The soldier and the Hemingway sign

Draw back the drapes of my seaside room at the Mövenpick Hotel in Beirut to a gloomy, wet morning. The weather ap on my iPhone says it’s 52 degrees out. Rain is in the forecast. Today, tomorrow, the rest of the week.

I give myself three options: Order a pot of tea and stay in bed; go down to breakfast; or get my blood circulating by going for a walk in the misty morning along the Corniche. What I want to do is stay in bed; what I end up doing is getting dressed and going out.

So now I want to tell you this story. Of what happened to me on my first morning in Beirut. Two minutes after I leave my hotel, at something like 7 in the morning, I come across a sign advertising Hemingway’s Bar & Cigar Lounge. In Beirut. This gives me pause. Was Hemingway ever in Beirut? Not that I know of. But here in this ancient city is a bar and cigar lounge named for him. Lovely, isn’t it?

I decide to take a photo of the sign. Just for the hell of it. But no sooner have I removed my lens cap than a soldier with an automatic weapon over his shoulder starts running towards me, yelling at me to Stop! At first, I feel certain that he is yelling at someone else, someone behind me that I can’t see, so I go on with what I am doing. I frame the sign in my lens-finder, adjust the focus. But the soldier continues shouting at me while rushing over to me. With the camera at my eye, he reaches for me and spins me around.

“I said stop!” he yells. “You can’t take a picture!”

“I can’t take a picture?”

“No.”

“But it’s only a sign.”

“I am sorry, but that is the rule. You are forbidden to take a picture.”

“I can’t take a picture of a sign on the street?”

“I am sorry.” He looks at my camera. “Did you take any pictures?”

“No,” I tell him honestly. “Would you like to look?”

He shakes his head. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Why is it forbidden to take a photo of this sign?”

“I don’t know. It just is. I’m sorry. Perhaps it is a stupid law. We have many stupid laws in Beirut. Don’t ask me to explain. I don’t understand them myself. I am just here to make sure they are followed.” Then he pauses and says, “Where are you from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Ah, Los Angeles,” he says, breaking into a smile and adjusting the automatic weapon back on to his shoulder. “I hear it is very, very nice in Los Angeles.”

“Have you been?”

“Me? No, never. But I dream of going some day.” He leans close to me and says in a hushed voice, “Tell me one thing: Do you think it is possible for a man like me to live in Los Angeles?”

I give the question serious thought. “I don’t know what your laws are for visas and immigration and such, but I imagine it would not be easy.”

He shakes his head seriously. “This is exactly what I thought,” he says.

Just as I am starting to walk away, he stops me. “Please,” he says. “Take your picture of the sign.”

“That’s okay,” I say, weary of some sort of legal trap. “I don’t need it.”

“Please,” he says again. “Take the photo. It’s okay. Just don’t tell anyone I allowed it.”

Nervously, I snap a single shot of the sign for the Hemingway Bar & Cigar Lounge.

“Thank you,” I say.

The soldier smiles. “You’re welcome,” he says. “I hope it reminds you of Beirut.”

It will. I’m sure it will.