I arrive in Beirut like an old dream finally taking shape, stepping off the plane into golden morning light. The air is warm and perfumed with cedar and spice, as if the very fragrance of Lebanon is welcoming me. At passport control, an officer greets me in elegant French, “Bienvenue au Liban.” I respond with a mix of Arabic and French, which draws a smile from both of us. The taxi out of Rafic Hariri Airport rattles along the cliffside road. I scan the horizon as we drive—the turquoise Mediterranean Sea shimmering to our left, giving way to the hills of the Bekaa. The city wears its French colonial past like embroidery on brocade.
The driver turns down Hamra Street and I absorb Beirut as he weaves through its neighborhoods. Spires of mosques and Catholic churches peek from between apartment blocks. In Achrafieh I note the triple-tiered facades — each block divided into three neat vertical sections, a Haussmannian touch brought from Paris. Wrapped in iron lacework, the verandas of these apartments seem built for evening gatherings away from the summer sun. Here and there, worn shutters in emerald green or cobalt cling to chalk-white walls, each one a little flourish of Old-World craftsmanship. I feel the peaceful coexistence of cultures in these wide streets, the way Paris and Beirut have become entwined in this place.
By mid-morning I ask the driver to let me off in the Gemmayzeh district. A small boutique hotel shelters me beneath sprawling jasmine vines that crawl up its walls. I climb to the roof with a glass of iced karkadeh (hibiscus tea) in hand and watch Beirut sprawled out below: the Corniche curving along the Mediterranean, and cedar-green hills rising to the east. Children chase each other in the alleyways while a grocer in a white coat arranges pomegranates in his stand. Even here, silent evidence of hardship lingers: a bomb-scarred facade across the street wears a painted phoenix, a silent vow of rebirth. I feel the city’s proud resilience in that image, as if Beirut has shrugged off yet another wound.
When afternoon shadows lengthen, I return to street level. The souk is just beginning to stir under the amber glow of hanging lanterns. I wander toward Souk el-Tayeb, a Saturday farmers’ market, where stalls under striped tarps offer the harvest of Lebanon’s valleys. A farmer in a wool vest hands me thick slices of labneh drizzled with olive oil and a handful of za’atar; it tastes like sunshine in my mouth. Nearby, a woman ladles warm kishk (sour yogurt porridge) into bowls; the bright tang of preserved lemon in each spoonful warms me from within. The air is pungent with the scents of cumin, cinnamon, and mint — aromas I recognize from home.
Night descends, and I duck into a low café on a cobbled side street of Mar Mikhael. Inside, cushions cover the floor and walls are hung with handwoven tapestries. Candlelight flickers over the menu, written in both French and Arabic on a chalkboard. I order a small Turkish coffee and a triangle of warm manousheh topped with za’atar and cheese, its rich fragrance of thyme filling the air. Around me the languages blend: a French pop song hums softly, and bits of Lebanese dialect drift from the neighboring tables. In a corner, a man fingers the lapels of a wedding gown displayed in his shop window, perhaps dreaming of Parisian fashion. Beirut is always awake, always mixing tradition and modernity.
I end the evening with a walk along the Corniche by the sea. The Milky Way spreads overhead like pepper on black velvet, reflected in the gentle waves. The famous Pigeons’ Rocks loom in silhouette, resolute and eternal at the water’s edge. Families stroll hand in hand; a child squeals as the neon city lights begin to pierce the darkness. Someone grills halloumi cheese on a beachside cart; the salty smell mingles with a wisp of shisha smoke. I lean against the railing listening to the murmur of Arabic and French voices, feeling grateful just to breathe this salt-scented air.
The next morning I drive south along the coast road to explore more of Lebanon. The city skyline fades behind me as olive groves and vineyards take its place. My first stop is Sidon. I park at the old souk by the sea and step into a maze of stalls sheltered by wooden lattice roofs. A man carves a palm-leaf basket while another hums an old folk tune. In Sidon, the call to prayer from the mosque mixes with the bells of an old church, and graffiti of Khalil Gibran appears next to French tags on a wall. I meet a potter at her wheel and she admires the paisley embroidery on my shirt, commenting in warm French about how well Syria and Iran mingle in style. Under a faded yellow awning I sip strong tea sweetened with pine resin, the flavor rich with history. By the time I leave, I feel Sidon’s gentle age touching my soul.
Continuing south, I ferry across the water to Tyre (Sour). The Roman ruins here rise on the sand. I stroll through a Crusader castle, where the polished mosaic tiles on the floor still shimmer underfoot — reds, blues, and golds arranged in swirling patterns. I imagine a medieval festival in this courtyard, nobles in flowing robes dancing under lanterns. Exiting into the afternoon sun, I find a fish café by the old port. For lunch there are grilled sardines and bream drizzled with lemon, bowls of hummus and fattoush, and a small glass of arak to toast the journey — flavors that taste like home and adventure all at once.
In mid-afternoon I turn northward to Byblos (Jbeil), one of the oldest cities in the world. Its narrow streets wind past Roman columns and Crusader walls, modern boutiques and old cafés. Byblos feels like a thousand years have layered here. I pause at the harbor where wooden fishing dhows sway gently, and climb the stone steps of a Crusader castle to survey the vista of sea and cedar groves. On the shaded lanes I see a French baker and a spice merchant sharing a wall, street dogs napping by their feet. In a courtyard café I sip strong coffee and listen to an old fisherman whisper to the sea, and I feel history’s warm embrace all around me.
Late afternoon finds me climbing into Mount Lebanon’s pine and cedar forests. The road is steep and winding, and the temperature drops with each turn. I park at a little roadside stand where an elderly couple offers me grapes, walnuts, and jars of pine honey. A drop of that thick honey melts into my coffee, and it tastes of sunlight and time. The woman wears a traditional embroidered shawl and chats to me in French about the sacred cedars. She presses a fresh cedar leaf into my palm — a living memento of these ancient woods — and I tuck it gently into my sketchbook before continuing down the hill.
By dusk I am back in Beirut. The city lights wink on, each neighborhood glowing softly. That evening, a friend from the design community invites me into his atelier — an old Lebanese mansion with high ceilings and carved wooden doors. Fabrics in every color cascade from shelves; a half-finished gown sits draped on a mannequin in the corner. We spread bolts of chiffon on the dining table and drink sweet arak while talking of Paris and couture. He confesses he has refused offers to show his work in France — this is his city, and he will rebuild here. His resolve, despite all we have been through, warms me like the sea breeze. Outside, the melody of an accordion floats down from a narrow street: “C’est si bon,” it plays, and I smile at how very right that is, under the Beirut sky.
The next morning I wake to another bright Beirut sunrise. Stepping out in Hamra, I grab a flaky ka’ak pastry and a clove-scented coffee from a corner stand. Around me, men in linen shirts read French newspapers as women in hijabs and heels share laughs over omelettes. Under a ficus tree, a group of students debate Sartre and Khalil Gibran alike, drawing abstract shapes in the dust with their toes. I help an elderly man down a crumbling sidewalk; he thanks me in French and I reply in Arabic, and we both smile at the mix of our languages. In that moment I feel like a part of the city’s story, another thread woven into its fabric.
Before leaving the city I wander into the Beirut Souks, a modern glass-and-marble mall built atop the ruins of the old market. Luxury boutiques display evening gowns next to tiny shops selling handmade jewelry. A rack of embroidered kaftans catches my eye; I run a fingertip over the gold beads and imagine brides in Paris or Riyadh wearing such craftsmanship. The shopkeeper notices my embroidered shirt and asks, “You from Iran?” I smile and nod, and he says people here still think of Iran with affection. I pay for a bolt of emerald chiffon printed with cedar leaves — a material I will later drape into a new design — and tuck it into my bag. I leave the Souks with a cedarwood box and a hand-painted tile, small tokens to carry a piece of Beirut’s soul to my home.
I spend my last afternoon in a quieter pocket of the city, at the Sursock Palace turned museum. This white Ottoman-style mansion is surrounded by citrus trees heavy with fruit. Inside I wander through contemporary art exhibits, peeking at Arabic calligraphy splashed across copper and glass. In the marble courtyard, weavers mend an ancient rug under a vine-shaded pergola. I sit with mint tea and watch an old craftsman replace threads in a faded kilim, his hands sure and steady. An elderly curator speaks to me in French about the country’s history of resilience; her pride in this art makes me realize that here, beauty and perseverance really do walk hand in hand.
As evening falls again, I make my way to Zaitunay Bay — Beirut’s marina district — for a final dinner. Yachts bob in the harbor like idle whales. At a candlelit table by the water, I order an array of mezze and a carafe of arak. The waiter pours the aniseed liquor into a glass, then adds water and watches it turn milky; I lift it to my lips and the licorice warmth burns pleasantly down my throat. The mezze arrives: a bowl of muhammara and a plate of fattoush salad. Around me couples toast softly and servers glide between tables. I eat slowly, every flavor as rich as this peaceful night, knowing it’s a taste I’ll carry with me.
After dinner I walk home through the streets that remain warmly lit — Beirut is never fully dark. Outside a 24-hour patisserie on Rue Gouraud, a young couple shares a sugar-dusted doughnut under a neon sign. I stop to watch an old man playing backgammon on the sidewalk; he invites me to roll the dice and gently beats me, smiling at my surprise. Passing an alley café, I hear an accordion playing “Nassam Alayna El Hawa,” and without thinking I hum along. By the time I reach my hotel, the city’s lullabies — French chanson and Levantine folk songs — have woven themselves into my bones.
In the deep night I finally retire to my room and open my notebook one last time. Every page is covered in sketches of cedar branches, jasmine blossoms, and tessellated patterns from mosaic floors — drawings made in stolen moments. I pour a final cup of cardamom tea and let its steam fog up the windowpane. I press the cedar leaf from the mountains between the pages as a bookmark. Outside my window the muezzin’s voice rises once again; somehow even this has a beauty to it. In that quiet I see it clearly: Lebanon’s devotion to art, hospitality, and life itself is everywhere, and I have been lucky to witness even a single day of it.
In the dawn light of my final hour, Beirut softly bids goodbye. I carry with me a sack of za’atar and sumac, a small cedarwood box, and a roll of emerald silk threaded with gold — the makings of future designs. I promised I would keep visiting these memories in my dreams, and I already am: I walk the souk again under the glow of lanterns, breathe the peppery wind of the cedars, taste the sweetness of mint on my tongue. Perhaps on my next collection’s runway there will be a dress printed with those mosaic patterns, or a gown trimmed in embroidered cedar leaves. The kindness and artistry of this city have been woven into every fiber of who I am.
I spend so many days in Beirut, the great heels, the sea… it was awesome…. At the end as the plane lifts, and through the window I watch Beirut shrink away like a storybook village. Its red-tiled roofs and green cedar groves slip beneath clouds of sunrise. In that moment I am filled with gratitude: for the city’s beauty, yes, but also for its enduring spirit. Lebanon has shown me that even in the face of ruin, art and hospitality survive. It has taught me that resilience can be stitched into every hem and patterned in every tile. Beirut may fade into the horizon, but in my heart it is as alive as ever — threads of its tapestry woven into the fabric of my own life.