It was a hot day. Noonish. 30+ Celcius. Muggy. An authentic Beirut summer day. If you've been, you know what I'm talking about. I'll describe this 2021 special blend.

Mixed dusty air saturated with lukewarm condensation on your sticky t-shirt, tight pants, dress, bra, and underwear, infused with Essence de Mazout, clouded by the occasional whiff of grilled meat as you walked by a shawarma place. As you continue, goosebumps get awakened when you're hit with the cooler breeze from the empty clothing store. Yikes!

The sensible person wears lighter, fluffier clothing. That day, I wasn't. Having been dropped off at my appointment, I thought I'd either Uber, taxi, or service taxi back home. Hitchhiking is no more, and my teenage years are over.

Picking your service taxi

Backpack carried on one shoulder, I stood on the street waiting for a service taxi to slow down so we could negotiate. Whether you hop on depends on who the drivers already have in the car and where they're heading. Decision-making is as sophisticated as Uber's algorithms.

You don't always take the first service taxi that drives by. I, for example, sometimes don't signal to want a ride if I see the car is too dirty or too beat up. The taxi seats are a big factor. Some seats have seen all kinds of wars and revolutions and bore the weight of many an ass. Suppose you're desperate to reach your destination. In that case, you'd probably ignore who's already in the car and settle to have your bottom commune with all other behinds who've endured those seats before you.

You get ‘Driving Miss Daisy’

Or almost. That day, I wasn't desperate. I was more curious than anything. An old Mercedes slowed down. Color? Not sure. Faded on the lighter side of the color spectrum. I could tell she'd seen her share of events and was driven on highways, city streets, backroads, alleys, country roads, and through no man's land.

She's overheard all sorts of conversations. If only she could tell the stories of people she's transported over the past 40 years. A vintage with no one able to take care of her, clean her up, give her a nice paint job, and house her body in a cooled garage, only to be taken out for the occasional weekend ride. She's getting old and can't quit. Life's been too hard. She looked tired, persistent, and proud.

She wasn't in the best shape. Yet, something drew me to her.

And her younger driver

In contrast, the one behind the wheel was a slender, olive-skinned young man. "Antelias?" I asked. He nodded. The door by the driver squeaked as I pulled it open and hopped in, sinking into the seat.

He was sweating in his blue jeans, white t-shirt, and clean shoes–a hardworking and tidy man of little words. Is he the son or grandson of the original owner, I wondered. Did he go to college, graduate, and drive the Mercedes to make a living? How hard have the days been on his short journey? Is he still dreaming and hopeful of his future? In 20 years, where would he be? What would he be?

In my 15-min ride with him, I witnessed two short vignettes.

The frustrated woman

A woman gets in. Two minutes later, she asks him how much the tariff is.

8,000 LL.

Her tone rose as she started arguing. The day before, service taxis took half the amount for the same ride. Her tone echoed anger, confusion, need, and much more of life's frustrations. He kept his cool as if he knew she wasn't venting her words at him. He continued to explain that, due to the devaluation of the currency, the government changed the tariff that same morning at 9.

"Drop me off here," she puffed the words from her lungs.

He pulled over. She got out. Without a word, he slowly got back on the road.

The proud man

A few hundred meters further, he slowed down for a scruffy man.

"Would you take me with you?" he asked.

The tone, the way he asked, and his words made me guess he was asking for a free ride. He was probably too proud to say it in any other way. He needed a ride and had no money. The driver nodded. 10 minutes later, the passenger asked to be dropped off at some corner.

"Thank you," he said in a plain tone, accepting the gift with no fanfare.

It takes one to give you hope

In Lebanon's callous times, people with so little are the richest of us all. When the tsunami of apathy and nonchalance overbears our day-to-day talks, and the media can't stop itself from focusing on where we're going wrong, people like this one driver make me proud to be Lebanese. Make me proud to be human.

I am hopeful. With total destruction and meltdown comes a new beginning. The genesis of a new nation can happen by its young, hardworking hands, big hearts, and the wisdom of its elders.

The ask

If you're in Lebanon and can afford to spend a little more, if you're here on vacation or planning to visit, think of us hardworking and proud Lebanese. While we thank you for the handouts you sent us this summer, we have a different ask.

We ask you to eat out and tip well. Very well. Obscenely well. Put on some fluffy clothes and get into a service taxi to experience a different shade of Lebanon. Leave a BIG fat tip. FAT. Hire us

for your remote work. Pay us commensurate with our know-how and experience. Pay us honestly. Pay us well. Pay us what we deserve. All we're asking is for an honest person's wage.

Lebanese contribute to building nations many seas away from home. Today, I invite you to give some time, money, and love to the nation of your forefathers and mothers. Please allow us to collaborate with you and get fairly compensated for it.

Rest assured, the land of the Cedars will shake off this existential crisis, regain its strength, and contribute once more to the development of humanity. Do you want a role in it? Are you with us?

Start today. Hire Lebanese. Tip: like there's no tomorrow.