"What?" I stammered.

"The Green Line has only bullets and old buildings. Why do you want to see that?"

"Well, I thought it would be interesting to ..."

"Do these people look like terrorists?" Mr. Ibrahim asked, gesturing angrily at the wedding guests, his voice echoing off the walls.

"Of course they don't look like terrorists."

"Of course not! Look at them! This is like Europe. Does this not look like Europe?"

"Yes, it's very nice."

"Then why do you go to look at buildings with bullets?"

"I don't know. I guess it just seemed ..."

"There were 180 Lebanese on the Titanic!"

I stared at Mr. Ibrahim, momentarily speechless. Since it looked as if his grin might return, I decided to play along. "Really?" I said, completely oblivious to how this factoid could have any relevance. "There were 180 Lebanese on the Titanic?"

"Of course! They were all rich men, businessmen. Like Europeans. Do you think they would let terrorists onto the Titanic?"

"I'd imagine they wouldn't."

"Of course not! The Lebanese have always been rich people, important people. Do you know how many Lebanese there are in Bill Clinton's cabinet?"

"I don't know."

"Four! There are four Lebanese in Bill Clinton's cabinet. I know this, and I am not even American! And the president of Ecuador. Do you know where he is from?"

"Well, I'd imagine he's from Ecuador."

"He is from Lebanon!" Mr. Ibrahim roared, obviously having a good time again. "And when Boris Yeltsin needed surgery for his heart, where do you think his surgeon was from?"

"Lebanon?"

Mr. Ibrahim beamed at me. "I think you are a genius. The surgeon was from Lebanon. He could have had any surgeon in the world, but he wanted the best, and the best was from Lebanon."

Mr. Ibrahim went on like this nonstop for 20 minutes. Once he had exhausted the topic of Lebanese pride, he went on to rant about the evils of tobacco and alcohol, the virtues of America, the scourge of foreign laborers in Lebanon and how Syrians smell like pigs and dogs. The whole time this was going on, Abdul blissfully ignored his boss, shoveling down plate after plate of the buffet food. Whenever Mr. Ibrahim left the table to get more food or bully the wait staff, Adbul would smile mischievously and point out cute girls in the wedding party.

Later, when Abdul was driving us back to my hotel, Mr. Ibrahim laid out our plans for the next day. "Tomorrow, we will go to Byblos," he said. "I will show you Lebanon, and you can teach me English. How is my English? Is it bad?" Mr. Ibrahim grinned at me from the back seat, obviously fishing for a compliment.

I decided to shoot him straight. "Well, your vocabulary is good, but your ..."

"I look many lessons from an institute near the American University."

"Yes, well, your pronunciation could ..."

"I speak English like an American, yes?" Mr. Ibrahim shouted. He grinned ebulliently.

"Well, kind of. But your pronunciation could use some work."

Mr. Ibrahim looked concerned for just a fraction of a second. "You must teach me to make it better. We will be business partners: I will show you Lebanon, and you will teach me English."

"OK, well, the best way to improve your pronunciation is to ..."

"I think you are the best teacher, so I will be the best tour guide!"

"... listen and practice. Listen and practice, and your pronunciation will get better."

"Listen and practice!" Ibrahim yelled happily.

But of course he wasn't really listening.

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