Ago 21 2013 Lebanon: Shadow of Baalbek

• baalbeck5

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/baalbeck5.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

• baalbeck7

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/baalbeck7.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

• baalbeck1

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/baalbeck1.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

• baalbeck2

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/baalbeck2.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

• baalbeck3

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/baalbeck3.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

• baalbeck4

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/baalbeck4.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

• a baalbeck6

  https://www.viajesalpasado.com/wp-content/uploads/a-baalbeck6.jpg

  A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

We just crossed two worlds. Back, a landscape of oaks and olive trees, vines and open bazaars, always in the breeze of the Mediterranean hidden around every corner. Before us, the landscape changes, a distinct green, snowy mountains in the background and a valley where the ripe wheat eternal winds with the wind.

Descend Mount Lebanon Road Bekaa Valley '. A classic among classics name, but better known today as synonymous with violence, of war, entrenched conflict in time. The road on which we move is only used for heroin trafficking; youth sports cars, accompanied by friends forced smiles, scramble up a narrow road unbearably, automatic rifles poking out the windows of the most natural way. Some pastors and little else, but us, on the road to Baalbeck, magic name, Lighthouse travelers to these regions for centuries and before Legionnaires, of pilgrims, Baalbeck crusader .....

Young people with sports cars, accompanied by friends forced smiles, scramble up a narrow road unbearably, automatic rifles poking out the windows

Back in the valley we stop for a moment by a former Syrian position bombed, Gutted, red poppy strewn among twisted metal of a water tank with rust. The sun sets, a red moon rises behind Mount Hermon and the hills of Syria, just a few kilometers from Damascus, where civil war germinates with the blood of innocents. It has bathed this earth for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Returning to the car, two men we call. Barbas populated, the forehead wound of the many prostrations of a devout Muslim, looks suspicious. And one of them gives us a glass of water from the river, fresh as the snow of Lebanon. And with the background ezaan, suspicion vanishes en route to the city of dreams. Baalbeck

Pilgrimage center for centuries, the temples of Baalbeck, the largest temple ever built classic, were never completed. Started perhaps Phoenician or Aramaic on construction, Greeks and Romans first after, magnified in a huge set. The "small temple", perhaps the best preserved classical building there, is greater than the Parthenon. The remaining columns of the Great Temple are raised almost twice as high and many of the remaining support the ceilings of Hagia Sofia in Istanbul or the Great Mosque of Damascus, displaying the mix that has always led the region by gala.

The "small temple", perhaps the best preserved classical building there, is greater than the Parthenon

We stayed at the Hotel Palmyra, in the same room where Agatha Christie spent one day, Gertrude Bell, T.E Lawrence, Pierre Lotti….Rooms nineteenth and service on par; identify faces so wrinkled in old photos with Grace Kelly or the Shah of Persia. No electricity, no hot water, but with one of the oldest restaurants I've ever seen and with the best "lemon ma nanaa" I've ever tasted….

From one of these rooms, one of my favorite travel writers, Robert Byron, the moon gazed on Baalbeck. With a small notebook jumped the fence that marked the temples, then excavating medium, and disappeared into the shadows of the huge marble columns, pursuing their own ghosts, other way to describe lost temples at the foot of the Afghan Hindu Kush. A few pages full of lyricism that Chatwin mentioned more than once, an experience that tried to emulate, may even really……

And so, after dinner, after only one glass of the bottle of whiskey from the valley, jumped the fence of the temples under the full moon

And so, after dinner, after only one glass of the bottle of whiskey from the valley, jumped the fence of the temples under the full moon. Smell of old stone, wet grass, chirping of crickets and imaginary steps from the shadows, real and dream, Instead of an unrealistic. We walked the streets that saw Zenobia Semitic sacrifice to Jupiter, where mixed Arab caravans, nabateas, Egyptian….And in the background, a very real shadow, elongated under the moonlight, cries out, calls and runs to us. It's ridiculous run, so we hope that we reach.

A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem. We laughed and he is us. «Spanish na?». Espanyol, espanyol….And signs and naming the new gods, this time Messi Xavi….we walk the shadows of a dream that stretch in the hot night of Baalbeck. Baalbeck. Always Baalbeck.