One of the odder realizations for the North American who likes to travel a bit is that many, if not most, of the world’s citizens navigate their cities without the aid of street names or addresses. The Asian side of Istanbul is like this, and 22 million residents of Seoul get along without street signs. Beirutis, too, describe where they live or want to go in terms of landmarks: stores, trees, the dog who sleeps on a particular patch of sidewalk.
When I want to go home I say, “Take me to Jisr al-Hadid,” because I am living along an abandoned railroad right of way near “the Iron Bridge” a defunct train trestle crossing Armenia Street, shown today and in an undated photo. 
Beirut used to have trains and trams and now has only cars and more cars. It is accepted wisdom that the city was better off in the 1960s, when Brigitte Bardot, Peter O’Toole, and Elizabeth and Richard Burton were lounging at the St. George Yacht Club and the city seethed with artists and architects dreaming up new things.
We cannot turn back the clock, however, and are left describing the dilapidated relics of those exhilarating times to our taxi men, who wait with us in endless spools of traffic.
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