Three days after the wedding, the Sergeant in charge of the Post received an invitation from an Inspector of the Lebanon Police, to visit with him that day in Ramash in Lebanon, about six miles as the crow flies across the border from our post. Unfortunately not being crows, the four of us, who accepted the invitation, had to drive about fourteen miles across very bumpy roads to reach the village.

I remarked earlier how hospitable the Arabs were. If possible the Lebanese were even more so than the Arabs in Palestine.

After the usual pleasantries , we were invited to sit down to dinner with about ten of the top men in the village, including the Police Inspector, the Mukhtar and the Parish Priest.

Lebanon, although now free of French rule, still retained some of the French influence such as religion. To ask what was a person's religion was considered in poor taste and invoked the reply I am a Lebanese. This they felt would lessen the tension between Moslems and Christians and prevent the flare up that often happened.

The meal started as always, with the sound of the meat being ''prepared'', shades of the wedding feast. I felt the taste of the charcoal returning and knew I would gag if I so much as touched the meat. I was in a quandary. To refuse could be considered an insult, and to eat and be ill could be as bad. I got a brainwave, come to think of it if I had a brain would I be here in the first place? Anyway when the host offered me the meat tray, I said no thank you, put my hand on my chest and sanctimoniously said ''my religion" knowing it would not be questioned.

I started to feel better, I could pick at this and that and not cause any unpleasantness. Just as I was relaxed, the host re- appeared with a twenty inch platter of sliced hard boiled eggs with a curry powder sprinkled all over. There must have being at least a hundred eggs, well maybe twenty. This was placed in front of me with the words in Arabic "especially for" which indicated nobody else was to eat them. I knew I had to make an effort and God love me I did my best. Suffice to say I could not look at an egg again for a long, long time. It seemed like days before the meal was over.

As usual, only men were present, regardless of the fact that at least some of them were Christian. The women were up on the balcony, out of sight and from time to time would break into song, singing the praise of the Sergeant and his brave men, little did they know how brave one of them really was in the battle of the eggs. We at last said our thanks and good-byes. I usually enjoyed these Arab feasts, but I was glad to be on our way home this time.