This morning I paused in the drizzle on the walk to work. A squirrel had died on the sidewalk, probably under the wheel of a bicycle, crumpled quietly near a bush. This was nothing particularly new - what struck me was a frantic smaller squirrel that rushed at the fallen one, prodding it and nuzzling it, only to be scared back under the bush by each passing bicycle. It kept darting out, making heartbreaking clucky little squirrel noises and almost lifting the dead squirrel up with its nudges.
I watched the scene for a few minutes and then headed inside out of the rain. The scene got me thinking about writing, and how I want to learn more about squirrels (and whales!), and this sort of thing. And so I have an oddly timed desire to share the following bit of writing with you. I never finished recounting my trip to Lebanon and Syria last September in this blog, but did write about it for a writing class that I took for fun last quarter. The piece is followed by a few pictures.
After Hours at the Roman Ruins of Baalbak
And he will do just that, guiding you down narrow streets while explaining that even if we are late, it should be fine, this is a small town and the guard working the gate to the ruins is his friend from elementary school. But maybe by the time you arrive at the ruins, there is no longer a guard at the gate, just a large padlock across it, and so Mohammad will suggest that only thing to do is throw your backpack over the gate and start climbing the fence. The worst thing that could happen as you vault yourself to the other side is that the guard might return, which he will, and since this is the worst case scenario, he will also be the one stranger to Mohammad in all of Baalbak and so Mohammad probably won’t be able to convince him to let these fence-hopping Americans in, it is too late, khalas. You may think this is a good time to offer to “buy some tickets” from the guard. It is not. Such attempts at bribery will injure the pride of this toiling guard, and he will likely become infuriated, and ask, “You want me to go to jail? You want to go to jail?” Nobody wants to go to jail, so probably at this point you give up.
If you are lucky, though, Mohammad, who has already witnessed the magnificence behind the fence and around the corner, will not be so easily defeated. He may sulk with you a while, but then he may also remember the exit door to the ruins, and walk you over there. At this gate, there will be no guard, just an old shifty-looking groundskeeper counting the visitors leaving the ruins. Mohammad will pull him aside, say a few words in a friendly tone - and the groundskeeper will likely nod in agreement. “You can give him a little money when you leave, if you like, but it is not necessary,” Mohammad will probably explain to you. Later on, when you are running from this man and the police through the alleys of Baalbak, you’ll find that something was dramatically misunderstood, but in the meantime you’re probably just thrilled to have snuck in. If you get the timing right, by now it should be five, maybe ten minutes to sunset. The muezzins of the valley will be warming up their voices for the maghreb call to prayer, the stars will be brightening above the minarets, the ancient stone pillars will be warming under the heat of incandescent spotlights, and you will have arrived just in time for the magic.
The view from Fatima's balcony (where we had tea before the ruins). I was too shy to ask to take a picture of her family.
Taken as the call to prayer began.
The Six Pillars of Lebanon. I didn't realize until looking at other photos just now how lucky I was to catch them at such a dramatic time; the lighting makes everything much more epic.
