Consequently, I shouldn't have been surprised when he arrived unannounced at my hotel the following morning, ranting about all the thousands of dollars in business he was passing up just so he could take me to the Chouf Mountains. Out of obligation, interpersonal cowardice and lack of a ready excuse, I consented.

About five minutes out of Beirut, however, the presence of a Syrian military checkpoint got Mr. Ibrahim onto an anti-Syria diatribe that hadn't let up by the time we reached the mountains. The solution to the Syrian military and political presence in Lebanon, he reasoned, was to have the United States bomb the bejesus out of Damascus. After he demanded for the 23rd time that I write a letter to President Clinton in support of this diplomatic strategy, I pointed out that -- technically -- he could go to the White House Web site and write the letter himself.

Less than one hour later, our plans to visit Beit Ed-Dine Palace had been summarily scrapped and I found myself taking dictation from Mr. Ibrahim in a West Beirut Internet cafe.

"Do you have an e-mail reply address?" I asked him. "It's required if you're going to send a message to the White House."

"Of course!" he boomed. "I use e-mail for business all the time."

"OK, then what is it?"

"What is what?"

"Your e-mail address."

Mr. Ibrahim grinned and fluttered his eyelids. "I have many e-mail addresses -- 10, maybe 20, e-mail addresses."

"Just give me one."

Mr. Ibrahim's grin wavered a bit. "I don't remember."

"OK," I said diplomatically, "we'll use mine."

By the time we were ready to type the body of the message, Mr. Ibrahim was visibly nervous. "What do I say?" he demanded testily.

"It's your message," I replied. "Tell him what's on your mind."

"Dear President Clinton," he dictated. "It is my great pleasure and honor to write to you today, and if you ever come to Lebanon, I will be your tour guide and I will show you that we are a rich and beautiful country, and that we are not terrorists like you think we are." Mr. Ibrahim paused for a moment. "Is that good?"

"Sure," I said, keying in his greeting. "It's your message, so say what you want."

Mr. Ibrahim grinned thoughtfully and stroked his goatee. "Why do you support Israel when you ignore Lebanon?" he said. "Are we not as good at business as them? Are we not more fashionable? Do we not love America also? So why do you give them a billion dollars while we are being invaded by Syrians, who hate America and smell like dogs?"

"Whoa, slow down," I said, but Mr. Ibrahim had already gone manic.

"When Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, you bombed Baghdad!" he yelled. "So why not bomb Damascus now?"

I typed as fast as I could, wincing at Mr. Ibrahim's reckless bravado. There was a certain sadness to what he was saying. Though created under circumstances similar to Israel's, the nation of Lebanon has always been too small, too disorganized and too divided to avoid getting bullied by its neighbors.

"Look at us!" Mr. Ibrahim hollered. "Look at the people in this room! We are like Americans! We are like Europeans! We need business and tourists in Lebanon! We need the pope and Michael Jackson to come and see our faces ..."

"I think that's enough for now," I interjected.

"I am not finished!" he yelled indignantly.

"The president is a busy man," I said sagely. "It's best to keep it short."

"Yes, you are right," Mr. Ibrahim said, looking a bit dazed. "Do you think he will write back?"

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next day, Mr. Ibrahim had to work, so I visited the village of Qana, near the zone in South Lebanon occupied until recently by Israel.

But, of course, it wasn't that simple. The night before, Mr. Ibrahim had asked me what I was going to do in his absence, and when I told him Qana, he'd nearly lost it.

"You should not go to Qana!" he'd yelled. "There is nothing to see there!"

By "nothing to see," Mr. Ibrahim meant that the place was a reminder of war. In Qana, the main tourist attraction is a Syrian-built memorial to the 200 civilians who died when Israel shelled the town in 1996. However, since Qana is also one of the possible locations of Cana -- where Jesus was said to have turned water into wine at a wedding festival -- I was able to use this seemingly pious pretext to convince Mr. Ibrahim of my good intentions.

Insisting that I also visit Sidon during my southbound trek, Mr. Ibrahim gave me $20 to cover transportation and admission fees. Each time I tried to refuse the $20, he accused me of not really wanting to go to Sidon. This accusation, of course, was completely valid. I finally persuaded Mr. Ibrahim to keep the money, but he made me promise to call him with a full report as soon as I got home that evening.

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