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."