At this season of the year, says a dry British Admiralty handbook, fog is rare in Beirut. Last week, in that ancient city of Lebanon, where St. George is supposed to have slain his dragon, a winter sun beat fiercely on old walls radiant with purple bougainvillaea and flaming crimson poinsettias. Its rays glittered gaily in the gentle wash of Mediterranean tides on Lebanon beaches, and shone on the sleek hoods of shiny new U.S. taxicabs weaving their way through clusters of bronzed and burnoosed Arabs.
At night in Beirut, neon signs glared...
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