Of all the places I planned to visit in 2019, Beirut was probably the destination that scared me the most. Scratch that – Beirut was absolutely the scariest place on my itinerary. I had always been intrigued by the city, and when my friends Johnny and Lindsay pointed out that it was a quick flight from Amman, I decided to go for it. Neither of them had actually ever been to Lebanon, but they knew people who had visited, and those well-traveled friends of my friends had great things to say. Still, I worried about terrorism, I worried about civil unrest, and I worried about simply getting into the country after having visited Israel just a week prior.

I of course did some internet research on my own and found a couple resources that reassured me: first, posts from fellow solo female travelers like this one from “Adventurous Kate,” recounting a safe and welcoming visit to Lebanon. I also found posts like this one from an American of Lebanese descent who espoused the country’s ability to have you shredding the ski slopes in the morning and swimming in the Mediterranean in the afternoon, as well as the tendency of residents to “dress the fuck up” for Beirut’s legendary nightlife scene. Let’s also not ignore the fact that the city was known as the “Paris of the Middle East” in the pre-Civil War ’60s and ’70s. All of these data points helped to build up my confidence; while I was still nervous about a solo trip to Beirut, my emotions started to evolve from fear into anticipation.

The Anxiety-Inducing Experience of Getting to Lebanon

Back to my fears. The U.S. State Department had issued a Level 3 Travel Advisory for Lebanon (Level 3 means “Reconsider Travel,” while Level 4 – the highest level – means “Do Not Travel”) due to ongoing conflicts with neighboring countries and its own internal strife. On top of that, the State Department page advising on travel to Lebanon provided this information: “Travelers who hold passports that contain visas or entry/exit stamps for Israel will likely be denied entry into Lebanon and may be subject to arrest or detention. Even if travel documents contain no Israeli stamps or visas, persons who have previously traveled to Israel may still face arrest and/or detention if prior travel is disclosed.”

Holy shit. I discovered this little detail when researching visa requirements for visiting Lebanon. Why had my friends told me to tack on a casual stop in Lebanon during my trip to Israel and Jordan?! Most people (who had never been to Lebanon) advised me that it would be fine – Israel no longer stamped passports, so there wouldn’t be evidence of my visit. However, my stepbrother had traveled to the Middle East multiple times and pointed out that I would receive a stamp entering Jordan that would denote the port of entry. Since I was planning to cross the land border from Eilat, Israel to Aqaba, Jordan, this stamp would be a telltale sign of my visit to Israel that could result in arrest and/or detention. Awesome.

In the month leading up to the trip, I asked myself, how seriously should I consider this risk? Would the border security officers in Beirut really analyze my passport stamps that closely? A quick internet research exercise led me to understand that Lebanese border patrol was no joke. I should not underestimate this situation.

My solution, as recommended by my well-traveled little brother, was to get a second passport. Yes, in certain cases, U.S. citizens can apply for a second passport (valid for only four years). The two scenarios: 1) If you need to temporarily submit your passport to apply for a visa, but also need a passport to continue to travel internationally in the same time period, and 2) If you have stamps in your existing passport that prevent you from visiting a country that you have confirmed plans to visit. I qualified under situation #2 and was able to get my second passport on the same day that I walked into the New York Passport Agency – without an appointment (you just need to show up first thing in the morning and then return in the afternoon). I’m sure I’m on some NSA list for abnormal travel patterns at this point, but oh well.

Now that you’re caught up on the background, let’s fast forward to my actual experience of traveling from Amman to Beirut. I had booked a nonstop flight on MEA that would take less than 1 1/2 hours. Given my double passport situation, and my intense experience attempting to leave Tel Aviv a week prior, I had planned out every step of the trip, beginning with arrival at Queen Alia International Airport in Amman. As I checked in at the MEA desk, I handed over passport #1 (old, “clean” passport with no Eilat-Aqaba stamp and no evidence of a visit to Israel). The ticket agent assessed my ability to enter Lebanon. “You don’t have any stamps from Israel in your passport?” he asked me. “No,” I responded with confidence.

I stuffed passport #1 in a folder with numerous other papers, deep in my tote bag, and continued on through security and immigration. No issues going through security (thank god this was not Israel). At immigration I handed over passport #2, the new, “dirty” passport that I had used to enter Jordan from Israel.

After much research, I had confirmed that airlines did not communicate with exit immigration, so I could show one passport to the airline at check-in, then use another to exit the country. However, my internet research advised that I should always show the same passport at check-in that I was planning to use for entry immigration in the next country, as the airline may send along passport details. And just as important, if not more so, I had to be sure to show the same passport at exit immigration that I used to enter the country. Are you following all of this? If not, I don’t blame you.

While some countries do not keep records, most do, and will flag you if they don’t recognize your passport upon exit. While it’s not exactly a crime to have two passports, you can imagine how it may raise questions and put you in a very awkward position if you’re caught. The U.S. had advised me to avoid traveling with both passports at the same time, but on this trip it was unavoidable.

Fortunately, I executed my multi-passport Jordan exit flawlessly, and was seated in the lounge within minutes. I quickly found the bathroom, where I wrapped my now unnecessary second passport into a pair of workout pants and tucked the contraband deep in my carry-on bag. Yes, I may have been overly cautious, but this was not a scenario where I wanted to take my chances. Taking a deep breath, I returned to my seat at the lounge and sipped on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to calm my nerves.

The flight went smoothly. My window seat afforded stunning desert views as we flew over Syria, and I acknowledged that this may be the closest I’d ever get to seeing the war-torn country.

Then I found myself at the dreaded immigration line in Beirut. I told myself to stay calm as I was called to the counter overseen by a young man. Handing over my clean passport, I gave him a big smile. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask too many questions (would he notice that I didn’t have any Jordan entry or exit stamps in the passport I had given him?), I but I was prepared. He looked at me and my U.S. passport and started with some softballs. “What is the purpose of your visit?” I told him I was on vacation. “You are traveling on your own?” Yes, I said, and smiled again. He was responding with his own sly smiles, so I quickly realized how I was going to play this game. “How long are you staying?” Sadly, only two nights, I responded. “Where are you staying?” The Phoenicia, I said. “What are you planning to do while you’re here?” This question seemed to be more social than security-driven. “Well, I’ve heard that Beirut has good nightlife,” I said. “Are you going to go dancing?” Ha! Was he for real? I told him maybe. “Where are you going to go?” he asked next. “Who are you going to go with? You shouldn’t go out by yourself.”

Dude, was he trying to ask me out? I gave him a vague response that I didn’t know yet. Then he took a closer look at my passport. “You were really born in 1982??” The flirtation session was over. “Yes, I’m old,” I hissed at him, and snatched my passport out of his hands, complete with my relatively-easily-acquired Lebanon entry stamp.

Getting to the Phoenicia

Energized by my simpler-than-expected experience getting into Lebanon, my next challenge was getting a car to my hotel. My research had indicated that Uber was ubiquitous and affordable in Beirut, so I wasn’t too concerned about this leg of the journey. Big mistake. Why is it that the things in life that produce the most anxiety are usually much easier than anticipated, while the seemingly simple things end up being the most complicated?

After picking up my luggage from baggage claim, I started searching for an Uber on my phone. Except my phone had no service. What?? I toggled airplane mode on and off. No luck. I turned my phone off and on. Still no luck. I tried to connect to airport wifi. Nope. My data plan was supposed to include service in 210 “countries and destinations” and I had yet to encounter a destination outside of that figure (I also had yet to figure out how T-Mobile had arrived at the 210 number since current country lists topped at somewhere between 193-197, depending on how “country” was defined). I figured it had to be some issue with my phone.

Fortunately, the Phoenicia had a service counter to arrange transfers to the hotel for guests from the airport, so I headed back to the kiosk. I hadn’t seen anyone working at the counter when I first got off the plane, but I thankfully saw a man talking to a customer when I returned. “Hi,” I greeted him (English is widely spoken in Lebanon). “Would it be possible to get a car to the hotel?” He asked if I had pre-arranged a car (I of course hadn’t). In that case, it would be at least fifteen minutes. “A taxi would be faster?” I asked him. He affirmed that yes, I could walk outside and easily get a taxi. While I hadn’t read the best things about taxis in Lebanon (high likelihood of getting scammed, although not unsafe), I was impatient and decided to take my chances.

“Wait, ma’am!” Ten seconds later, the worker was chasing after me. “This man already has a car arranged, and he says you can go with him.” I sized up the stranger: he wore business attire, looked to be in his 50s, and had on a wedding ring. We’d be going to the same place, in a car arranged by the hotel, and a witness knew we were together. I assessed that I’d likely be better off riding in a private car with a fellow hotel guest than trying my luck at not getting scammed in a taxi.

We crammed into an elevator along with our driver and luggage. “Thank you,” I told the businessman, “My name’s Andrea.” His name was Ehab and he told me it would have been very brave of me to attempt taking a taxi in Beirut. He was from Cairo and ran the MENA (Middle East/North Africa) territory for his company, so he visited Beirut often and always stayed at the Phoenicia. I told him I had been trying to get an Uber, but my phone hadn’t been working; he explained that Lebanon was one of a minority of countries with no international roaming agreements. Awesome, I had finally found one of the places outside of the 210 “countries and destinations” as defined by T-Mobile. Then the conversation turned to me; was I really traveling by myself and what was I doing in Beirut on my own? By the time I had recounted my story, we were at the Phoenicia (it was a very quick drive from the airport), and Ehab was handing me his business card. “I have a business meeting this afternoon, but let me know if you’d like to get a drink later. I have been here many times and can show you around.” Hmm. He was a bit old for me, and I wasn’t in the practice of going out with married men in foreign cities, but I’d hold onto that thought.

Staying at the Phoenicia

While the Phoenicia was actually my second choice for accommodations (Le Gray was my first choice, but had been fully booked during my dates), the hotel was known as one of the most luxurious in Beirut and also had a history. Part of the Intercontinental Hotels brand since its opening in 1961, the hotel was later ruined during the Lebanese Civil War in the mid 1970s, and it lay in ruin for nearly 25 years. It was eventually restored and reopened in the late 1990s, and has been operating as a landmark in Beirut ever since.

While I appreciated the historical context of the hotel, and the location overlooking Zaitunay Bay was lovely, I wasn’t a huge fan of the property itself. It was gargantuan and ready for a much-needed refresh after its late 1990s restoration. When I return to Beirut, I’d like to check out Le Gray.

First Night Out in Beirut

I honestly had no confirmed plans for my stay in Beirut. I had a list of some bars, restaurants, and sights, but that was it. I hadn’t booked anything, which is rare for me (especially in a place like Beirut), so I hoped that I’d be able to find some spontaneous fun.

First things first – I needed to figure out my data plan. No way I was going to wander around the streets of Beirut by myself without a reliable phone. After a not helpful call with T-Mobile, I upgraded my plan to their premium international offering for an additional $50/month, but still had no service in Lebanon (for the record, I kept the plan and was very happy to have it in every other country that I subsequently visited).

Next, the concierge at the Phoenicia gave me directions to the nearest wireless store where I could get a SIM card. At this point it was dark, but the store was only a few blocks away, and I hadn’t felt unsafe so far in Beirut. I certainly drew a few stares as I walked down the street with my long, flowing red dress and blond hair, but nobody bothered me. Lebanon is in fact the most religiously diverse country in all of the Middle East, recognizing 18 religious sects. Muslims make up the majority of the population (nearly 55%), but Christians aren’t too far behind at around 40%. As such, I didn’t need to worry about dressing conservatively or covering my head in Lebanon like I would in countries where Islam was the significantly predominant religion.

Popping my new SIM card into my phone, I soon confirmed that I had data service once again. Success! I really don’t know how people traveled before the smartphone era. Major props to those adventurous folks.

I returned to the hotel to grab a bite to eat and messaged Ehab to see what he was up to. Sure, I could go out on my own, but I also didn’t hate the idea of having someone show me around. He was wrapping up a meeting with colleagues over drinks and proposed meeting in the Phoenicia lobby in an hour. Why not? As I already mentioned, it wasn’t a typical activity of mine to go out with 50-something married guys that I had just met, but he seemed harmless, and I hoped he could provide a helpful introduction to the city. By the time we met up it was after 9pm, so I figured we’d grab a drink somewhere and then call it a night. He was on a business trip after all.

Oh wait. I forgot that I was in Beirut.

We hopped in an Uber and headed to the rooftop bar, Clap. Even though I was donning the long red dress I had bought in Florence (thank god I hadn’t decided to go for a more casual look), I couldn’t help but feel under-dressed at Clap. Girls were rocking their finest labels: Gucci, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Rolex, and Cartier were all out on display, paired with diamonds and stilettos. My Claire Vivier clutch and Tory Burch flat sandals were sadly not up to par in this luxury-obsessed part of the world.

I commented to Ehab that the people were a lot flashier than I was expecting. Dubai, sure. But Beirut? “They prioritize possessions here. They’d rather drive a fancy car and wear a nice watch than live in a nice home,” he told me. That being said, I still saw plenty of luxury condos near my hotel, and the fact that people were driving around in Land Rovers and Mercedes SUVs while wearing Rolex watches and Cartier bracelets made me think that people (correction: some people) weren’t doing too badly in Lebanon. The country may have been struggling to recover since its Civil War and subsequent clashes with Israel, but some people still appeared to be thriving and clinging to Beirut’s glamorous past.

Ehab dominated most of the conversation as we sipped our cocktails and people-watched. While his family lived in Cairo, his job required him to travel a lot, so he generally spent weekdays at his apartment in Amman or on business trips. He had four kids and a beautiful wife who apparently came from money, but he still felt the need to celebrate his independence and party when he wasn’t at home. His wife felt resentful and was frustrated with him, but he felt confident (audacious?) enough to keep doing his thing. Cool. In exchange for this nightlife tour of Beirut, I got to be the confidant of a middle-aged man who openly admitted to being a dick to his wife. At least he wasn’t hitting on me (yet).

After our drinks at Clap, Ehab asked if I wanted to check out another bar. As much as I wasn’t loving the one-sided conversation, I only had two nights in Beirut and I couldn’t bring myself to turn down the opportunity to see more of the nightlife. Worst case scenario, I could always order an Uber and duck out. I had intended to pay our bar bill at Clap as a thank you for the ride to the Phoenicia, but Ehab insisted on getting the check. He was on a business trip and could expense the bill, so I ultimately gave in. I was unemployed after all.

It ended up being the right call to stay out with Ehab. Next he took me to Radio Beirut, a radio cafe/live music venue in the bustling Mar Mikhael neighborhood. Do you know what a radio cafe is? I didn’t. In addition to regularly featuring live music, the cafe/radio station airs content 24/7, accessible via an app or online. I loved it. The scene was lively, the crowd was much less bling-y than the Clap crew, the energy was raw and authentic. And the music? I had never experienced anything like it. I bopped to the beat, mesmerized.

After the fact, I learned that Anthony Bourdain had visited the cafe on his second visit to Beirut, but I was glad I didn’t know that in advance. I love Tony as much as anybody, but I think my experience was made better since I had no idea what I was getting myself into. If I lived in the city, I’d be a regular at Radio Beirut. And when I return, the radio cafe will be one of the first places that I go.

When the musicians took a break, we decided it was a good time for a change of scenery. Amelia was a bar/restaurant next door to Radio Beirut. Named after Amelia Earhart, the bar featured an aviation theme. What impressed me the most was how crowded the bar still was at 12:30am. On a Tuesday. (Well, I guess it was now officially Wednesday). This city really knew how to take things to a new level.

Ehab had apparently gotten sick of hearing himself talk, and started to take an interest in me, which seemed genuine. He turned out to be a pretty good listener and conversationalist after several hours together. I told him my story about being terrified of the Lebanese immigration officers, especially after my recent visit to Israel. “That’s a big deal,” he said. “But you’re white and from America.” He said he always encountered a long questioning session when he entered Lebanon. “And Israel? I would never consider going there. It’s simply not an option for me.”

At this point, it was well after 1am and the bars were still popping. My plan to have one drink with Ehab had turned into a very respectable bar crawl, and I didn’t want to ruin the next day. I felt satisfied with my first night in Beirut and was ready to rest up for my second (and final) night.

Second Day in Beirut

Unsurprisingly, having returned to my hotel room after 2am, my second day in Beirut started slowly. I’m proud to say that I eventually made it to the hotel gym (large and well-equipped, but showing its age) before embarking on some sightseeing. Beirut is not the most pedestrian-friendly city, but I did my best, despite having to dodge through oncoming traffic to cross some busy streets (apparently, crosswalks were not an urban planning priority).

Downtown Beirut had been devastatingly ravaged during the Civil War of 1975-1990, with many buildings and monuments left to mere rubble. The city center later underwent a multi-billion dollar reconstruction phase, which had essentially been completed by the time of my visit, nearly thirty years later. While the heart of the city was “restored,” I had read that many people found the new iteration of downtown to be soulless, unidentifiable from any other major city in the world with its high-end shops and luxury high-rise condos. I wouldn’t disagree with those critics, but I was able to find a few instances of remaining character in the troubled metropolis.

Next, I walked into Em Sherif Cafe for a late lunch on their bustling patio. While the franchise was best known for its high-end eatery (simply Em Sherif), I figured that the cafe was a better option for a solo lunch. The patio was packed with groups enjoying shared dished and shisha at a leisurely pace, but I had no problem getting a table. While I would ideally recommend going to Em Sherif (either the flagship or the cafe) with a crew so you could order all the items that you could possibly share, I didn’t have that luxury.

Toward the end of my lunch, I found myself making friends with the couple sitting next to me. I am typically unskilled at striking up conversations with strangers, but apparently my travels over the past six months had taught me a new trick or two. Rana and (um… I don’t remember the guy’s name, sorry) were from Egypt and Kuwait, respectively. They had known each other since kindergarten, weren’t involved romantically, and had reconvened in Beirut for a few days of partying. I was learning that Beirut was a popular destination for people living in the Middle East/North Africa to let loose, as most cities in the region were vastly populated with non-drinking Arabs and had very conservative nightlife scenes (think shisha and mint tea).

Rana and her buddy chatted with me in English for a few minutes, then abruptly broke into a side conversation in Arabic. I sat patiently, listening but not comprehending, until they delivered their verdict. “We’re going to a club tonight. Do you want to come with us?” I felt like I had passed some test. SCORE! Except, did I really want to go to a club? Rana and I exchanged phone numbers; they planned to go back to their hotel to get “dressed up” (they really used that phrase, which I found cute), then go to a bar before heading to the club. This was all fine with me. I had been leaning toward calling it an early night, but I couldn’t complain about having another option.

Rather than heading back to my hotel, I decided to stop at a bar for my own personal happy hour. Central Station was located back in Mar Mikhael and had been named the Best Bar in the Middle East & Africa in 2018, so I figured it was worth a quick visit.

Pascal provided me with a list of other cocktail bars to visit in Beirut, on top of the option that now existed to meet up with my new friends at the club. However, I was exhausted after my big Tuesday night and I had an 8:30am flight out of BEY the next day, then a four hour layover at FCO and an eight-and-a-half-hour flight to JFK. Less than twelve hours after landing at home, I was supposed to get on a train to Connecticut to join the pre-celebrations for my friend Vicki’s wedding. As much as I wanted to maximize my time in Beirut, the sensible part of me started to take over.

Back at the Phoenicia, I ordered a pizza and looked forward to a good night’s sleep. Then Rana messaged me. “Heyyyy. How are you? We’re going to Bardo first, then Caprice.” After a few minutes of contemplation I responded, “Hiiii. What time do you think you’ll head to the club? Realized I have to get up at 5am to go to the airport tomorrow and not sure how big of a night I can handle.” Rana, in her infinite early-20s wisdom, advised me, “I think you should come out with us and sleep on the plane. It’s Beirut. When are you going to be back?” Touché.

I ordered an Uber and met my crew for the night at the pre-game spot, Bardo. It also happened to be a gay bar (Rana’s companion was gay and was all over his male friend when I arrived). I was surprised (and impressed) that Beirut had an openly gay scene, as I had read that homosexuality was punishable by death in Lebanon. Rana’s friend informed me that Lebanon was still the most gay-friendly country in the Arab world; in Kuwait he had to live in the closet and couldn’t even tell his family he was gay. SIGH. While I had many grievances with my country, moments like these reminded me that it could be a lot worse.

Rana’s friend’s friend drove us to Caprice, dropping us off at a large warehouse-y area on the water east of Mar Mikhael and Zaitunay Bay. In case it wasn’t clear, let me upfront: I am not a club person. I enjoy cocktail bars and live music, particularly in intimate settings. Being packed into a giant room with flashing lights, booming music, and masses of people just doesn’t do it for me. But when in Beirut, right?

Fortunately, we were able to get in easily – no long lines or crazy cover charges. We made our way toward the bar and Rana almost immediately made friends with a few guys who bought us gin & tonics. I felt like I was in my twenties again and decided to just embrace it. Everyone was also constantly pulling out their phones and Snapchatting pictures and videos. This I could definitely get behind. I knew that Snapchat was big in the Middle East, particularly because of the privacy that it offered. Party on! And let’s keep the stock price going up, please.

Somehow, we next met a guy who claimed to be the manager of the club. He brought us up to the VIP section of the club and set us up with a bottle of gin. Um, okay. Rana definitely knew how to work it.

I wasn’t hating the club once we were in the VIP area. It wasn’t crowded, we had a great view of the DJ and the scene, and could drink all the gin we wanted. I danced around to the hip hop music with Rana, but by 2am (still early by Beirut standards), I was ready to call it a night. I waved goodbye to my new friends, escorted myself out, ordered an Uber, and fell fast asleep in my bed at the Phoenicia.

Next thing I knew I was awakening to sunlight streaming into my hotel room. Ugh, too early. What time was it? I reached for my phone on the nightstand. 8:15am. Wait, WHAT?!?!?! My flight to Rome was at 8:35am. Well, shit. That wasn’t going to happen. Panicked, I jumped out of bed, drank some water, paced around the room, and stared at myself in the mirror for a couple minutes. YOU IDIOT, HOW DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?

After a few deep breaths, I gathered my composure and started looking at flights. The unfortunate thing about missing my flight out of Beirut was that I didn’t have a lot of options to get back to New York. No direct flights, and only a few options for connections, made even more limited now that it was already 9am. I ultimately landed on a plan: fly to Rome via Alitalia in the afternoon and spend the night in Italy. Then, change my FCO>JFK flight to the following day. I would miss the welcome drinks for my friend Vicki’s wedding, and it would cost a pretty penny to re-book my flight last minute. But at least I wouldn’t miss the wedding. And, I had a friend in Rome that I wouldn’t mind seeing. A surprise night in Italy? Things could be worse…