Destination weddings, if you receive an invitation and can afford the indulgence, are a great way to visit a country you otherwise might never see.

Such opportunism is what has brought me to Lebanon—a country drenched in culture that I shall forever have vivid memories of.

My girlfriend is a friend and colleague of the bride, and I am her plus-one.

The bride is engaged to a Syrian doctor whose family in Syria follow Greek Orthodoxy.

Naturally, he wants his family to attend his wedding, but the travel destinations available to Syrians are, for fairly obvious reasons, limited.

The final choice was Türkiye or Lebanon. Lebanon proved simpler for the majority, so here we are.

At Arnaoon Village

We’re all staying at a resort called Arnaoon Village, near the ancient coastal town of Batroun.

Arnaoon is Lebanon’s answer to Center Parcs, complete with manicured gardens, a go‑kart track, and a zip line over a gorge teeming with gnarled pines and fragrant herb bushes.

My girlfriend and I arrived yesterday, where we spent the evening sipping beers in the sepia light, watching jets take off from Hamat Air Force Base.

Today is the day of the wedding.

It’s already hot when we wake up, and we enjoy a breakfast of minty labneh, croissants, and fresh orange juice that appears by magic atop our shaded outdoor dining table.

The bride has kindly donated the posh bungalow intended for marrying couples.

She has instead chosen to lodge in a turreted mini castle that boasts a gorgeous flight of stairs that fan out onto an elaborate colonnaded courtyard.

It sits at the top of the village and is the perfect backdrop for pre-wedding photos.

Our donated bungalow’s most delightful feature is a verandah overgrown with twisting branches of bougainvillea.

Tinderbox dry in the summer heat, a family of stray cats have moved in and made it their home.

Skittish, hungry kittens slide down wooden supports to steal scraps left over from our breakfast.

Satisfied, they frolic on the concrete and climb to hunt the tiny lizards that scuttle about and bask among the flowers. Every so often, there is a dry rustle, and some petals waft down.

Soon after breakfast, my girlfriend—a bridesmaid—heads off to help the bride get ready.

I have no obligations until the evening wedding ceremony, giving me the day to myself.

So I jog shirtless down the steep lane that serves the village, but it’s too hot to jog back up, so I walk it instead, leaning into the gradient and sweating onto the tarmac.

The rest of my day is spent splashing about in a plunge pool that I saw being filled with a hose the evening before.

Around 4pm, it’s time to change into my three-piece suit.

I’m nervous about whether it still fits as it has been a while since I put it on and have gained weight in the interim.

With a little crimping and tucking, I manage to squeeze into it. The jacket hides my nascent bulges.

Much to my surprise, even the waistcoat still fits, although I have to forgo the outermost buttons in order to properly breathe out. In my defence, I had just recovered from a dreadful bout of COVID-19 when I was measured up for it.

As old as Christianity itself

Our Lady of Nourieh is a monastery nearly as old as Christianity itself, perched dramatically on a cliff that overlooks the Mediterranean near the Holy Land.

Across the blue waters are Tripoli, once a hub of Ottoman naval power, and Tartus, a Syrian port city that hosts Russia’s only Mediterranean naval base.

“Nourieh” is derived from the Arabic word for “light,” and the monastery is so called because, according to legend, the divine light of the Virgin Mary appeared to keep sailors away from the shallows and rocks.

The site has been a Greek Orthodox shrine since the 17th century, and, being the religion of the groom and his Syrian family, the ceremony will be conducted according to Greek Orthodox traditions.

The wedding cars are Lebanese taxis

The wedding cars booked to take the guests from Arnaoon to Our Lady of Nourieh are four taxis—dusty, beat-up Mercedes that aren’t very romantic at all.

But their shabby appearance adds to the unlikely and endearing reality of family, friends, and strangers agreeing to meet up for a party in the Middle East.

I have no idea which, if any, taxi I am meant to take.

My girlfriend is staying with the bride and will travel separately to the ceremony.

There’s no chance of communing with her now, so I jump in and will have to link up with her later, I guess.

The thought of the bridal party travelling in one of these clapped-out bangers adorned with frilly cream ribbons makes me chuckle.

I never saw it, but I am sure the groom booked her a more upmarket carriage.

We wind down the lane and get on the highway that runs parallel to the Lebanese coast.

Arnaoon is located atop a hill, at the base of which a reservoir has been constructed. In the dried-up lands beyond the reservoir sits Mseilha Fort, a late-medieval castle by the Nahr el-Jawz River.

Built to guard the route from Tripoli to Beirut in the 17th century, it sits prominently on top of a limestone rock.

By a stroke of luck, I manage to snap a photo from the taxi that captures the fort exactly as it has been painted and sketched.

You really don’t have to travel far in Lebanon before you encounter some ancient cultural or religious landmark.

I even spot a train of camels high in the hills, looking very out of place, like some Bedouin took a wrong turn in Sinai and got lost.

Endearing chaos

The groom is the only person from the UK party who speaks Arabic (in addition to English and French).

Consequently, he is in charge of arranging everything and ensuring plans flow punctually and safely.

There are too many of us for him to give out one-to-one instructions, and, what little there is of a plan (such as where we need to be, when we need to be there, who we should be with, etc.) has been diluted by the Chinese whispers effect.

Everyone is commingling and going with the general flow, like birds preparing for a big migration. Nothing happens punctually.

Levantine beauty

The Syrian guests are already at the monastery when I arrive, but no one is present to make formal introductions, so there’s little else to do but stand and admire them.

Middle‑class Syrians are extremely beauty conscious, and the guests personify this trait wonderfully.

Immaculate skin, golden hair, and outfits dripping with gems make me feel very scruffy with my orange beard and long straggly hair.

Other guests from across the border possess that paralysing dark-haired, dark-eyed Levantine beauty that makes everyone else look dowdy and inadequate.

The male guests, meanwhile, look stately in their tailored suits, and a little bit fierce. Many of them have chiselled Roman noses and close-cropped beards, lending them the profile of a general or a poet.

But their apparent ferocity is shattered when they smile, which, being at a wedding, they do a lot.

An old bearded priest in heavy robes talks among the waiting guests.

After some time, the groom arrives, looking nervous and harassed, but composed.

A Greek Orthodox wedding service

Presumably the service has a start time, but no one knows when it is, and eventually the priest invites us to take seats inside the nave.

The wedding photographer flaps down the aisle, waving her arms to indicate the bride has arrived, and we all stand.

With a wedding in such an exotic location, the bride has had to be modest with her number of maids.

There are two of them, in Neptune-blue dresses; a slender blonde Syrian accommodating middle age with a grace we can all but hope to match, and my gorgeous girlfriend standing out like a ruby with her Valhalla looks in the desert.

Incense and Epistles

The priest reads from the Holy Bible and blesses the marriage by burning incense and charcoal before the Lord in his censer.

The readings, mainly the Gospels and Epistles, are in Arabic, although some of the readings are in English.

The foreign language and arcane symbolism make it difficult to follow along, but it doesn’t matter. I simply stand with my shoulders squared, and my hands clasped behind my back, beaming, as I do at all weddings.

Stefana

Rings are exchanged, and increasingly wizened and aged holy men emerge through curtains into the sanctuary to play their part in scriptural proceedings.

Aphrodite’s wedding crowns (Stefana) are deftly wafted about and intertwined three times over the heads of the matrimonial couple to invoke wisdom, justice, and integrity (and martyrdom, for the marital contract can also be viewed as a mutual sacrifice).

Drinking from the Common Cup

Drinks of blessed wine are taken from the Common Cup in recollection of Jesus turning water into wine at the wedding at Cana.

Afterwards, they are paraded three times around the altar, their first steps as a married couple.

The ritualism of the ceremony is perfect, with one brazen outlier—the wedding photographer.

Instead of making herself subtle and taking photos over the heads of the congregation, she flings around the sanctuary with the subtlety of an asteroid.

Throughout the ceremony, she takes it upon herself to modify ancient and solemn geometry with her own ill-choreographed side show.

Space is tight, and she works against the proper order of proceedings while making zero effort to hide her presence “on stage” as it were, as if her part is as important as the father of the bride. Or God himself.

She has placed two LED panels either side of the iconostasis, the paintings on which all seem to frown down these intrusions of modernity.

Outside after the ceremony, we munch candied almonds and Damask roses made of marzipan that the groom’s mother has smuggled across the border.

We admire the splendid coastal view and discreetly take our own photos while trying to avoid the interventions of the wedding photographer.

At the reception for Lebanese street food

“Power vacuum” and “the Middle East” are terms that westerners are used to hearing together.

At the after party this evening, the power vacuum is one of organization.

In the absence of any master of ceremonies, our zealous wedding photographer reassumes her role and bossily stage-manages the early part of the night.

She is particularly fond of my fluorescent, neon-green shades.

I’ve changed out of my suit into a more casual shirt to dance. I’ve kept the shades because I’m anticipating a good rave.

But before the party, we must eat.

As to the food, it was great and there was lots of it.

Fatteh, tabouleh, sambousek, kibbeh, shawarma, and other local delights prepared fresh by chefs at stalls erected specifically for tonight’s party.

It beats the skimpy, lukewarm meals served at many UK weddings I’ve attended.

As for dessert, Syrians have a unique way of preparing ice cream. It’s a part of their cultural identity, and they are very proud of it.

The result of the stretching and pounding is a type of ice cream called Booza. It’s delicious, and deserves the mini ceremony that it receives before the party gets too wild.

Once the booza has gone down, it’s time for the English guests to demonstrate what the term “booza” means to them.

An all-night party under Mount Lebanon

Wedding DJs in the UK are usually bad, lazily defaulting to Britpop and other dreary fossils that they excavate from the buried strata of chart music.

The DJs here tonight put them completely to shame and would substantiate a residency in any UK club.

There are two of them, taking turns to outdo each other by playing the best club bangers from across the Levant.

I’ve never put much thought into the clubbing scene in the Middle East, but now that I’m hearing what it has to offer, I love it.

Whenever the DJs sense the club music is getting too heavy, they play a slow Syrian group dance to get the groom's family up and dancing with us all, linking arms and moving in a slow circle while hopping about on one foot.

They also know just enough cheesy UK tunes like the Macarena or Mambo No. 5 to be endearing without becoming boorish.

It would be unfair to the English aunties, mums, and dads not to drop one in now and then. I sit them out, partly to cool down, but also because I am highly-strung, and they make me fed up.

And this is how the evening continues, with more and more alcohol splashed into the mix.

The strobe lights flash against the far valley walls, lighting up thickets of olive trees and wild thyme.

Drinking with the Syrian guests from Homs

The groom’s cousin, who I’ve formed an intense bromance with, puts a glass of spirits on his head and leans into me so I can sip my own blessings from it, hands-free.

After I drain the tumbler, it slides off his head and smashes on the floor. But we’re well past the point of sobriety where you care about these things, and carry on dancing.

He has travelled from Homs, and, in a lucid moment, I feel blessed to be able to enjoy a dance with such an unlikely partner.

I soak three shirts through with sweat during the course of the night.

The best man is getting paler and friendlier with every drink he knocks back, and he hits off a strong temporary relationship with the DJs, putting his arms around them while suggesting tunes they might play.

In the end, the bar staff give up preparing single-person cocktail portions, and begin to prepare potent alcoholic mixtures in jugs and cauldrons to save time.

They look genuinely shocked at how much booze we English can all pack away, but are only too happy to continue to serve us.

The bride and groom have generously paid for an open bar, but I would be very surprised if Arnaoon turns a profit from it.

Slightly worse and slightly stronger for their bulk preparation method, the drinks are ladled into our empty glasses and on the night goes.

Outlasting everyone

By 3am, some of the staff are looking sulky and clearly want to go to bed.

But, as the bride reminds us, we wouldn’t be providing proper support to eternal matrimonial vows if we don’t drain every glass in sight.

The DJs have been keeping the crowd moving for almost eight hours—a marathon set that even famous artists would struggle to deliver.

The fun has to end at some point, however.

Those guests who are still standing end the night by stripping off and jumping into the pool outside our bungalow.

Here, my memories become hazy, but I remember the bride convincing the groom not to go swimming in his dress shirt, and finding a little frog chilling out between the pool edge and some decking.

The sun is coming up again, and other frogs hidden elsewhere are calling lustily to potential mates.

Whether the shakes are due to the chilly pool water or the excessive alcohol we’ll never be sure, but one by one, saturated with a deadly mixture of drinks, we towel ourselves off and stumble heavily to our beds to sober up before heading back to Beirut.