Sweaty clubs, a cheeky beer, and street art surpassing even Bristol’s finest are perhaps not the first things that leap to mind when you think about an evening out in the Middle East.

Saturday night. Downtown.

A dusty orange sunset has sucked the geriatric afternoon life out of Beirut’s famous Hamra Street and breathed in a lively new one.

This is the last of my four days here in Lebanon for my girlfriend and me. We’re here because we were invited to a wedding between friends in the Lebanese hills.

It’s too hot for a meal, so we are sitting outside a pudding parlour with a pair of sweating iced coffees and overflowing sundaes.

The fairy lights twinkling above us offer a familiar and welcoming alfresco dining vibe in a city from which we had no clue what to expect.

We’ve spent the day walking Rue Hamra end-to-end.

What is Hamra Street?

Hamra Street stretches east–west for about 1.3 kilometres through west Beirut. It’s a famous strip, and is often compared to Boulevard Saint-Germain because of its chic, eclectic shops and cafés that attract Lebanese intellectuals.

It’s best enjoyed slowly, as it connects over 2000 years of history that you can still touch and see.

During the Roman Republic (509–27 BCE), Beirut was called Berytus. At the very eastern end of Hamra Street, you can visit the ruins of a Roman Bath House.

Today, the baths are enclosed by heavily guarded government buildings, which make them rather hard to find.

Being abroad sometimes means swallowing a brave pill, however.

Which is what my girlfriend did.

She walked boldly up to a military guard in front of one of the government buildings wearing slacks with a powerful rifle swinging from his waist, and asked him for directions.

He was very polite and obliging, pointing out the way but also helpfully informing us that the baths were currently closed.

Inevitably, you will see plenty of military figures in Beirut. If you don’t like the sight of enormous rifles, the heavily-armed soldiers can be a bit disconcerting.

Rue Hamra and the French connection

Lebanon has a French connection. France served as a protectorate of Christian communities in the Ottoman Empire, including the Maronite Christians in the Levant.

And from the end of the First World War until 1946, Lebanon was governed by France under a mandate ratified by the League of Nations.

Continuing westward down Hamra Street, that French influence seeps in.

Squint at some of the buildings, and you could deceive yourself into believing you were in Paris.

Damaged by numerous wars and largely unrepaired, they are gorgeous, especially those that have vines and trees growing through the cracks in their yellowing plaster and brickwork.

It’s June, and a mighty sun is smiting the land, so we stop for a cold coffee and a muffin at a coffee shop called “Blend.”

French is Lebanon’s second language and, if you can remember the basics from your high school classes, you can communicate easily.

We’ve got used to every other car honking and its driver shouting “taxi!” and it feels quite intrepid to be sat outside enjoying a slow afternoon in a city most of our family encouraged us to avoid.

Refugees in Lebanon

Some of the side roads are blocked off by giant concrete buttresses and barbed wire.

Government buildings are shielded in this way, and it’s fairly obvious when you encounter one.

And some elite districts are walled off from disgruntled civilians who, frustrated with Lebanon's insidious corruption, might want to brick the windows of expensive apartments in an exuberant moment.

Yet, looking around as I unwrap my muffin, I can’t shake the feeling that some of these barriers guard something else. What, I don’t know, but the concrete walls are very high, and occasionally there’s a military checkpoint.

The main Palestinian and Syrian refugee camp, Shatila, is just to the south of Beirut City Centre and way off Hamra, but I wonder if there are smaller camps for the displaced and vulnerable, that are more integrated into the city centre.

As of 2024, one in five people living here is a refugee, so it’s plausible.

The Paris of the Middle East

A tradition of philosophical and artistic discourse endures in Lebanon and is partly why the country feels so familiar to European visitors.

The Ministry of Education and Higher Education lists over 30 colleges and universities—in a country half the size of Wales.

Away from the lecture halls, discourse continues in a more colourful and playful way on Hamra Street.

Giant street art murals discuss Lebanon’s peculiar identity and politics, and revere its cultural idols.

Being a small experiment in democracy in one of the world’s more dangerous neighbourhoods, there is a lot for the artists to discuss.

“The Eternal Sabah” pays homage to the famous Lebanese actress and singer, Jeanette Georges Feghali.

Just off Hamra Street, you can spot the fantastic mural “The Rhino and the Oxpecker” painted by Ernesto Maranje.

These two creatures are depicted in vibrant colours, and it’s hard to miss the nod to the symbiotic coexistence between native Lebanese and refugees, most of whom are Syrians escaping the civil war that devastated their country between 2011 and the mid 2020s.

Often, these murals beautify the ugly products of Lebanon’s own recent wars, and decorate buildings scarred by bomb blasts and pockmarked with bullet holes.

Money and the Lebanese glitterati

Lebanon has just enough playboys with access to foreign currency to sustain a market for high-end goods.

Between the devastation from the deadly port blast and the triple-digit inflation, the last thing we expect to see is a scarlet Ferrari. But there one goes, crawling eastward.

Money with a capital “M” explains the cold, granite-and-glass shops selling Rolexes and jewellery that are extremely conspicuous in Hamra’s shopping district.

But the poor outnumber the rich, who are invisible except for occasional trips down from their mansions, which I presume are up in the hills away from the dirt and noise. They usually are.

The less well‑off loaf about sucking on pipes of hookah while waiting for people to come and buy snacks from their little kiosks.

Supermarkets sell essential goods, and a cluster of hotels does what it can to survive on the dwindling flow of tourists.

Sunset over the Pigeons' Rock

We pass back by our place, Hotel Cavalier, on our walk towards the setting sun.

It’s too late for people to run errands and too early to party. During the early evening, the entire street looks out of breath.

At its far western end, Hamra Street peters out and forks into two small, nondescript lanes.

They split past some municipal bins, the backside of a few flat blocks, and enormous high-rises, to join up with the Corniche, a promenade that wraps around Beirut’s promontory.

A colossal natural arch called Raouché, or Pigeons' Rock, stands just off the coast.

Enterprising boaters will take you out to it for a bargainable amount of dollars, and you won’t be short of offers.

Or, like us, you can enjoy the sun setting behind it from the Corniche. Turn right, and you can stroll along it, all the way back to the eastern end of Hamra Street, taking in the sea view as you do.

Saturday nightlife

Dusk is coming on fast.

Judging from their complete blackness, many of the high rises that overlook the Mediterranean here are vacant.

Some have been abandoned before they were even finished—prime property developments built during Lebanon’s short economic boom that now no one can afford to complete, let alone rent.

Back on Hamra, the signs of Lebanon’s economic hard times have all but vanished.

A beat-up convertible, listing and full of rowdy groomsmen, is doing laps around the block, blasting party music.

The street-side bars and cafés are struggling to seat all the punters.

Young couples are out on the town, taking the opportunity to feel great in their snazziest clothes and blow off steam.

There isn’t enough electricity to power the entire grid, so the streetlamps are all off. Instead, fairy lights have been twisted around trees and lampposts, adding to the party atmosphere.

Perched on our stools, we watch women walk by, chatting with their habibis on the phone.

There’s no shortage of eateries serving traditional Middle Eastern food, but it has been a sweaty day, so dessert was a great choice, cooling us off as it has.

Sated, it’s time to head back to our place.

The lobby in Hotel Cavalier is quiet. Occasional power cuts plunge us into darkness, but they are brief, and we get used to it after the second or third time.

Lebanon isn’t a dry country.

Cans of beer are available from fridges in most of the shops, just like they are in Greece.

Although booze is a little harder to find in west Beirut compared to some of the suburbs further north, the hotel staff oblige us with a few cold lagers to wind down with.

From our double room, we can watch everyone enjoying a great Saturday night out over the road at Bayt Em Nazih, an inviting looking restaurant with a rooftop pool and urban garden.

As the night rolls on, groups of friends stagger out and hug each other goodbye. Mopeds use the side road cut through and get back on the strip.

We’re tempted to go back out and join in the fun, but we’re project managing two fabulous hangovers from a destination wedding we were at yesterday (or earlier today, to be precise), so we drop the electronic shutter, put our devices on charge, and turn in for the night.