Columnists love a peg, something on which they can “hang” a story. The obvious one last week was the Scottish referendum. Such a once-in-a-generation event offered mouthwatering grist for the writing mill. I could have drawn some white-hot comparisons about how in 2005, when Syria withdrew its security apparatus, Lebanon blew its chance to genuinely go it alone because a polarised political class undermined every effort to create a smooth running economy. But there is enough misery in the world, so I want to tell you about the sheer tummy-tickling joy of buying a pair of glasses from a Beirut optician.
Two years ago my eyesight changed, seemingly overnight. Suddenly, I had to peer over the top of my lenses – or even more shambolic, lift my frames onto my forehead to read or see who was calling. It was a dramatic and sobering marker in the ageing process.
The upshot is that I only use contact lenses at the gym and rely on specs to get me through the day. Mrs Karam recently stepped on my newest and most beloved pair when I was in England and, not having brought a spare pair, I had no option but to troop off to the local optician, where I selected a pair of frames off the shelf and presented them at the counter, where a woman of a certain age who looked like a moth took down my prescription and told me to come back in four days.
Three weeks later they too were in bits after I sat on them in Beirut, and so once again I headed off to buy a new pair, this time to the altogether more buoyant Kassouf Optic in Ashrafieh.
I have always wondered why Lebanon has so many family-run opticians and pharmacies. The latter is probably easier to explain. In a country that worships doctors, pharmacology is a respected profession. We are also a nation of pill poppers and hypochondriacs (almost anything is available over the counter without prescription) and in the absence of a decent health service, pharmacists can offer basic medical advice.
In other words, we need them.
But why so many opticians? Is it because, being blessed with more than 300 days of sunshine, we need expert advice on sunglasses? Or does it tap into a deeper vanity, one that insists our choice of eye furniture is as important to us as what we wear? Answers on a postcard.
Anyway, in I walked. The wind chimes summoned a woman in a white coat and a Julia Roberts smile who would not have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue. No, she didn’t have the same frames I had bought in April, but if I would relax and take a seat she was certain we could find something even better. Oh, and then she told me that I had a face that suited glasses. I was putty in her hands.
A space was cleared on the table. Someone provided a mirror. Drawers were opened and frames flew out. Would I like steel or titanium? I told her that I pushed them onto my forehead at least 50 times a day. She smiled knowingly. Perhaps something more durable? Plastic, but stylish and young. “Not too young,” I said with a self-effacing chuckle. “But you are not old,” she said with a look that was half pout, half a look of puzzlement. “Nearly 50? No way!” I squirmed. The putty was getting sticky and gooey. At this point she could have sold me a welder’s mask.
We settled on a final cut of three pairs. One was quickly dismissed as “too heavy on my face” (I wasn’t going to argue) and so then there were two. Both were “heavenly” on me. One was US$100 less and more “heavy duty” than the other, and so it was decided. A combination of price and durability without sacrificing style carried the day.
And of course there would be a discount for a valued customer. “Same lenses?” Sure. “Do you like the price?” She flashed the calculator in my face. Very much. Done. When could I collect them? I was travelling.
“How about noon the next day?” she said. “I will make them first thing when I get into work,” she said, flashing me another winning smile.
And who said Lebanon had lost its mojo?
Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton
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