It all started with despair.
And beautiful stories usually start that way, don’t they?
Despair, that arrogant old friend always shows up gloriously whenever we manage to overcome a hurdle or two, doesn’t it?
Or when we naively believe that this is it.
Our misfortunes have ended.
The old book of disappointments has been tossed away, never to be seen again.
But it all starts there.
Midst the blooming garden made out of disappointments.
And meticulously protected by despair.
It all starts with that old friend, doesn’t it?
And slowly, out of nowhere, we are able to reach the tiniest and most precious sparkles of hope.
Finally we sit quietly and politely opposite a wounded city which never lost its sparkle.
A city we lovingly know as Beirut.
A fabulous warrior we will get to know over and over again.
Its theaters, its galleries, its old shops, lost neighborhoods, forgotten streets.
But we warned, dear reader, that although the story has started with our old arrogant friend, monsieur despair, NO ARROGANT EXTRAORDINARY PEOPLE OR GENIUS ARTISTS OR IMPERIAL MONUMENTS are allowed in our small intimate garden.
Those, dear reader, can KISS MY…DESPAIR.