Every morning i see Abou Ali. In his sixties, tanned, slim, wrinkled. He sells all green vegetables from a wooden cart parked under a huge trea, in a side street to the busy Marelias Street in Beirut. Fresh Spinach, huge leaves of parsley, coriandre, lettuce, enormous broccoli. Half of the vegetables are in huge plastic bags, neatly lined up against the wall. He uses at least an hour a day to set them up in such a nice way that you cannot but stop and buy from him. He adores to talk if you have a minute. He asks about the children, speaks about his own grandchildren whom he wished lived in the mountains, because they are constantly sick in Beirut.
He reassures me when i am nervous about the political situation, he tells me that it will all calm down eventually. He talks about his father who ate meat once a week and lived a very long life.
One day he wasn't there. Nor his cart. Nor the vegetables. I wondered why. Was he ill? had something happened to him? Days would go by and there were no trace of him. Until one day as i was driving through the area, trying to avoid the horribly congested main road, i saw him and his cart. It was a totally different road and he was not selling green leaves, but a famous summer fruit called Subbeir (horned melon). I stopped the car and smiled. He was happy to see me. He then explained that in summer, he relocates and sells only Subbeir. Better sales. Refreshing fruit!
For the last 35 years, throughout the colder sseasons, he has sold green leaves in Marelias. But in summer he relocates and sells Subbeir.
I just find Abou Ali a wonderful man, warm and refreshing. He reminds me of the good old days, of people who take it easy, who enjoy the moment, who appreciate life as is.
