All the World's a Stage

Anna and I spent our first two days together in the famous bizarre, Khan Al-Khalili, tackling her massive shopping list. In Egypt, you can haggle over anything. In fact, haggling is a true art form, one that I take great pride in practicing. There is a definite sequence of events that a seasoned shopper must recognize and respect in order to earn the most bang for her buck (or ginay, as the case may be). To attract attention to their stands, the shopkeepers make inane comments such as, "Come look at dees..I have jus dee camel for you." Or, when shopping with an Asian, "con chi chi wa gah." Often, they pretend to be stricken by a potential customer's beauty (whether she actually has any or not is of minimal importance). In such cases, the following remarks are offered as a greeting: "Ya Salaam!" (Oh Wow!); "Ya Aasal "( Hey Honey); or "Ya Mousa (which sounds very much like the Arabic word for banana. I spent the first few weeks here in utter confusion, as a banana is the fruit which I resemble the least. Fortunately, my friend informed me that this greeting means "Hey Hottie").

Now, after a potential purchase has been spotted, one must inquire as to the price. When the exorbitant price is given (as it will certainly be), one must 'tut, tut' with the tongue and shake the head like a native. My favorite line in response to being quoted a tourist's price is, "What, do you think I'm a foreigner?" This usually earns me an apology and better price. Yet, there are occasional skeptics. In such cases, I conjure up a light mist in my eyes and explain that my father is Egyptian but my mother is American and wanted to rear her children in the Land of Opportunity, thus I was long deprived of claiming my native land of Egypt. After years of waiting and wanting, I have finally returned home and the least, the very least, he could do is treat me like a sister.

Now the real haggling can begin. Here there are several potential strategies. If the seller is not nice to begin with or is still trying to rip me off, I may act angry and walk away muttering about the lack of justice in the world. The preferred method, however, is to the make the seller laugh. A good sense of humour-having 'light blood'- is of immense value. There is also occasional flirting, but only in dire situations. In any case, each transaction is very much a performance, as one seller noted after a particularly laborious deal. Following an hour of price whittling, walking away, tongue-clicking and feigned indignation, we had agreed on a price for Anna's six scarves. Once the money and goods had been exchanged, our demeanor instantly changed, for the handing of the bill is the final curtain call. The masks come off, rival turns to friend, the talk about weather or politics can resume, and a cup of tea is usually offered. This particular seller even took a bow and congratulated me on a great performance. Anna, meanwhile, went home with my Oscar.

Touring the Big Mango with Anna

Anna got off the plane determined to see and photograph everything in Cairo. She had an ambitious to-do list which included a live belly-dancing performance, private belly-dancing lessons, sailing down the Nile on a felucca, riding a camel, an Egyptian cooking lesson and scuba diving in the Red Sea. We successfully checked off everything but the felucca. Apparently, Anna had envisioned a small boat with a white sail floating peacefully down a river where Pharaohs still bathed in shallow waters. Ahh, how disappointing reality can sometimes be. When she spotted the fleet of mini-ships donning flashing red chilli pepper lights and neon signs that say "Fun" and "Love", she decided that the picture on the internet had been misleading. That was Misconception Number One.

Number Two stemmed from her belief in the infallibility of her guidebook, which had recommended a cozy little place in downtown Cairo to enjoy a thoroughly Oriental night of belly-dancing. I had never heard of the club before but knew that downtown wasn't a great place for ladies to be alone at night, so we recruited two of my Egyptian male friends to accompany us. What we found was a dingy little hole in the wall with bad acoustics and even worse entertainment. A robust man in an orange suit moaned about loving some lady who apparently wasn't responding well to his bellows, while the 'belly-dancer' (who resembled Elvira with long, stringy dyed black hair and a black skin-tight dress to boot) walked around the stage as if she were competing for Mrs. Universe. To compensate for her lack of skill in her chosen profession, she substituted prancing for dancing, only stopping to shake her rear at the few men who stuffed cash in her bust. That one dance move, the rear shake, we later to learned is aptly named "the shiver."

Elvira wasn't the only one prancing. There were several prostitutes on stand-by, two of which singled out our friends Ramy and Kareem as potential customers. We were all thoroughly uncomfortable and slightly irritated at having spent money to feel very out of place and quite dirty. Anna, however, was so bent on seeing real live belly-dancing that Kareem offered the woman $20 to do something, anything, that resembled what Anna had seen in the movies. She gave him a wink and instead pulled Anna and me onstage--another clever trick to disguise her inability to dance. In an attempt to salvage the evening (and just because I like being on stage), I used the opportunity to showcase some moves I had learned from the girls at the orphanage. Anna, however, just turned red and ran back to our table. Not wanting to be mistaken for another of the Prancing Prostitutes, I was inclined to follow. After we choked down the drinks we had already paid for, we made our exit amidst pleas to return another night. Not unless I am bound and gagged will I ever see the inside of that place again. Lonely Planet will hear from me about this.

Cairo: The Good & Bad

I just spent a week looking at Cairo as if I were seeing her for the first time. My friend Anna came to visit, with Thanksgiving dinner and other essentials in tow. She brought creamed corn, themed paper plates, green beans, cranberry sauce, hand sanitizer and Stovetop Stuffing: all things she assumed could not be found in a developing country. She was right about the Stuffing. After a trip to the grocery store which hosted all the remaining items, we began to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Conspicuously absent: Sweet Potato Casserole (the man who pushes his mobile factory of baked sweet potatoes had turned in early and could not be located); Turkey (Too expensive here. Besides, why get a turkey when you can walk down the street and pick a live chicken to behead for about $3?); Milo's sweet tea (one of the Uncles Who Can't Cook always brings that; I haven't any Uncles in Cairo); and Honey Baked Ham (Ham+Muslims=Haraam...you can't find a good pig anywhere.) Thus, in the history book of Thanksgivings, this one was not the most delicious. It was, however, one of the most memorable. So, I'd like to formally thank Anna Walley for being the only person I know who would pay overage charges on her luggage to make sure I had dressing and cranberry sauce.

I'd also like to thank her for the increased taxi fares and attention that comes to those who travel with foreigners. But, most of all, I'd like to thank her for helping me to rediscover a country that captured my heart two years ago and hasn't quite loosened its grip. Playing the role of hostess to a first-time visitor, I found myself both apologetic and proud.

Egypt is no Paradise. In fact, if there were some way to measure this accurately, we'd likely find the Mother of Civilization much closer to the Hell end of the spectrum. She's dirty; closed-toed shoes are a necessity for walking Cairene streets and the poor men who sweep the streets are merely feigning productivity. She's dangerous; I am NOT talking about terrorism here or even crime. The dearth of crime is surprising and terrorism is an overused label that allows us to forget that the Middle East is brimming with people, real live human beings, who have the same lust for life as their Anglo counterparts. No, what I am referring to is traffic. The kind of traffic that makes pedestrians run across streets in prayer, just in case things don't turn out as planned. The kind that doesn't stop unless you know the magic signal (It's a hand gesture where all four fingers touch your thumb, but is ineffective unless coupled with an "I mean it" look.) The kind that often grazes my leg or backside and makes me more determined than ever to attenuate those danger areas. (Pilates can save lives if properly used.) The traffic terrified Anna, just like it did me when I was new in town. Had seeing the Giza Pyramids necessitated crossing Midaan Tahrir (the city's busiest square), I don't think she would have gone.

Cairo is also noisy; 80 percent of the background symphony hails from the aforementioned traffic. Ten percent--Allah forgive me for admitting this, but my cultural sensitivity runs short at precisely 4:45AM--comes from the Shaikh belting out the call to prayer right below my apartment five times a day, most notably before dawn. Anna noticed this immediately and began sleeping with earplugs. I can sometimes sleep through it and can even study to the sound of "Allahu Akbar...Ya Allah, Ya Allah." Nonetheless, I've made an addition to my on-going list of how to live a better life (Thank you, Dr. Magdi): "Do not rent an apartment above a mosque. If there are no other options, make certain to attend at least one call to prayer to ensure that the Shaikh has a decent voice." This rule should save me from future feelings of guilt, as I usually laugh when he fails to hit a high note. The final 10% comes from my Bowab (omnipresent doorman). Mohamed, a sweet old man who once told me that I was like his granddaughter, has suffered trauma to his esophagus from years of screaming, "I'fil il-bab!! (close the door)." His dedication is laudable; though his voice is suffering, he's still screaming and apparently the tenants are still leaving the door open.

Thus concludes my list of why I still daydream about living in Italy. Now, to be fair, I should tell you why I will fight back tears the day I leave this city.

Cairenes are funny; Not just humorous, but wet-your-pants funny. They know they've got some problems and they laugh about them all. President Mubarak suffers most from their jokes, with our own illustrious leader Mr. Bush not far behind. Example: Some crazy man flagged down my cab the other day and, upon finding out that I am an American, said he needed to ask me a serious question. Uh oh, Here we go. "Listen Sister (if you speak Arabic, sometimes you get to be a sister), I need to know something. Who do you think has a bigger ego--Bush or Mubarak?" Having just sat in a cab for two hours because Mubarak's entourage was out and about, I had to go with the Egyptian dictator of 25 years. "Ha!, scoffed the man, "Today, yes. But Bush will do something tomorrow and you'll have to change your answer." Then he got out of the cab as abruptly as he had entered it, leaving the driver and me confounded but amused.

Next on the list of reasons to love Cairo are two of Anna's favorite perks: delivery and relativity in matters of time. When anyone here says that he will meet me in the morning, he usually means around noon. We say Sabah al-Kher (good morning) until lunchtime (3-4pm). Everyone delivers: all fast food restaurants, the ritzy restaurants, coffee shops, the pharmacy, the grocer, the alcohol store, the fruit man, the peanut girl, and the lady who will wax anything you request--this is a hermit's haven. Of course, the downside to delivery is that traffic renders most meals lukewarm by the time of receipt. Fortunately, I've been here long enough to learn to laugh about problems much worse than a cold shish tawouk.

This is an abbreviated version of Anna's first impressions. Details of navigating this city with a foreigner will soon follow.

*Disclaimer: I no longer consider myself a foreigner. The moment of conversion came one month ago when I asked for change back from the taxi driver and he readily gave me the due amount. (ie, I got the Egyptian price and didn't even have to fight for it!) I made a note on my calendar: October 14th, 2006, Ava Leone became an Egyptian.

Painting on Rooftops

I was trying to hold in laughter as I sat on a worn couch staring at the monstrosities stapled to the office wall. All my life, I had dreamed of painting on rooftops. It was a quixotic little dream--I would be wearing a sunhat and scrutinizing my rendition of some beautiful Italian villa. Perhaps a man named Giovanni would bring me tea and marvel at my talent, wondering how in the world he could capture my heart.

So, when my friend invited me to ‘art therapy’, the philanthropic endeavor of a retired painter/psychologist, held weekly from his rooftop studio, I jumped at the invitation. I imagined Cairo’s intellectuals hard at work on masterpieces whilst opining about the meaning of life. The opining came naturally. As for the other part—the actual artwork….Let’s just say that I’m sticking with solving the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Since part of art therapy is therapy, I was obliged to discuss my work with the doctor. I walked into his office and sheepishly handed him my paintings (I’m using this term loosely), which he promptly stapled to the wall for us to admire in all their glory. He then told me to go sit on the couch. I would have given in to the laughter I was stifling if it weren't for the seriousness of Dr. Magdi, a distinguished looking man with impeccable manners and a soft voice. He was pacing and thinking, keeping his eyes on the wall. All his thinking made me start thinking. I began to conjure up a new dream, one where I wrote novels from rooftops instead of painting. And maybe the guy's name wasn't Giovanni, Marco was better. And why tea? I'd be in Italy, better make it wine....

After five minutes of silence and chin-stroaking, Dr. Magdi finally said "Ava, why don't you live your life?"

Excuse me? A little indignant and not eager to discuss personal matters with a stranger, I joked that I had hoped he'd recognize Michelangelo's influence in my work. He didn't laugh and said I was avoiding the question. Then he told me things about myself that I already knew but didn't care to vocalize. I won't tell them to you because you probably have been aware but just never told me. A good call, considering I likely would not have conceded any of your points. I think I can trace this reluctance to the time Jon David blurted out “you need to see a therapist.” Yet, even though he was a complete stranger—or perhaps because he was—I gave in. I was soon answering all of his questions very honestly and withholding nothing. We talked for over an hour and I left feeling a little lighter and determined to act on some of our conclusions.

Whether this retired artist/psychologist really knows what he's doing or not, I can't guess. What I do know is that I get a tremendous amount of pleasure from people's reactions when I begin sentences with, "My therapist says....."

Friendship, Sisterhood and Yogurt

Female relationships are very important in this male-dominated society. I've discovered that, among women, the ice is often broken much faster than at home. I've been fortunate to meet some very special people in the past two months, many who are friends and a few who consider themselves my sisters. For now, I'll tell you about two of them, both named Doaa. One is a conservative 22 year old Mohagiba (she wears Islamic hijab) and the other is a five year old who looks a bit like a boy and likes sitting in cardboard boxes.

I met the younger Doaa one night when she was sitting with her mother in their usual spot on my street, illegally selling Kleenex (she's one step up from a beggar--at least she has goods to sell). I was walking past one night and overheard her asking for zabedy (yogurt) while her mother told her that she couldn't buy it. Not tonight, but maybe another day. I stopped, asked the woman if I could buy the yogurt for her daughter, and she consented. I had intended to buy it and bring it back to her, but Doaa wanted to walk with me. She said nothing all the way to the store and back, save a barely audible 'Shukrun' forced out of her by her mother. The next day, she cried when her mother wouldn't let her walk with me as I passed. We finally pacified her with yogurt, and thus established a routine. Every night, when Doaa sees me, she yells Zabedy! and we walk to the same store to buy a cup of yogurt. She is a no-frills kind of girl--no fruit, no granola, just plain yogurt. Three weeks after our initial trek to the store, she finally asked me who I was. I reminded her of my name, which she never uses. She replied, "No, your name is Zabedy and you are my friend." I didn't argue.

I met the elder Doaa because I looked lost at the Metro station and she offered directions. We chatted on the way to downtown Cairo, and by the time we arrived at our stop,, she had invited me to Iftar with her family for the following week. After meeting me again at the Metro, we had to take a microbus to her neighborhood. Microbuses are the worst kind of Egyptian public transport, with as many people piled in one small white van as humanly possible, yet they are also the cheapest. The entire way to her house, she warned me that the area was 'shaabia'--very poor. She wasn't kidding.

She lives with her mother and brother in a 2 room flat that costs about $5 a month to rent. As the guest of honor, I sat with Doaa at the table while her brother and mother took their meals on newspaper laid on the floor. After dinner and lively conversation (where her mom shamelessly inquired about my rent, as I live in one of Cairo's nicer areas), I was called into the bedroom/kitchen and handed the telephone without explanation. Doaa's mother had called her relatives to tell them about me. I spoke with two aunts and a cousin for no other reason than she was proud to have me in her home.

After a few neighbors dropped by to meet me and a series of pictures were taken, Doaa took me on a tour to meet her friends. Four houses later, I was almost sick from all the tea, juice and cookies that were put before me. I met parents, cousins, brothers and the town gossip. At each house, people wanted to know what America was like and if I loved Egypt. Not like--love. As I was engaged in a conversation with her friend's brother, I overheard Doaa whispering to her best friend: "She didn't even mind the house. She just acted like it was normal. And when I brought her here in the microbus, she wasn't scared. And, Ma'sha allah, she ate really well!" Affirmation-- I suppose we all crave it but are surprised when it's given freely.

As we traveled back to the Metro stop on the crowded micro-bus, Doaa asked me three times if I really enjoyed her family and friends. Then she finally forgot to be amazed and just started talking. We actually have a lot in common and conversation, save my occasional language blunders, flowed easily. Before I got on the train to go back to my apartment, she became very serious and said she needed to ask me something. "Will you come back?" Of course! I answered. She squeezed my hand: "We're sisters now."