Early morning reflections in Baalbek
The cold air hit me as soon as I stepped out of my small guesthouse this morning. It's barely 8 AM, and according to my phone, it's a crisp 0°C in Baalbek today. I zipped my jacket up to my chin and made my way toward a small café that Hassan, my guesthouse owner, recommended for breakfast.
I arrived at 7:50, but of course, they didn't open until 8. So I stood outside, watching my breath form little clouds in the air while contemplating the ancient city still waking up around me. The first rays of sun were just starting to illuminate the distant silhouette of the Temple of Jupiter, those six remaining columns standing tall against the morning sky.
Yesterday was a full day of exploration at the archaeological site. I spent hours sketching details of the Temple of Bacchus, marveling at how well-preserved it is after nearly two millennia. Something about the way the light played on those ancient stones made me lose track of time completely. The site was nearly empty of other tourists, which made the experience even more profound.
The café opened precisely at 8 (I checked my watch), and I was the first customer. I ordered a simple breakfast of manakish with za'atar and a small pot of tea to warm up. The owner seemed surprised to see a tourist, especially one who had returned to Baalbek for a second visit.
"Most people come for one day only," he said in careful English. "They see the temples, take photos, then go back to Beirut."
I explained that I wanted to spend more time understanding the place, that sometimes the meaning of a location reveals itself slowly. He nodded approvingly.
As I sip my tea now, I'm contemplating my journey so far. Day 161. That means I've used up nearly a third of my sabbatical already. In a few hours, I'll need to pack up and catch the bus back to Beirut, where I'll get my flight to Istanbul. Part of me wishes I could stay longer in Lebanon—there's something about this place that feels unfinished for me. But that's the nature of this journey, isn't it? Moving on before fully understanding a place, carrying its questions with me to the next destination.
The weather forecast shows rain coming later this morning. I'm hoping to visit the Stone of the Pregnant Woman one more time before I leave. There's something about that massive unfinished block in the quarry that keeps pulling me back—perhaps it's the parallel to my own unfinished transformation. A work in progress, abandoned mid-creation.
I've learned something important in Baalbek: the value of returning to places. My first visit was all about seeing the main attractions, taking the obligatory photos. But coming back allowed me to notice details I missed—like the Roman soldier's signature that Mahmoud pointed out carved into one of the temple stones, or the traces of original red paint still visible in certain protected corners.
Perhaps that's a metaphor for life as well. We rarely give ourselves the chance to revisit and reconsider. We're always pushing forward to the next thing, the next place, the next experience.
As I prepare to leave Lebanon today, I'm carrying these ancient stones with me in memory. The bus to Beirut leaves at 10:30, which gives me about two more hours in this remarkable place. Just enough time for one more quiet walk among the temples before continuing my journey to Turkey.
The café is filling up now with locals starting their day. I should finish my tea and make the most of my remaining time here.
Next stop: Istanbul.