The parking-lot attendant for the Spaghetteria restaurant, West Beirut's favorite, greeted me like a long-lost friend when I ran into him the other day.

The long entrance from the road to Senetosa had been paved, submerged grass lamps lighting the way at night, and well-dressed attendants greeted all vehicles as they approached the marble steps of the entrance.

Instead, the attendant held the door for me and greeted me politely.

But a liveried attendant greeted them civilly enough and conducted them along a covered walkway to the main entrance of the inn.

This meant that attendants could greet passengers on arrival, and it helped to keep out intruders.

The dear old place was as I liked it best, quiet and peaceful with only a few tired cleaning ladies and sleepy attendants to greet me.

At the door of the sepulchral hall that had once been the elegant entrance to a town house mansion of the time of the Regent, the obsequious attendants greeted the mourners in low, oily voices.

Kimono-clad attendants greet you at the entrance (in my case, one actually came and rescued me and my dinner guests on a street corner after I phoned to say we were lost).

A smiling attendant greets him, draws up a canoe and directs him to paddle across to the elevator bank.