If you're still wondering why I prefer the village to the crazy city of Beirut, here's one of the many reasons. Taking a walk around the block from our home, we passed by the house in which Dad's grandfather used to live, overlooking the opposite mountainside. I don't have the same kind of age-old history in the big city...
(Sadly, although the house is still owned by family members, it is not being looked after and now houses Syrian workers who have nowhere else to stay. After great grandfather died - he was kicked to death by a donkey while in South Africa - the house was left to his sons, but they had moved to South Africa, and never returned to live in it.)
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