They lived alongside this one traditional family whose customs were like the Lebanese villagers of a century ago. The man woke up at dawn, carried his steel pick, and walked down to the valley to work his orchards at the river bank.

I had seen him with a dog a few times. He’d grab a coffee, take a table on the outside terrace overlooking Beirut, and read. What brings this European-looking biker to Lebanon? These days, and to this Starbucks in particular? What’s his story? I was intrigued.