The man's voice is deep, probably from smoking for so long - I assume. He wears a uniform that I have seen around the campus. He is one of the staff, for sure.
"Hello."
His accent is fine, a little different from the others I have talked to.
"You work here?" I ask, not minding him thinking that I am stupid. I did not know how else to approach him. I had to.
"Yes."
There is a silent moment.
"You want a cigarette?" he opens the box for me.
"Oh no, no. Thank you. I don't smoke. Not anymore."
"You study here?" he asks me, sounding like he is trying to find and say the right words.
"Yes."
He shakes his head and inhales from his cigarette. He looks around 45 years old. His facial features look very much Arab. He is your typical middle eastern man. The one you see in every corner here.
"Problem of my life, this university." he tells me.
"What do you mean? Why? Do they not treat you well?" I ask concerned. But I sound more concerned than I truly am. In reality, I feel a little more curious than concerned.
"They do. They treat me okay. My son is the problem actually. Not them."
I am a little confused. And it seems like his English is not helping him relay his thoughts out to me. Or maybe there are expressions in Arabic that he is trying to translate? I am not sure.
"I don't understand." I tell him.
"My son does not want to come and take classes here."
I still do not get it.
"Yeah?"
"I work day and night here. I am a janitor." He opens his arms showing me his uniform. "I worked this work my whole life."
A tiny part of me wants to laugh a little about the way he is trying to explain things to me and the words he is using, but I push it away and focus on his point.
"You know when you work here, your children can attend it for free. You know how high AUB tuitions are? They are too high! People cannot afford them. People kill over getting a little more financial aid. The students struggle to receive scholarships. Every year, students fight over the top five ranking positions when they do their exams in their last year of school. Because the first five get a scholarship here. I know a girl who took her exams twice in order to become one of the top five even though she ranked sixth or seventh the first time. But it is really not about the rank you see. It is about this university, and being able to come here!" he explains, a little emotional and a lot of hand and body gestures. I can tell this means a lot to him. Even if I do not completely see the point or agree with the logic, I feel a little empathy for the man.
"My son can come here for free because I work here. And he says no thank you?! Part of why I have worked here since forever is to give him this chance that few others have. And he wants to let it go. My working years' purpose. Psh! Gone. Like that." he claps his hands together and moves them against each other.
"I fight with him every night." he tells me. "And he still says no."
A child beggar comes towards us and starts talking to us. I do not understand a word he is saying. But I can tell from his gestures and the way he holds one hand in the other and opens it, that he is asking for money. I put my hand on my pocket and am about to take some out.
The man starts talking to the child and the child leaves without taking anything.
"What did you tell him?" I ask.
"I told him to go away. I said may God give you money."
I hold in the laughter. If this is the literal translation of what he said to the kid, then this would officially be the worst sentence I have ever heard anyone say to a beggar.
I shake my head, trying not to let him see my smile.
"Poor people are everywhere. You cannot give everyone money. You will have nothing left."
"You can give some."
"Yes of course. I give some sometimes." he shrugs, looking a little offended. "But not to these children here. They are trouble."
I hated hearing that. I did not know how to answer him. And I wanted to leave him before he can say anything else. The conversation was becoming a little uncomfortable for me. I prepare myself to move and am about to say "see you around" when he puts out a hand in front of him.
"Where are you from?"
"The US."
"My son will have the chance to go there only if he agrees to come to this university!" he is irritated again.
Unhappy with his comments, I decide to stand up for his little fellow. "Well, maybe he has something else planned."
"Something else? Here? In this country?" The man laughs. "Nothing else exists here. You will learn that with time."
"I'm sure there are other things to do then to attend this specific university."
The man shakes his head, "I wish." He mumbles something in Arabic. He throws the cigarette on the floor and steps on it. Then he removes it and puts it in the garbage can close to us. "Goodbye." He tells me and leaves.
I stand in my place for a moment.
A few seconds later, the same child comes back again and is looking at me from afar. He is walking towards me, one can tell.
He stops in front of me and says something that I do not understand.
"I don't know what you're saying-" I put my hand in my pocket and take out some change that I had removed the first time to give him. "But here." I hand it out to him.
He keeps talking as though if he speaks more, I will maybe suddenly start understanding Arabic. He smiles and leaves.
"He was telling you that he saw that you wanted to give him money the first time, and he came back for it when the other man left."
I turn around to the familiar voice.
"And then he told you that may God give you much more than you gave him."
I chuckle. What is it with these people and God giving out money?
"Hi Meriam." I smile.
She nods. "Hi Caleb."
"You live around here?"
"No."
I nod.
"Do you live far?"
"No."
"Do you live anywhere, at all?"
Mariam laughs. "My place is around 25minutes away."
"By foot?"
"By car."
"So you have a car?"
"Uhum." she nods. "I'm hungry. Do you wanna eat?" she asks me.
"Actually, I just finished my sandwich."
"Will you come sit with me?"
"Sure."
Mariam leads the way to a nearby supermarket. On the inside, there is a corner with a high counter and a menu in a frame.
"Mariam!" the guy behind the counter exclaims. Her name is followed by something in Arabic. She answers him and smiles.
"The usual Samer, please." she says that last sentence in English.
He nods and goes back to prepare her sandwich.
"Samer!" she yells after him. When he looks back, Mariam holds up the number two with her fingers. Samer nods and proceeds.
"Come." she tells me, making her way towards the glass window. We take seats at a high bar that overlooks Bliss street.
"You like it here so far?" she asks me.
"It's a change."
"Yep." she nods. "But do you like it?"
"I have to wait and see. I've had good and bad encounters. But it's been generally good."
"You planning on sightseeing?"
"Yeah, of course."
"There are some good places, indeed. I will maybe make you a list someday."
The man calls Mariam. She gets up and goes to the counter, takes a couple of sandwiches, pays for them and comes back. She takes a seat beside me again. She hands me one of the sandwiches.
I stare at her confused. "I already ate, I told you."
"Yeah? So?"
"So, I'm full?"
"Come on. This is an extremely good sandwich. If you can't finish it I'll have the rest."
I do not feel like disappointing the one friend I made, if there is a chance that this what we are; friends. So I unwrap the sandwich and start eating with her.
Mariam eats her sandwich as though she is in love with it. And sure, the sandwich is very good. But right now, Mariam's sight and her passion towards her sandwich are the centre of my attention, as they should be.