Dubai to Beirut

I just got into Beirut and I'm really happy to be here. It helps that I spent all of my last day in Dubai (Sunday) in traffic and scouring megamalls in 113 degree heat for "Canadian cigarettes," which a guy here in Lebanon had asked me to try and pick up. No luck.

The Palestinian-Syrian guys i was hanging out with are living large in Dubai, notwithstanding their residence in the neighborhood they refer to as "Karachi", a rundown Pakistani area where my friends sleep three to a room. Rent is astronomically expensive in Dubai, but goods and services are cheap. They have enough money to go out and watch Euro Cup games, and I have to say that despite the fact I find Dubai totally distasteful, I am happy to see these guys finally relaxed. They have lived in a refugee camp with something of a refugee camp mentality for their whole lives, and it was nice to see them puffing sheeshas at a seaside Lebanese restaurant called Shu, watching the football game and feeling carefree. These friends were unbelievably hospitable to me the whole time and I barely had to spend any money.

But other than that... whew, Dubai is a crazy place. And not really a pleasant one. (The fact that I got strip searched on arrival for no reason at all does not, of course, help its image!)

The emirate is a hectic menagerie of half-inhabited skyscrapers barely visible in a sky choked with desert sand and Gulf humidity. It is definitely among the most bizarre places I have ever seen. Pakistani and Filipino workers -- along with everyone else -- are walking around in the heat with a kind of dazed look on their faces. To call it soulless would not be an exaggeration. All the communities there appear haphazard, temporary and recent. It's a money pot, but not much more.

So it is great to be back in Beirut. It feels like a homecoming. Everything is familiar -- the big trees, the humid but not suffocating Mediterranean air, the bars with their neon signs in narrow streets, with the shadow of mountains looming behind them. At moments, it feels like it was only yesterday I was last here (it was October 2006). At others, I simply feel it has been far too long. I'm anxious to experience this region with Beirut as a door to understanding it rather than Damascus.

Um Pouquinho de Dendê

Watching the United States-Barbados qualifying match on Sunday, I was struck by how the American team -- even as their technical skills improve -- continue to play like cardboard cut-outs of soccer players. The friend I watched the game with pointed out that U.S. star Landon Donovan personifies this style of play.

Now, I'm about to be a real Long Gone Daddy -- off to Lebanon for two months for a journalism internship. When I asked my friend what I should look for out of my internship, he said:

"Just don't play it like Landon Donovan -- textbook perfect. Give it more than that."

That's no disrespect to Landon Donovan. He's a far better footballer than I could ever have hoped to be.

What my friend really meant is summed up in a capoeira song we sing: Eu vim aqui buscar um pouquinho de dendê: I came here to pick up a little bit of dendê, which is palm oil.

It means, put a little oil in your game. Make it smooth. Do the unexpected and play with style.

So as I head off today, that's what I am keeping in mind!

Peace, America. I'll see you on the flip side of summer.

Gentrification: Same Story from Harlem to the Bay

When I was walking a friend home in Harlem near 118th and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard in May, a mumbling, stumbling man crossed our path. I caught a few of his words.

"Back in the day, a white person get robbed at this hour in Harlem," he said, among other things. (I'm white; my friend is a black grad student; the man was black.)

I was annoyed on a personal level, but I did not feel surprised or wronged. I can hardly blame people in the neighborhood for feeling more than a little uneasy about the incredibly rapid changes that are happening in Harlem, especially south of 125th Street. Harlem has long been the capital of Black America and a beacon of culture in America's most repressive times, even though it has also seen (so I read) its own ups and downs. And suddenly, it is becoming full of chain stores and upscale cafes full of outsiders.

I thought of the mumbling man when I read about "root shock" in Harlem in this article in the Times. One of the most startling things in this article is one longtime Harlem resident's claim that he was happy that shootings happened in May, because it would at least scare off the newcomers.

I got to thinking: A big part of the problem is not only that the neighborhood is becoming more expensive or that new people are moving there, but also the insensitivity of some of the people who are gentrifying. (As a white grad student, I'm one of those people, whether I like it or not, though I am trying not to be so insensitive.)

Rather than adjusting to the neighborhood and accepting the existing stores and institutions, people want to bring what they are comfortable with to the new environment and keep Harlem's African American culture as a sort of decoration on the top of their routine of wine-bar- and Starbucks-patronizing.

It's like, if you move to Harlem, fine, but can you not walk your poodle while chatting on your cell phone and sipping Starbucks and throwing all the symbols of your white, outsider power and oblivion into everyone's face?

I think sentiments like those of the guy who said he was happy there were shootings actually come, in part, from people living through Harlem's most hopeless days, and knowing all the pain and struggles and strength it took to stay in the neighborhood when crack cocaine was at its peak, and then seeing that history erased and other people building their fantasies of cheaper good living on the ruins of that. (Here's a great video clip on about the same subject.)

I'm not sure people who live through gentrification and hate it -- and that includes me in my native Bernal Heights, San Francisco -- really know what they want or how they can stop big changes, in the context of a capitalist society.

But I am sure that if the neighborhood was being changed in a way that respected what was already there and had some continuity with the past, the anxiety people felt would not be so acute.

Prospect Park Thunderstorm

Two friends and I chilled yesterday on the big rolling green of Prospect Park near Grand Army Plaza. The day was sunny and warm, with an increasing sheen of clouds that made the quality of light like that softened sun that happens during a California wildfire.

We sat on the grass and looked at the scene of mixed groups of people -- I love Brooklyn for its diversity -- picnicking, playing footie and volleyball and enjoying each other's company. It looked like a tableau from that crappy kid's magazine High Life, which we grew up on. I mentioned that, and we laughed, but it made it a little sentimental, because the scene was indeed picture-book perfect.

The green trees were seething all around with sap and leaves -- all the longing for energy stored up during the hungry winter. The clouds closed in and long rich thunder began to rumble from distant corners. Finally the skies opened and flashed. We ran back to the Grand Army Plaza station -- I had to go back to Manhattan and the two SF natives I was with, to Crown Heights. Lightening exploded in front of us on the plaza, near the arch and the fountain. Rain soaked us to the bone.

It was wonderful.

You're Way Too Beautiful, Girl

"You know how I feel about San Francisco?" I said to my friend as we cruised out of Golden Gate Park toward Ocean Beach on our bikes about two weeks ago. It was a warm day, and a cool ocean breeze was settling on Beach Chalet.

"You're way too beautiful, girl, that's why it'll never work. You'll have me suicidal, suicidal, when you say it's ov-er."

He laughed and let out a "Whooo!"

We grabbed a cup of coffee and a brownie from nearby Java Beach Cafe at Judah and the Great Highway, and settled into the dunes to enjoy the view pictured above -- on that day and about six others in the last couple of weeks.

It's true. The City is just too damn nice -- it'll have you damn near suicidal when your visit is ov-er.

I spent the last weeks there savoring every moment in its mild air and soft light. It is beautiful yet unpretentious, full of street fairs and book stores. Not too much noise or too much consumption. People are united in some sort of unspoken agreement about a general set of priorities: community, outdoors, good times, good food, good music, liberal values. (Any side of the debates we have about the City's future share these, but have different ideas of what they look like.)

I had to leave before I got too attached. Even so, wrenching myself away was painful. Here are some of the highlights of my stay in my city:

Biking across the city, over and over again
If you are in moderately good shape, you can get from almost any point in San Francisco to any other within an hour. I took advantage of this as much as possible. Avoid hills wherever possible if you need to move fast. (Search them out if you went to see less-traveled corners.) My preferred cross-city route (Bernal Heights to Golden Gate Park, for example) is Mission-Valencia-Duboce-Fell. You feel the different vibe of every street and empty out into towering Monterey Cypress in the Panhandle, amidst basketball games and weed aroma.

Sunset at Ocean Beach
If I live long-term in SF again, I'm doing this at least twice a week (on vacation I tried to do it everyday). There is nothing like the wind in the dunes and the wild Pacific to put everything in perspective. Doesn't cost a thing.

Take the 14 Mission
I take this bus to hear the stories of the people in my neighborhood.
Common said it best in Black Star's Respiration (minute 3:42):
"So some days I take the bus home, just to touch home
From the crib I spend months gone
Sat by the window with a clutched dome
Listenin to shorties cuss long
Young girls with weak minds, but they butt strong"

You could spend two weeks on the 14 and write a novel with the material you observe and hear on the extra-long bus.

Nightlife: Guerrero, Valencia and Mission between 16th and 24th
The most unpretentious place is Skylark. I have the best time at Baobab and Elixir. You will not find technical "hotties" like in L.A. But you will find a lot of down-to-earth people who are beautiful in a totally different way. This is only a small sample of what San Francisco has to offer, and I recommend it all. (Although I usually don't venture to the Marina. Yuck.)

Day-trip to the East Bay
I always felt like the East Bay -- especially Oakland and Berkeley -- and San Francisco are equal partners in the Bay family. I try to go at least once every time I am around. You can't go wrong with Ethiopian food on Telly, ribs on San Pablo, Indian on Shattuck, or a walk around Lake Merritt with someone cool.

Dwelling in the Southeast
Bernal Heights, Portola Heights, McLaren Park, Outer Mission, Cayuga Park, Lakeview and Ingleside, Bayview and Hunters Point: Take your bike throughout the neighborhoods, turn down side streets. Every corner has its own character.

Anyway, don't worry for me. My visit is over, but I'm not suicidal, just in pain. Turning over San Francisco memories in my mind is kind of like reading old love letters stumbled upon while cleaning your closet. They might bring you a tear or two, but you can't help reading them one more time...

Remembering Bo Diddley

"When Bo Diddley comes to town/ the streets get empty and the sun goes down"

Those lyrics, from the 1960 Bo Diddley song "Bo Diddley's a Gunslinger" are no exaggeration of the man's stature in rock'n'roll music.

The singer died this morning of heart failure at the rip age of 79. (Here's the Washington Post obit, and a nice slide show from The New York Times.)

Bo Diddley was a hero of mine and I am sorely disappointed I never had the chance to see him perform. He epitomized an urban version of blues music -- his tunes captured all the longing of the Southern original and thundered with the energy of Northern cities. His braggadocio surely inspired the Hip Hop era, whether directly or indirectly. His singing was proud, uncompromising, thought-provoking and ridiculously catchy.

Bo Diddley remains an icon of Black music and of American music. I am sorry to see him go!