The sun along with the symphony that greets it wakes me up around 5:15. If I pulled the curtains before going to bed I might catch a few more winks, but the longer the day the happier I am and so I let daylight kick sleep away from me every morning.

First thing after washing my face, I put water on the fire for my tea while checking my mail -- that is, if my dad isn't already up and occupying my computer. Otherwise he'll be doing his workout in front of TV, watching the morning news on local channels as well as EuroNews and CNN.

This time of day until "normal" people start getting ready for work, is my privileged online time during which I can chat with my closest friends, and do some browsing while working on whatever I feel like doing – writing articles, answering emails, organizing files or finishing some of my art. From the street outside, filtered through the pine trees, the sound of hooves clapping on the pavement reaches me: I live next to the Hippodrome and the horses are taken for a walk twice a day. There are many other sounds that I might hear at this early hour: the chanted call of a fruit, fish or lottery tickets vendor; the insistent song of the cicadas that very soon will become so thick that we'll stop noticing it until the summer ends and they go back to sleep; the chatter of Sri Lankese maids who exchange news from balcony to balcony; the characteristic, plaintive-sounding horn of the gas vendor on his cart pulled by a horse; the bells and mass of any of the three nearby churches; and if it's early enough in the morning and quiet enough, the voice of a muezzin in the far distance, from an area of Beirut that has mosques. The sunrays dive directly into our dining and living rooms through the bay windows that replace our entire eastern wall, and when light reaches a certain intensity I know that my "magic hours" are over and that I should now prepare for a day in the real world.

I feed my cockatiels, frightening as I do so the families of sparrows who come to enjoy the food scattered on the balcony. They are so cheeky they enter the dining rooms or the kitchen to look for more, and I've seldom seen as absurd a sight as a fat turtledove in its delicate pinkish grey plumage sitting on top of the coffee pot wondering what rabbit hole it fell into. As we leave all balcony doors and windows open all day long because of the heat, that happens on a daily basis.

I can't have breakfast before feeding my birds, or else they will stare at me all the while with such a look of wild hope in their eyes I'll have to get up and take care of them anyway. Once that is done I can settle in the sun with food and a good book. I usually have goat cheese sprinkled with sumac in the morning, that I eat with French baguette bread, but sometimes I have sheep cheese with tomato on Lebanese bread. When I want a change I can have corn flakes, jam on toast and all that, but they're not satisfying enough for me – since I eat so early in the morning, I get hungry by noon if I don't eat my fill.

I get dressed according to the weather, which at this time of the year means sleeveless and shorts or a skirt to escape the heat. I avoid high heels because I walk a lot and that requires comfortable shoes. I can't understand how most other girls my age, in this country, do not leave home before they made themselves look like something out of a fashion magazine. My campus looks like a hangout place for models and prostitutes. I shun the popular Lebanese make-up style: it involves putting as much stuff on your skin as you can without it dripping, and it makes all Lebanese women look the same. I win another daily battle with my hair and I'm ready to go to work.

I grab my essentials (wallet, keys, cell phone) and a great deal of non-essentials that I always carry around for possible empty time (notepad, book, zip cartridge to save and bring home work I might do at work, such as this article) and my mom drives me to Future Television where I work. Of course, on the way we have to struggle with traffic, traffic agents and traffic maniacs, but we can usually make it in 15 minutes. The TV station is set in an old restored house with an imposing staircase that I climb to the animation department where I am a part-time animator. Depending on my energy level, I get there between 9 and 11. Time is the most flexible dimension in the Middle East – if once in a while I stay 3 hours instead of the 4 that are demanded from me, they will likely let it pass. I make myself some more tea and start working on my assigned SGI at my leisure while the rest of the team is still absorbed in reading the day's news or watching MTV. When I feel like it I take a break and do something else (like I'm doing now). I can have lunch anytime I feel like it but I prefer to wait for the others; we all order something, pull out drawer cases from underneath the desks and spread newspapers to make a table. We have a vast variety of delivering places to choose from: grill, Japanese, Chinese, Thai, pasta, French sandwiches, vegetarian, pizza, not to mention every sort of local food. We often order the latter as it is cheapest and the portions generous: hommos that we eat by scooping it out with pieces of bread; a whole grilled chicken that we eat with our hands after prodigally spreading garlic on it; "meat pizzas" that we order by dozens and eat with yoghurt or pressed lemon with red chilli pepper; or even "cooked food" that is dishes that one would eat at home as opposed to those usually offered in restaurants.

After lunch I go down to university for whatever I need to do there. I preferably go on foot as it's only a 15-minute walk, mostly downhill, and I need to walk through Hamra, one of the busiest streets in the city. It's enjoyable despite the heat as it allows me to look around for novelties and let myself be tempted by the goodies along the way. I walk past the massive Bank of Beirut, the Ministry of Tourism of which a guard once stopped me on the street to offer me a flower, the unpopular Pizza Hut, the much more popular Starbucks, the Body Shop, several jewellers in a row (a local tradition), the Socks Shop, Librairie Antoine, the King of Fries, Wimpy's, the M?venpick, ... I hail a cart packed high with oranges and lemons and ask for an orange juice, which the vendor squeezes for me in a flash before pushing on.

I finally reach my school, the American University of Beirut, which I enter through the Main Gate at the topmost point of campus. I make my way through the students sprawled on the large staircase enjoying a drink or cigarette, gossiping, studying, sunbathing or even just watching people pass by. Many are cuddling or feeding some of the dozens of cats lying around, while some try to keep them off their food. I walk past the Library and down Lovers' Lane to reach our department, that of Architecture and Design, installed in a building that looks like a traditional house with arabesque façade.

After university I have to leave through the gate that's at the very bottom of the hill in order to catch a bus home. Walking through it, I cross the street and find myself on the seashore. A long "Promenade des Anglais" that we call the Corniche begins some distance to my right, next to one of Beirut's two Hard Rock Caf?s, and ends kilometres away to my left, after having made its sinuous way uphill and around the Pigeon Grotto, our very own sea-carved monument. As I wait for the bus I can't resist the temptation of a caak, this hollow kind of bread suspended on carts like decorations on a Christmas tree, which the vendor opens with his thumb to fill it with a stuffing of my choice.

I am finally on the bus and out comes my book -- this is the only moment of the day where I can actually do some reading. It also helps pass the time, as it takes over half an hour for me to get home this way: the bus goes all around the city. It drops me off at the National Museum and I have to walk for a while to get home. On the way I pass a few car dealers that have gathered in the area. I grin as I pass the Nissan dealer, thinking of my cousin in Japan who saved the company, and then I have to tear myself away from the two drop-dead gorgeous Porsches that seem to be purring in the window. One last shortcut to take, past the prettiest MacDonald's I've ever seen, built of local stone and tile as it is, and I reach the quiet of my pine-bordered street.

I will likely spend the rest of the day working on something creative, unless it is a kung fu day. I don't go out often, but my friends do, taking full advantage of the busy and intense nightlife that makes Lebanon so attractive to the youth in the rest of the Middle East and the world. There's nothing the West has that we don't in that respect (other than street violence and brutal crime, that is).

As sunset light filters red into my room, exposed to the west, the songs of the birds disappear, replaced by the high-pitched chirps of dozens of bats flying madly around the buildings. It is also time for mosquitoes to start manifesting. I used to think we had a bad case of them, but after experiencing these nasty insects elsewhere in the world I changed my mind. I turn on the AC so that I won't have to sleep on top of my covers for the heat, and end a typical day of my life in Beirut.

Article © Joumana Medlej