and saw through a plate glass window a group of young people sprawled on sofas, drinking wine. Behind them were little cake stands with cake, so we determined it was a cafe of some sort, and we were certainly up for cake. It turned out to be a newly opened cakeshop, and the owner/ chef was there and very eager to talk. She had that rather delightful air that people who have just started a business have, a mixture of hope, fear, excitement, eagerness. It was named and decorated after her grandmother, a beautiful woman with a 1960s bouffant. The cakes were indeed tasty, a relief as we had started thinking it was a cake dessert.