It was hot as a steambath in Beirut at 9:00 in the morning. Mount Lebanon and the Chouf range, which normally dominate the skyline over the city, were veiled by the thick sticky air.

I hopped in a car with Charles and Alaa (one a Maronite Christian, the other a Druze) and we drove out of Beirut and into the mountains to continue the week-long village campaign. Flyers, stickers, and mock ballots are being distributed to every single city and village in Lebanon. The tent-city activists are asking people to vote on whether or not they want to vote in a free and fair election on time in May.

Charles was born in Lebanon and lived in Sydney, Australia for 13 years. He speaks English - and perhaps even Arabic - with a Down Under accent. "Australia is a part of me now," he said. "But it's good to be home. I've never felt so much at home here in Lebanon as I do now."

Lebanese flags rippled in the wind out the windows of the car. Alaa played Arabic music at full blast on the CD player. A necklace with a Christian cross and a Muslim crescent fused together - Lebanon's unofficial new symbol of national unity - hung from the rearview mirror.

"I'm a Christian at heart when I'm in my house," Charles said. "But when I'm outside I am first Lebanese. During the war we Christians and Druze fought each other. But looks at us now." He gestured at Alaa.

Alaa continued for Charles. "Now we're driving around in the same car to build a new Lebanon."

You have to drive up into the mountains for 45 minutes before you see any actual nature. One dense city is stacked on top of another for several thousand feet of elevation. When you finally break out of the climbing urban sprawl, villages are still spaced closely together on the sides of the mountains. "Villages" isn't even the right word, not really. These places are small clusters of apartment towers with shops at street level. Rural Lebanon looks and feels urban - and modern. They even have Starbucks up there.

The air was cool, a refreshing change from the sauna below down at sea level. Small leftovers of snow clung for dear life on the highest peaks. The pace of human activity was dramatically reduced. I had a feeling few foreigners went up into the villages. There were no tourist hotels or resorts.

I felt a bit cautious when I stepped out of the car with Alaa and Charles. How well would an American - even one who is only observing - be received when tagging along on a subversive political campaign?

As it turned out, I did not need to worry. I kept my distance and didn't actively participate in any campaigning. Some people ignored me. Others walked up to shake my hand and asked in the friendliest possible tone of voice where I was from. No one seemed to think it the least bit unusual that an American with a notepad and a camera was tagging along. If they did, they kept their feelings well to themselves.

We went to a medical school and a hospital in one of the "villages." When the students saw us getting out of the car with a ballot box, flags, and Independence '05 stickers they mobbed us. Every single person wanted to write his or her name on a ballot and stick it in the box.

"Doesn't anyone in these towns oppose what you're doing?" I asked Charles.

"Not this time," he said. "We're not asking people to vote for the opposition. We're asking them to vote on whether or not they want to vote in a free and on-time election. They all want to vote whether they'll back our candidates or not."

It's a clever strategy, really. Even those who approve of the Syrian occupation (and yes, they do exist) support the opposition on at least this one point - free and fair elections must be held, and they must be held on time. Democratic culture is far deeper and more widespread in Lebanon that it appears from outside the country. There isn't much of an argument here about whether or not Lebanon should be a democracy. The arguments are over whether Lebanese democracy should be overseen by Syria (ahem), whether Hezbollah should be disarmed, whether Israel is an enemy, whether Lebanon is a united country or a divided country of factions, whether the so-called "war generation" should still be empowered or not, along with a whole range of smaller points of contention. But there is no serious argument about whether Lebanon should be a democracy or a dictatorship.

We went to the administrator's office at the hospital. Charles and Alaa wanted to ask if they could leave their ballot box in the waiting room.

"Come in, come in," the administrator said in perfect English.

He sat us down in soft black leather chairs.

"What do you want to drink?" he said.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm fine."

"I am the physician here," he said. "And I say you are not fine."

"In that case I'll have a coffee, please."

A nurse brought me a small cup of strong Arabic coffee that tasted vaguely of oranges.

"The Syrians don't understand this country," the administrator said. "Nobody understands this country. We want democracy here. We want to put an end to the past. They can't just go around killing people. We're not going to put up with it anymore. The Syrians thought they could get away with it forever and they were wrong."

Of course he gave Alaa and Charles permission to leave the ballot box in the waiting room. Patients, hospital employees, doctors, nurses, and medical school students all lined up to put their signature on a ballot and drop it in the box. No one shied away from the voting. Everyone grinned with satisfaction when they were finished.

A TV in the corner with the sound turned off showed a live news broadcast from downtown Beirut. Demonstrators marched through the streets carrying Lebanese national flags. Soldiers armed with machine guns watched from the sidelines. It seemed so far away from this untroubled mountain village with its cool air, its dramatic vistas, and its peaceful ways. But it was not far at all. It was only 45 minutes downhill.

Charles, Alaa, and I climbed in the car and headed back down to ground zero.