Beirut

Where can I find the prices here? Any European coming to the club district of Gemmayzeh inevitably asks this question. None of the perhaps two dozen restaurants has a price list on display at the door. The message seems to say money is no object for the people who come here. In fact, the cars that drive up at the weekend in this area hint at their owners’ fat wallets. A Lamborghini is parked very visibly this evening at the top of the Rue Gouraud, across from Café Paul, and by now everyone knows what the game is.

The game – or the inrush of luxury vehicles – does not really begin until after ten. Those who appear earlier walk past practically empty restaurants with handsomely set tables. It is best to not be hungry now unless you’ve made a reservation. "Sorry, we are overbooked," I hear in one pub after another. With a little luck, you can get a place at the bar. Tonight, my luck is at the Louie, a restaurant and bar with live music and all sorts of musical instrumental adorning the walls. The jazz-rock combo Christo will be playing later and its members are now busy with their sound check. So, there you sit in a near-empty pub on a narrow bar stool and chew your food. The set tables are off limits, since they’ve been reserved in advance.

But then, at about quarter past ten, the setting suddenly transforms. As if on commando they come rolling in, the Porsches, the S-class Mercedes, the Jeeps, Hummers, Volvos and BMWs. Far too many for this tiny district, or for a stretch of street of perhaps 800 metres. In no time there is a traffic jam all the way back to the Rue Georges Haddad. Why in the world don’t these people take a taxi here? There can only be one answer: they not only bought their cars to drive, but to show off.

To ensure that their guests needn’t search too long for a parking spot, the restaurants had an idea: valet parking. Like at a hotel, you hand over your precious vehicle to a driver who takes it – well, where do they take it? The few back lots are packed in a matter of minutes. The valets cruise around the block and some of them have a bit of fun and drive at full throttle until they are reprimanded and replaced. All of this is going on to the tune of a continuous concerto of blaring horns for, of course, this is Beirut. There’s a lot of horn honking in Beirut’s second pub district, Hamra, too. Yet, here we encounter more average wage earners looking for a place to park and there are more scooters rolling about the streets. Hamra, also the city’s students’ district, offers meals and music at a smaller budget. But, when it comes down to celebrating, there is not much of a difference whether you’re among the wealthy in Gemmayzeh or among the youths in Hamra: they party as if there is no tomorrow.

Café bars like the T-Marbouta, Baromètre or Samra are popular spots for young people of Beirut or students at the AUB. Sometimes a few Europeans might show up as well. Tonight in the Samra a band is playing traditional music on the oud, tambourine, violin and bass. The club consists of two rooms in one of the few historic villas that survived the civil war. At some point, without any visible signal, everyone clasps hands and, within the narrowest space, perform the Lebanese dabke line dance, which reminds me a little of Irish step dancing. It doesn’t take long before most of them are standing on their chairs, singing and clapping. In Europe, we experience such exuberance at best at a private party. You are sure to get in trouble with landlord if you stand on a chair in a pub.

Meanwhile, some of the ladies who were taken out tonight by their husbands or beaux teeter over the pitted pavement of the Rue Gouraud on high heels. It’s amazing that they don’t break their ankles. There are in fact also groups visible with young women among them pouring into clubs like the 55–Lounge Bar, Copper, Hickey`s, Corleone or the two-storey high Melting Pot. The electric cables hung perilously above the entrances to some of the historic buildings bother no one. Nor do the absurdly high curbs.

It is not until the next morning, when the invasion of the rich and beautiful is over, that Gemmayzeh becomes itself again. Now, the small fruit and vegetable shops, which were invisible in the evening’s melee, are open again. A roughly 35-year-old, utterly dented VW bus is parked at the side of the street. The missing sliding door has been replaced by a piece of wood and the right headlight hangs loosely from its mounting. If there were a record in the Guinness book for the transfiguration of streets - the Rue Gouraud would have a good chance at an entry.