THE
DAY I ARRIVED in Beirut I was collected at my hotel by Huda Baroudi, a
cheerful woman who had offered to show me around. It was a lazy Sunday,
grim and gray, and I was jet-lagged. But her eyes were shining and she
was eager to take me to the Bechara el-Khoury Mansion, a 19th-century
villa that long ago — before it had been abandoned, pillaged and finally
shelled during the civil war — was one of Beirut’s grand residences.
As
I settled into the passenger seat of her S.U.V., Ms. Baroudi, an
influential designer of textiles and furniture, propelled us at high
speed toward what looked like a four-way stop. Beirut’s streets are
narrow, potholed and anything but straight; a car was approaching
rapidly from the opposite direction, but Ms. Baroudi seemed unconcerned.
At
the last moment, the other driver swerved to let us pass. I was unable
to speak, but Ms. Baroudi laughed sweetly. “I looked into his eyes,” she
explained with a smile and a shrug. “And I could see that he would
yield the right of way.”