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We arrived in Tripoli and for the first time in two Lebanese weeks, we felt like we were in the Middle East.

The look-at-me designer shops that water down Beirut were nowhere in sight. There were no Pepsi billboards or golden arches, or other homogenizers of Western culture in the old city.

The main city square dominated by an old clock tower was abuzz with messengers, merchants transporting goods and ideas, soldiers on coffee break, all the activity you’d expect to see 200 years ago in a touristic corner that hasn’t fallen to tourism.

The most prominent street-level commercial space on this square was populated not by a Starbucks or KFC, but by old men sitting around plastic tables smoking narguileh and playing cards.

There was an undefinable haze in the air that gave all the crumbling stone arches a dreamy look. I felt like I was in someone’s recollection of a vague Arabian memory.

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One of the few touristy touches in Tripoli, a remake of a traditional tea den in the Khan el-Saboun soap market. It’s still cool, though.

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There are many reasons to spend a few days in Tripoli:

The narrow covered corridors of the old city that branch into tiny passageways and may lead to an underground mosque, a section of the souk, or someone’s front yard.

The 700-year old abandoned Turkish baths that can only be accessed by asking an old man in a loose turban to reveal the entrance behind a soda machine.

The smells of cardamon, coffee, cheese and sesame that puff from pushcarts.

The sellers of said coffee pushcarts who, when approached by a pair of foreigners, offer a complimentary cup instead of charging double.

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The Great Mosque in Tripoli’s old city.

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The countless sweet shops, from simple, unassuming holes-in-the-wall to velvet-upholstered palaces, all of them delicious, and that do brisk business even though every Lebanese you meet say they never eat Lebanese sweets.

The labyrinthine souk that still sells fish, fruits, jewelry, and other ephemera of everyday use, and where sellers still believe that a friendly smile is all they need to lure a foreign-looking shopper.

The Akra chain of restaurants, which always inhabit perfectly-lit, arched stone buildings, and offer high-end versions of peasant dishes like fatteh, hommos, and foul beans.

The Crusades-era castle that looms over a decaying cluster of slum homes perched helter-skelter on a hillside.

Said slum where you could be greeted by a curious old lady one moment, mobbed by friendly boys playing football the next, and ten steps later interrogated by scowling Shia women suspicious of any Westerners.

And finally, the faint suspicion when leaving that I could gladly spend many more days doing the same thing over and over again.

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A 700-year old Turkish bath, abandoned and crumbling.

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