I take a bus from Baramke to the airport. I couldn't fit in a visit to the barber's, but I make up by shaving in the airport bathrooms. If ever I should feel embarrassed for what I am doing, which is not the case, I could take courage looking at a man beside me washing pots and pans maybe after an airport picnic. I go through relaxed security checks where the officer, while tiredly pretending to search me, shows me the last bit of this people's friendliness, asking me "Kifak?", "How are you?".
I'm sitting next to a Lebanese guy in the plane. He spent his summer in Beirut, unfortunately during the nastiest days of war, marked by destruction and suffering inflicted by the disproportioned reaction of the arrogant power. He talks about it with heartfelt sorrow that a Lebanese can feel for his country. I renew my plan to go there next summer, in Allah rad, to realise the plan I had in mind this year. But I can say that if this trip seemed at first like a makeshift alternative to my original plan, it was nonthelesss a complete success and another extraordinary experience.