We'd booked our flights to Lebanon long before the protests began. After a stagnant two years in the air-conditioned, antithetical atmosphere of the Qatari capital, Doha, a friend and I were itching to see the "real" Middle East. News of bank closures and the prime minister's resignation had us exchanging increasingly panicked emails in the weeks leading up to the trip: Should we call it off? Friends reassured us and advised that, on arrival, we seek out dollars, despite the notoriously DIY attitude of Lebanese proprietors to conversion rates. When we arrived at Beirut’s Rafic Hariri International Airport - named for the late father of the recently forced-out PM - we found the ATMs empty. It was a fitting introduction to a place where nothing was quite as it seemed. Beirut is a melting pot in every sense, with wildly unregulated architecture offering hints of the city’s storied past; from romantic villas built under Ottoman rule to the innumerable scarred structures recalling Lebanon’s devastating 1975-1990 civil war. Over the course of four days we wandered almost aimlessly, falling in love with the food and the people, and carried along by the atmosphere of a city humming with the excitement of what locals were calling the “revolution.” Mothers pushing prams and old men with walking sticks joined crowds of young people, waving flags and calling for a united Lebanon to bring an end to the country’s troubled sectarian power-sharing structure. Signs of the uprising, prompted in part by a months-long economic crisis, were inescapable. In trendy boutiques, the Lebanese flag was draped over mannequins and a sort of makeshift tent town had spread out in the central Martyrs’ Square, despite the constant presence of heavily armed police on every street corner. Much to our surprise, we found some of the long-shuttered war-era buildings thrown open and occupied by protesters, who had decorated the walls with the slogans of their revolution. The mood in that week was contagiously festive. One night, fuelled by the delicious and divergent cocktails on offer from the myriad bars of Gemmayzeh street, we went in search of a club, harassing passers by for intel. When we eventually found it - a concrete block of a building located somewhere in an industrial park - we danced all night while partygoers told us of their hopes for their country in the days and weeks ahead. At one point, the dance music gave way to chants and then the DJ was brandishing a Lebanese flag, its distinctive cedar tree emblem illuminated by pulsing strobe lights. For the locals, it seemed, the line between a revolution and a party was a thin one. A day later, we took a long stroll along Beirut’s modern corniche where people watchers were spoiled for choice amid throngs of fishermen, rollerbladers and ladies out promenading by the Mediterranean. At the end of the walkway, and up what felt like a rather large hill, we found Al Falamanki, a kitschy eatery with a quirky backstory, and sat outside to watch the sun set over the rugged Pigeon Rocks. Chilled wine in hand, the protests and the revolution rattling the city below felt a million miles away, part of a different time. Such is the nature of Beirut, with its drastically differing districts, streets with no names - and streets with three names: English, French and Arabic. The ethnic, religious, cultural and linguistic mix of the city adds to its sense of otherness, of lives overlapping but never quite touching. It’s now two decades since the war aggravated and entrenched these differences but the protesters’ dream of a united Lebanon still seems remote. In the weeks following our trip, human rights organisations documented brutal crackdowns on demonstrations by security forces and the social, political and economic crises remain unresolved. The country’s future is uncertain, but even in the midst of a revolution, Beirut is a city that charms, captivates and demands a second visit. There is so much more I could say: The food! The art scene! The shopping! But Beirut is not somewhere to be tackled with a to-do list, it is a treasure that must be experienced, mulled over, dreamt of, and even that is just scratching the surface.