I continue to love THIS VERY THING.
Beirut has plenty of it--history-heavy houses, paint that bears the signs of it's age, wood that has had time's magic applied in quantity.
Love is always a complicated thing, certainly this isn't any different. I grew up in a world with an entirely different kind of decay, a totally different history. The decay of my childhood isn't beautiful to me, I don't love it and I don't praise it. I don't go looking for it when I visit my old home. American decay speaks of failure, of lost dreams and broken spirits. I'm tempted to say that it is provably uglier, but I know better.
And I don't mourn when American decay is torn down--unless it's a really remarkable structure. I'm glad to see it go.
Beirut's peculiar decay has it's own stories to tell. These old houses indicate failures and losses and damage too. But these aren't my stories.