Beirut and beyond

If you’ve been following this blog, you might remember that my in-laws live in Beirut. I may also have mentioned that my mother-in-law (MIL) is an absolute whizz at designing and furnishing houses.

When I was 15 and dating DH, I stepped into their London basement apartment on Gloucester Road and knew immediately that I wanted to live in a house just like it. The Japanese screens, oriental ornaments, Persian carpets, silk cushions and golden Buddhas that adorned their flat conjured up images of far-flung corners of the world that I yearned to travel to.

My MIL’s uncanny talent for interior design has been unleashed on homes all round the globe (places they’ve lived include Kuwait, Thailand, Japan, Hawaii and Washington DC, to name just a few). Most recently, my in-laws have been renovating a property perched high above Beirut – a yellow-stoned, cavernous building that was a crumbling, derelict shell when they bought it.

What they’ve achieved is astonishing.

Next door to their home is a guesthouse that they’ve just finished, and I’m posting it on the blog because it’s available for holiday lets (and no-one knows about it yet!).

From my in-laws’ two-bedroom guesthouse, there are 360-panoramic views of the Mediterranean and surrounding olive groves. Nestled in the mountains just 30 minutes from downtown Beirut and 15 minutes from the airport, Casa Mia Shemlan is a tucked-away village retreat, located 700m above the city’s humidity.

On our first visit, I got a taste of the flair Beirut is known for while leaving the airport. Lebanese drivers were jockeying for position, edging forwards into the smallest of spaces to gain an advantage, and leaning on their horns.

As we climbed up to Shemlan via steep mountain bends, my father-in-law wound down the car window to pluck a fig from a tree and stopped to greet a neighbour in Arabic. There was an air of relaxed friendliness. But it was the panoramic view that stole the show. Beirut, laid out below, stretched alluringly across a headland jutting into the azure-blue, east Mediterranean sea.

A popular destination for Middle Eastern travellers, and a cosmopolitan melting pot of people and influences, Beirut is the most distinct of all Arab cities

From above, the city looked peaceful, almost sleepy. It’s anything but, of course. On the ground, Beirut pulses with life, glamour and hedonism.

Rising optimistically from the war-torn ruins of decades of fighting, Lebanon’s capital is a vibrant metropolis, inhabited by beguiling, beautiful people whose hospitality knows no bounds. Many are fluent in English, French and Arabic. “Bonsoir habibi, how’s it going?” someone asked me, using all three languages in one sentence.

You might spot a tank on the streets of Beirut, rolled out as a show of security, but these days you’re far more likely to see sports cars with their hoods down, or a Ferrari dealer next to a flat bread stall.

In the city, bullet holes stare, like unblinking eyes, and shelled-out buildings punctuate the landscape, but there’s a spirit of resilience that’s helped Beirut dust itself off repeatedly from periods of conflict. Once the self-proclaimed ‘Paris of the Middle East’, there’s still an outdoor cafe culture, and European architecture can be found everywhere. Hamra is full of smart boutiques and the downtown has been rebuilt, exactly as it was, with a series of elegant streets branching off from a central plaza.

Everywhere, the city’s jumble of history is evident. Sitting in front of the huge Blue Mosque is a tiny Maronite chapel, and there’s a perfectly restored Orthodox church next to a Catholic cathedral – all within yards of each other.

My favourite place to be at dusk is the waterfront Corniche, where at sunset it’s as though the entire city is out strutting its stuff along the wide, palm-lined seafront promenade. From here, you can watch the sky turn pink over Pigeon Rock, then head into Hamra to sample the city’s famed, vibrant nightlife.

Beyond Beirut, the scenery is stunning. Lebanon offers every type of recreation, from skiing to swimming, walking, ancient ruins and wineries. A famous, old Lebanese boast is that you can ski and swim in the same day. And don’t get me started about the food, made from the freshest of ingredients. Provided everything is peaceful politically, Lebanon gives the south of France a run for its money.

This post is adapted from a travel column I write for a magazine called The Source (click here). More travel posts coming up!

We drove to the mouth of the Dog River, where there are inscriptions that bear witness to more than 3,000 years of Levantine history

 

Bank holiday in Cyprus

“What could possibly go wrong?” my DH said last week, referring to the holiday we’d booked to Cyprus.

“It’ll be fine,” he promised me, waving a whole envelope-full of Euros at me as I furtively googled things like ‘Do ATMs still give money in Cyprus?’, ‘Will our credit card work in Cyprus?, ‘Are there riots in Paphos?’.

I was a little nervous – understandably, don’t you think? We’d spent several days trying to come up with a holiday destination that ticked all the boxes – no more than four hours away (mums with small children will understand my logic here); good weather; kid-friendly; and no major sporting events going on (like the Grand Prix that quashed our plans to go to Malaysia).

Cyprus is the third largest Mediterranean island

And, for us – because we travel on stand-by – we also had to find a country that had space on the flights. “Cyprus looks good,” said DH. “The flights have seats.”

“All booked,” he texted later, as I sat at my desk grinning with anticipation at the thought of going to the land of yoghurt and honey, taramasalata and tzatziki.

Then I turned the TV on.

Cyprus was the top story, on every.single.news.programme I flicked to. The country was on the brink, practically bankrupt and in financial crisis. NO WONDER the flights had space.

“Oh no! What to do?” I nearly wept to DH. “Should we cancel?”

Of course not he said. We just need to take lots of Euros with us (if I’m honest, it wasn’t just the money I was worrying about; it had occurred to me that people might be panic-buying and all that yummy Greek food I’d imagined us eating might be in short supply).

The horror!

Although my DH does have a history of ending up in the world’s hotspots (getting stuck in Kuwait during the Iraqi invasion of 1990, for example), I did believe him – he’s as level-headed as a spirit level and immensely worldly-wise. And, anyway, packing for me and the children diverted my mind for the rest of the day.

We flew to Larnaka early the next morning, picked up a teeny-tiny hire car and set off across the island, past olive groves, fragrant citrus orchards and sea-lashed secluded coves, and discovered that life was, indeed, continuing as normal.

The taramasalata hadn’t run out after all

From the small fishing villages on the sparkling coast to the parts of Cyprus that are more like a sunny Essex suburb, tourism on this stunning but insolvent Mediterranean island was continuing unabated.

The banks were closed, but the lights were still on. The ATMs were being refilled with cash and credit card transactions were going through. We’d heard the Cypriots were running out of small coins, with taxi drivers rounding up to the nearest 5 or 10, but change wasn’t a problem in any of the towns we visited.

I like to think we did our bit – by spending our stash of cash, and eating our weight in the most delicious, creamy Greek dips and lemon-drizzzled dishes.

Happy days.

The term Mediterranean is derived from the Latin for “middle of the Earth” because to the ancient Romans, the vibrant sea was the centre of the world

On being afraid of turbulence

A couple of days ago, DH and I went on a ‘date night’, something we try to do every few weeks. Usually, we have dinner, sometimes we really push the boat out and see a movie too.

This time, we went to the cinema to see the film ‘Flight’, starring Denzel Washington. We often struggle to find a film we both like the sound of (“I’d rather watch paint dry,” I’ve been known to say), but ‘Flight’ ticked all the boxes that need to be checked for a cinema date night.

There was an aviation theme, obviously. A lot of human interest. And a crash scene at the beginning – for me.

Yes, you read that right.

I can’t explain it (I really can’t), but for some reason I’m fascinated by air crashes. They terrify me, but I always want to know more. What exactly caused it, did anyone survive, what was the chain of events leading up to it?

The film ‘Flight’, I thought (wrongly), might even be a full-length feature version of one of my favourite programmes, Air Crash Investigation, which DH and I have been known to watch in bed.

But the funny thing is: I’m the last person who should be watching these shows, because, there was a time in my life, when I was petrified of flying. I must have been in my mid-20s and it got bad enough that I even considered doing a fear of flying course run by British Airways.

Little did I know what fate had in store. I married my first love, a pilot, who gave me a couple of flying lessons in Florida. I nearly landed – and would have done if it wasn’t for the fact the ground was coming towards us way too fast (and I wasn’t his worse student, apparently!)

Air travel now is obviously all about the children and tending to their needs for eight.long.hours means there’s no time to think about the fact you’re in a metal tube hurtling through the sky. But, every now and then, I’m reminded that I’m a nervous flyer at heart.

She’s still smiling – phew!!

Specifically, when there’s turbulence.

On our flight to Hong Kong recently (which DH was co-piloting), we started bumping around about half-way through. To me, it was as though things had gotten really choppy up there – and I started feeling anxious.

My champagne was sloshing around. The seat-belt sign pinged on, and stayed on. I was sure I could see the wing bouncing up and down in the dark. I scanned the flight attendants’ faces to make sure they didn’t look worried. My heart rate quickened, my palms became sweaty.

Should I write a note to DH saying ‘I love you’ and wave it in front of the on-board camera, I wondered? No, that would be silly – if there was a problem, he’d be very busy (how my DH laughed later).

And, in my mind – even though I kind of knew the turbulence wasn’t that bad – I could imagine the Air Crash Investigation commentary: “Among the 530 passengers on the ill-fated flight was the first officer’s wife” – the camera panning to a blonde, skinnier version of me sipping wine upstairs, followed by a wedding photo. “Just before the aircraft went into a nosedive, she penned the last words she would ever write.”

I’ve really got to stop watching documentaries about air disasters, haven’t I? Reacting like this to a few air pockets isn’t normal, is it?

Silent Sunday: Hello Asia!

It’s not often that the stars align to allow DH and I to go on a trip sans kiddos, but this weekend they did, and we found ourselves in Hong Kong for 48 blissful, and did I say child-free, hours! (technically, I was tagging along, joy-riding on DH’s flight, while he worked his socks off flying there and back, but a girl has to grab some quality time with her man and the street markets when she can).

I’d honestly never seen such an incredible variety of goods for sale – you can literally revamp your wardrobe, buy a pet goldfish and entertain a child one street at a time

I’ve also never seen so many gaz-illions of people – 63,000 per square kilometre apparently. I must have bumped into at least a thousand of them whilst weaving through the crowds

And ALL connected and tapping away on electronic devices, on the go (even while walking)

With such a dense population it’s not surprising that the spread of infection is a concern, and I saw plenty of people wearing masks (along with signs on the metro saying anti-bacterial coating had been applied to the handrails, in addition to frequent disinfecting)

I loved the teeming metropolis though – from the lights to the shopping to the fusion of Chinese and Western influences, Hong Kong totally rocks

Flying with kids: Risky business

A highly coveted perk among airline families – the holy grail for many I know – is being able to travel in business class with small children. Yes, your whole tribe, seated at the front of the aircraft, or up top in the case of the superjumbo – with acres of leg-room, fine dining and the chance for some mummy respite in the A380′s on-board bar.

This story was told to me by a fellow pilot’s wife and I’m repeating it here because the incident not only makes me hoot with laughter, but (and I know she won’t mind me telling you this) it was probably THE most embarrassing mummy moment of her entire nine years of motherhood. I think we can all relate, wherever we sit on the aircraft…

And then the day was finally upon us, and we could book seats for both myself and my small children in the business class cabin of the airplane taking us home.

Now THIS is the way to travel

Business class travel is indeed very special. The cabin itself seems to sparkle and twinkle with just enough ‘specialness’ to make anyone smile. But it’s the space that’s the real bonus. Not just the extra-large seats, or the super-big TV screens, there just seems to be enough space around you and your family to be able to settle in comfortably.

And settle in we did; the pillows a little softer, the blankets a little fluffier. I soon had both of my children cocooned into balls of happiness; DS happy to explore the myriad of games and cartoons on offer, DD’s little hands searching out all the extra buttons and switches not previously discovered on any seat before.

‘What’s this Mummy?’ she asked as she picked up the console that tucks neatly into a pocket on the arm of her seat.

‘Well, you can call the attendant by pushing a button here,’ I explain, ‘But wait, if you press here your seat will give you a massage.’ Peels of delight ensue from DD, already a disciple of the body rub, as she tries out all the different ways she could make her seat tickle and shudder. Was this not heaven? If I have a predictable difficult period with my daughter on flights it’s right at the beginning, getting her to settle down. But, thanks to the wonders of the juddering seat, we’re looking like the perfect family unit and I’m sipping champagne …

During our summer stay, the kids were quick to tell everyone about their trip in business class. ‘Oh!….how lovely’ was the response as most pictured these tiny dots sipping wine and eating caviar – and I would watch as their eyebrows disappeared up into their hair lines.

The cheese platter – and the kids won’t send it flying

‘And what was the thing you liked best about travelling in business class?’ they’d ask.

‘The computer games,’ was DS’s stalwart response. The games are the same, incidentally, wherever you sit on the aircraft.

‘The massage button!’ squealed DD, ‘I had a massage all the way from Dubai to England!’ Now, this was altogether more like the example of over-indulgence that many were on the lookout for. So on several occasions during our stay, DD was encouraged to repeat the story of the seat that gave her a massage and how she was going to have one all the way back to Dubai too.

On our trip home, as we board through doors at the very front of the aircraft, I immediately see that we are travelling in an older plane than the one in which we arrived. Characteristically stoic, DS flops down in to his ample seating, grabs the control and settles down for the long flight. Not so DD.

‘Oh no, Mummy. This is not right!’ She picks at the cover placed over the arm of her seat until it comes away in her hand only to reveal the arm of the chair.

‘But where is the thing? Where is the massage button? I can’t see it!’ Her lip beginning to tremble just as the gangways either side of us fill up with slow moving – hmm, yes, now stationary – economy passengers queuing quietly to get to their seats. I sense the impending storm …

‘Why don’t we see what film we can find for you to watch, or maybe a game to play….?’ My powers of deflection moving up into overdrive instantaneously. ‘Hey, do you want to look at my magazine…..? Have that chocolate bar I bought in the coffee shop just now….. how about my entire handbag? Here, take it. Take a good look……!’ But it was all in vain…

‘But I want a massage!’ DD cries, literally cries. Huge tears rolling down her cheeks as her whole body begins to heave. All eyes are on us. ‘It’s alright darling,’ I croon, pulling her tiny frame on to my lap, ‘It’s not the end of the world. There really are worse things that can happen.’

‘But it is!” she cries, ‘It is the end of the world! I don’t want to be on this plane. I want to get off this plane right now and get on one where I sit in a seat that GIVES ME A MASSAGE!’

Powerless to stop her, I resorted to putting my hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle what she was actually saying.

Thank heavens for the crew member (who has probably seen it all). ‘Champagne madam?’ she smiles, ‘Or is that a very large white wine?’

Silent Sunday: Picture-perfect England

Would you believe me if I told you that this is my brother’s office? “It’s very nice,” my mum mentioned, as we crawled along the motorway on a very hot English summer’s day. But, I have to say, I was quite taken aback with just how picture perfect the premises and 180-hectare nature reserve are (he works for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds at their headquarters in Bedfordshire).

I got slightly carried away imagining the staff having business picnics complete with home-made lemonade, colourful dragonflies darting around their clipboards and woodland birds pecking on trees. With less than a week to go before we’re back in the desert, I think I’ve got my rose-tinted specs on already.

Where I went Wednesday

Having realised that the long summer school holiday won’t go on forever (after all), I decided it was time to take the children up to London, and give our hosts, their grandparents, a well-deserved day off.

An added incentive was that my BF agreed to come with us to Covent Garden’s London Transport Museum – and there was also the inkling that we might be able to sneak lunch in at my favourite sandwich shop, Pret a Manger.

But apart from that, it was all for the good of the kids – honest.

The funny thing about taking BB and LB on day trips is that, for them, it’s the journey that’s the exciting bit. Not the destination, and certainly not lunch. It’s all about the getting there – on South West Trains, and the Northern Line.

They didn’t mind one bit that the train to Waterloo was really crowded and so we had to stand right by the toilet – they got to watch people going in and out the loo and could even time them.

How to make a train-mad 6YO boy’s day: Operate a tube train

Given that in the UAE, apart from the new, driverless metro, there are no railways – and BB is obsessed with trains – it makes sense that the Woking-Waterloo service is a thing of amazement for him. On passing through Clapham Junction, his eyes nearly popped out his head and as we went down the escalator to the underground, I promised him we’d travel on the deepest line.

Not such a thrilling ride if it’s your daily commute, but we got some smiles five minutes later, with both kids pressing their noses against the window, peering out at the tunnel, absolutely loving trundling through the darkness.

The trouble with their enjoyment of train journeys is that when we reach our destination, they usually just want to turn around and go home again. But, today, I’d thought of that: The Transport Museum – ta-daaa! They could even drive a tube train! A brilliant, foolproof plan, surely.

And it was a success, until it came time for lunch, and we made them walk to Leicester Square (all of five minutes), triggering a tirade from my hungry oldest son. “But I can’t walk, my legs have died. This is my baddest day ever.”

Kids, eh – I could have sworn that a few minutes earlier he was energetically running around and playing inside a bus exhibit as happy as larry.

London bus drivers seem to be getting younger…

And the magicians are getting cleverer – took us ages to figure this out!

The Expat Summer Olympics

If you think about it, it’s a funny ole thing that expats spend such a big chunk of the year away from their adopted home, living out of a suitcase. While most people take 2-week holidays, for expats 6-8 weeks is often necessary in order to see all your family and friends who you don’t see the rest of the year.

And, for expat families in the Middle East, an extended vacation over the long summer school holiday also provides a solution to the how-to-entertain-the-kids-when-it’s-46˚C problem.

This is what the summer heat in Dubai feels like!

But being gone for such a long time isn’t all plain sailing, by any means. Inspired by Mrs Dubai’s brilliant Mummy Olympics post, I’ve been thinking about some Olympic events that expats the world over would be in great shape for this summer:

Speed

Catch every flight, with time to spare

Pole-position passport-queuing

The find-your-holiday-home-before-dark Road Race

The 32-hour-day Time Trial

Sprint to the toilets before the inevitable

Endurance

The up-before-dawn jet-lagged 6YO (how long til you lose it?)

The bath-book-bed triathlon in new surroundings

The time zone jump (how many days to adjust? Bonus points for family members under 10)

The Eventing marathon (plan and execute 4-6 weeks of events and get-togethers without leaving anyone out)

The 1,500km cross-country steeplechase (how many relatives can you visit?)

Sofa surfing (who needs a good night’s sleep anyway?)

Circles staggers over the final hurdle to win gold in the 3-in-a-bed at 3am relay!

Gymnastics

Stay vertical at the Bar during reunions with friends

The Parallel park on tiny roads

The Roll-your-clothes test (does this mean you can fit more in your suitcase?)

Pommelling-it-shut after repacking

The Beam-me-up-Scotty moment (when it all gets too much)

The Dismount (when DH extricates himself from the travelling circus and goes back to work – no blubbing)

Skills

The daily Dress-Arghh competition (find something uncreased to wear in your capsule wardrobe)

Ride public transport in rush hour with children and suitcases

The don’t-stick-your-oar-in family regatta (aka, don’t rock the boat if it’s best left unsaid)

The triple shift childcare derby (one mum, two whining kids, DH gone)

Synchronised schedules (find a good moment to Skype your absent DH)

The overtired tantrum throw (how many until you have one yourself?)

Peace, serenity – the kids, who are STILL on American time, go quiet after 11pm here!

Silent Sunday: Historical scandal

We went on an outing to Hampton Court Palace today, home to more than 500 years of fascinating history and King Henry VIII’s favourite royal residence (literally dragging ourselves away from the Olympics coverage on the TV). This advert made me smile – how fun, I thought, to hear scandalous tales about mistresses and misdemeanours that can’t be told during the day and how similar, I mused, does the Baroque court sound to life on a Dubai compound?

For age 18+ only, the tour tells risqué stories that aren’t suitable for younger visitors – and you get a glass of champagne too. Sounds pretty mummy-friendly to me!

Watching the sun set on my 30s

Along with seeing dear friends again, one of the things I was really looking forward to in Minneapolis was visiting all my favourite lakes.

I quickly realised, though, that my excitement hadn’t worn off on BB. “Not another lake,” he’d yawn, rolling his eyes at us and letting out a sigh as long as the Mississippi. “They’re bor-ing!”

“Get over it, BB!” we’d reply. “There are 10,000 lakes in this state and if you continue to complain, we’ll take you to EVERY.SINGLE.ONE!”

His little brother, meanwhile, revealed to us that he hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a scenic lake surrounded by nature with no belly-dancing fountains on it.

“Is it indoors or outdoors?” he’d enquire – seemingly satisfied with the answer at least.

As our holiday progressed, the boys did start to appreciate the natural beauty more, especially once they discovered they could kayak, ride pedalos and learn to fish – and they were definitely won over by my favourite lake of all: Lake Superior.

Does this look like a lake to you?

I love America’s Great Lakes. So much so that I couldn’t imagine a nicer place on Earth to celebrate my big birthday. Though to call Lake Superior a lake is surely the biggest under-statement there is. Like calling the Burj Khalifa a high-rise, or the Himalayas a series of hills.

I know I’m really very British – and grew up thinking the English Channel was to be feared – but isn’t a body of water that measures nearly 350 miles from tip to tip and has 350 shipwrecks, tempestuous storms and numerous lighthouses more of a sea than a lake?

The three quadrillion (3,000,000,000,000,000) gallons the lake contains would cover all of Canada, the US, Mexico and South America with one foot of water. Seriously impressive, don’t you think?

Having taken a little jaunt up the North Shore by car and train, what better way to experience the vastness of the lake than by boat. A ‘pizza boat’ to be precise.

Queuing up beside the vessel (bobbing about in surprisingly choppy water, and that was just the harbour), I was astonished to see women in floaty, chiffon dresses and heels with smartly dressed partners. They were led to the lower deck, however, for a more slap-up meal, while we – the pizza eaters (aka families with small children) – were herded to the busy, upper decks for a Pizza Hut-on-sea buffet.

Actually, I think it was Domino’s, as we saw the delivery van speeding off from the port, and the sunset cruise was unexpectedly wonderful. As it was my birthday mini-break, DH chased the boys up and down the decks and stopped them falling overboard, while I gazed out over the water and reflected on the fact that the sun had set on my 30s.

Very special – despite the soggy pizza and the fact I swear the boat lurched as fellow hungry passengers stampeded like elephants over to the buffet.

Dedicated to @Circles in the Sky (DH): Thank you for an amazing, eye-opening decade xx

Stand back: As befits the mother of two small boys, my American birthday involved planes, trains, boats and stone-throwing

Reflective mood: Learning to leave my 30s – but I hear 40 is the new 30?