Mmmm, Coffee

There's something so familiar about coffee. It's one of my go-to comforts, especially after having worked in a café for 5 years. The smells, the sounds, the murmur of customers...  I often crave afternoons just sitting in a coffee shop. 

I'm in one today, The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, "born and brewed in Southern California" according to my plastic cup, but somehow managed to sprout on a tiny corner of City Center mall at the edge of Cairo in Nasr City. I could breathe in this aroma of freshly ground beans all day. 

I came here to enjoy my favorite creature comfort and spend the price of 5 bowls of Koshary on one iced mocha latte, but it's providing me with much needed head space. I'm waiting on my friend to finish an informational interview and until my phone starts buzzing and playing "Com você," I have an unknown amount of time on my hands to contemplate.

Egypt, after eight months, is tragically beautiful, cracked, flawed, hotter than I could have imagined, frustrating, alive, pulsing, volatile, behind the times, dusty, lovely, romantic at all the wrong times, hilarious at all the right ones, and so often I feel like me and the donkey carts are swimming through mud in our attempts at progress: me, wishing reliable internet was more readily available and them probably longing for their owners to discover flat bed pick-up trucks. I saw one particular donkey today biting his cohort's ear in hot frustration, the latter barred from escape by the attached wooden cart and the three surrounding cars parked every which-a-damn way. As often, I felt sorry for the beasts, languishing in the heat, lazily flicking flies from their ears. I, myself, was languishing in the back of a vinyl upholstered taxi cab whose driver, like so many others, was declining to turn on the AC. This, of course, before my relaxation time in the blessed, cool oasis of The Coffee Bean. 

At The Pump

It was 11:43 in the morning, and the gas station still was not open. Mini-buses and cabs and mass transit vehicles were lined up almost to Ramses Square which is approximately a mile distant. It was hot, even in the shade, and the drivers were camped out on the sidewalk on their grass mats, set in for the long haul because until the attendants pulled down the barriers to the tanks, the line wasn't going anywhere. The drivers seemed to be accustomed to this routine. Some had coolers and water and an unending supply of cigarettes. 

I imagine the States looked something like this during the gas crisis of the 1970s. I've seen black and white photographs of cars lined up at the pump. Of course, life here now is a bit different than it was then and there, so I'm not sure if the comparison is quite accurate. At times, I get the impression they're all living on a tight rope. Most of the problems are attributed to the new people in power. If the lights go out, it's because of Morsi. If traffic is backed up a mile in both directions, it's because of Morsi. If a dog leaves reeking poo in front of your doorstep, it's because of Morsi.

For lack of knowing a good way to end this post, I'll leave it at that. 

El Aazelle el Aarousa

There was another pre-wedding celebration Wednesday. Not surprising considering engagements and weddings happen here every 2.5 seconds. When I arrived at the school today, I found myself weaving through large silver trays laden with shiny dishes and pots & pans, fuzzy blankets, boxes of mugs, buckets filled with brooms, and baskets of laundry detergent and dish soap. All of these things, save the blankets spread across chairs and outdoor wooden sofas, were spread out on the dusty ground in wait of the parade of trucks that would carry all of the bride's pre-purchased wares to her future husband's villa. This pairing, in particular, was one of the richer ones. This is tradition here. The groom's family provides the finished apartment, and the bride's family provides every tiny little thing that goes in it. A week before the nuptials, all of her things take up residence in his house and every extended family member and available truck goes along to attend the moving in. There's beating of drums (pots turned upside down into makeshift instruments), children throwing noisemakers and small handheld fireworks, and a middle aged man in a gallabeya shooting a pistol into the air. The latter somewhat alarming considering the amount of children and people in general milling around. 

After the first ten minutes of novelty wore off, I and the rest of the teachers moved inside to listen to the chaos from our wooden kiddy chairs. Some of the teachers then asked me if I wanted to get married so I could have something like this, and if we do things like this in America. I laughed. 

"No way," I said. "All of the presents come from everyone else, all the people that come to the wedding. We actually go into stores, decide what we want, mark it down on a list, and then send that list to all of our family and friends." 

"Really?" they said, incredulous. 

"Yeap. It's kind of awesome." All of them just looked at me and then broke into quick, chatty Arabic as they discussed how cool that idea was and how they would have liked to have gotten married like that. 

"It's a beautiful thought," said Hannan, the one I've deemed the most spunky. I've seen her give as good as she gets, especially to the older boys who have since graduated the school but come back occasionally to volunteer. One of them accidentally hit her in the head with a soccer ball once, so she waited about half an hour until he wasn't paying attention and threw one right back at him. I laughed so hard and instantly added her to my list of favorites. 

The hubbub outside gradually diminished and all the attendees boarded vehicles and drove away to continue the celebration at the home of future wedded bliss. The only traces left of the party by the time I was walking home were a few glittery pieces of confetti, and some round, tray-shaped indentions in the muddy earth. Just another day. 

Hummus

Not just your average, run of the mill, wonderful garlicky spread in a small plastic tub, this is also the Arabic word for chickpeas themselves. Often, if not always, sprinkled in with Koshary and as I found out tonight, one can also steep them in hot water and drink it like tea. What??? I have had many firsts here, and tonight was my first time drinking chickpea water. They even serve it with small cups of salt, hot pepper powder (when the wind blew too hard, said tiny pepper flakes decided to lodge themselves in my eyeballs... NOT a pleasant experience), and half a lemon to add some zest. I literally sipped on spicy chickpea broth as my after dinner beverage. It's 2 hours later, and I'm still not sure how I feel about the experience, but wanted to share. I think in the future I'll be sticking to my hot tea with milk. Safe and warm and fuzzy in my tummy leaving no place for invasive, partying garbanzo beans.