I want to fuck this town. I want to walk the rock of its coastline full of bare chested men. I want to get undressed and leave my bag and my phone unattended and swim, and I want the men to ignore my naked body and I want to get out of the water all refreshed and sit with them and smoke their arguila and speak their Arabic, and I want their wives to come sit right next to me, all types of wives: rich bitches from Zeytuna Bay, Syrian refugee mothers of 3, 4, 5 children, law students that want to go to Europe, Maronite mums who are good at cooking, Palestinian girls who want to have their nails done and a proper house. I want all of them to sit with me and their men and I want them to tell me their stories, their biggest successes and their biggest failures. And I want to tell them some of my worries, too, and watch the sunset till the sun drowns in this Mediterranen sea of us, this legacy we have, that common background. I want all of us, big crowd of people who’s been hypnosed to just talk and laugh and share, to go to Hamra and visit all of its gardens, and I want the city to bloom, millions and millions of Lebanese Liras out of every Lebanese person pockets’. I want my Lebanese crowd to be as someone told me the Lebanese were, generous and careless with the money, ordering food and drinking wine and turning the whole city into a blast, not a blast of smoke but a blast of joy, like a huge orgasm that says my name.