Free Jasmine and Fire by Salma Abdelnour

and do I want to join them? Yes. My lonesome Japanimation evening turns, in an instant, into a classic Beirut night. I put on asilky sleeveless blouse, slim-cut jeans, and heeled boots—trying for a certain Beiruti summer look, stylish but faux nonchalant—and grab a taxi for the fifteen-minute ride across downtown and into Gemmayzeh. I’m heading to meet Zeina and Marwan at a place called Joe Peña, a loud Spanish-cantina-style spot on Rue Gouraud, Gemmayzeh’s main drag. When my taxi arrives, traffic is already backed up on Gouraud, so the driver drops me off at the edge of the street and speeds off. I walk along Gouraud, strolling past the rows of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs that occupy the ground floors of the street’s beautiful old townhouses, with their arched windows and wrought-iron balconies. Some of those houses survived the war, although signs of damage and age are showing in the dozens that have yet to be renovated. But somehow their old elegance shines through: in walls painted colors like eggshell blue or apricot or lemon yellow, peeling but with plenty of charm, and in the windows, typically three in a row across the upper facade, the glass forming a half-moon at the top.
    It’s just past nine, and the hangouts up and down the street are already starting to spill over with crowds, as groups of friends stand lingering on the sidewalk or meandering into the narrow street, dodging the cars that are trying to squeeze through as they honk at the oblivious partyers. I walk into the bar and find my friends. Zeina and Marwan lived in New York for a few years in the late 1990s, and the three of us had hung out regularly around Manhattan’s East Village, where they were living at the time. They’re a striking pair: Zeina with her short reddish hair, model-curvy eyebrows, and porcelain skin, slim and stylish in jeans and an off-the-shoulder top; Marwan with rakishly curly hair and metal-rimmed glasses.
    I’m happy to be out, nursing a couple of ice-cold LebaneseAlmaza beers and watching the crowd at the bar, as more and more trendy-looking types pack into the room, glance around for people they know, and light cigarettes while attempting to get the bartenders’ attention. A deejay spins electro-pop and hip-hop in a back corner. It’s getting too crowded to move much, but dancing often doesn’t happen until later in the night anyway, as I remember from past summer visits to Beirut: around three or four A.M. , people will sometimes jump onto the chairs or tables, waving their cocktail glasses and cigarettes, and dance.
    Zeina and Marwan introduce me to their friends: one guy around our age who owns some hipstery bars in town, and a former classmate with a big laugh who recently moved back to Beirut with his Spanish wife. We compare notes on New York versus Beirut—everyone in our little group has spent time in both cities—and about the social scenes in each: Beirutis tend to stay out later, is the consensus. But we agree that the bar scenes are fairly similar—boisterous, energetic, and overflowing on weekends—and at some clubs in both cities, it’s not unusual for people to be sneaking drugs in the bathroom. But here, I’ve noticed, people make more of an effort to look stylish, as a rule. And they can still chain-smoke their way through the night, as New Yorkers once did before Mayor Bloomberg’s smoking ban.
    It’s starting to get a little too smoky inside this bar actually, but right now I’m not minding much. It’s a festive and fun night, and we stay out, drinking and shouting at each other over the loud music and the crowd, until just past midnight. That’s bush league in Beirut, but everyone except me has kids or early-morning obligations the next day. Still, I’m glad Zeina called, happy I rallied to join them, and relieved I finally made my own tiny contribution to the city’s party scene.
    Socially, things continue to look up, bit by bit, as the month goes by. My college friend