Free Avoiding Prison & Other Noble Vacation Goals by Wendy Dale

visitor. Later that morning, he began tirelessly dragging me from one attraction to another.
    While I was amazed at the devastation that surrounded us, Hadi was determined to show me the best the city had to offer. As we headed toward downtown in his tiny dinged-up car, Arabic music blaring out of the radio (to my embarrassment, the one song I chose to compliment turned out to be an advertising jingle), I pointed to a five-story structure that had been gutted out by bombs, and to my surprise, Hadi acted as if he was embarrassed. He tried to distract my attention by motioning toward the building next door, a beautiful marble high-rise in the final stages of construction.
    The rest of the ride, our conversation centered around the same basic theme. “Wow, Hadi, check out the death and destruction on the left!” I would enthusiastically remark, which would cause my well-meaning tour guide to defensively respond, “Yes, but look at the life and renovation on the other side of the street.”
    What he didn’t understand—and what I hadn’t realized either until that point—was that it was the death and destruction that I had come to see. Part of the allure of going to a foreign place is that even the problems are foreign. The hollowed-out buildings all around us didn’t apply to me. If I was going to continue traveling, it wasn’t going to be Club Med, the kind of place that allowed you to forget your worries for a week. No, I needed to head to the dark corners of the world, where my problems would seem insignificant by comparison.
    Hadi parked the car and turned off the engine. As we exited the vehicle, I was baffled when we suddenly began walking toward one of the decaying structures that Hadi had made such an effort to shield me from. As I stared up at the top stories of the building that had been destroyed, true to form, Hadi drew my attention to the ground floor, which I hadn’t noticed before. It had been completely preserved. Painted titanium white and garnished with shiny brass trim, this was where we were headed.
    Just minutes ago, we had been driving through a maze of traffic, surrounded by the remnants of devastation and swirling dust and suddenly we had entered a spotless café, where a white-suited waiter was accompanying us to a table with a smile and a menu.
    â€œWhere’s the no-smoking section?” I asked Hadi as we were suddenly engulfed by a thick black haze.
    â€œThat would be East Beirut.”
    I had initially assumed that religion was what separated the two sectors of the city, but talking to Hadi, I began to understand that it was more a matter of vices. In Christian East Beirut, drinking was the pastime of choice. However, in West Beirut, where Mohammed’s advice was heeded in place of the surgeon general’s, alcohol was a big no-no. The Koran had issued strict admonitions against the dangers of wine, tequila, and peach schnapps—though it had neglected to insert that little warning about nicotine, birth defects, reproductive harm, and so forth. So in West Beirut, they went about smoking anything they could set fire to.
    I had never heard of a hookah (this was before they became trendy), so as I gazed around the room, I became convinced that we had walked into an opium den. I tried to be as self-possessed as possible and ignore the fact that nearly every table was equipped with a sophisticated-looking bong adding smoke to the black haze that already engulfed the room.
    â€œDo you want to try?” Hadi asked, as I tried to make myself comfortable at the table.
    Hell, I’d been to college. “Sure,” I said.
    Hadi called the waiter over to the table and ordered something in Arabic that sounded horribly menacing. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know what it was, but I timidly asked him anyway.
    â€œStrawberry,” he replied.
    This sounded like what you’d order at an ice-cream parlor instead of an opium den.