My mother and I were here to re-connect with the country of her grandparents, who had died in Lebanon or left for America about a century ago. Disease, war, and starvation had scattered our family. The Diaspora is the national narrative for a majority of Lebanese who live outside their own country while a minority remain. Like so many U.S. immigrants, my mother's grandparents had children who met and married American Lebanese. In all likelihood we were the first of our family to visit in more than three decades. Did we have any relatives remaining?

I fell in love with Beirut at the international airport, in the baggage claim. It was a hard fall, immediate and absolute. The welcome party was unexpected and frenzied. "The energy of this place is addictive," I was wisely warned by a savy, chic Beiruti.

Lebanese are a people to whom blood is sacrosanct no matter how distant. The son of his uncle, the daughter of her auntie. That is how strangers are introduced, always according to mother and father. We are embraced, deep smiles are exchanged, tears are shed and food is shared.