Isn't it funny how in the most mundane of moments you realize that you are changed?
The other day I was walking with Andrew to the bus stop in front of the National Research Center here in Dokki. We were walking, as many people here do, shoulder to shoulder in the middle of a tiny, dusty alleyway lined with piles of rotting garbage and rain puddles that are dubious in the fact that it has not rained here since January. As we were walking and talking, from behind us there came a car horn. Like Pavlov's dogs, we immediately veered to the far left side of the road in single file, hugging the parked cars as we went, never breaking stride or looking back at the approaching car. The tiny Fiat rumbled by, casually bumping my hip as it did so. I did not flinch.
A few seconds later I realized what had happened, realized I had not even been conscious of the honk, the move, the bump.
Car horns have become my proverbial ringing bell.
PS..Y'all have been waiting for over a year for a post with this title. Eat it up.
Showing posts with label Diasporadic thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Diasporadic thoughts. Show all posts
Home is Wherever I'm With You
I always find myself writing about this sense of otherness that came along with my move to the Middle East. I'm always waxing romantic about how different everything is; singing the praises of the alien, the unusual, and the foreign.
Today I'm going to do something different.
Today, I've revelling in the beauty of constant, unchanging sameness. Care to step out of my comfort zone with me? Yalla!
Growing up in an Army family where the conversational prelude of "We have something we need to tell you, dear" didn't lead into the typical 90's "We're getting a divorce" soulcrusher, but rather the devastating "We're moving. Again."talk, a framed cross-stitch always hung in the entryway of every house we occupied. Carefully stitched into the white cotton was a quant blue tudor overflowing with cardboard boxes. A moving truck was parked in front. The words "Home is where the Army sends us" were stitched across the top.
My parents raised my brothers and I with the phrase "home is where the heart is" etched into our brains. It was their way of combatting the post-PCS "I want to go home" tearfests.
"But you are home," my mother would placate, "because you're with me, and your dad, and your brothers. Home is where the heart is, and I hope your heart is with us."
My heart has since been divvied up and dispersed to dozens of people in dozens of different countries over a period of many years. Ever now and then, a piece makes its way back.
If you've been reading for a while, you're probably familiar with Romani. He was my adorable Sudani Resident Director in the Zamalek dorms last Spring. In fact, one of the first nights I went out in Egypt, we stopped to wait for the bus back to campus in the dorms and saw his picture hanging on the Res Life bulletin board. I said, "I want to be his friend!". Call me a creep, but a few months later, he was one of my best friends. Most every night of last semester was spent clubbing, smoking shisha, or watching movies with Romani, his best friend Ahmed, and Becky and Megan.
Romani graduated in June, and, before I got a chance to say goodbye, moved back to Khartoum. I spent a lot of time this summer trying to come to terms with the fact that one of my best friends had gone somewhere I could not follow and I hadn't even gotten to say farewell. I had nearly accepted that I would never see him again.
Yesterday, I checked my cell phone upon waking up after a particularly blurry night on a felucca. At first I thought my eyes deceiving me- still too punchdrunk on sub-par Egyptian beer and the flashing neon lights of the boat to be trusted. I blinked once, twice, three times and the name was still flashing on the screen: Missed Call from Romani.
Emotions crashed over me in rapid succession. Elation. Disbelief. Confusion. It was his Egyptian number I had a missed call from, right? Right. Are you sure it's not his Sudanese number? Positive. Only fools are positive. Shit. No, he definitely called from Egypt. Why is he here? Is he staying?
I called him back. We made plans to meet up. I got ready, and bided my time at a house party until we were set to meet to go out. Suddenly, there he was. Lots of hugging ensued. Were it not for the four Stellas pumping through my system, I'm sure there would have been tears as well.
And then there we were, in Purple, a club we used to frequent with our old group of friends. Me, Ahmed, and Romani, sipping Belvedere-spiked Sprite, chainsmoking, and dancing to David Guetta. Romani is moving back to Cairo. I leaned my head on his shoulder to hear his voice over the throbbing techno. I laughed with he and Ahmed as we recounted the crazy nights we had shared before. We drank to the two members of our group who had moved on. And then it hit me.
Despite everything that had changed since we had last seen each other- the engagements, birthdays, graduations, ups and downs-everything suddenly felt the same again. Here we were, in a familiar place, with friends who had turned into family, watching yet another Cairene night segue into morning...together.
I'm a girl who likes things to be different, to be strange, to be new and exciting. But I welcomed that deep, comfortable familiarity that warmed my veins more thoroughly than the vodka ever could with open arms. I looked at my friends and smiled. A piece of my heart has come back to Cairo.
And it feels like home.
Today I'm going to do something different.
Today, I've revelling in the beauty of constant, unchanging sameness. Care to step out of my comfort zone with me? Yalla!
Growing up in an Army family where the conversational prelude of "We have something we need to tell you, dear" didn't lead into the typical 90's "We're getting a divorce" soulcrusher, but rather the devastating "We're moving. Again."talk, a framed cross-stitch always hung in the entryway of every house we occupied. Carefully stitched into the white cotton was a quant blue tudor overflowing with cardboard boxes. A moving truck was parked in front. The words "Home is where the Army sends us" were stitched across the top.
My parents raised my brothers and I with the phrase "home is where the heart is" etched into our brains. It was their way of combatting the post-PCS "I want to go home" tearfests.
"But you are home," my mother would placate, "because you're with me, and your dad, and your brothers. Home is where the heart is, and I hope your heart is with us."
My heart has since been divvied up and dispersed to dozens of people in dozens of different countries over a period of many years. Ever now and then, a piece makes its way back.
If you've been reading for a while, you're probably familiar with Romani. He was my adorable Sudani Resident Director in the Zamalek dorms last Spring. In fact, one of the first nights I went out in Egypt, we stopped to wait for the bus back to campus in the dorms and saw his picture hanging on the Res Life bulletin board. I said, "I want to be his friend!". Call me a creep, but a few months later, he was one of my best friends. Most every night of last semester was spent clubbing, smoking shisha, or watching movies with Romani, his best friend Ahmed, and Becky and Megan.
Romani graduated in June, and, before I got a chance to say goodbye, moved back to Khartoum. I spent a lot of time this summer trying to come to terms with the fact that one of my best friends had gone somewhere I could not follow and I hadn't even gotten to say farewell. I had nearly accepted that I would never see him again.
Yesterday, I checked my cell phone upon waking up after a particularly blurry night on a felucca. At first I thought my eyes deceiving me- still too punchdrunk on sub-par Egyptian beer and the flashing neon lights of the boat to be trusted. I blinked once, twice, three times and the name was still flashing on the screen: Missed Call from Romani.
Emotions crashed over me in rapid succession. Elation. Disbelief. Confusion. It was his Egyptian number I had a missed call from, right? Right. Are you sure it's not his Sudanese number? Positive. Only fools are positive. Shit. No, he definitely called from Egypt. Why is he here? Is he staying?
I called him back. We made plans to meet up. I got ready, and bided my time at a house party until we were set to meet to go out. Suddenly, there he was. Lots of hugging ensued. Were it not for the four Stellas pumping through my system, I'm sure there would have been tears as well.
And then there we were, in Purple, a club we used to frequent with our old group of friends. Me, Ahmed, and Romani, sipping Belvedere-spiked Sprite, chainsmoking, and dancing to David Guetta. Romani is moving back to Cairo. I leaned my head on his shoulder to hear his voice over the throbbing techno. I laughed with he and Ahmed as we recounted the crazy nights we had shared before. We drank to the two members of our group who had moved on. And then it hit me.
Despite everything that had changed since we had last seen each other- the engagements, birthdays, graduations, ups and downs-everything suddenly felt the same again. Here we were, in a familiar place, with friends who had turned into family, watching yet another Cairene night segue into morning...together.
I'm a girl who likes things to be different, to be strange, to be new and exciting. But I welcomed that deep, comfortable familiarity that warmed my veins more thoroughly than the vodka ever could with open arms. I looked at my friends and smiled. A piece of my heart has come back to Cairo.
And it feels like home.
Pieces of Me
Travel is revered as the Great Enricher; that endeavor of all endeavors which somehow makes you more of a person: more than what you were, more self-aware, culturally sensitive, worldly, empathetic, knowledgable. This is not to say that travel has not done these things for me: I would be a radically different person were it not for growing up all over the world, and spending most of the past few years in North Africa. It has made me more than that which I consisted of before, broadened my perspective, given me a much-needed dose of humility. At times it has left me breathless, speechless, in tears, embarrassed, confused- a multitude of emotions, some of which I have yet to pinpoint with an arbitrary name which would only detract from their complexity.
But sometimes travel does more than that. It opens your eyes to a world you had only dreamed about before. It absorbs you into itself, makes you a part of it, of the journey, of the heartbeat of a world beyond the scope of the world you knew only moments before. Therein lies the problem.
Africa- North Africa- has captured my heart in so powerful a manner that sometimes I feel as if my very soul has been split in two. A part of me knows that my home, however long I am away from it, is in America. I was raised to be a Southern belle, woman who stands behind her country, her family, her values, and her football team at every turn. One half of my soul will always belong to the haze of booze-imbued fraternity parties, of sundresses on Saturdays, of family dinners and vintage cigars on the back porch with my dad as we gaze out over the twinkling lights of the Tennessee valley below. But half of my soul has been led away to the barren corners of the world, sandy wastelands stretching as far as the eye can see, the suffocating crush of humanity as hijab-clad women and chainsmoking men hurry from here to there, a world where the language dances, lilting on the night air until I am left with a sing-song headache. I have chased the proverbial dragon here to live a life of adventure, of constant boundary-pushing, nerve-wracking, heart-wrenching discovery. It was been wonderful.
But sometimes, like Saturday night as I watched the grainy image of Trent Richardson streaking down a football field 5,000 miles away, I begin to wonder how much of myself I gave up for this adventure. It is a sacrifice than can never be undone. Whether I like it or not, I have given so much of myself, of my former self, to this region that it can never be reclaimed. When I am here, I miss the part of myself I left behind in America. When I am in America, I spend nights lying awake wishing for the clamor of street vendors and car horns and calls to prayer that never come. It seems to me now that I will always be missing half of myself, no matter where in the world I am. It is in these moments of introspection that I have to shake myself awake from the dreamlike possibility that I may never be whole again. Until it is possible for me to be in two places at once, to be two people at once, to wholly embrace two conlicting lifestyles at once, I may never be a complete version of myself.
And yet, looking at a rare patch of empty inky black sky, unmarred my the reflection of city lights, of airliners, of skyscrapers, as I walk down the dusty alleyway that leads to the front door of my house, I can't help but think that I would much rather be half a person, if that half a person can have the best of both worlds as I do. There is a man and a family waiting for me in a country far away, where Wal-Marts dot the highway and football dominates autumn headlines. There is a campus in the desert of one of the most ancient, historically rich civilizations in the world where I feel that anything is possible. Rather than make me more, travel has torn me into two halves of what was formerly a whole person. But each half is better than what it was when it were whole because of the places it has been and the things it has seen. And, if one day I can figure how to reconcile those two halves into one complete, capable adult...well, I'll be pretty damn cool.
But sometimes travel does more than that. It opens your eyes to a world you had only dreamed about before. It absorbs you into itself, makes you a part of it, of the journey, of the heartbeat of a world beyond the scope of the world you knew only moments before. Therein lies the problem.
Africa- North Africa- has captured my heart in so powerful a manner that sometimes I feel as if my very soul has been split in two. A part of me knows that my home, however long I am away from it, is in America. I was raised to be a Southern belle, woman who stands behind her country, her family, her values, and her football team at every turn. One half of my soul will always belong to the haze of booze-imbued fraternity parties, of sundresses on Saturdays, of family dinners and vintage cigars on the back porch with my dad as we gaze out over the twinkling lights of the Tennessee valley below. But half of my soul has been led away to the barren corners of the world, sandy wastelands stretching as far as the eye can see, the suffocating crush of humanity as hijab-clad women and chainsmoking men hurry from here to there, a world where the language dances, lilting on the night air until I am left with a sing-song headache. I have chased the proverbial dragon here to live a life of adventure, of constant boundary-pushing, nerve-wracking, heart-wrenching discovery. It was been wonderful.
But sometimes, like Saturday night as I watched the grainy image of Trent Richardson streaking down a football field 5,000 miles away, I begin to wonder how much of myself I gave up for this adventure. It is a sacrifice than can never be undone. Whether I like it or not, I have given so much of myself, of my former self, to this region that it can never be reclaimed. When I am here, I miss the part of myself I left behind in America. When I am in America, I spend nights lying awake wishing for the clamor of street vendors and car horns and calls to prayer that never come. It seems to me now that I will always be missing half of myself, no matter where in the world I am. It is in these moments of introspection that I have to shake myself awake from the dreamlike possibility that I may never be whole again. Until it is possible for me to be in two places at once, to be two people at once, to wholly embrace two conlicting lifestyles at once, I may never be a complete version of myself.
And yet, looking at a rare patch of empty inky black sky, unmarred my the reflection of city lights, of airliners, of skyscrapers, as I walk down the dusty alleyway that leads to the front door of my house, I can't help but think that I would much rather be half a person, if that half a person can have the best of both worlds as I do. There is a man and a family waiting for me in a country far away, where Wal-Marts dot the highway and football dominates autumn headlines. There is a campus in the desert of one of the most ancient, historically rich civilizations in the world where I feel that anything is possible. Rather than make me more, travel has torn me into two halves of what was formerly a whole person. But each half is better than what it was when it were whole because of the places it has been and the things it has seen. And, if one day I can figure how to reconcile those two halves into one complete, capable adult...well, I'll be pretty damn cool.
Out for a Walk
I pull the front door closed behind me and amble out into Sharia' Musadak. It's dark except for the glittering multi-colored Ramadan lamps hanging in every doorway. A mother in a black abaya and niqab waddles past, a dirty child clinging to each of her hands. Her eyes crinkle, almost disappearing, and I can tell that under her veil she is smiling, content after having just eaten iftar, the meal eaten after sunset during Ramadan, the breaking of the daily fast. A shopkeeper has placed chairs in the middle of the sidewalk, where he and his friends sit lazily chewing kanafeh, chatting amicably about this and that. Two teenage boys make their way down the road, each laden with a flexible woven basket filled to overflowing with small fireworks for Ramadan. Every now and then, there is a soft bang! and a colorful spark shoots a few inches off the pavement, quickly replaced by a cloud of smoke. Passers-by smile good-naturedly and keep moving; there are places to go: errands to run now that the sun is down and the shops are open, friends to visit and to wish a happy Ramadan.
I've slept most of the day- an easy way to keep the fast in a city where so many eating establishments are closed until sunset- but despite the fact that I've only been awake for a few hours, I'm suddenly fatigued. Conversations is hurried Arabic buzz around me, assaulting my eardrums; my brain is too overwhelmed to translate today. For the past few days I have kept myself isolated in the oasis of my dusty house: a place where the internet sites I visit and the TV shows I watch are in my native tongue, and while I am in that cocoon I nearly forget the strain of constantly translating everything I hear twice over in my mind: Egyptian Arabic to formal Arabic, formal Arabic to English. When I reach the kiosk that is my destination, I meekly place my purchases on the counter atop the displays of Twinkies and Chipsies. I can offer nothing more to the owner than a crisp one hundred pound note and a weak smile. Through the fog of my ennui I can only manage a feeble "shukran" for him today. I start the two block walk back to my house, faster than before, eager to reenter my bubble of comfort. A rickety black taxi clips my swinging arm as it edges down the street crowded with double rows of parallel-parked Peugeots and Fiats on both sides. I barely notice. I keep my eyes straight ahead as an oversized SUV slows down and the two teenagers inside call out to me in broken English, telling me I am beautiful. I don't feel beautiful in my baggy green Phi Mu t-shirt and wrinkly jeans.
The smell of freshly-grilled corn and overripe fruit fills my nostrils, wafting over from the corner of Ansar Street, manned by two old hijabi women who invariably greet me with disapproving looks day in and day out. I carefully step around a pile of rotting garbage and another of black sludge. Another bang! followed by a pop and raucous laughter from a group of teenage boys perennially perched on the hood of a car parked conveniently in front of a convenience shop, just in case any gastronomical needs should arise during the course of their laborious catcalling and generally innocent-enough hoodlum-ry. Finally I pass through the ancient gate of my apartment building, down a brightly lit alleyway, and fit the key into my comically tiny door. I walk inside and am greeted by the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the sound of Sublime lamenting their inability to remember what they did the previous night. I sigh contentedly and collapse into my armchair.
Tonight, I am happy to be alone in the calm clutter of my house. Tonight I will take a break from cultural sensitivity. Tonight I will listen to music sung in English and laugh at websites detailing the stupid antics of college kids. Tonight I will order Hardees and drink Coca Cola. Tomorrow I will get back to the mental strain of constant translation, of appreciating the culture and the history of this country.
But tonight, I'm content to idle.
I've slept most of the day- an easy way to keep the fast in a city where so many eating establishments are closed until sunset- but despite the fact that I've only been awake for a few hours, I'm suddenly fatigued. Conversations is hurried Arabic buzz around me, assaulting my eardrums; my brain is too overwhelmed to translate today. For the past few days I have kept myself isolated in the oasis of my dusty house: a place where the internet sites I visit and the TV shows I watch are in my native tongue, and while I am in that cocoon I nearly forget the strain of constantly translating everything I hear twice over in my mind: Egyptian Arabic to formal Arabic, formal Arabic to English. When I reach the kiosk that is my destination, I meekly place my purchases on the counter atop the displays of Twinkies and Chipsies. I can offer nothing more to the owner than a crisp one hundred pound note and a weak smile. Through the fog of my ennui I can only manage a feeble "shukran" for him today. I start the two block walk back to my house, faster than before, eager to reenter my bubble of comfort. A rickety black taxi clips my swinging arm as it edges down the street crowded with double rows of parallel-parked Peugeots and Fiats on both sides. I barely notice. I keep my eyes straight ahead as an oversized SUV slows down and the two teenagers inside call out to me in broken English, telling me I am beautiful. I don't feel beautiful in my baggy green Phi Mu t-shirt and wrinkly jeans.
The smell of freshly-grilled corn and overripe fruit fills my nostrils, wafting over from the corner of Ansar Street, manned by two old hijabi women who invariably greet me with disapproving looks day in and day out. I carefully step around a pile of rotting garbage and another of black sludge. Another bang! followed by a pop and raucous laughter from a group of teenage boys perennially perched on the hood of a car parked conveniently in front of a convenience shop, just in case any gastronomical needs should arise during the course of their laborious catcalling and generally innocent-enough hoodlum-ry. Finally I pass through the ancient gate of my apartment building, down a brightly lit alleyway, and fit the key into my comically tiny door. I walk inside and am greeted by the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the sound of Sublime lamenting their inability to remember what they did the previous night. I sigh contentedly and collapse into my armchair.
Tonight, I am happy to be alone in the calm clutter of my house. Tonight I will take a break from cultural sensitivity. Tonight I will listen to music sung in English and laugh at websites detailing the stupid antics of college kids. Tonight I will order Hardees and drink Coca Cola. Tomorrow I will get back to the mental strain of constant translation, of appreciating the culture and the history of this country.
But tonight, I'm content to idle.
Yin and Yang
Life, as I realize more and more everyday, is about balance. It is a constant ebb and flow, a give and take, about giving one thing up in the hopes that you will gain something even greater.
Right now, I'm learning to balance the things I want out of life. to change the image of myself I've created without leaving behind the passion I had for the image I used to have. It's something I've been learning to do ever since I left Alabama: there, I was a snobby, elitist princess in a prestigious Old Row sorority who filled nearly every night of the week with binge drinking, indiscriminant flirting, grinding on some random fraternity boy with too much of daddy's money at his disposal to the sounds of middle-aged rockers singing in a giant concrete garage of a fraternity house while wearing a dress that cost far too much money to have beer haphazardly spilled across it and shoes that would, by the end of the night, be covered in some unknown gooey black substance which seems to only reside on Bourbon Street and in fraternity band rooms. It was all incredibly excessive and unnecessary. But you know what? It was a shitload of fun. And even when I knew I had had enough of it, it was so hard to give up the carefree University of Alabama Greek life in which I was so comfortable, despite knowing that it was absolutely, 100% not for me, not who I was anymore. I felt like I was stagnating- even though there was a new boy every night, a new dress, a new hangover remedy, a new horror story of a date gone horribly wrong or a drunken encounter with a hobo, essentially I was just repeating the same day over and over, and it was no longer fun or exciting, it was exhausting. And expensive. And finally, by my sophomore year, it all just seemed completely stupid. So I gave it up, and took a giant leap of faith and moved to the Middle East.
In so many ways, it was the best thing I ever did for myself. I landed right in the middle of a giant city, with a new culture and a new language and a thousand sights and sounds to stimulate me out of my Natty Light haze of the previous two years. But even the greatest feat of balance has a few instabilities, a few unexpected this and thats which swing the scale back out of equilibrium and dangerously toward the mistakes of the past. Somehow, in a conservative Muslim country, after five months in Egypt, I found myself back in the same pattern I had fled halfway across the globe to escape, only this time the fraternity house was an upscale Cairo club, the open bar became hundreds of pounds worth of Stellas, and none of the many boys I filled my days and nights with spoke with a Southern drawl. And as happy as I was with my location geographically, I was not happy with where I was personally. I had gotten one piece of the puzzle right, but there were other scales that needed to be tipped, other sacrifices to be made in the pursuit of happiness.
Just as I gave up the football-imbued glory of Tuscaloosa for the grimey, smoggy cacophony of Cairo, I need to give up the thrill of the chase of a momentary conquest for the stability and enduring comfort of monogamy. This is a transition which both excites me to no end, but also makes me break out into a cold sweat. Monogamy takes work. It takes work when you are sleeping in the same bed with your partner every night. It takes even more work when you live 5,000 miles apart. Panic sequence initiated. Wandering eyes, booze-soaked inhibitions, instinct to run before anything can go wrong? Fully operational.
But this is where another balancing act comes into play.
I want adventure. I thrive on it- which probably explains why I moved to a new continent and began a new life in a place known for its unpredictability and dubious safety. But being adventurous is lonely. At the end of the day, I'm a woman. I'm a twenty-something woman whose heart is positively screaming for domesticity, whose bioilogical clock has been electrified into overdrive, whose body aches to have someone -not just any someone, the same someone, day in and day out- hold it as sleep laps around the periphery of my mind each night. I had always thought adventure and monogamy were mutually exclusive; to have one I would have to forsake the other. To satisfy my wanderlust, I would have to be alone with no deep-rooted love digging into the earth somewhere, tying me down and chaining me to another person, to a home, to a job, to a place I knew I could not belong because I don't belong anywhere...I don't belong to one place or house or country, I belong to the journey and the thrill of going somewhere...everywhere. Balancing my need to go with my need to be deeply loved and appreciated was something I aspired to ultimately, but never thought feasible.
The funny thing about life is that when you stop looking for something, it usually shows up on your doorstep. The great equalizing force of my balancing act showed up in my dorm room on the arm of my roommate when I was barely 18. I will gladly give up the unfulfilling pipedream that has been the Tuscaloosa/Cairo dating scene, the procession of men who fail to move my soul, to share my dreams, to chase that elusive I'm finally here feeling of my journey with me for the one who doesn't want to end my adventures, but rather to join me on them- to be a teammate, a partner, a co-pilot in my obsessive wandering. And somehow, in him, I have found the weight that counterbalances my journey to be loved with my love of the journey.
And balance is restored to the universe.
Right now, I'm learning to balance the things I want out of life. to change the image of myself I've created without leaving behind the passion I had for the image I used to have. It's something I've been learning to do ever since I left Alabama: there, I was a snobby, elitist princess in a prestigious Old Row sorority who filled nearly every night of the week with binge drinking, indiscriminant flirting, grinding on some random fraternity boy with too much of daddy's money at his disposal to the sounds of middle-aged rockers singing in a giant concrete garage of a fraternity house while wearing a dress that cost far too much money to have beer haphazardly spilled across it and shoes that would, by the end of the night, be covered in some unknown gooey black substance which seems to only reside on Bourbon Street and in fraternity band rooms. It was all incredibly excessive and unnecessary. But you know what? It was a shitload of fun. And even when I knew I had had enough of it, it was so hard to give up the carefree University of Alabama Greek life in which I was so comfortable, despite knowing that it was absolutely, 100% not for me, not who I was anymore. I felt like I was stagnating- even though there was a new boy every night, a new dress, a new hangover remedy, a new horror story of a date gone horribly wrong or a drunken encounter with a hobo, essentially I was just repeating the same day over and over, and it was no longer fun or exciting, it was exhausting. And expensive. And finally, by my sophomore year, it all just seemed completely stupid. So I gave it up, and took a giant leap of faith and moved to the Middle East.
In so many ways, it was the best thing I ever did for myself. I landed right in the middle of a giant city, with a new culture and a new language and a thousand sights and sounds to stimulate me out of my Natty Light haze of the previous two years. But even the greatest feat of balance has a few instabilities, a few unexpected this and thats which swing the scale back out of equilibrium and dangerously toward the mistakes of the past. Somehow, in a conservative Muslim country, after five months in Egypt, I found myself back in the same pattern I had fled halfway across the globe to escape, only this time the fraternity house was an upscale Cairo club, the open bar became hundreds of pounds worth of Stellas, and none of the many boys I filled my days and nights with spoke with a Southern drawl. And as happy as I was with my location geographically, I was not happy with where I was personally. I had gotten one piece of the puzzle right, but there were other scales that needed to be tipped, other sacrifices to be made in the pursuit of happiness.
Just as I gave up the football-imbued glory of Tuscaloosa for the grimey, smoggy cacophony of Cairo, I need to give up the thrill of the chase of a momentary conquest for the stability and enduring comfort of monogamy. This is a transition which both excites me to no end, but also makes me break out into a cold sweat. Monogamy takes work. It takes work when you are sleeping in the same bed with your partner every night. It takes even more work when you live 5,000 miles apart. Panic sequence initiated. Wandering eyes, booze-soaked inhibitions, instinct to run before anything can go wrong? Fully operational.
But this is where another balancing act comes into play.
I want adventure. I thrive on it- which probably explains why I moved to a new continent and began a new life in a place known for its unpredictability and dubious safety. But being adventurous is lonely. At the end of the day, I'm a woman. I'm a twenty-something woman whose heart is positively screaming for domesticity, whose bioilogical clock has been electrified into overdrive, whose body aches to have someone -not just any someone, the same someone, day in and day out- hold it as sleep laps around the periphery of my mind each night. I had always thought adventure and monogamy were mutually exclusive; to have one I would have to forsake the other. To satisfy my wanderlust, I would have to be alone with no deep-rooted love digging into the earth somewhere, tying me down and chaining me to another person, to a home, to a job, to a place I knew I could not belong because I don't belong anywhere...I don't belong to one place or house or country, I belong to the journey and the thrill of going somewhere...everywhere. Balancing my need to go with my need to be deeply loved and appreciated was something I aspired to ultimately, but never thought feasible.
The funny thing about life is that when you stop looking for something, it usually shows up on your doorstep. The great equalizing force of my balancing act showed up in my dorm room on the arm of my roommate when I was barely 18. I will gladly give up the unfulfilling pipedream that has been the Tuscaloosa/Cairo dating scene, the procession of men who fail to move my soul, to share my dreams, to chase that elusive I'm finally here feeling of my journey with me for the one who doesn't want to end my adventures, but rather to join me on them- to be a teammate, a partner, a co-pilot in my obsessive wandering. And somehow, in him, I have found the weight that counterbalances my journey to be loved with my love of the journey.
And balance is restored to the universe.
Spectre
Sometimes I feel like a ghost, wandering through the places that meant something to me a lifetime ago, stopping in to visit old friends, my stays so brief they're often left wondering if I was ever really there. Like a shadow of my old self, a figment of humanity, I've spent the summer lingering in a world I've moved on from. It's been a strange two months, walking the line between my old self and my new self, wobbling on a tightrope, trying to keep them both intact, both a part of me- trying not to let one destroy the other.
My weekend in Tuscaloosa sent me rushing back in time, and with every familiar face I ran into, the hurts seemed fresh again, the memories like they had happened yesterday, the drama like it actually mattered.
I woke up this morning in a familiar bed, but as the $1 draft and Baby Bomb stupor of the night before began to evaporate, nothing looked the same as it had before the sun came up.
I am not that girl anymore.
Realizing that was a revelation; a relief.
However, with that epiphany comes a new a puzzle. That girl got lost somewhere along the way- perhaps on some trans-Atlantic flight, or in a blazing orange desert, or in the arms of a man from a faraway place; perhaps she disintegrated into the lingering laugh of brown-skinned teenagers carelessly hurling clumsy sexual advances in her direction in a crowded bazaar, or in the backseat of a rickety black cab streaking through narrow openings on an overflowing freeway. But if she and I are not the same person anymore, the disturbing question remains: who am I now?
I'll let you know when I figure it out.
My weekend in Tuscaloosa sent me rushing back in time, and with every familiar face I ran into, the hurts seemed fresh again, the memories like they had happened yesterday, the drama like it actually mattered.
I woke up this morning in a familiar bed, but as the $1 draft and Baby Bomb stupor of the night before began to evaporate, nothing looked the same as it had before the sun came up.
I am not that girl anymore.
Realizing that was a revelation; a relief.
However, with that epiphany comes a new a puzzle. That girl got lost somewhere along the way- perhaps on some trans-Atlantic flight, or in a blazing orange desert, or in the arms of a man from a faraway place; perhaps she disintegrated into the lingering laugh of brown-skinned teenagers carelessly hurling clumsy sexual advances in her direction in a crowded bazaar, or in the backseat of a rickety black cab streaking through narrow openings on an overflowing freeway. But if she and I are not the same person anymore, the disturbing question remains: who am I now?
I'll let you know when I figure it out.
Ma Salaama, Masr
Tonight I leave CAI at 4:15am to fly back to Atlanta via Amsterdam.
I'll be in the States until July 28, and I get back to Cairo on July 30 [ughhh].
In the meantime, I'll be bouncing around all over the States.
I'll be between our two houses in Atlanta and Huntsville, and on June 18 my mom and I are flying to Las Vegas to celebrate my 21st birthday with 4 days [in the desert; cuz yall know how much I love it, haha] of alcohol, fun, and sun [mumkin gambling and a few hookers too? Just kidding, I think.].
Then I'll be heading to Virginia Beach the last week of June, and up to DC for an AUC reunion with Katie, Becky, Megan, Will, and Jake. After that, I'll go back to Virginia Beach for a few more days of fun with my best friends from high school/the high school sweetheart.
Finally, at some point in July Dooler and I will be meeting up and going down to New Orleans to see Frankie and Peter and hang out on Bourbon Street [legally!].
It's gonna be a great vacation, and I'm so excited to see my family and friends in America.
I'll be updating every now and then, but probably not as much as I do while I'm in Egypt. Of course, I'll catalog all the culture shock that comes with going back to such a liberal place from Egypt. But other than that, you can expect a lot of silence.
I'll see y'all in July, readers! Have a great summer!
I'll be in the States until July 28, and I get back to Cairo on July 30 [ughhh].
In the meantime, I'll be bouncing around all over the States.
I'll be between our two houses in Atlanta and Huntsville, and on June 18 my mom and I are flying to Las Vegas to celebrate my 21st birthday with 4 days [in the desert; cuz yall know how much I love it, haha] of alcohol, fun, and sun [mumkin gambling and a few hookers too? Just kidding, I think.].
Then I'll be heading to Virginia Beach the last week of June, and up to DC for an AUC reunion with Katie, Becky, Megan, Will, and Jake. After that, I'll go back to Virginia Beach for a few more days of fun with my best friends from high school/the high school sweetheart.
Finally, at some point in July Dooler and I will be meeting up and going down to New Orleans to see Frankie and Peter and hang out on Bourbon Street [legally!].
It's gonna be a great vacation, and I'm so excited to see my family and friends in America.
I'll be updating every now and then, but probably not as much as I do while I'm in Egypt. Of course, I'll catalog all the culture shock that comes with going back to such a liberal place from Egypt. But other than that, you can expect a lot of silence.
I'll see y'all in July, readers! Have a great summer!
History repeats itself
It's kitten season in Cairo.
Cairo is a city of 20 million people and 20 billion cats [I counted]. When I decided to get an apartment with a backyard, I unknowingly adopted a family of cats as well.
There is a humorous assortment of abandoned furniture in my backyard, and the other day I was sitting in my living room, smoking no doubt, when I heard frenzied mewing coming from outside. I rushed to my backyard, and discovered a litter of kittens milling about the base of an old dresser on unsteady little legs. Since then, I have been the vigilant protector of the kittens, most notably acting like a ridiculous white girl waving my arms and yelling to keep away the evil, gigantic, kitty-hungry crows who live in my backyard tree and frequently inch up to the kittens trying to look inconspicuous and un-hungry, much like a stranger in a car offering a 3rd grader candy.
Last night I decided the best way to send off my two best friends would be to have a small get-together at my apartment. After a few frenzied shopping trips, four of us arrived in Dokki piled down with beer, Kahlua, ID vodka, milk, and aluminum foil [or "silver paper"..Egyptians get straight to the point when they name things, don't they?] for my brand new shisha. As soon as we opened my apartment door, I heard an urgent mewing from the backyard. Called again to serve and protect, I grabbed Megan and sprinted to the backyard. But this kitten was not in the dresser, or anywhere around in it. After playing a bizarre interspecies game of Marco Polo, I was led to an old cardboard box on the opposite side of the yard from the dresser. Inside was a tiny white kitten, one of the adorable babies I have spent the past week protecting. In true Cairo alley-cat style, it was dirty beyond belief, so much so that its little eyes were crusted shut. Because I have little to no self control, I scooped the pathetic little thing up.
Upon further investigation, it seemed the [utterly negligent] mother cat and the other kittens had disappeared from the backyard completely.
So the little kitten set adrift in a tattered box came inside. We named him Moses.
After spending several hours musing over how he possibly could have gotten into the box by himself, trying to keep him warm, and Googling furiously, we realized we had no way to keep Moses alive. Kitten formula? Pshh. This is Cairo. Eyedropper? You might as well ask for a teleporter [which, coincidentally, I have asked for on several occasions since moving to this side of the world..] in this city. Tears sprang to my eyes as the realization dawned on me: Moses was a runt, and had been abandoned, and there was nothing I could do to help him. Sipping on my beer and taking a drag of shisha, I tried desperately to think of something we could do with him.
Just as all hope seemed lost, a scratching on my living room door alerted us to the reappearrance of Mother Cat, who will henceforth be known as Dina Lohan. Quickly, we raced outside with Moses and pushed him under the dresser, crossed our fingers, said a prayer that Dina Lohan would take him back, and went back to sipping our beer with our ears open should tiny Moses call us.
Two hours later, his tiny mews pulled me from my shisha stupor and all four of us bolted to the back door. There was Moses, toddling around by the dresser with his sister as Dina Lohan looked on from a few feet away. Relief flooded me, and I sent up a silent "thank you" to Bast [Google it; this is Egypt, people] and returned to the living room with my beer.
"Well, this was certainly not on par with our wild nights in Cairo..taking care of an orphaned kitten is hardly the appropriate sendoff, is it?" Said Megan as I hugged her goodbye for what turned out to be one of the last times as she picked up her things to go shortly thereafter.
Wiping away a tear and hugging the other two hard, holding on to the smell and the feel of them for as long as I could before they vanished into the dusty night, I looked at Megan and let out a tiny laugh, "It's the most appropriate ending there's ever been. Moses came to lead you out of Egypt."
Cairo is a city of 20 million people and 20 billion cats [I counted]. When I decided to get an apartment with a backyard, I unknowingly adopted a family of cats as well.
There is a humorous assortment of abandoned furniture in my backyard, and the other day I was sitting in my living room, smoking no doubt, when I heard frenzied mewing coming from outside. I rushed to my backyard, and discovered a litter of kittens milling about the base of an old dresser on unsteady little legs. Since then, I have been the vigilant protector of the kittens, most notably acting like a ridiculous white girl waving my arms and yelling to keep away the evil, gigantic, kitty-hungry crows who live in my backyard tree and frequently inch up to the kittens trying to look inconspicuous and un-hungry, much like a stranger in a car offering a 3rd grader candy.
Last night I decided the best way to send off my two best friends would be to have a small get-together at my apartment. After a few frenzied shopping trips, four of us arrived in Dokki piled down with beer, Kahlua, ID vodka, milk, and aluminum foil [or "silver paper"..Egyptians get straight to the point when they name things, don't they?] for my brand new shisha. As soon as we opened my apartment door, I heard an urgent mewing from the backyard. Called again to serve and protect, I grabbed Megan and sprinted to the backyard. But this kitten was not in the dresser, or anywhere around in it. After playing a bizarre interspecies game of Marco Polo, I was led to an old cardboard box on the opposite side of the yard from the dresser. Inside was a tiny white kitten, one of the adorable babies I have spent the past week protecting. In true Cairo alley-cat style, it was dirty beyond belief, so much so that its little eyes were crusted shut. Because I have little to no self control, I scooped the pathetic little thing up.
Upon further investigation, it seemed the [utterly negligent] mother cat and the other kittens had disappeared from the backyard completely.
So the little kitten set adrift in a tattered box came inside. We named him Moses.
After spending several hours musing over how he possibly could have gotten into the box by himself, trying to keep him warm, and Googling furiously, we realized we had no way to keep Moses alive. Kitten formula? Pshh. This is Cairo. Eyedropper? You might as well ask for a teleporter [which, coincidentally, I have asked for on several occasions since moving to this side of the world..] in this city. Tears sprang to my eyes as the realization dawned on me: Moses was a runt, and had been abandoned, and there was nothing I could do to help him. Sipping on my beer and taking a drag of shisha, I tried desperately to think of something we could do with him.
Just as all hope seemed lost, a scratching on my living room door alerted us to the reappearrance of Mother Cat, who will henceforth be known as Dina Lohan. Quickly, we raced outside with Moses and pushed him under the dresser, crossed our fingers, said a prayer that Dina Lohan would take him back, and went back to sipping our beer with our ears open should tiny Moses call us.
Two hours later, his tiny mews pulled me from my shisha stupor and all four of us bolted to the back door. There was Moses, toddling around by the dresser with his sister as Dina Lohan looked on from a few feet away. Relief flooded me, and I sent up a silent "thank you" to Bast [Google it; this is Egypt, people] and returned to the living room with my beer.
"Well, this was certainly not on par with our wild nights in Cairo..taking care of an orphaned kitten is hardly the appropriate sendoff, is it?" Said Megan as I hugged her goodbye for what turned out to be one of the last times as she picked up her things to go shortly thereafter.
Wiping away a tear and hugging the other two hard, holding on to the smell and the feel of them for as long as I could before they vanished into the dusty night, I looked at Megan and let out a tiny laugh, "It's the most appropriate ending there's ever been. Moses came to lead you out of Egypt."
It's very nice to just wander
The camel route to Iraq
It's oh so nice to just wander
But it's so much nicer, yes it's oh so nice, to wander back
Dooler, Frankie, Megan, and Becky, I love you all. Thank you for being such strong, inspiring women, each in your own way, and helping me to grow and learn so much this year. Know you always have a home in Cairo.
[Welcome to all of my new readers who found their way here via Yes and Yes!]
Reflections on my first year at AUC
I smoked too much.
I drank too much.
I didn't cry enough, even when I needed to.
I didn't find my Prince Charming- American, Egyptian, Mauritian, Honduran, Indian, or otherwise.
[...but really, who's looking?]
I didn't study enough.
But I did gallop an Arabian stallion fast as it could go through the desert, in the shadow of the pyramids at sunrise.
I held a lion cub.
I went to Dahab three times.
I went to Alexandria, Hurghada, Bahariyya, and Port Said.
I spent Thanksgiving in Jordan and Easter in Turkey.
I learned how to navigate my way through Cairo.
I camped in the desert.
I camped on my bedroom floor.
I mummified a chicken.
I caught swine flu from an ostrich.
I went spelunking in a pyramid that dates back to before Christ.
I saw my first Egyptian obelisk...in Istanbul.
I had my heart broken by someone I thought would be in my life forever.
I fell in love.
I fell out of love.
I missed home.
I stoped missing home.
I started missing home again.
..and then, Egypt became home.
I stayed out dancing until sunrise- alot.
I got alcohol poisoning.
I swam in the Red, Dead, and Med[iterranean] Seas.
I rode lots of camels, a stallion, a donkey..and a giant tortoise.
I met people who would give me the shirts off their backs.
I made friends who will be in my [proverbial] wedding.
I realized I'm stronger than I ever knew.
I learned a little about history, a little about literature, a lot about bureaucracy, and even more about myself.
I was changed.
I will never be the same.
Thanks, AUC. It's been an amazing, incredible, heartbreaking, eye-opening year.
Two more years of this? I think I can live with that.
I drank too much.
I didn't cry enough, even when I needed to.
I didn't find my Prince Charming- American, Egyptian, Mauritian, Honduran, Indian, or otherwise.
[...but really, who's looking?]
I didn't study enough.
But I did gallop an Arabian stallion fast as it could go through the desert, in the shadow of the pyramids at sunrise.
I held a lion cub.
I went to Dahab three times.
I went to Alexandria, Hurghada, Bahariyya, and Port Said.
I spent Thanksgiving in Jordan and Easter in Turkey.
I learned how to navigate my way through Cairo.
I camped in the desert.
I camped on my bedroom floor.
I mummified a chicken.
I caught swine flu from an ostrich.
I went spelunking in a pyramid that dates back to before Christ.
I saw my first Egyptian obelisk...in Istanbul.
I had my heart broken by someone I thought would be in my life forever.
I fell in love.
I fell out of love.
I missed home.
I stoped missing home.
I started missing home again.
..and then, Egypt became home.
I stayed out dancing until sunrise- alot.
I got alcohol poisoning.
I swam in the Red, Dead, and Med[iterranean] Seas.
I rode lots of camels, a stallion, a donkey..and a giant tortoise.
I met people who would give me the shirts off their backs.
I made friends who will be in my [proverbial] wedding.
I realized I'm stronger than I ever knew.
I learned a little about history, a little about literature, a lot about bureaucracy, and even more about myself.
I was changed.
I will never be the same.
Thanks, AUC. It's been an amazing, incredible, heartbreaking, eye-opening year.
Two more years of this? I think I can live with that.
Maturity
Ok, I officially feel like a grownup.
Today, I negotiated and signed a lease in Arabic for my first grown-up apartment in Cairo. That's right- after a year of no booze and no boys allowed, I am finally moving into a real apartment!
I found a great place in Dokki: a groundfloor 2 bedroom/1 bath flat with a private entrance and a private backyard. It has brand new furniture, a brand new oven and washer, AC, and satellite TV. It also has a full dining room set, is pet friendly, and the master bedroom is huuuuge. It's also a two-minute walk from a Metro station which will take me to the AUC bus stop in Tahrir, or a fifteen-minute walk from the Dokki bus stop.
I feel so grown up, and so in awe that my parents trusted me to find and negotiate on an apartment halfway across the world. I am so blessed that they are so supportive of me, to the point of rushing around last-minute making sure the funds were in order for the downpayment from half a world away. I am absolutely dumbstruck that I was somehow lucky enough to be born into such an amazingly supportive family. Also, my friends Becky and Megan were great about going apartment hunting with me, and being my voices of reason when I got too swept up in the excitement of a new place.
My landlady doesnt speak much English, but I'm trying to see that as an added bonus: by having to communicate with her on a semi-regular basis, I will be improving my Arabic since I don't have room in my class schedule to take Arabic classes anymore.
Have I mentioned I did this all after not sleeping for 30+ hours? I hate to sing my own praises, but I'm really proud of myself.
Anyway, I move in tomorrow at 3pm and will probably spend the rest of the weekend getting settled. And if you were wondering, yes, this means I will be spending most of the summer in Cairo. At the end of May I will go home and stay for about 5 weeks [my mom is taking me to Vegas to celebrate my 21st birthday!] before I head back to the sandbox in the first half of July.
Phew! That's a lot of news! Yall take some time to digest that, readers, while I start packing up my dorm room [I might actually miss it a little] and then promptly pass out.
Pictures to come soon!
salaam wa hubb,
Danielle
ps- completely unrelated, but i officially must have these leggings.
http://www.veinticuatrodientes.com/mediaspalabras02.html
Today, I negotiated and signed a lease in Arabic for my first grown-up apartment in Cairo. That's right- after a year of no booze and no boys allowed, I am finally moving into a real apartment!
I found a great place in Dokki: a groundfloor 2 bedroom/1 bath flat with a private entrance and a private backyard. It has brand new furniture, a brand new oven and washer, AC, and satellite TV. It also has a full dining room set, is pet friendly, and the master bedroom is huuuuge. It's also a two-minute walk from a Metro station which will take me to the AUC bus stop in Tahrir, or a fifteen-minute walk from the Dokki bus stop.
I feel so grown up, and so in awe that my parents trusted me to find and negotiate on an apartment halfway across the world. I am so blessed that they are so supportive of me, to the point of rushing around last-minute making sure the funds were in order for the downpayment from half a world away. I am absolutely dumbstruck that I was somehow lucky enough to be born into such an amazingly supportive family. Also, my friends Becky and Megan were great about going apartment hunting with me, and being my voices of reason when I got too swept up in the excitement of a new place.
My landlady doesnt speak much English, but I'm trying to see that as an added bonus: by having to communicate with her on a semi-regular basis, I will be improving my Arabic since I don't have room in my class schedule to take Arabic classes anymore.
Have I mentioned I did this all after not sleeping for 30+ hours? I hate to sing my own praises, but I'm really proud of myself.
Anyway, I move in tomorrow at 3pm and will probably spend the rest of the weekend getting settled. And if you were wondering, yes, this means I will be spending most of the summer in Cairo. At the end of May I will go home and stay for about 5 weeks [my mom is taking me to Vegas to celebrate my 21st birthday!] before I head back to the sandbox in the first half of July.
Phew! That's a lot of news! Yall take some time to digest that, readers, while I start packing up my dorm room [I might actually miss it a little] and then promptly pass out.
Pictures to come soon!
salaam wa hubb,
Danielle
ps- completely unrelated, but i officially must have these leggings.
http://www.veinticuatrodientes.com/mediaspalabras02.html
"Hey! Guys! No touching the ancient inscriptions!"
On the 20th, I took a field trip with my Egyptology class to Dahshur, Memphis, and Saqqara to play in the pyramids. Of course, spending half of my weekend on a class trip was not ideal for me, but I suppose if you have to, spending Saturday spelunking in pyramids dating back thousands of years before Christ isn't terrible. First, we visited the Red [or Northern] Pyramid at Dahshur. We rode an hour into the palm tree forests, through rural villages, and finally out into the desert to one of the lesser visited pyramids, which was blissfully almost tourist-free. Looming in the smog, one could just decipher the famous Bent Pyramid on the horizon. We hiked about a third of the way up the Red Pyramid, built by King Sneferu. Standing at the entrance and already panting, I cursed my cigarettes and chugged water. It would only get worse.
Upon entering the pyramid, one begins a gradual descent through a passage roughly three feet high and three feet wide, at a 40 degree angle. This causes one to crouch in a terribly uncomfortably position and shimmy down a ladder-like ramp into the hot, dank dark for hundreds of feet. I was not prepared for the heat. It has nearly 100 degrees outside in the desert, but for some reason I expected the tomb to be chilly. Instead, it was hot and humid and I was pouring sweat. The smell that greets you as you step out of the passage into the corbelled receiving room is terrible: something like rubbing alcohol and mothballs; it is certainly not a stretch to believe that a dead body lay here and decomposed for thousands of years. In addition, as one might expect, it was difficult to breathe. Beyond the smell and the humidity, the shaft we had just come down was the only source of air, and my breathing was labored. Panicking slightly, I made my way to the tomb, but there was not much to see; much of it had been torn apart my earlier explorers who were sure there was more to the tomb than what met the eye..but they were wrong, and sadly, desecrated the ancient tomb for no reason.
I never imagined the scorching desert heat would be a welcome sensation, but after emerging from the heat of the pyramid, it was a relief. My legs were already on fire from the descent and corresponding climb back to the world of the living. Grateful for rudimentary air conditioning, I boarded the bus for Memphis. Honestly, Memphis, once the capital of ancient Egypt, was not very interesting. We toured a statuary garden and then headed to Saqqara. There we toured a museum, where I had my first run-in with a mummy [I know, I know, I've been in Egypt since August and just now saw my first mummy..it's a shame]. Afterwards, we toured the Step Pyramid complex. Built for King Djoser, it was the world's first pyramid, and though not a "true" pyramid, was also the first man-made structure constructed completely of stone. Finally, we continued to a small, collapsed pyramid, which we entered. This was not as taxing as the Red Pyramid. The descent was shorter and the passage larger, and there is believed to be another air source lying undiscovered somewhere within the tomb, so it is cooler and easier to breathe. The draw to this otherwise unremarkable, and even pitiful looking, pyramid, is the hieroglyphs which are still beautifully intact on the walls and ceilings of the tombs. It is literally awe-inspiring to look at something long-dead hands etched into solid stone to act as a resurrection machine for a king. Stars dot the ceilings, etched there to recreate the night sky to which the king would ascend to become an "imperishable star" and also to denote royalty.
Finally, we entered the mastaba of Mereuka, filled with beautiful carvings depicting every aspect of life, and beautiful Nile scenes, where hippos and crocodiles battled and men fished and sailed. In some places, the original paint used by the ancients was still visible. The urge to touch something so old and enduring was almost overwhelming, but I controlled myself. Others didn't, and our teacher was not thrilled.
"Hey! Guys! No touching the ancient inscriptions!"
Sweaty, smelly, and covered in dust older than Christ [...literally], I got off the bus in Tahrir Square, where Becky and Megan were waiting on me to go to Khan al-Khalili, our favorite market, and also the site of a terrorist attack last year. We had a special errand to run. You see, we have a ghost. His name is Gus, and he comes to visit every other day or so. He knocks things down, breaks things, pulls my posters off of the wall, and hangs out with Becky when I'm not around. No, I'm not kidding. So there I am, disgusting and all Lara Croft:Tomb Raider-ed out, in Khan al-Khalili shopping for the biggest evil eye I can find to keep the ghost out of our room. Really> This is my life.
Only in Egypt. Oh, Masr.
Upon entering the pyramid, one begins a gradual descent through a passage roughly three feet high and three feet wide, at a 40 degree angle. This causes one to crouch in a terribly uncomfortably position and shimmy down a ladder-like ramp into the hot, dank dark for hundreds of feet. I was not prepared for the heat. It has nearly 100 degrees outside in the desert, but for some reason I expected the tomb to be chilly. Instead, it was hot and humid and I was pouring sweat. The smell that greets you as you step out of the passage into the corbelled receiving room is terrible: something like rubbing alcohol and mothballs; it is certainly not a stretch to believe that a dead body lay here and decomposed for thousands of years. In addition, as one might expect, it was difficult to breathe. Beyond the smell and the humidity, the shaft we had just come down was the only source of air, and my breathing was labored. Panicking slightly, I made my way to the tomb, but there was not much to see; much of it had been torn apart my earlier explorers who were sure there was more to the tomb than what met the eye..but they were wrong, and sadly, desecrated the ancient tomb for no reason.
I never imagined the scorching desert heat would be a welcome sensation, but after emerging from the heat of the pyramid, it was a relief. My legs were already on fire from the descent and corresponding climb back to the world of the living. Grateful for rudimentary air conditioning, I boarded the bus for Memphis. Honestly, Memphis, once the capital of ancient Egypt, was not very interesting. We toured a statuary garden and then headed to Saqqara. There we toured a museum, where I had my first run-in with a mummy [I know, I know, I've been in Egypt since August and just now saw my first mummy..it's a shame]. Afterwards, we toured the Step Pyramid complex. Built for King Djoser, it was the world's first pyramid, and though not a "true" pyramid, was also the first man-made structure constructed completely of stone. Finally, we continued to a small, collapsed pyramid, which we entered. This was not as taxing as the Red Pyramid. The descent was shorter and the passage larger, and there is believed to be another air source lying undiscovered somewhere within the tomb, so it is cooler and easier to breathe. The draw to this otherwise unremarkable, and even pitiful looking, pyramid, is the hieroglyphs which are still beautifully intact on the walls and ceilings of the tombs. It is literally awe-inspiring to look at something long-dead hands etched into solid stone to act as a resurrection machine for a king. Stars dot the ceilings, etched there to recreate the night sky to which the king would ascend to become an "imperishable star" and also to denote royalty.
Finally, we entered the mastaba of Mereuka, filled with beautiful carvings depicting every aspect of life, and beautiful Nile scenes, where hippos and crocodiles battled and men fished and sailed. In some places, the original paint used by the ancients was still visible. The urge to touch something so old and enduring was almost overwhelming, but I controlled myself. Others didn't, and our teacher was not thrilled.
"Hey! Guys! No touching the ancient inscriptions!"
Sweaty, smelly, and covered in dust older than Christ [...literally], I got off the bus in Tahrir Square, where Becky and Megan were waiting on me to go to Khan al-Khalili, our favorite market, and also the site of a terrorist attack last year. We had a special errand to run. You see, we have a ghost. His name is Gus, and he comes to visit every other day or so. He knocks things down, breaks things, pulls my posters off of the wall, and hangs out with Becky when I'm not around. No, I'm not kidding. So there I am, disgusting and all Lara Croft:Tomb Raider-ed out, in Khan al-Khalili shopping for the biggest evil eye I can find to keep the ghost out of our room. Really> This is my life.
Only in Egypt. Oh, Masr.
Constructions of Masculinity in the Modern Middle East in Comparison to the Western World
When someone refers to a man who is inherently masculine, what vignette is conjured in your mind? If you are from the West, particularly America, chances are that a physically fit, morally sound, silent-but-strong, somewhat reserved man with few effeminate characteristics springs to mind. For me, I picture my father: a soldier, solidly built, reserved, quiet, yet inherently intimidating; a silent enforcer, well groomed without particular attention to sartorial pursuits, who engages in "manly" activities: physical fitness, a steady job, fixing things, being the head of the household and ruling with a firm yet gentle hand. Of course, as American society evolves and changes, this concept of masculinity changes- for some, masculinity means a rustic-type man who hunts, drives a truck, and enjoys hands-on tasks. For others, the word can evoke a Wall Street banker: successful, busy, who wears a smart suit and carries a briefcase as he earns the salary which will provide for his children, wife, and any mistresses he may have, a la Tiger Woods. While the details are interchangeable, depending upon one's social status, income, and geographical location (one is much more likely to associate owning a rifle with "manliness" in the southeast United States than someone from the West Coast, who may tend to associate a Bluetooth headset and a Rolex wristwatch more with the masculine identity).
However, after having spent the better part of the past few years in the Arab world- Morocco and Egypt with excursions to Jordan and, very shortly, Turkey- my idea of masculinity is slowly changing. Some of the most innately masculine men I have encountered here share very few of the attributes I once considered essential to the characteristic repertoire of a male. Masculinity here means something altogether different than in the Western world. In America, would a man with oil-drenched hair, a prominently displayed pot belly, chest hair spilling out of his open button-down, tighter-than-necessary pants, a unibrow, glittering jewelry- especially in the form of rings, shiny black dress shoes, gingerly smoking a water pipe be considered the archetype of a "man's man"? Probably not. In fact, most of the men I have recently found myself drawn to here in Egypt would be considered "metrosexual" at best in the context of American society. They belly-dance in public; sing at the top of their lungs; hug, kiss, and even hold hands with other men in public; they have no problem straddling another man, very closely, in close crotch-to-butt proximity, on the back of a dilapidated motorcycle weaving through Cairo traffic. But somehow, these are some of the most inherently "manly" men I have ever encountered. How is this? I have been pondering this question for quite some time, and I'm not sure I fully understand it yet.
For one, these men are, cliché as it may sound, completely comfortable with their sexuality. Of course, this is the way in which they have been raised, but beyond that, they exude such an innate bravado that posturing or acting "macho" is rendered completely unnecessary. There is no societal taboo on holding another man close in an embrace. This could be for several reasons:
1. Such close public contact between men and women is prohibited- since this kind of public affection is forbidden, or haram, who, then, can you share your affections with? Should one live a solitary public existence, completely devoid of physical contact or expressions of warmth? Of course not! There's Mohammed, the shopkeeper; and Mostafa, the doorman, and Ali, the friend of your cousin's wife who you met once, at their wedding.
2. The post-colonial remnant of European occupation- France and the British Empire at one time or another controlled large portions of North Africa and the Middle East. When a people are colonized, it is inevitable they will adopt some of the customs of their colonizers. This comfort with what could, in other spheres, be construed as evidence of sexual deviance from the norm, may perhaps be a mannerism introduced into the Middle Eastern social scene by their European conquerors. Which raises another point: if the Middle East is (mistakenly in large part, might I add) considered archaic, backwards, and stagnant socially, politically, and economically, why do they retain European traits, which are considered too "progressive" or "liberal" for many in the United States? But I digress..
3. The alleged "lack of homosexuals" in the Middle East- if there are no homosexuals in Muslim countries as the governments claim, there is no fear in being accused of being gay ifyou act on familiar terms with another man in public. After all, the posturing that occurs in America between men is restricted largely due to a machismo desire to avoid being called "gay" or having their sexuality, their most prized possession, questioned in any way. Without that threat, why not express your fondness for your friend Ahmed in the public domain?
But without regard as to the reason for this social anomaly, how is it possible that even to me, a woman raised in the US and filled with American concepts of sexuality and the like, these Arab men can still be so completely manly, sexy, and desirable? Perhaps because, as a student of Middle Eastern culture, I am aware that while a man may exhibit some less-than-manly behaviors in the public sphere, one can be absolutely certain that he (assuming he is of an earlier generation than my own) is nothing short of paradigm of masculine strength and vigor at home, where most Arab men rule their homes with an iron fist: unquestioned, immovable, the be-all end-all of their family's world. They expect their wives to submit and cater to their needs, their children to obey without question, and their servants to perform their duties perfectly and without prompting. Also, the abundance of testosterone, as evidenced in the staggering amount of body hair, can't hurt their case, can it?
I'm sure to revisit this topic, because it is endlessly fascinating to me, and as my familiarity with Arab society grows, I'm sure my perception of this phenomenon will continue to evolve.
What are your thoughts, my dears?
However, after having spent the better part of the past few years in the Arab world- Morocco and Egypt with excursions to Jordan and, very shortly, Turkey- my idea of masculinity is slowly changing. Some of the most innately masculine men I have encountered here share very few of the attributes I once considered essential to the characteristic repertoire of a male. Masculinity here means something altogether different than in the Western world. In America, would a man with oil-drenched hair, a prominently displayed pot belly, chest hair spilling out of his open button-down, tighter-than-necessary pants, a unibrow, glittering jewelry- especially in the form of rings, shiny black dress shoes, gingerly smoking a water pipe be considered the archetype of a "man's man"? Probably not. In fact, most of the men I have recently found myself drawn to here in Egypt would be considered "metrosexual" at best in the context of American society. They belly-dance in public; sing at the top of their lungs; hug, kiss, and even hold hands with other men in public; they have no problem straddling another man, very closely, in close crotch-to-butt proximity, on the back of a dilapidated motorcycle weaving through Cairo traffic. But somehow, these are some of the most inherently "manly" men I have ever encountered. How is this? I have been pondering this question for quite some time, and I'm not sure I fully understand it yet.
For one, these men are, cliché as it may sound, completely comfortable with their sexuality. Of course, this is the way in which they have been raised, but beyond that, they exude such an innate bravado that posturing or acting "macho" is rendered completely unnecessary. There is no societal taboo on holding another man close in an embrace. This could be for several reasons:
1. Such close public contact between men and women is prohibited- since this kind of public affection is forbidden, or haram, who, then, can you share your affections with? Should one live a solitary public existence, completely devoid of physical contact or expressions of warmth? Of course not! There's Mohammed, the shopkeeper; and Mostafa, the doorman, and Ali, the friend of your cousin's wife who you met once, at their wedding.
2. The post-colonial remnant of European occupation- France and the British Empire at one time or another controlled large portions of North Africa and the Middle East. When a people are colonized, it is inevitable they will adopt some of the customs of their colonizers. This comfort with what could, in other spheres, be construed as evidence of sexual deviance from the norm, may perhaps be a mannerism introduced into the Middle Eastern social scene by their European conquerors. Which raises another point: if the Middle East is (mistakenly in large part, might I add) considered archaic, backwards, and stagnant socially, politically, and economically, why do they retain European traits, which are considered too "progressive" or "liberal" for many in the United States? But I digress..
3. The alleged "lack of homosexuals" in the Middle East- if there are no homosexuals in Muslim countries as the governments claim, there is no fear in being accused of being gay ifyou act on familiar terms with another man in public. After all, the posturing that occurs in America between men is restricted largely due to a machismo desire to avoid being called "gay" or having their sexuality, their most prized possession, questioned in any way. Without that threat, why not express your fondness for your friend Ahmed in the public domain?
But without regard as to the reason for this social anomaly, how is it possible that even to me, a woman raised in the US and filled with American concepts of sexuality and the like, these Arab men can still be so completely manly, sexy, and desirable? Perhaps because, as a student of Middle Eastern culture, I am aware that while a man may exhibit some less-than-manly behaviors in the public sphere, one can be absolutely certain that he (assuming he is of an earlier generation than my own) is nothing short of paradigm of masculine strength and vigor at home, where most Arab men rule their homes with an iron fist: unquestioned, immovable, the be-all end-all of their family's world. They expect their wives to submit and cater to their needs, their children to obey without question, and their servants to perform their duties perfectly and without prompting. Also, the abundance of testosterone, as evidenced in the staggering amount of body hair, can't hurt their case, can it?
I'm sure to revisit this topic, because it is endlessly fascinating to me, and as my familiarity with Arab society grows, I'm sure my perception of this phenomenon will continue to evolve.
What are your thoughts, my dears?
Twofer
This weekend was ridiculous. I figured moving to the city would make going out and having fun in Cairo easier, and boy...I was right.
Thursday night, me, Becky, Megan, Romani, Joe and his friend Remy from Bahrain decided to go out and have some fun. We left the apartment a little after midnight and headed to our favorite bar, Hurriya, where they have 8 LE Stellas, and proceeded to get drunk. When [our dear friend and beer-tender] Milad finally kicked us out around 3am, shisha at Pottery Cafe was the obvious next step. Fast forward to 6:30am, when we finally found our way back to the dorms and promptly ordered KFC. We crawled into bed around 8am and slept Friday away.
Exhausted from the previous night's adventure, we opted to stay in Friday night. After a quick trip to Metro to stock up on popcorn and other necessities, we spent the better part of the next 3 hours watching Romani [the Resident Director here in Zamalek] attempt to hook up a laptop to the big screen in the lobby so we could watch Sweeney Todd. Rarely have I been prouder of a boy than I was when he finally succeeded in syncing the two up. We watched Sweeney Todd, ordered some Papa John's, then watched some bizarre music videos until 4am. Did you know Akon did a collaboration in Arabic? Hello, awesomeness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYPeGvYEJpI
We slept again all day Saturday, and were planning on getting a good night's rest Saturday night since we have school Sunday. But alas, it was not to be. Frankie invited us out for a felucca ride with a few friends, and, thinking it would be an hourlong thing, we said sure. We showed up in Garden City at 9:30 and ended up boarding a yacht with about 30 random people- friends of friends of friends. Lots of alcohol-fueled ridiculousness ensued. Finally, around 3am, I looked around and thought, it's 3am. I have a bus to catch at 9:30. It's a school night. And I'm on a yacht in the middle of the f------ Nile drinking Stella and chainsmoking. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!
Having a damn good time, apparently.
My life is ridiculous.
The bad news from this weekend: my beloved 12 year old golden retriever Cody died on Saturday. Living in the alternate universe I inhabit here, I don't think it's totally hit me yet. He was a dear, dear friend. We had had him since I was in the 4th grade and he and I went through so much together. There's no telling how many hundreds of tears I sobbed into his fur over the years. I will miss him terribly.
Another recent development: I have become really, ridiculously insecure, seemingly overnight. I have always been a fairly confident person. But suddenly, I am so consumed with self-doubt it's nearly debilitating. Some of this has to do with the Murphy debacle [recap: Murphy was one of my three best friends in college. My sophomore year, we briefly dated. We decided it was a bad idea and I feel head over heels for my other best friend and his roommate, Kenny. Murphy had a hard time dealing with this and cut me out of his life. We reconciled days before I moved to Egypt and everything was great. Once I got back to the States in December, however, he decided once again that we shouldn't be friends, and told me, much to my surprise that we "haven't been friends for nearly a year". That was news to me.]. Because I was so taken aback by this, and because I thought things between us were fine, I am suddenly completely unsure of all of my relationships. I am constantly wondering if my friends are really my friends, or if they feel obligated to hang out with me. Even when I'm hanging out with my best friends here, I'm wondering if they would rather be somewhere else, if they like me at all. Let it be known: I have amazing friends. Becky and Megan picked me up from the airport when I flew back in to Cairo, Frankie brought me my favorite cigarettes all the way from Amsterdam, and Sachi, Joe, and Romani are the first people to come to my aid if I need anything, day or night. I can feel my insecurities straining my friendships, but a large part of me keeps nagging...if Murphy, your nearest and dearest, felt that way about you and you had no clue, what makes you think these people really like you? It's terrible, and I hate the needy, clingy person it's made me.
Other insecurities have arisen too. It is no secret that I like to have fun; I love nothing more than to waste away and evening drinking, being vulgar, talking about football, shaking my ass, and being silly. However, it seems people have begun to equate this light-heartedness for light-headedness. Two of my best friends routinely have intellectual conversations about the Middle East right in front of me, and blatanly leave me out of them, and I've begun to feel like maybe they think that because I'm not as serious as they are, perhaps I'm not as smart as they are, either. It's really started to get to me, but instead of piping up and defending my intellect, I've started doing something I've never, ever done before: wonder if maybe I am stupid. I mean sure, I know about a lot of things, but I'm not an expert in any one topic. It's a bizarre feeling; after being so confident in myself for so long, suddenly starting to wonder what my worth is on so many different levels. It's frustrating.
Ugh. Enough of my pity party. This is a travel blog, not a therapist's office.
If you need a lift after that depressing entry, here's the most bizarre music video EVER for your enjoyment:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kypb12ezLVE
Love.
Thursday night, me, Becky, Megan, Romani, Joe and his friend Remy from Bahrain decided to go out and have some fun. We left the apartment a little after midnight and headed to our favorite bar, Hurriya, where they have 8 LE Stellas, and proceeded to get drunk. When [our dear friend and beer-tender] Milad finally kicked us out around 3am, shisha at Pottery Cafe was the obvious next step. Fast forward to 6:30am, when we finally found our way back to the dorms and promptly ordered KFC. We crawled into bed around 8am and slept Friday away.
Exhausted from the previous night's adventure, we opted to stay in Friday night. After a quick trip to Metro to stock up on popcorn and other necessities, we spent the better part of the next 3 hours watching Romani [the Resident Director here in Zamalek] attempt to hook up a laptop to the big screen in the lobby so we could watch Sweeney Todd. Rarely have I been prouder of a boy than I was when he finally succeeded in syncing the two up. We watched Sweeney Todd, ordered some Papa John's, then watched some bizarre music videos until 4am. Did you know Akon did a collaboration in Arabic? Hello, awesomeness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYPeGvYEJpI
We slept again all day Saturday, and were planning on getting a good night's rest Saturday night since we have school Sunday. But alas, it was not to be. Frankie invited us out for a felucca ride with a few friends, and, thinking it would be an hourlong thing, we said sure. We showed up in Garden City at 9:30 and ended up boarding a yacht with about 30 random people- friends of friends of friends. Lots of alcohol-fueled ridiculousness ensued. Finally, around 3am, I looked around and thought, it's 3am. I have a bus to catch at 9:30. It's a school night. And I'm on a yacht in the middle of the f------ Nile drinking Stella and chainsmoking. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!
Having a damn good time, apparently.
My life is ridiculous.
The bad news from this weekend: my beloved 12 year old golden retriever Cody died on Saturday. Living in the alternate universe I inhabit here, I don't think it's totally hit me yet. He was a dear, dear friend. We had had him since I was in the 4th grade and he and I went through so much together. There's no telling how many hundreds of tears I sobbed into his fur over the years. I will miss him terribly.
Another recent development: I have become really, ridiculously insecure, seemingly overnight. I have always been a fairly confident person. But suddenly, I am so consumed with self-doubt it's nearly debilitating. Some of this has to do with the Murphy debacle [recap: Murphy was one of my three best friends in college. My sophomore year, we briefly dated. We decided it was a bad idea and I feel head over heels for my other best friend and his roommate, Kenny. Murphy had a hard time dealing with this and cut me out of his life. We reconciled days before I moved to Egypt and everything was great. Once I got back to the States in December, however, he decided once again that we shouldn't be friends, and told me, much to my surprise that we "haven't been friends for nearly a year". That was news to me.]. Because I was so taken aback by this, and because I thought things between us were fine, I am suddenly completely unsure of all of my relationships. I am constantly wondering if my friends are really my friends, or if they feel obligated to hang out with me. Even when I'm hanging out with my best friends here, I'm wondering if they would rather be somewhere else, if they like me at all. Let it be known: I have amazing friends. Becky and Megan picked me up from the airport when I flew back in to Cairo, Frankie brought me my favorite cigarettes all the way from Amsterdam, and Sachi, Joe, and Romani are the first people to come to my aid if I need anything, day or night. I can feel my insecurities straining my friendships, but a large part of me keeps nagging...if Murphy, your nearest and dearest, felt that way about you and you had no clue, what makes you think these people really like you? It's terrible, and I hate the needy, clingy person it's made me.
Other insecurities have arisen too. It is no secret that I like to have fun; I love nothing more than to waste away and evening drinking, being vulgar, talking about football, shaking my ass, and being silly. However, it seems people have begun to equate this light-heartedness for light-headedness. Two of my best friends routinely have intellectual conversations about the Middle East right in front of me, and blatanly leave me out of them, and I've begun to feel like maybe they think that because I'm not as serious as they are, perhaps I'm not as smart as they are, either. It's really started to get to me, but instead of piping up and defending my intellect, I've started doing something I've never, ever done before: wonder if maybe I am stupid. I mean sure, I know about a lot of things, but I'm not an expert in any one topic. It's a bizarre feeling; after being so confident in myself for so long, suddenly starting to wonder what my worth is on so many different levels. It's frustrating.
Ugh. Enough of my pity party. This is a travel blog, not a therapist's office.
If you need a lift after that depressing entry, here's the most bizarre music video EVER for your enjoyment:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kypb12ezLVE
Love.
Exploding Life
I saw the lights of Cairo come into view below me from the plane. After spending 24 hours in transit, and touching down on three continents, here I was, at last. Home.
The time I've been back has reminded me why I love Egypt so much. Simple things, silly little vignettes- the bizzare, the hilarious, the everyday things that constitute life in Cairo which seem absolutely ridiculous.
The traffic is bumper-to-bumper, but hurtles along the Autostrahd at 60 mph; one single unit, moving in unison, honking, yelling, weaving. A tentacle of humanity stretching for miles, snaking across the desert, encompassing it, taking it. Next to my cab is a small flatbed truck, loaded twelve feet high with bundles and crates. Perched precariously atop the load is a twenty-something Egyptian, chainsmoking and digging in his nose. The driver lazily glances in his rearview mirror from time to time, making sure his passenger has not fallen off the mound of cargo and been consumed by the mass. Emblazoned across the back of the truck is the word "Hyunday". I giggle to myself and light a cigarette.
En route to Meedan Tahrir, I pass a pet shop, the size of an American walk-in closet. Birds screech and puppies leashed to various door handles bark heartwrenchingly. A PETA proponent's worst nightmare. A mammoth white birdcage stands to the left of the shop, but there is no bird inside. It takes me a moment to see them- six white puppies cuddled up at the bottom of the cage. Necessity breeds creativity, I suppose.
Less than a mile later, I notice a shop whose window is partially covered by a sheet strung up to obstruct the view inside. Four 80s-era mannequinns stare complacently out into the chaos of the street. I realize with a lauagh that the mannequinns are in a state of undress, and the sheet has been hung to preserve their modesty. Oh Egypt, I love you.
A girl walks boldly through the traffic, her cellphone tucked into the side of her tight hijab- an Egyptian bluetooth headset.
Finally home after hours of sitting in traffic, I settle into my bed to see if I can persuade the internet to work, just this once. As I am beginning to dose off, I am jolted awake by the all-too-familiar warning call of the housekeepers- "Man on the floor!". Outside my door I hear Egyptian girls shriek and scamper into their rooms, not wanting these men, who are probably carrying someone's luggage upstairs, to see them without their hijabs on. I smile and turn off my light. It's good to be home.
The time I've been back has reminded me why I love Egypt so much. Simple things, silly little vignettes- the bizzare, the hilarious, the everyday things that constitute life in Cairo which seem absolutely ridiculous.
The traffic is bumper-to-bumper, but hurtles along the Autostrahd at 60 mph; one single unit, moving in unison, honking, yelling, weaving. A tentacle of humanity stretching for miles, snaking across the desert, encompassing it, taking it. Next to my cab is a small flatbed truck, loaded twelve feet high with bundles and crates. Perched precariously atop the load is a twenty-something Egyptian, chainsmoking and digging in his nose. The driver lazily glances in his rearview mirror from time to time, making sure his passenger has not fallen off the mound of cargo and been consumed by the mass. Emblazoned across the back of the truck is the word "Hyunday". I giggle to myself and light a cigarette.
En route to Meedan Tahrir, I pass a pet shop, the size of an American walk-in closet. Birds screech and puppies leashed to various door handles bark heartwrenchingly. A PETA proponent's worst nightmare. A mammoth white birdcage stands to the left of the shop, but there is no bird inside. It takes me a moment to see them- six white puppies cuddled up at the bottom of the cage. Necessity breeds creativity, I suppose.
Less than a mile later, I notice a shop whose window is partially covered by a sheet strung up to obstruct the view inside. Four 80s-era mannequinns stare complacently out into the chaos of the street. I realize with a lauagh that the mannequinns are in a state of undress, and the sheet has been hung to preserve their modesty. Oh Egypt, I love you.
A girl walks boldly through the traffic, her cellphone tucked into the side of her tight hijab- an Egyptian bluetooth headset.
Finally home after hours of sitting in traffic, I settle into my bed to see if I can persuade the internet to work, just this once. As I am beginning to dose off, I am jolted awake by the all-too-familiar warning call of the housekeepers- "Man on the floor!". Outside my door I hear Egyptian girls shriek and scamper into their rooms, not wanting these men, who are probably carrying someone's luggage upstairs, to see them without their hijabs on. I smile and turn off my light. It's good to be home.
Sandstorm
I have sand in my nose, eyes, mouth, and ears.
The sand fills the air; I cannot see the sun.
How appropriate for finals week.
I'm going back to bed.
The sand fills the air; I cannot see the sun.
How appropriate for finals week.
I'm going back to bed.
It's funny how time and distance change you..the road you take don't always lead you home
I moved for the first time when I was nine days old. Since then, my life has been one of constant motion. By the time I graduated from high school, I had been to ten different schools, and spent most of my formative years outside the contiguous United States, living in Japan and Hawaii. When I got to college in Tuscaloosa and the prospect of staying put for four years became a reality, I got restless again, and now here I am, sitting in my room in Cairo, Egypt, typing this. Which all leads me to December 22-- the day I fly "home" to America. I will be visiting friends and family in the states for almost five weeks before I come back to Cairo in January 28.
I've been progressively getting more anxious about returning to the States, mostly because I've come to the realization that it isn't "home" anymore. It's the place I used to call home; the world I left behind in search of something new. I'm excited to see my mom and dad and spend some much-needed time spoiling my precious nephew, but beyond that, I'm absolutely terrified. Terrified I won't have any fun plans for New Years. Terrified that all of my friends won't like me anymore or appreciate the changes I've made in my life. Terrified I'll come to the inevitable conclusion that I don't belong there anymore.
After all, the world didn't stop turning when I left Alabama. My friends' lives didnt halt, frozen in the moment I left them. They've all moved on, created lives that no longer include me. And while I hope that during the time I'm visiting Tuscaloosa, they'll be able to fit me back into their lives, I know the reality of visiting will be painful, albeit necessary. The two people I miss all day, every day, my best friends Murphy and Kenny, are preoccupied with getting ready to graduate, applying to grad school,and figuring out how to get out to Pasadena for the National Championship. None of these things include me. While I left my whole life behind when I came here, only a small part of their lives left. Sometimes I get my feelings hurt when they arent enthusiastic enough about Skyping with me or making plans for the time I'm back, but the truth is: their lives can't stop just because I decided to come back to the States to visit. I made the choice to leave, and I will have to accept the reality of the repercussions from that choice. Don't get me wrong; it was absolutely the right choice for me. But that doesn't make the realization of what I lost any less brutal. It's a very humbling thing to realize that the world doesn't revolve around me, like I was so convinced it did as a teenager, and that my best friends don't spend every waking moment waiting for my return. But that's life.
In the novella I just finished reading [and will soon be posting an entry about], Seasons of Migration to the North, the antagonist, Mustafa Saeed, a prodigy from the Sudan, leaves his homeland to get an education in Europe. One of the defining lines in the book is spoken by his lawyer at his trial for the murder of his wife "Mustafa Saeed...is a noble person whose mind was able to absorb Western civilization but it broke his heart." The reader draws the conclusion that the "infection" or spark on insanity which caused him to kill his wife came from the constant state of limbo Saeed was is- belonging to neither the North [Europe] or the South [the Sudan] anymore; a man without roots.
Sometimes I'm afraid this is the destiny I'm slowly moving towards. Not the killing people part, to be sure, but the slow decay of one's heart that happens when you do not really belong here nor there. America is no longer home, but I will never completely fit in in the Middle East. What space between, then, is left for me? Growing up an Army child, we had a picture that hung on the wall which said "Home is where the heart is". But where is my heart? Half of it is in Alabama, with Murphy and Kenny and the rest of my friends and family, but half of it is here, in Africa, the place which has been beckoning me, incessantly pulling me toward it, absorbing me into itself, for over two years. The bittersweet truth is that I am a "third-culture kid", with the uncanny ability to fit in everywhere, but nowhere at the same time.
So where do I belong? Where is home? The East or the West? When will I know?
I've been progressively getting more anxious about returning to the States, mostly because I've come to the realization that it isn't "home" anymore. It's the place I used to call home; the world I left behind in search of something new. I'm excited to see my mom and dad and spend some much-needed time spoiling my precious nephew, but beyond that, I'm absolutely terrified. Terrified I won't have any fun plans for New Years. Terrified that all of my friends won't like me anymore or appreciate the changes I've made in my life. Terrified I'll come to the inevitable conclusion that I don't belong there anymore.
After all, the world didn't stop turning when I left Alabama. My friends' lives didnt halt, frozen in the moment I left them. They've all moved on, created lives that no longer include me. And while I hope that during the time I'm visiting Tuscaloosa, they'll be able to fit me back into their lives, I know the reality of visiting will be painful, albeit necessary. The two people I miss all day, every day, my best friends Murphy and Kenny, are preoccupied with getting ready to graduate, applying to grad school,and figuring out how to get out to Pasadena for the National Championship. None of these things include me. While I left my whole life behind when I came here, only a small part of their lives left. Sometimes I get my feelings hurt when they arent enthusiastic enough about Skyping with me or making plans for the time I'm back, but the truth is: their lives can't stop just because I decided to come back to the States to visit. I made the choice to leave, and I will have to accept the reality of the repercussions from that choice. Don't get me wrong; it was absolutely the right choice for me. But that doesn't make the realization of what I lost any less brutal. It's a very humbling thing to realize that the world doesn't revolve around me, like I was so convinced it did as a teenager, and that my best friends don't spend every waking moment waiting for my return. But that's life.
In the novella I just finished reading [and will soon be posting an entry about], Seasons of Migration to the North, the antagonist, Mustafa Saeed, a prodigy from the Sudan, leaves his homeland to get an education in Europe. One of the defining lines in the book is spoken by his lawyer at his trial for the murder of his wife "Mustafa Saeed...is a noble person whose mind was able to absorb Western civilization but it broke his heart." The reader draws the conclusion that the "infection" or spark on insanity which caused him to kill his wife came from the constant state of limbo Saeed was is- belonging to neither the North [Europe] or the South [the Sudan] anymore; a man without roots.
Sometimes I'm afraid this is the destiny I'm slowly moving towards. Not the killing people part, to be sure, but the slow decay of one's heart that happens when you do not really belong here nor there. America is no longer home, but I will never completely fit in in the Middle East. What space between, then, is left for me? Growing up an Army child, we had a picture that hung on the wall which said "Home is where the heart is". But where is my heart? Half of it is in Alabama, with Murphy and Kenny and the rest of my friends and family, but half of it is here, in Africa, the place which has been beckoning me, incessantly pulling me toward it, absorbing me into itself, for over two years. The bittersweet truth is that I am a "third-culture kid", with the uncanny ability to fit in everywhere, but nowhere at the same time.
So where do I belong? Where is home? The East or the West? When will I know?
