Beirut.

By bohodogon

Mon, 16 Dec 2024

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3 comments

So, I’ve heard my stories are a bit too thrilling—maybe even edging on the horrendous. But you’re wondering, ‘Where’s the romance?’ Ah, well, you’ll have to be patient for that. Romance is like a warm summer tide; it sneaks in slowly, and before you know it, you’re swept away. Patience, my dear reader, is the name of the game when unraveling the tales of my life. Nothing worth having comes without a little waiting—it’s all about the journey, the emotions, and yes, even the consequences. But what’s to learn from it all? That’s for you to discover… in time.

Picture it: the year 2000. There I was, my honey-blonde hair curled to perfection, shimmering with glitter spray, dressed to kill in green pleather—skin-tight trousers, a matching jacket, and something sparkly underneath. Oh, pleather was all the rage back then! And where was I? On a table. In Beirut. Dancing like I owned the place, surrounded by the most glamorous nightlife I’d ever experienced.

Beirut was alive—buzzing with sophistication, laughter, and loud Arabic music. The city was dazzling, the people radiant, as if plucked straight out of an Italian fashion magazine. Every corner oozed luxury and glamour; money flowed like water, and no one seemed to care about tomorrow. Life was all about now. Feasts of delicious food, carefree dancing, and a swirl of emotions—this was a world I’d never imagined back when I was in Israel. And there I was, part of it all, feeling like I belonged to this sparkling culture.

By midnight, I was glittering under the lights, soaking in the energy. Beside me was my Armenian boyfriend, Vrej, whom I met online after returning to the UK. He was grounded, sensual, and utterly generous—a Taurus to his core. Vrej changed my life—and my style. One day, he grabbed all my sandals and Japanese-inspired shoes, declared them hideous, and tossed them into a dumpster. Off we went shopping for a whole new wardrobe. I didn’t mind—generosity was my weakness. Miserly men? Oh, they could take a hike. I’d learned that stinginess with a wallet usually meant stinginess with the heart, too.

Vrej rented me a stunning apartment high in the Lebanese mountains of Beit Mary, where life felt like a fairytale. I even rescued a little puppy, abandoned and crying in the rain, nurturing it into my sweet little companion—until, heartbreakingly, the building owners poisoned it. Some Arab men, not all, have a cruel disdain for animals, which I’ll never understand. To me, animals are God’s purest creations, the ultimate saviors of our souls.

While living there, I worked as a hostess at a café called Sports Café. That’s where I met Maria—a force of nature if I ever saw one. She was a Chinese woman, adopted by a wealthy Finnish family, sitting confidently at a table surrounded by adoring Lebanese men. Her tiny, sculpted body and big, bold energy held everyone captive. She shared wild stories about her life—luxurious adventures, brushes with the triads, and a life that made my escapades feel like kindergarten in comparison. But Maria had a magnetic danger about her, something unpredictable. Naturally, I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

Beirut was a whirlwind of late-night parties, extravagant dining, and endless glamor. But after a while, even this thrill began to dull. Beneath the glitter and noise, I felt a hollow ache, as if something important was missing. That’s when Maria announced she was leaving for Dubai to work at a famous restaurant called Pizza Pomodoro. She even offered to help me get a job there.

This, of course, sparked arguments with Vrej. And just like every other time, I did what I always do: I left. Off I went to Dubai, drawn by the promise of opportunity and wealth. Everyone said, ‘You can save money there. You’ll make a fortune.’ Did I? Oh, that’s a story for another time..."