HispanicVista Columnists

(Editor’s Note: Joe Olvera was a younger man when he wrote Memories of a more peaceful, beautiful Beirut, in 1982. Lebanon stands as an innocent child in the midst of a raging gang of child abusers and exploiters. It as a nation and people, have done nothing to deserve the calamities that have befallen such a beautiful country and peaceful people. So the story goes on, as Joe Olvera closes.)

Memories of a more peaceful, beautiful Beirut
By Joe Olvera ©, 1982

Oh what be beauty and tranquility I spotted on that peaceful day as our Middle East Airlines flight prepared for landing at Beirut International Airport. The year was 1970, and the beauty of a now war-torn land beckoned and beamed a bright welcome to international travelers. Beirut is a city caught in a deadly tug-of-war. But, it wasn’t always so.

When last I saw Beirut, the verdant hills pulsated life, while the Mediterranean Sea pushed hard against sandy-white beaches. The climate was hot and muggy, but it was a natural heat. One that grabbed you by the arms and lifted you with its exotic air. You didn’t mind that kind of heat.

That kind of heat was not caused by man-made weapons of destruction. There were no bullets or short-armed bandits bouncing bombs and mayhem upon the countryside. As our plane touched down, I said goodbye to a Lebanese gentleman; he had invited me to his farm somewhere in the suburbs of Beirut.

I was on my way to Saudi Arabia to work under a contract with an American firm based in Marietta, Georgia. Subsequently, I was to be assigned to Al Karjh, about 50 long and dusty miles from the capital city, Riyadh. The stopover in Beirut was to be an overnighter, and I gladly anticipated the adventure. Middle East Airlines was picking up the tab for our stay. We stayed at the beautiful (wonder if it’s still standing) Phoenicia Hotel. Its marble opulence lent an air of sophistication to my youthful enthusiasm; I was 26 at the time and ready for romance and adventure.

Certainly, Beirut provided both as the city spread out its welcome. A friendly representative of Middle East Airlines met us at the airport and helped us speed through customs. Soon, we were on our way to the hotel, where the loud and exciting street sounds greeted our entrance into the city.

I remember standing on the balcony of my hotel room, a drink in my hand, and gazing at the local populace as people rushed madly through their myriad activities. There was a hurried environment, and I soaked up all the images, sounds, sights and smells that my brain could manage. I remember having dinner at the hotel’s main dining room, on the top floor, where I could look down into the darkness of the Mediterranean. Small fires dotted the white beaches, which glowed mysteriously, even in the dark.

I dined on shrimp cocktail, chauteaubriand and good old American-styled French Fries. I remember smoking a cigar in anticipation of the night on the town yet to come. There were four of us from El Paso that had opted for overseas employment. As we made plans for the evening, I excused myself, promising to meet my friends later that night. I browsed around the hotel, sat and enjoyed Spanish music being played and sung by a musician with a guitar. The crowd of people staying at the hotel were, by all evidences, wealthy people. They also represented a variety of nationalities

I remember leaving the hotel and walking the streets of Beirut, hungry for experience. I remember “hawkers” standing outside nightclub doors and practically pulling in people. It was so much like being in Juarez, I thought at the time. I remember walking into a club located in an alley. I don’t remember the name of the bar, but it was owned by a Spanish lady. As I walked in, two of my El Paso friends were there.

One of them was a rather mellow fellow, who had known the club owner for a long time. The lady was obviously infatuated with my friend, but my friend was indifferent to her charms. He had only recently married and was determined to be true to his new wife. I remember the club owner telling us that our money was no good in her place, and I remember finally walking back to the Phoenicia Hotel at 5 a.m., staggering slightly from my all night bout.

I had every intention of visiting the farmer whom I had befriended on the plane the very next day. However, the fumes of fate clouded my mind, and I did not awaken until 4 p.m. It was time to fly to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I remember Beirut with fondness. I remember Beirut before hundreds of Palestinian refugees were slaughtered by Israeli-supported Lebanese Christians. Yes, I remember Beirut before the deluge.

And so it goes (this was before Sin Fin)