Hidden Tripoli: A Local's Guide to Lebanon's Underrated Northern Gem

There's something almost spiritual about running through a sleeping city. As someone who's logged miles across four continents, I've found dawn runs to be the most honest introduction to any new place. In Tripoli, this ritual takes on special significance.

My route begins at the Corniche, where local fishermen are already setting up for the day. The Mediterranean stretches endlessly to my right as I maintain a steady pace along the seawall. Unlike Beirut's flashier waterfront, Tripoli's Corniche feels lived-in and authentic – families gathering for early breakfast picnics, elderly men in traditional garb playing backgammon, kids diving fearlessly into the clear waters below.

As the sun climbs higher, I turn inland toward the Al-Tall Clock Tower, a remnant of Ottoman rule that serves as the city's unofficial center. From here, the 14th-century Taynal Mosque comes into view, its distinctive black and white stone pattern a testament to the Mamluk architectural influence. I slow my pace to appreciate the intricate stonework – something my Lebanese friend Ahmed calls 'meditation in masonry.'

The real magic happens when I weave through the Old City just as shopkeepers begin raising their metal shutters. The aroma of fresh bread from corner bakeries mingles with the scent of cardamom coffee brewing in tiny cups. Unlike many historic districts across the Middle East that have been polished for tourism, Tripoli's ancient core remains delightfully functional – a living, breathing ecosystem where commerce happens as it has for centuries.

For fellow runners looking to experience this side of Tripoli, I recommend bringing a compact running belt to carry essentials while keeping your hands free to snap quick photos or accept the occasional offering of fresh dates from friendly vendors.

If marathons are my first love, record hunting comes in at a close second. Tripoli's labyrinthine souks offer a crate-digger's paradise that few travelers ever discover. While most visitors stick to the main arteries of Souk al-Nahhasin (coppersmiths) and Souk al-Attarine (perfumers), I make a beeline for the lesser-known corners of Souk El-Haraj.

Tucked between a spice vendor and a traditional soap maker, Abou Hassan's record shop is easy to miss unless you know what you're looking for. The small wooden sign, faded from decades in the Lebanese sun, simply reads 'Aghani' (songs). Inside, vinyl records are stacked from floor to ceiling – a chaotic archive of Lebanon's rich musical heritage alongside imports from across the Arab world and beyond.

'You like tarab music?' Abou Hassan asks, using the Arabic term for emotionally evocative classical compositions. Before I can answer, he's already pulling out records by Fairouz and Sabah, legendary Lebanese vocalists whose voices defined an era. What makes this experience special isn't just the rare vinyl finds but the stories Hassan shares between each selection – tales of concerts held in Tripoli's historic theaters, musicians who passed through the city, and how certain songs became anthems during Lebanon's most challenging periods.

Beyond this hidden gem, Souk El-Haraj reveals itself as a microcosm of Tripoli's authentic character. Unlike the souks in more touristed cities, commerce here isn't performed for visitors but continues as it has for generations. Craftspeople hammer intricate patterns into copper, woodworkers carve elaborate designs for traditional furniture, and tailors create made-to-measure garments with techniques passed down through families.

To document these discoveries, I rely on my compact camera, which captures remarkable details in low light without disturbing the atmospheric authenticity of these ancient marketplaces. The discreet size means I can photograph respectfully without turning the experience into a tourist spectacle.

After logging miles on Tripoli's cobblestone streets and navigating its bustling souks, my marathon-trained muscles invariably crave recovery. This is where one of the city's oldest institutions becomes not just a cultural experience but a physical necessity. Hammam Al-Abed, dating back to the 17th century, offers a glimpse into traditional Lebanese bathing rituals that have remained largely unchanged for centuries.

Stepping through the unassuming entrance near Khan Al-Saboun (the soap market), you're transported to another era. The progression from cool to warm to hot chambers follows the classical Ottoman hammam design, but what makes Al-Abed special is its continued role as a community gathering space rather than a tourist attraction.

On my second visit to Tripoli, I arrived with legs still tight from running the Beirut Marathon the previous weekend. The hammam's attendant – a man who introduced himself simply as Mahmoud – seemed to recognize the familiar stiffness of a distance runner without my saying a word.

'Marathon?' he asked, pointing to my legs.

When I nodded, he guided me through a bathing ritual specifically designed for athletic recovery. The progression from the steam room to the hot marble slab where traditional soap made from Tripoli's famous olive oil is worked into a rich lather, followed by a thorough (and admittedly somewhat painful) massage targeting runner's typical trouble spots – IT bands, calves, and hamstrings.

What struck me most was how this centuries-old practice addressed modern athletic needs so effectively. While wellness tourists flock to expensive spa retreats around the world, here was ancient wisdom being applied without pretense or inflated prices. The experience costs a fraction of what you'd pay in Beirut, let alone Europe or North America.

For travelers with sensitive skin, I recommend bringing your own natural soap as an option, though I personally prefer using the local olive oil soap that Tripoli has produced for generations – it leaves your skin with a suppleness that commercial products rarely achieve.

While technically outside Tripoli proper, no authentic exploration of Lebanon's northern region would be complete without venturing into the sacred Qadisha Valley. Just an hour's drive from the city center lies one of my favorite spiritual retreats in the Middle East – the Monastery of St. Anthony of Qozhaya.

As someone who's visited monasteries across Thailand, Ethiopia, and Eastern Europe, I've developed a deep appreciation for these centers of contemplation. Qozhaya holds special significance as one of the oldest continuously inhabited monasteries in the region and home to the Middle East's first printing press in the 16th century.

The journey itself becomes part of the spiritual experience. As you leave Tripoli's urban energy behind, the landscape transforms dramatically – Mediterranean coastal plains giving way to rugged mountains until you're winding through the UNESCO-listed Qadisha Valley. The monastery appears almost organically from the cliff face, its stone structures seeming to grow from the mountain itself.

What distinguishes Qozhaya from more touristed religious sites is the genuine welcome extended to visitors of all faiths. The Maronite monks maintain a tradition of hospitality that transcends religious boundaries. During my first visit, Father Antonios invited me to join the community for a simple lunch of local olives, fresh cheese, and man'oushe (Lebanese flatbread) after learning about my interest in monastic traditions around the world.

'Running and prayer are not so different,' he observed when I mentioned my marathon background. 'Both require discipline of breath, focus of mind, and understanding of limits.'

The monastery grounds offer several walking paths that range from contemplative garden strolls to more challenging hikes into the surrounding valley. For those seeking deeper engagement, the monastery occasionally welcomes overnight guests in simple accommodations – an experience that provides rare access to the rhythms of monastic life, including pre-dawn prayers and moments of communal work.

For the hike to and around the monastery, I rely on my hiking daypack which has the perfect capacity for water, snacks, and a light layer for the cooler mountain temperatures, while maintaining a profile slim enough to navigate the narrow paths around the monastery grounds.

My fascination with malls as cultural spaces rather than mere shopping destinations began during volunteer work in Bangkok, where I discovered these climate-controlled ecosystems revealed more about local life than many tourist attractions. Tripoli's mall scene offers a similar window into contemporary Lebanese society that most travel guides completely overlook.

Palm City Center represents the newest iteration of Lebanon's mall culture – a space where multiple generations gather not just to shop but to socialize in ways that bridge traditional and modern lifestyles. Unlike Western malls focused solely on consumption, Tripoli's shopping centers function as community hubs where extended families spend entire evenings together.

On Friday nights, the food court transforms into a fascinating cross-section of Tripoli society. Conservative families break fast together during Ramadan alongside teenagers in Western fashions taking selfies. Multiple generations share meals, with grandparents in traditional dress seated beside grandchildren navigating between global and local identities.

What makes this experience particularly valuable for travelers is the opportunity to observe everyday Lebanese life away from the performative aspects that often characterize tourist-local interactions. Here, you're witnessing authentic social patterns rather than curated cultural displays.

During my last visit, I spent an enlightening evening people-watching from a corner table at the food court. A group of young men invited me to join their table after noticing me writing in my journal. What followed was a three-hour conversation about everything from Lebanese politics to their favorite basketball players, offering insights no guided tour could provide.

For travelers looking to capture these authentic moments, I recommend the smartphone gimbal which allows for smooth, unobtrusive video that documents these social spaces without disrupting their natural flow. The compact design means you can capture the energy of these gathering places while remaining respectful of those around you.