As it says in the heading, I created this blog for two reasons:
1) For myself, to be able to read my stories when I can no longer remember them.
2) For others, so that instead of making them listen to my boring stories, I can direct them to my blog where they can read my boring stories.
An opportunity arose yesterday to take advantage of the blog for the second purpose when the topic of Beirut came up, but I had not yet recorded my Beirut story. So here it is before I forget it again.
In 1976, I was doing a month-long, solo Eurail trip across Europe before meeting friends in Spain. Notice I did not say backpacking trip. Although I could foist my bag on my back it was leather and contained little of the standard backpacking gear such as a well-worn copy of "Europe on $5 a day." I was spending $5 a day on Coca-Cola and five times that much on English reading material. I sometimes slept on the train, often slept in cheap hotels but took an occasional break at a four-star if not a five-star hotel. Frugality was never my strong suit.
Nonetheless, I was not staying at the Hotel de Paris during my stay in Monte Carlo. It was way out of my budget and my budget was pretty loose. I found what I determined was the only cheap hotel in the city, or the country of Monaco for that matter, since, as far as I could tell, the two were the same. (Technically, they are not.)
My modest hotel did, however, have a dining room and the dining room had a maitre d'. A maitre d' who asked me if I would like to share a table with one of their long-term guests. I have no idea why I said yes aside from the fact that I have trouble saying no now let alone back then. At any rate, the host led me to a table where a young man about my age was sitting. At that point, I suspected the maitre d' was trying to play Cupid. I knew before I sat down that wasn't going to work, but I did sit down.
It wasn't long before I realized that the maitre d' had finance, not romance, on his mind. At the time, there was a bitter, and complex, civil war going on across the Mediterranean in Lebanon. It turned out that my dinner partner was living in this hotel and making radio broadcasts from his room back to Lebanon for the Christian faction. I concluded the maitre d' was working with him and the point of putting us together was to provide the hotel guest with the opportunity to hit me up for a donation.
A ludicrous plan if you ask me. I was staying in what was one of the cheapest hotels in a very affluent city. There had to be a lot better prospects to hit up all over town. But, I guess he was playing the cards he was dealt. At least, I was an American. I learned on that trip that people held onto some odd stereotypes about Americans.
My dinner partner, let's call him Yusef, told me about his life and his project. He explained his politics, his goals, and his technology. (I wonder if he had to move to the roof to broadcast, but I have no memory of his saying that.) I don't recall his asking me anything, but, let's face it, his story was far more interesting.
I was waiting for THE question about a donation when a friend of his arrived. Fresh off the plane from Lebanon. The conversation took a sharp turn. Yusef told his friend that he wanted to return to Lebanon. His friend responded that was a bad idea because "they" would kill him the moment he stepped off the plane. "You are a wanted man."
Now, I won't call myself a free spirit, but I don't have a lot of rules for life. However, I do have a few, one of which is never hang out with anyone who is a target for terrorists. This is not a simple guideline. It is a rule. A rule enacted and enforced that evening. I skipped dessert, excused myself and returned to my room and my English reading material.
I'll admit I was happy to be away from the terrorist targets. I was enjoying my evening reading-- although in retrospect I wonder why I was in my room instead of seeing the sights. Then, I heard them. Coming along the hallway. Chatting loudly as they passed and opened the door to the next room. Yusef's room. The room from which he broadcast into a war zone. Their loud conversation continued. It passed easily through the walls. If anyone came looking for them, they would be easy to find.
I thought I was crazy to worry about being collateral damage. I mean, really, who would blow up two enemies--okay, two enemies and a radio transmitter--in their hotel room? I told myself not to worry. Besides, I was checking out the next day.
For years, I thought I had been neurotic. Then, I saw the movie, Munich.
Check it out.
HANDY TIP: Try not to book a room next to a target for terrorists of any sort.
NOTE: I was a little surprised that during my trip to Monaco, although my passport clearly stated that my last name was Kelly and I was from Philadelphia, no one asked if I was related to the other Kelly, Grace, who was currently living in the palace under the aka Princess Grace. Perhaps because I wasn't hanging around the palace and only got to go there on a tour. And, maybe they asked where I was staying.
NOTE: This was years before a librarian at a Florida University suggested an answer to a frequently asked question (except in Monte Carlo): are you related to Grace Kelly? His suggestion: Odd, you noticed the resemblance. FYI - there is none.
NOTE: My mother died before Civil War broke out in Lebanon. After her death, we found an article she had stashed in her dressing table: The Ten Best Hotels in the World. One was on the beachfront in Beirut, the Paris of the Middle East. She would have been horrified to see what was happening to the city.
NOTE: Yusef was on the Christian side of the conflict.
NOTE: You also got close to a target when you ran into Meir Kahane. Check out that story.
© 2021 Jane Kelly
