It is always the same when I go back. I have the same anxious and excited feelings in my stomach on the plane ride. The customs line is always too long, and the crowd of people waiting outside the airport to meet visiting loved ones still makes me feel like a movie star. The air that smells dirty, like too much pollution or the smell you can only imagine when you look at photographs of developing countries, fills my nose immediately and I am at ease. Although it's not exactly a pleasant smell, I have learned to live it because it smells of Lebanon, my distant home.
When my family travels to Lebanon every summer, we always stay with my
Giddo and Sitto, my grandfather and grandmother, since their house is directly under our upstairs addition. It amazes me how the street is always colorful, alive and buzzing during the day. There are street vendors selling a variety of food, the majority of which is fried and homemade. You hear the hot sizzle of the grease and meat on the searing metal, and the smoke that lazily travels through your nose, fills it, and makes your eyes sting a little. Everyone seems to be gossiping loudly at the same time to people who are a mere five feet away, so you can hear anyone's conversation.
Giddo and Sitto always keeps their front door open during the day because they
own a dikkany-a little convenience shop in the front part of their house to earn some
extra cash. There you can buy shoes, telephone cards, clothes, icecream, toys, gum,
candy, toothpaste and toothbrushes, hair ties, diapers, and probably any household knick-knack you can imagine. They serve regulars who come everyday and random people who just stop by to pick something up and engage in a friendly chat.
The inside of the house is quiet and tranquil compared to the noisy buzz and
bustle outside. There is usually a lingering smell of something deliciously attention
grabbing. Sitto had probably cooked some kibbe (meat balls) or yabrat (stuffed grape
leaves); she is a great cook and is known for her delectable cooking. My favorite part of
Giddo and Sitto's house is the spacious patio. Walled-in and tiled, it has no real roof
except for an extensive grape vine. Open to the outdoors, it serves as the "backyard"or
sitting area, customary to most homes in Braikeh. An unknown number of cats inhabit
and listlessly wander around the patio; they come to the table at meal times to sit at your feet and beg for food when they are not quarrelling with the chickens in the chicken coop.
The bedrooms lead right out of the patio; from here come the sounds that I have come to treasure. There is the horrible endless crowing of the roosters at six in the morning that seems to wake me. There's also the sound of Sitto's singing or humming of old love
songs as she feeds the chickens, collects the eggs, and begins her daily routine. And then there is my favorite sound, the deep thud of something hitting the tin roods and the clunks as it rolls down, dropping to the ground with a soft thump. This is the sound of a lime from the hundreds of lime trees falling off after ripening.
It's all of these things, all of these sounds, smells and memories, which for me make up Lebanon and are a distinct part of me. Although I return to Miami each fall, it's these memories that tie me over until I return next summer. They are the things that remind me of my family and that comfort me that nothing else can. Especially through rough times, these lasting memories keep me sane and serene.
Hisham Kassem
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