Lost Time, Found Places: An Unexpected Detour in Anjar, the Armenian Enclave of Lebanon

Surprise, Surprise
Travel, at its best, is a series of surprises. The little ones—the perfect cup of coffee in some hole-in-the-wall café, the back alley neighborhood that somehow dodged the tourist mobs. Then there are the big ones—the moments when you step into an entirely different world, completely by accident. That’s how I found myself in Anjar, a full-fledged Armenian village… in Lebanon. Yeah, you heard me right—Armenian, but not in Armenia. This is the kind of discovery that makes the whole “mission to see every country in the world” worth it.

I hadn’t planned on stopping here. I didn’t even know Anjar existed, other than the fact that it was one of the closest towns in Lebanon to the Syrian border. And that border? That was my white whale. I’d been holed up in Beirut for days, waiting—hoping—praying for my Syrian visa to come through. It was late. My ten-day trip was slipping away, and with it, maybe my only shot at getting into Syria. I’d been trying for years. This was it. I was running out of time, and every second wasted felt like a slow, torturous death.

My second time in Beirut – one of my top 10 favorite cities – but I couldn’t sit still this time.

Border Town
So, Anjar. It was a strategic move—stay close to the border, be ready to move the second my visa got approved. But what I didn’t expect was to actually like the place. I mean, really like it. I had no idea this was an Armenian village, settled in 1939 by survivors of the Armenian Genocide. That alone made it worth the detour.

I spent that first day walking the quiet streets, soaking it all in. A handful of tiny parks and monuments, a big church, a couple of hotels, a few restaurants. The ruins were the main draw for the occasional tourist. But what really stuck with me? The people. Almost everyone I met was Armenian. Street signs bore names ending in “-ian,” honoring local heroes. It was a fascinating little pocket of history—just enough to distract me, at least temporarily, from the gnawing anxiety that my damn visa still hadn’t arrived.

Street named after martyr Hagop Karageozian.

A peaceful walk through Umayyad City Ruins.

Accommodations
Now’s the part where I shamelessly brag about my accommodations. The Hotel Layali Al Shams—a damn fine place. Elegant rooms, ridiculously comfortable beds, English-language TV (a rare and welcome luxury). The pool looked incredible, though it wasn’t quite swimming weather. But the real highlight? The people. Specifically, Gassig and Vart (which, in Armenian, mean cinnamon and rose—how perfect is that?)

And the food—because, of course, the food. Breakfast? A massive spread, the kind that fuels an entire day of wandering on foot. Dinner? Manti—perfect little parcels of dough, so expertly crafted they felt less like food and more like architecture. Crispy, tender, swimming in just the right balance of tangy yogurt and spiced meat. Every bite? A celebration.

Diplomatic Treatment
By day three, I wasn’t just another guest—I was getting the VIP treatment. Vart took it upon herself to personally show me around town. And then, the real kicker—she started calling up her friends, asking them to open their shops and galleries just for me. Let me repeat that: they opened entire museums just because I was in town. The Mousa Ler Anjar Ethnographic Museum and the Anjar Art Gallery—both unlocked and brought to life by their directors, solely for my visit. I’m not gonna lie—I felt like royalty.

Nathalie Kendirjian not only opened the gallery for me, but gave me fantastic descriptions of all of the paintings and info about their creators. The gallery’s proceeds helps fund local schools.

With my gracious museum hostess, Hilda Doumanian. Thank you for the gracious tour, Hilda!

Adios, Anjar
The people of Anjar made me feel at home, in a way I never expected. Their warmth, their hospitality—it was almost enough to dull the sharp, gnawing disappointment of my still-MIA Syrian visa. Almost. Anjar wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan, but man, was I lucky to have landed here.

As if that final afternoon with Vart—wandering Anjar, meeting locals, feeling like some kind of honorary Armenian—wasn’t already a win, I got back to the hotel to find a message waiting for me. My visa was approved.

Holy. crap.

Tomorrow morning, I’d meet Fadi, the company’s owner, at the border. I was in. Sure, it only meant about 30 hours in Syria, but at this point, I’d take it. I had already started making peace with the idea that I might have to go home without ever setting foot in Damascus. That thought had been gutting me for days.

But I was going.

I damn near cried.