Halloween!

Explaining this holiday here makes me feel like we have some unique traditions of our own. I realized, as I was talking about it, how strange it sounds that children dress up in costumes and go to strangers' homes, knock on the doors and ask for candy. It's the one night of the year that it's acceptable to beg. I don't like the overarching theme of the day, but it was one of my favorite holidays as a kid. Of course. What kid wouldn't love a night where they receive a year's worth of free candy. My brother and I used to have contests as to who got the most. And then Mom would confiscate it all like a jerk and only hand it out once a day, like some cruel candy dictator.

Those are my memories of this holiday. Candy and dressing up like a blond starship warrior. My favorite was the plastic mask of her face with holes cut out for the eyes and mouth. I liked to stick my tongue through the slit even though the plastic sometimes cut. I feel like it got stuck once, and then Mom told me to stop. Constantly ruining my fun, that one. (love ya mean it!)

Needless to say, the Egyptians know nothing of Halloween. But Samia at the guesthouse told me that I could come and knock on the doorframe tonight and if I say trick or treat, she'll give me some candy. Which makes me smile. If there's a pumpkin to carve when I get back this afternoon, my holiday will be complete. Just thinking of how this past time will be received makes my smile even bigger. 

Adli

The cook. The only Muslim on staff here at the guesthouse, he keeps his turquoise and white and black prayer rug folded and draped over one of the chair backs in the cafeteria. His English is sporadic but comprehensible, and occasionally he sits down across from me while I eat and teaches me the names of things in Arabic. Salt. Pepper. Knife. Spoon. Do I remember these things? Debatable. Because usually people are using these words in such a rush of other unknown vocabulary that all I can remember to say is "Too fast, too fast!" Just this morning, I ordered a "coffee car" and then an "Arabic cat" and then, third time's a charm, my wished for "Arabic coffee." I find caffeine helps in language fluency.

Before, Adli worked as a chef for TWA Airlines for 27 years until they closed down in Cairo after 9/11. He was hired on at the guesthouse shortly after.

"The money," he says, "no good. But money in Egypt, no good anywhere." 

He loves the people though. I sit and watch them over my fresh cooked meals as they sit around the metal work table in the middle of the kitchen and shell beans for the evening fair. They talk and laugh and insult one another, all with good natured smiles. Every so often, a bean sails through the air at some sarcastic comment. I want to ask if I can help, but I'm a guest here, and the rules of hospitality are tacit yet firm even if they are growing blurrier by the day. Now, they say that this is my home. I am welcome to roam the kitchen as I please. The roaches and I have the run of the place. I'm slowly but surely wiping out their contingent, although if they don't stop breeding, I can hardly compete. 

Adli once sat down and showed me his photo album of every meal he'd ever made for TWA. They were required to catalogue them all for a presentation to the officer of the company. I don't remember much of the plates for Services 2 and 3, but I do remember a photo of crêpes and discovering that I had enough Arabic in my repertoire to ask if he would make them for me. The Muslim holiday Eid El-Adha starts tomorrow and since Adli will be off from work for quite some time, there are now 10 days worth of crêpes in the refrigerator, which incidentally is more French breakfast food than I've eaten in my lifetime. They tell me here that I'm thin and then they hold up an index finger and turn it in the air. I wonder if this is why they keep giving me copious amounts of food. What with Adli and all the women in my daily interaction, it'll be a wonder if I fly home for Christmas somewhat smaller than a cow.

Bovine

I'm never quite sure how it happens, but I often find myself on the business end of a cow. In Manshiyet Nasr, livestock and automobiles live an integrated life. I now know how to walk down the street and not flinch at the countless number of trucks that lumber passed me leaving only inches of space. It's just part of the territory, and I refuse to let four year old children be more adept at dodging traffic than me. Occasionally though, the traffic is more bovine in nature, and I fear those large rear ends at eye level much more than automatic engines carrying tons of trash. Because if I were bovine, I'd be quite wary of a rather slight human being hovering around my hindquarters. Even though they are being rather unceremoniously hauled forward by a rope tied around their snouts, I see their large round eyes roll towards me, and I wonder how long it will take before they shoot out a back hoof and knock me flat on my own tail. So I jump up on curbs and rough hewn store fronts and try to scoot passed them before my presence is overly catalogued. 

I saw a crazy one the other day. It was enormous and standing so still that at first I thought it was a statue. Although its coat was a rich, glossy brown, its tail bones and spines were sticking out in a grotesque display of malnourishment, and one of its eyes was a glassy blue cataract. It wasn't until a slight movement of it's head that I realized I was looking at a cow. I pointed to it, and Raymon said "Cow, yes." I almost responded that I thought it wasn't real, but quickly realized how silly that would have sounded. Why on earth would someone have a cow statue standing in front of their house in Garbage City? I'm more thankful than I can say that my common sense filter seems to be in working order when it comes to verbal outbursts. It's been of great use to me more times than I can count. 

The Least of These

This place is pretty incredible. I just visited the new center for the handicapped, where children who are diagnosed with any kind of learning disability can come and be taught the basics of self-sufficiency. I'm floored. Because other than a few specialist centers, I'm not so sure our communities in the States even cater this well to their own mentally handicapped. The teachers and workers (all from this area save a Canadian woman who's worked here for 30 years and helped acquire the funds for building the center), go out into the neighborhood to talk to the residents and families to see if they know of any children or adults that may be handicapped. They then speak to their families and tell them about the center where they teach them at their own pace such basics as carpentry, cooking, motor skills if they need, and there's even a class in the basement where the students are taught how to sort recyclables so they can work with their families. Way impressive. Any kid would be lucky to learn this way, and these are the ones that need it the most. This community knows how to care for its own.

So am I needed here? No. But they're generously allowing me to contribute what skills I can, and in return, are gracing me with their unfailing hospitality. And free immersion Arabic to boot. There's hardly a day that passes that I'm not humbled or awe-inspired. And all from the least of these. 

Dusty Beginnings

Dust is everywhere. It's in my hair, it's in my nostrils, it's underneath my fingernails. In Manshiyet Nasr, it hangs in the air like a curtain. I was chastised today for leaving my water bottle open. They shouldn't have worried. This place is already in my bloodstream.

But trash is everywhere. It doesn't just litter the streets in this community. It owns them. The smell is constant and the only reprieve is indoors, and then only occasionally. I stepped on something today that I'm pretty sure was the remnants of a rat. My foot slid. I swallowed the quickly rising bile in my throat and kept moving. Yesterday, I encountered my first live one on the stairs at the organization. Inside mind you. It was cowering on the third landing and was the size of a kitten. I wish I could say I was brave and passed by it, but no, I went running back down the stairs like a 12-year old girl and couldn't go back up until Adham, the computer guy, went up and blocked it with his computer case. He said, "It stays here, you walk there." And then all the women in the office laughed at me when I walked through the door.

"This is normal here," said Mary, juggling a beautifully perfect baby boy on her knee. His name is Oliver. When Mary found out I wasn't married, she said I could marry Oliver. This makes two mothers in less than a week that wish I would marry their sons. I suppose I could do worse than people telling me everyday that I'm beautiful like the moon.

But it's more than that, and I cannot explain it exactly. The overwhelming brownness takes on a certain beauty after a while, and the people hardly cease reflecting the inescapable sun. They are effortless and comfortable, soft Arabic words flowing from their mouths. Arabic isn't always so soft though. Not when it's being yelled into a phone or at a police officer. But despite these outbursts of anger, everyone seems to be one extended family. That of Egyptians. They may have never seen each other before, but there's a tacit understanding to help if you can. We could learn from this.

I exist in warmth here, and not only because there are few times when I'm not sweating. Their eyes, their faces, their smiles, their easy laughter: it's in the air here, as effusive as the dust. It's working its magic as it flows through my veins. The guesthouse owner Maged says it's because I'm becoming Egyptian. 

Enigma

The amount of mild cardiac arrests I've had in the last two days has risen to somewhere in the vicinity of ten, which I feel is about ten more than is normal for a 48-hour period. People think this place is dangerous for reasons they see on TV. They're wrong. The most dangerous thing about this place are the two ton automobiles that they sling around the roads like there never was such a thing as traffic violations or driving rules. I like to think I'm pretty laid back. Granted, driving in DC makes me wonder at the fact that stupid people are breeding, but still. I don't stress too awful much. 

Here? Oh my word. At one point, I pulled my scarf over my face, and Romany, my driver, laughed and said "Ley?" (why?). I said, "Because everyone here drives crazy!!" He laughed again and turned up the radio. Of course. No worries. There isn't a truck two times our size mere millimeters from my window. We didn't just almost cream that guy on the Vespa (wearing sandals and no helmet, might I add). There isn't some guy being lifted into an ambulance on the side of the road, conscious but blood running down his temple as his friends look on.

"Kull yoom," says Romany. Every day. Oh sure. Because that makes me feel so much better. 

But for all their craziness, these people are probably the best defensive drivers on the planet. They have to know everything that's happening on eight sides of them in addition to predicting what all 105 cars within five feet of their bumpers are going to do. I'm a smart girl, but I don't think my brain could fragment into that many pieces at once.  

The heart stopping trip today was to Saleh-el-Din citadel. I've been before, but as I still have one more day until I start working, it gave me something to do. When we got to the entrance, the cashier said to my Egyptian friend that it would cost what equates in the US to 50 cents. Then he pointed at me and said that for me, it would be what equates to almost $10. What the??? Because I'm pretty sure that's about a 90% mark-up just because I'm a white girl. I understand locals getting discounts, it happens in the States too, but this was ridiculous. So I shook my head and fumed as best I could in Arabic to my friend. Unbelievable, this guy. But then, this is the enigma that is Cairo. 

Eau d'Egypte

Holy muffins, Batman! I'm here! (I may have stolen the first two words from a certain Priscilla Ro, so I must give props where props are due.)

So guess what? Egypt has a smell! I didn't realize it until I walked out of the airport, and it hit me like a forgotten memory. And no, I'm not talking about the Garbage City cacophony of odors. I'm talking about the Egypt smell: scented dust and haze with the occasional whiff of exhaust. My heart leapt at the first scent. How it is that one can board a metal tube, pull down the shades, and like the longest magic trick ever, be in another continent when the doors open 15 hours later, still amazes me. We were driving down the chaotic streets (only mildly so at this time, according to Mariam's dad) and I felt it. That 'holy muffins' moment.

Now I'm sitting in my window sill, having just finished off my welcome glass of tea, looking down into the courtyard, watching adorable Egyptian girls run around in princess dresses, and I can't even bring myself to unpack for all the processing going on in my brain. A few things are different about this go round: one, the guesthouse is a different one and apparently this time, the La Cucarachas are quite literally coming out of the closet. The pioneer was a thumb-sized one too. It's a testament to my previous cockroach killing training in Hawaii that I felt kinda bad about killing this one. He was almost cute and just chose the wrong time to come out and explore. But alas, now he is upside down and no longer with us in my trashcan. C'est la vie. I hope his friends don't get similar ideas, or they are going to become overly familiar with the bottom of my flip-flop...

Atta Turk!

Lemme tell you a little somethin' about Turkish airlines: even if they didn't have bright, cheery turquoise seats, they would still be a-MAH-zing. There were about 85 movies to choose from, my salmon dish, not to be downplayed by the plastic plateware it was served on, was flaky, hot and delicious. I received a nifty little zip pouch at hour two that contained a mini-toothbrush and the world's smallest dose of toothpaste, ear plugs (which I tossed), and even a pair of gray fuzzy socks complete with white slipper grips on the bottom. What an airline! I'm also attributing the aforementioned factors to my ability to sleep and the shocking realization, when I was startled awake by the "we're beginning our descent " announcement, that this was the fastest long flight I've ever taken. I didn't even start a crossword. 

(sidenote: there are currently several children speaking Arab-lish to me as I type this - makes for an interesting blog typing experience. And a styrofoam plate of sandwiches and cake just magically appeared at my elbow, courtesy of my new nine year old friend Philopater)

Now let me tell you a little somethin' about the world: there's a lot of people in it. And I'm convinced that at least a third of them were at Istanbul's Ata-turk airport today. I've been to airport after airport after airport in my life and I have never seen so many people milling around. All the black airport seats were occupied, all the cafés were spilling over with every cross-section of humanity, and at a completely arbitrary hour, there was still a line to use the women's restroom. So I, along with another woman who spoke to me like I could understand her (I couldn't), may have used the separate handicap bathroom. Woops. There was more room in there anyway. 

And PS - organization doesn't seem to extend much past the western half of the European continent. Of course, what am I saying? There are airports across the US as well that can't seem to get their act together sometimes. Maybe it's a widespread phenomenon. All I know, is had it not been for the steady trail of people moving towards the plane door, I would have had no idea we were boarding our last leg to Cairo. Good thing I pay attention. 

Just Me

It's the smells of home that get me. Gramma's house has had an aroma of laundry sheets with a hint of coffee and heat for as long as I can remember. My brother has smelled like mountain spring laundry detergent since he married his wife six years ago. The bathroom in my grandparent's bedroom smells of Gramma's lotion, just like it did when I was too young to take a bath in her gray-tiled, stand-up shower. Through decades of my life, these smells have defined my familiar. 

I just said good-bye to those smells and traded them for the carpet and glue, air-conditioned atmosphere of the airport. I didn't want to cry. But then my mom hugged me on the concrete curb beneath the US Airways departure sign, and I heard her voice catch as she said, "I love you babe." I blinked a lot, and her eyes were watery as she pulled away and walked back to the driver's side of the truck. I looked in through the passenger window and signed 'I love you' to my Grampa in the front seat. And then they were pulling away, and I avoided everyone's eyes until I met those of the female security agent.

"Are you traveling by yourself?" she asked. 

"Yes," I answered. "It's just me."