Tuesday, December 26, 2006

How to Travel Through Cairo on an Empty Stomach

I spent Ramadan 2003 in Amman, Jordan, and I celebrated it wholeheartedly with plenty of dates, soup, lamb, chicken, and a nice side of Hepatitis A. I fasted for about a week, an honest-to-goodness fast with no cheating, no snacks in the bathroom, no kisses, no cigarettes (ok, so those last two weren’t such a problem.) But then when I really started feeling the Hepatitis, when my skin turned genuinely yellow and my eyes sort of looked like egg yolks, I quit. I had an enormous craving for chocolate, and not the good 72% cacao chocolate that I usually, snobbily, crave. Any chocolate. Twix. Hershey’s. Even Arab chocolate (which is really terrible.) Coincidentally, at this time I also found the only two bags of chocolate chips I have ever seen anywhere in the Middle East, sitting right there on the bottom shelf at the grocery store in the University. I bought them both. Instead of doing the noble thing, which would have been to introduce my Arab friends to the wonder that is the America chocolate chip cookie, I ate them all myself. I sneaked chocolate chips into my classes and pop a few in my mouth when no one was looking. They melted on my tongue and for a few minutes satisfied my craving, and no one ever had to know. I owe a great debt to the chocolate god who sneaked those chips onto that grocery shelf.

Fatema and I celebrate iftar in Amman, 2003


Excepting my chocolate frenzies, I really enjoyed Ramadan in Jordan. It felt celebratory and festive, even though everyone was cranky, nicotine- and sleep- deprived. We had iftars of garlic soup and couscous and lamb, plenty of qatayif afterwards, oregano tea, zaatar tea, mint tea. I stayed in Jordan for Eid, which coincided with the American Thanksgiving and made me homesick, but a few of my friends ventured down to Cairo for the week. They came back with stories of dusty hostels and mean cab drivers, sleeping in airports and getting stopped at borders. All in all, it didn’t sound like an ideal vacation.

I forgot about their tales until a few days into our own Cairo-during-Eid trip. I’d wanted for a long time to see Cairo during Ramadan and Eid—18 million people celebrating a month-long fast and a week-long Festival must be something. Cairo is known for its sheisha and belly dancing, night-long iftars. But you have to know people. Luckily, we did know people. We knew Loay and Rebecca and Anthony, all of whom know/are Egyptians who know how to party like Egyptians, which translated to smoking sheisha and riding feluccas. Which is great by me. Unfortunately, these people we know all have day jobs, so we were left to our own devices during the day. I spent much of my summer in 2002 walking through Cairo, mostly lost, so this was not intimidating to me at first. After a few days, it, oddly, grew more intimidating.



Egyptian Woman


In 2002, I was with a bunch of foreigners who were either practically Egyptian or lost just like me. I had all summer to explore, so I didn’t need to worry about wasting time being lost while trying to get to the Citadel before it closed. Maybe I was also a little looser, unflinching, less spoiled—I refused to take taxis, I knew the metro stops by heart, and I wasn’t scared to ask questions. On this trip, I took taxis-plenty of them-neglected the metro but for one day, and grew increasingly skeptical of asking questions, particularly to cab drivers or storekeepers (granted, those two types are not notorious for giving you a straight answer, no matter the country.) After a few difficult exchanges with cabbies and a lot of time lost in the streets of Cairo, I grew a little more intimidated by the sheer immensity of the place, the dust that never settles, the noise that never subsides. Why this hadn’t bothered me before…perhaps it was because I had no expectations of what Cairo would be like. I had a vague impression of some pyramids, the Nile, maybe some guys in robes. When I arrived with a blank slate, I let Cairo fill it up with its flaws and beauties, and I wasn’t disappointed. This time I arrived speaking the language and expecting to know the place, and I was disappointed. It took a few days for my attitude to adjust.



Street Behind the Khan


It also took a few days for my appetite to adjust. The thing about traveling during Ramadan is that Ramadan is the month of fasting. Y3nni, there is no food to eat. Y3nni, after walking through Cairo all morning, you get a little hungry. But I learned that if you wait until about 2 PM and just keep going, your hunger subsides and you can eat a decent evening iftar and go along your merry way. By Friday I had this figured out, but it didn’t stop me from carrying around a packet of sugar biscuits in my purse. Not only am I not a Muslim, but I’m a traveling non-Muslim. I figured I should be allowed some biscuits, even during Ramadan. (After a week there, I came back and discovered that I was five pounds lighter due to the long, long days and few meals. Naturally, I gained it back in about two weeks, but it was nice while it lasted.) The iftars we shared with Rebecca and Anthony were delicious, all lentil soup and restaurant-home-cooking, ma7shi and bechamel sauce, with tea for dessert. It was a different flavor from my Jordanian iftars, both culinarily and psychologically. It was more basic food, salt-of-the-earth food, roasted pigeon and bread and rice, things you can imagine your grandma, if she were Egyptian, cooking up to fill your belly. Oddly, most of my Jordanian iftars were eaten at homes, and most of my Egyptian iftars eaten out, but it was the Egyptian food that felt homier, and the Jordanian that felt more festive and exotic.


Tamar Hindi for Sale



Empty stomach or no, we did a lot of walking. We walked around Zamalek, and we walked down the cornice. We walked through Khan el-Khalili and down Port Said Street. We walked through M3aadi and through the Coptic churches. We also took a lot of taxis. It’s a walkable city for your daily needs-bread, water, whatever, but not if you actually want to get anywhere. You can’t walk from Zamalek to M3aadi unless you have a lot of time on your hands. So you take a cab, which is bound to be an interesting experience, if not a cheap one. We could have metroed, and perhaps we should have, more often, but we didn’t. The cabs gave us at least a sense of downtown, Tahrir Square and Zamalek, The roads that cross up to Mohammed Ali and down to the Coptic Churches. I’m sure we paid double what is appropriate for most of our rides. I’m ok with that.


Muddy Street in Cairo


And still, I have no sense of direction in that city. I have no idea where we are on the map at any given point. I have no sense of North or South, even when I am staring at the Nile, which runs North and South. Something about the condensed sprawl of the place, the people upon people, the dust upon the old, grand buildings with their sky-scraping billboards telling you to drink Coca-Cola. Something about the energy of the place makes me forget directions and lost my aim, wanting only to sit on the curb with the men and their sheisha, watching the chaos go past me instead of trying to keep up with it myself. It is not a romantic city, as Paris is romantic with her cafes and boulevards and angst-filled poets, or Marrakesh with her piles of alluring spices and secret alleys, or even Amman, who wafts her jasmine kisses over you as you stroll up and down her hills. Cairo is big and dirty and old, but these sometimes take a romantic turn: on the felucca gliding down the Nile, a river so long you can’t imagine the end of it. And it’s romantic to look up across the dust and skyscrapers and see pyramids nestled in the distant desert, pyramids that were built before English was a language. It’s romantic to see the Nubians, dark and serious in their galabayas, padding along next to the fairer Cairenes, Upper and Lower Egypt represented in these men, brought up miles apart, passing each other on the street corner after they buy their bread. And sometimes in the morning when it’s quiet, you look up at the old buildings with their intricate, curled molding and great, imposing doors, their charming windows that look out over the tall, old trees lining the street, and you imagine, for a moment, a whiff, what it was like when these buildings were new and full of life, swept and proud, when they saw dancers and weddings and elaborate iftars. Then it feels romantic, as a lost love is romantic; sometimes I only miss the man I wanted him to be, and sometimes it’s only the imaginary Cairo that I miss.


But sometimes I miss the real Cairo too. Even after being so fed up, so overwhelmed, so ready to JUST LEAVE THIS CITY, now sometimes when I get a whiff of desert air, or hear an Egyptian accent, or crave some koshary, or remember the cityscape sprawled beneath me, I miss Cairo.

Monday, December 25, 2006

Dahab Means Gold

I travel as respectfully as possible, as I generally consider myself to be considerate of other's plans. But when we decided, at 9:30 PM in a silent Nuweiba, to change the next days' planned trip to St. Catherine's with Mr. Hamdi's friend/guide, personal comfort had taken precedence over sticking to the plan. We walked a few doors down to Mr. Hamdi and requested, if it weren't too much trouble, if at all possible, could we maybe get a trip to Dahab and cancel our plans with his friend...if it's not too much trouble...

Mr. Hamdi sounded optimistic and sympathetic as he informed us that yes, his friend would easily take us to Dahab tonight. We were relieved with a relief that had only just realized how unhappy we would be if it hadn't worked out. But when Mr. Hamdi's friend arrived, he was not relieved. He was hopping. We were disrespectful to change our plans this late, he was going to lose money because of us. We assured him that we didn't mean him any harm, and that we would pay him just as he expected to be paid for our reservation tomorrow. After a few minutes, he had calmed enough to take us to his van and then to a van that he had arranged going to Sharm al-Sheikh. We could just be dropped off at Dahab - the Hilton, I requested, not knowing any other hotel off the top of my head - on his way.

But our stay in Dahab was worth the trouble it had taken to get there, the late, exhausted ride, the inconvenience of the tour guide. We managed in one day with the helpful staff of the HIlton to find out the bus schedule (for the bus stop was not 3 km from our hotel as in Nuweiba, but just down the block) and arrange for tickets back to Cairo at 7 PM, much better than the previously planned 3 PM departure from Nuweiba. We breakfasted richly on crepes and omelettes, jams, and real coffee. We strolled to the main drag and finally felt like we were vacationing at the Red Sea. The first little surf shop we saw arranged for a ride to St. Catherine's, a snorkeling adventure at the Blue Hole, and a camel ride back. This was exactly what we wanted.



Camels at St. Catherine's Monastery

St. Catherine's is an impressive monastery at the base of Mt. Sinai, built by the ambitious and pious hundreds of years ago. The road to Catherine goes through a magnificent desert whose horizons are vast but never straight: they are always marred by the tips distant mountain ranges. Sand dunes occasionally sweep across, but not in a hostile way, as in the Western Desert. In a serious, lonely, pleasant way, the sand nestles into the crags of occasional sharp black mountains and blows across the road that seems to stretch into, perhaps, China. For as far as you can see, and surely as far as you can walk, it seems flat and manageable, particularly if you are a lonely sort of person or if you are a beduin with a herd of camels. But just beyond where you presume you could walk in a day rise reddish-brown rocks, dry, intimidating, soft against the horizon because of their rounded shapes. The desert is an ever-changing, ever-deepening palate of camel and sienna and terra cotta. The hostile Western desert seemed simply miles of stale dust, while this seemed warm and full.



Sinai Sand

And then you reach St. Catherine's, an oasis of humanity and commerce, pilgrims and tourists, nestled into a nook which would be otherwise indistinguishable from the rest. Her bell tower rises up in a geometric contrast to the round rocks, and her golden rooms are full of scripts, textiles, incense, and bearded priests. Her spiritual bounty is in stark opposition to the desolate, albeit beautiful, desert that creeps up on her doorstep. You wonder about the men who built this, who came from other countries, probably on horses or camels, with their clothes and their Scriptures.

St. Catherine's Bell Tower

Our ride back was quiet and thoughtful. We sped to the horizon we couldn't see, almost as if rewinding our trip up to the monastery; we would recognize a mountain, or a change in color, or a particular gathering of camels.

Our guide met us back in Dahab and we took a bumpy jeep ride to the Blue Hole, where we snorkeled and saw many fishes. It was in the late afternoon, or it felt late, and by the time our camels had arrived at four, we were tired and wet with tangled hair and pruney fingers, like little children at the beach. We changed, sloppily, into our damp clothes and mounted our camels, led by a small withered but spry man with a blue galabaya and big rubber sandals.



The Blue Hole

A trip on a camel from the Blue Hole to Dahab is longer than you think it is, but we saw the sun set over the mountains of Saudi Arabia's Red Sea coast, and to see that from a camel is, well, really cool. The light changed gradually from stark shadows of the sun behind the mountains to a twilighted pink and blue haze that made you rub your eyes instinctively in order to see clearer, like when you put a filter on a camera lens. It was methodical and refreshing to feel the camels beneath us plodding, bored, toward our destination.

We made it to the bus station at 6:45 and boarded our final night bus, headed for Cairo and then to the airport. Our last night and day in Dahab had somehow made up for the troubles of Nuweiba and the sleepless nights leading up to it. We had vacationed, successfully, at the Red Sea.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Here, the time, it is not exact...

“Here,” Mr. Mohammed our fake Bedouin guide said, “Ehhh…time is not exact.”

No kidding.


Morning Constitutional


Lisa and I, after washing up on the shore of Nuweiba at 6 AM (see the keffiyeh-ed man taking his morning stroll? It felt very serene at 7 AM), waited in our little beach hut after a nice swim in the Red Sea. We waited and waited, past the climax of the sun, into early afternoon. Lisa fell asleep on the cushions. I walked up and down the packed sand that made up the main drag of Nuweiba, if it can be called a main drag.



Haji Lisa and the Blue Cushions


I approached Mr. Mohammed. “Ahem, where is the jeep?” I looked at my watch in the universal signal for, “You’d better have a good reason you’re making us late.” Mohammed urged me to just chill. “It is coming, I talked to him and he said 5 minutes.” Five minutes.

15 five minuteses later, I was no longer calmly inquisitive. “Mohammed!” my voice approached a yell. “It has BEEN five minutes. It has been THIRTY minutes. It has been TWO AND A HALF HOURS. WHERE IS THE JEEP?”

Mohammed looked concerned, but I wasn’t sure if it was concern that his jeep was late or concern that I was about to throw sand in his face. “Here…here the time, it is not exact.”

I looked dead into his eyes. “Mohammed. I have lived in this country and in Jordan.” I waved toward the Jordanian shore across the Sea. “I know that time is not exact. That is why we have waited. One hour, ok. Two hours…eh…” I shrugged, “but THREE. Mohammed, three hours is TOO MUCH to wait. Mish ma-OOL. MISH MA-OOL.” Mohammed continued to express his concern by shifting his weight and darting his eyes between me and the bright blue water.

We would have left Mohammed and gone to another (possibly fake) beduin, had we been anywhere but Nuweiba. But Nuewiba’s main drag is perhaps 200 feet long, and Mohammed looked like the only option on this sunny, lazy afternoon. We had waited since 1 PM and the clock was ticking towards 4.

“Mohammed, the sun is going down. There will be no light. HOW are we supposed to look at the canyons when there is NO LIGHT?”

Mohammed was quick to point out, “Oh, but this is the best time to see the canyons! It is beautiful!”

“But MOHAMMED! WE are not IN THE CANYON! By the time we GET there, the sun will be DOWN.” At this point I decided that the 350 pounds we had agreed upon was going to be halved.

At 4ish, the jeep approached. We got in the back, relieved that we were going to be doing something with our day, which was largely wasted waiting for this jeep. And we did indeed, see the colored canyons, which would have been more colorful in the SUNLIGHT rather than dusk, and we even got a bonus: a camel family outing on the road ahead of us. When we had strolled through the canyons, we joined the jeep driver and Mr. Mohammed for tea in the tent up in the mountains above the Canyons. Tea, as you know, makes everything better. We calmed, but I was still wondering if we should pay him the full amount. Three hours is three hours.


Camels taking a family stroll in Sinai

Lisa in Colored Canyon #1


The sun set and the starts blinked above us as we hurdled back in the Jeep toward Mohammed’s beachside resort. We still felt gypped by Mohammed, but he had promised us dinner upon return, and the promise of food lightens everyone’s mood. We waited as he prepared the fish, and then enjoyed his eagerly prepared, but ultimately mediocre, fish, hummus, and baba ghanoush. Stray cats played around us and the sea lapped up in delicate waves upon the pebbles. We finished our fish and leaned back, talking with the Jeep driver/Sheikh’s son-in-law, who told us all about his plans to marry a second wife sometime in the near future, but then warned us not to tell his first one. The Sheikh, an old, wise-looking man, joined us for a few minutes, curling himself up on the cushion the way old Arab men do, his knees twisted towards us and his hands resting calmly upon them. We didn’t manage to convince Young Sheikh that his first wife would probably be very jealous of a second wife (And besides, he had already thought of that: They would live far away from each other. Perfect.) But we were, by the end of the meal, feeling as though we had DONE something with our day. Canyons, sheikhs, fish, and discussions of polygamy in a foreign language—we were ready for bed.


Cell Phone Bedu-Our Dinner Companion


Mr. Mohammed joined us as we got ready to leave. We decided to just give him the money and be done with it. “So, 350, right?”

“..yyyes, 350 is what we agreed for the canyons and the jeep…”

“…” Lisa and I leaned in, waiting for the completion of the sentence.

“The jeep to the canyon, 350, yes…”

“..and?” Lisa inserted.

“And then there was fish, and I made you the dinner…”

We realized what he was doing. He said he’d get us a jeep to the canyon, he got us a jeep. Three hours late, but it was there, was it not? But the fish! The fish was extra. The tea with the beduins? Extra. The hummus? Extra. We couldn’t believe our ears.

“Ooooh, no.” My Arabic improves greatly when I am upset. “Oh no. You were THREE HOURS LATE. We waited ALL DAY on our ONLY DAY here, and you promised us dinner to make up for it. We will NOT pay you for dinner. You said that was a gift.”

“But I gave you tea! And fish! And…”

“I CAN MAKE TEA. I have never, ever been charged for tea, not in this country, not in Jordan, not in Lebanon…” I listed how many ways one could obtain tea for free, making sure he realized that I was not about to give him money for something that is taken for granted even in Wadi Rum, where there is no water.

The argument was loud, and our point was clear. We shoved money into his hand and left him counting it, calling back that it was exactly the amount of money he asked for and he needn’t worry, we didn’t gyp him as he had gypped us, and we wouldn’t be visiting him again.

The aggravation was not only over the extra money he wanted from us. It was a noisy night bus ride, a long day in the sun, and four hours of waiting for a jeep that took us to canyons we couldn’t appreciate in the dusk. It was the frustration of having no choice, no where else to go, and not even being near the bus station. It was being clearly, obnoxiously ripped off by a man who deserved neither the money he charged nor the money he wanted to charge. It was the concept of “Egyptian hospitality” falling flat, and with a thud. It was being taken for a stupid tourist, and occasionally living up to the title.

So we stalked back on the empty, dark street to our hostel, frustrated. We had arranged to go to St. Catherine’s monastery the next morning at 7 with a guide, and take the bus back to Cairo at 3 PM. “Plans could change,” one of us suggested. They certainly could.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Sacrificial Shirts & Hotels with Towels

The world looks different through tired eyes. When you’re tired, your standard of acceptable challenges lowers drastically and every obstacle looms ten times larger than life. The world also looks different through refreshed eyes. A good night’s sleep, and yesterday’s problems can seem silly, abstract, and ridiculous. They can also seem completely incomprehensible: What was I thinking when I signed up for…?

Many, if not all, of my solo journeys have been of the hostel variety. I stayed in Wadi Rum for a week with a change of clothes and a camera. I’ve hostelled in the French country and on the Beirut corniche. I’ve taken night trains in order to save on hotel costs. Four of us girls did Italy for two weeks in the cheapest hostels available- we got what we paid for, hostel-wise, but the stories? Priceless. I remember sharing a flat, wooden mattress with Stacy, whom I barely knew, on the outskirts of Venice, in the freezing cold. We’d sleep with our backs together and just as we warmed up, our hips would start hurting from the mattress and we’d have to shift our bodies in order to relieve the pain, maintain some nominal degree of privacy, and share body heat under the thin blanket as the wind blew through the crack under the doorway. We didn’t sleep much, but let me tell you, there’s no better way to make friends.

So I consider myself a sort of experienced low-budget traveler. Nothing much surprises me anymore, not after coming into our Roman hostel at 2 AM and finding other people in our beds. Egypt, I thought, should be a piece of cake. And it was, in that there are hostels, and they are dirt cheap. Budget travelers have an easy time of it. But by the end of the trip, I was ready to turn in my hostel card and graduate to the next level of world traveler: hotels with towels.

Our Pension in Cairo was a sweet little place in Zamalek, near embassies and a Panini CafĂ©, with a pleasant courtyard where old men gathered and talked all day and, as far as we could tell, all night. Our room had two beds, a little balcony, and a shelving unit. The shared bathroom was relatively clean and there was hot water. The owner, Mr. Hady, was nice enough, a round man with a friendly, but serious, face. Lisa and I were happy to have found an affordable room that didn’t have bugs or dirty sheets. But when we went to take our showers we realized that the cute pension didn’t have towels, either. Nor had we brought any. So we made a sacrifice: We each took our cleanest dirty shirt (an odd tribute to Johnny Cash, perhaps) and used it to dry bodies and wrap up wet hair. This was surprisingly effective, but also … grimy. The towels were dry by morning, ready to be packed up again and hauled to our next destination. We were satisfied with this system.

But then came Nuweiba. Our Lonely Planet recommendation turned out to be very, very lonely. Not a woman in sight, in fact, and no other hostellers, despite the fact that they told us that all the rooms were booked (which, if you ask me, was a weird, but baldfaced nonetheless, lie.) It was a tired, rickety little room with two single beds and clean pink sheets on the crooked sidetable. The door stuck to the frame and required a good deal of shoving to open. The whole room was about as big as my bathroom in my studio apartment. Not to worry! I thought. I’ve done this before! I thought. So we took it. Grand total: $1. That’s right, no zeros.

But then we had our adventures with Mr. Mohammed and the Jeep That Wasn’t (Be patient! That story is coming soon.) And we returned after dark to our small, tired room which was next to the tired, smelly bathrooms and had ants crawling under the crooked door. The room seemed smaller now that there was no sunlight peeking in through the rafters, and sketchier now that we knew there were no other women around. There was no sound. Our mouths had a bad taste after our aggravating exchange with Mr. Mohammed. Slight feelings of claustrophobia crept up on us from the wet tile floor. Lisa slouched on her bed and I slouched on mine, and we conspired. We conspired to leave, to get outta Dodge, and somehow get to a hotel, a hotel with towels and windows and no groups of silent young men playing cards on the balconies above us. We weren’t sure it was worth it. It would be more prudent to stay put for one night, deal with the ants and the crooked rafters. Wouldn’t it? It was only costing us one dollar. Who could beat that?

But it wasn’t worth it. The tipping point had been reached, and we tipped. We didn’t know exactly how to escape, since there weren’t any taxis (which only heightened the feeling of claustrophobia), and it turned into quite an ordeal when we managed to do it, but we did. We escaped to the Dahab Hilton, a five star resort on the edge of the Red Sea, a resort with whitewash bungalows, big square patios, and three swimming pools. A resort with minibars, wake-up calls, and towels. Never have I so appreciated towels.

We rinsed our sacrificial shirts and hung them up on the towel rack. We slept like the dead in an enormous, fluffy bed with feathery pillows. We woke to the sun streaming through our wooden shutters. And the world looked a saner, approachable, and refreshed. What were we thinking, staying in Nuweiba in that one dollar hostel? Why didn’t we plan this better? How absurd is it that we paid someone 300 pounds to go to a hotel we didn’t even know had vacancies? It seemed ridiculous and abstract to me, like it had happened long ago, back when I Didn’t Know Any Better. But after a good night’s sleep on a fluffy bed, I knew better. I knew that that trip was worth every piaster and the $80/night hotel was the best money I’d ever spent.

The silly part is that I’d stayed in the Dahab Hilton before, in 2002 on my first trip to Egypt. I knew it existed, but I had ruled it out as too chichi for our low-budget adventures. But upon further reflection, I realize my folly. At $80/night, that’s what, a Motel 6 in Grand Rapids? Yeah.

So I’m done with the hostel vacations, at least the rougher sort. It’s worth the extra few dollars to have a little towel luxury that will make my vacation a vacation and not an exercise in sacrificial clothing.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Christmas: $100

Some people do.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

In Which She Decides Never Again to Take the Night Bus

We were ecstatic at the ease of the bus situation in Dahab. This bus stop was right next to our hotel. It was small and relatively clean. The 7:30 bus had seats left on it, and we gladly paid for two. Dahab to Cairo, 7:30 PM. A Day in Dahab and no need to pay for a hotel that night. Fantastic.

As we boarded the bus, I immediately noticed the legroom. I have longish legs. Not really long long, but long enough to notice legroom. There was no legroom. I couldn't cross my legs. This is a problem. I grunted and scooted sideways to fit my knees together. It's ok, I thought. I'll sleep, I thought. It won't be a problem, I thought.

By 7:30 PM in Dahab in October, the sun is completely set. It was dark, and we were tired, but not so tired that we fell asleep right away. Which is good, because even if we had wanted to, we wouldn't have been able to sleep. After an hour ride to Sharm al-Sheikh's bus stop, we had a longish (rather too long, if you ask me) stop in Sharm, but not in pretty Sharm. In the Sharm bus stop. With the sketchy bathroom. 15 minutes of wandering aimlessly around the busstop, and we're back on the bus. We had hoped that the creepy dude with the ballcap in front of us would stay in Sharm, but we hoped in vain. He was there for the rest of the ride, regularly and overtly glancing back and inspecting us for seconds at a time.

First, we were entertained with musilsilat (TV programs) with a vaguely Ramadan theme. I think. All I know is there was an Asian-looking singer, an honest-to-goodness bellydancing dwarf, and two sketchy looking men with gelled moustaches. I put on my headphones, pulled my knees to my chest, and closed my eyes. I felt tired enough to sleep after our exciting and exhausting adventures in Dahab.

You would think that since we were STILL IN EGYPT and HAD NEVER LEFT Egypt and no one had gotten ON or OFF the bus since Sharm al-Sheikh, as there were no busstops in the MIDDLE OF SINAI, there would be no need for extra security checks after leaving the busstop. Yes? Well. You would be wrong. Not only are there security checks, but there are security checks EVERY HOUR. Rough looking men board the bus, check your passport and/or your bus ticket, and then leave you to resume your fitful sleep. It is an extremely annoying interruption, especially considering that you are not having that great a time ANYWAY, trying fruitlessly to sleep in a fetal position in a dirty bus with a creepy hat guy staring at you.

But more annoying? Is when they wake you up and make you get out of the bus. Because at 3 am, or thereabouts, a tall gruff man boarded the bus and yelled something about "SHANTAT!" Now, having already dealt with the word "shanta" ("bag" or "purse") after losing my luggage in Jordan, I thought, "Aha, he is talking about luggage! See how well I speak Arabic!" And we assumed, erroneously, that this was a repeat of a previous bus ride, where they had requested that those passengers getting off at certain stops bring their luggage up with them until that stop. The gruff man looked at us and yelled again. So we got off the bus.

Everyone else was already off, with their luggage lined up in front of them. It was the most orderly queue of people we had seen all week. We joined them, yawning. My eyes stung from the previous 6 bumpy hours of sleeplessness. It was chilly, but the air felt clean, the crisp, barren sort of clean that is one of the most beautiful things about the desert. At a command from the police, everyone stepped back one large step in a weirdly synchronized movement. "Weird," I thought, "Have they done this before?"

The policeman, once we had stepped back and given him room, fiddled with a small black gadget he held, then held it up in front of him, as you would a sword or a pistol, and speedwalked past the luggage, turning on his heels when he got to the end to speedwalk back. When he reached the end of the luggage line, he just kept walking, off to the desert behind the bus. And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, everyone picked up their suitcases, put them back in the bus, and made their groggy way back to their seats.

The whole thing was so surreal, so out of place, and everyone's reactions were so...normal. We had a hard time figuring out what, exactly, Mr. Policeman had done. Was it a metal detector? If so, wouldn't he want to check the bags in the bus as well as the bags under the bus? Wouldn't he want to check the individuals? It was very confusing.

And not two hours later, there we were at a nondescript busstop in Cairo, somewhere by the Nile. We had no idea where we were, but we did know that it was 4:30 AM and that 4:30 AM is when good girls are usually in bed, which is exactly where we wanted to be. We got in a taxi and told him the Four Seasons, knowing that we could sit in their lobby as long as we wanted, and really, just wanting to be off the street. The taxi driver asked us as soon as we started off, "How much?"

This is never a good sign in Cairo. As we learned from Anthony, this is how the taxis work: you get in, you tell them where you are going, and you pay them AFTER you've gotten out of the taxi. Otherwise, you'll get ripped off. But we were stuck, so I asked, in what I thought was a very clever response considering that we had no idea where we were, "How much do you want?"

He laughed. "How much do you want to pay?"

Then I made a mistake: "How long is the drive?"

"You don't know how long the drive is?"

"Well, we don't know exactly where the bus station is."

"It's the Ibrahim bus station!"

"Yes, um, I know the NAME of the bus station, but I don't know how far it is from the Four Seasons."

He laughed again. "80 pounds."

"EIGHTY?" I raised my eyebrows. "No. That is too much." I felt trapped in the cab speeding next to the Nile. I knew 80 pounds was a ridiculous price.

And then he actually said, "You don't even know where you are! How do you know how much is too much?"

I shot a Look at Lisa. The Look said, "This is so, so obnoxious." The usual cab ride is 5 pounds, ten if there is traffic or if it's a ways. Eighty is probably what that guy makes in a month. And at that moment, I lost my previous regard for Egyptian hospitality. What kind of person rips off two obviously lost, tired, young travelers at 4:30 AM?

The ride was not very long. We passed two wedding parties on our way, one with the bride and groom speeding away on a motorcycle, the other with the bride posing for pictures by the Nile. It seemed mildly absurd to have these brides so perfectly adorned at such an odd hour of the day/night, when most people were in bed with smudged eyeliner and tangled hair. But it also seemed fantastically festive. Why not stay up all night and celebrate a marriage? Why not take a stroll in your wedding dress by the Nile at 5 am? I kind of wanted to join the party, or at least follow it from a distance and eavesdrop.

We ended up giving the cab driver too much money, although he swore, "Wallahi, it's not expensive, it is a fair price." I knew it was too much, but I also knew that standing on the street corner arguing with a cab driver was not a good way to spend your Friday pre-dawn morning. I was annoyed that I had spent so much of my vacation getting ripped off by cab drivers, and I was ready to sit on the Four Season's couch, watch the sun rise, and decide what to do next.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

How My Blackberry Saved Me from Cairo

The previous chapter will be posted shortly--this is the final chapter in Cairo, right after our bus ride from Dahab, which you will be able to read all about as soon as I post it.

---

After our fifty-seven hour night bus ride-which included seven security checks free of charge!-Lisa and I found ourselves in Cairo at dawn, listening to the recycled tunes in the Four Seasons lobby, waiting for the sun to rise. I printed my itinerary from the business center, just in case. It is Egypt, after all. Whent the sun did rise, we cabbed to Cilantro and got a tiny, expensive breakfast. Lisa was staying another few days, but my plane was scheduled to leave in a few hours, so we walked through the empty Zamalek streets to the President Hotel where we showered, dressed in our cleanest dirty shirts, and re-packed.

My wonderful, $7 Andiamo suitcase and I took the first taxi we saw to the airport, about a 45 minute drive. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I tried to pay attention to the expanse of Cairo below me as we sped toward the airport. Cairo is a brown city, like it rose of the dunes and never managed to shake off the dust. It leaves your feet brown, your palms dusty, and your skin clogged. The thick smog seems less to have settled than to have risen from the ground, kept close to the rooftops by a general languidity, a heat that is too lazy to rise into the atmosphere. The airport, too, feels brown and dusty, sleepy, and as I handed the last of my pounds to the cabbie, I felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of a warm, clean shower in Frankfurt.

I walked to the check in gate for Austrian Air. I was the first one there. I felt svelt and well-travelled in my long, terra cotta skirt, my chic, borrowed jacket, and my tidy, rolly suitcase. The gate opened and I stepped up to the helpful looking man and passed over my passport and itinerary. "I have an e-ticket," I offered in my smoothest voice. He typed away for much longer than necessary. He called someone else over. There seemed to be a problem. "Ma'am, we don't see your reservation in our computer, so if you'll take a seat, we'll check and get back to you." "...you don't see it? Well, I do have one, because it's here on the itinerary." I gestured toward the itinerary. They repeated their offer "It seems your reservation has been ccanccelled. We'll do our best to rectify this." "Well...um...Is there a place to get a cup of coffee?" I asked. No, there was not, not until after you pass security with your boarding pass. Which I didn't have. Well, I thought, maybe I can get a 15 minute nap. I laid down on the metal seats.

Fifteen minutes and no sleep later, the same short, goateed man came over and told me that he was sorry, my reservation had been cancelled and there's nothing they could do. "What?" I was stunned. "Why was it cancelled?" "You used your free miles on this ticket, yes?" "...yes." "Well, you had a reservation on the 23rd, and you didn't show up, so they cancelled it because you have changed your itinerary after beginning your journey." "No, I'm sorry, I think there's some mistake. I never had a reservation on the 23rd. My reservation, AS you can SEE," I pointed dramatically at the itinerary, "is for the 27th. Today. Al-yeom." "Well, our computers say you were supposed to be here on the 23rd." "Well, then why does this itinerary, which is FROM UNITED AIRLINES, say that my reservation is on the 27th?" He shrugged. "I don't know ma'am. Next?" "Wait, wait, wait, what am I supposed to do now?" A sickening wave of anxiety washed over me: I could be stuck in Cairo another day, another night, and I really just wanted to leave, to get on the plane and go, go, until I landed in a country where the customer is always right. "Erm...go talk to the Austrian Air representative." I stared at them, infuriated. "Which is....where?" He yelled at the tall man next to him, "Ali, take her to the sales office."

Ali seemed nice enough, and he also seemed very confused at my state of fury and confusion. "Is there a problem?" he asked cheerily. "Iowa. Fii mushkila." "Ahhhhh! You speak Arabic!" This seemed to make his day. He whistled as he led me out past the security check I had already passed once. I was not in nearly as cheerful a mood. Up the stairs, down the stairs, past the crowds, to the Austrian Air office. I walked in with my trusty Andiamo.

The woman behind the desk leaned forward, clicking her long nails together as she talked to a tall man. "Begad?!" she lilted. They continued to have a long, fascinating conversation about her cousin's wedding. I tapped my foot and glared at her. She turned her head to me. "Yes?"

I explained the situation. She typed with her long nails on the keyboard, tap tap tap. "Erm, you did not show up for your reservation on the 23rd, so they have, erm, cancelled your reservation."

"I never had a reservation on the 23rd." I showed her the itinerary. "My reservation is on the 27th, today, to Frankfurt. This email is from United Airlines." I pointed at the United logo. I was holding back tears of exhaustion and frustration.

"Yes, erm, I do not know, but you do not have a reservation, and there is nothing I can do. You have to, erm, call the United representatives in the US, yes?" She looked at her watch. "But I think it is very early in the US and it is also the weekend, so probably you will have to wait to call them because they are not open now."

I looked at her without forgiveness. "So what am I supposed to do, sleep in the airport for two days? Do you have a solution?" She stared at me. I continued, whimpering, "Can I at least try to call from your phone, since this is clearly not my fault?"

"Erm, no, we do not have international phone lines."

I was incredulous. "Isn't this an international airport? ...never mind. Where can I call?" My eyes were red, I could feel them stinging.

"Go downstairs to the pay phone."

"Where are the stairs?"

"Outside my door."

"Yes, clearly, they are outside your door, but which way should I turn when I get outside your door."

She raised a penciled eyebrow at me and pointed to her right.

I took my Andiamo and I stalked out of her office. I went down two flights of stairs and spotted the pay phone. I held up my credit card at the little shop: "I need a phone card. Will you take this?" "Of course!" "Ok, 10 pound phone card. Thank you." I handed him the credit card. "Oh...no, sorry, this no work."

I didn't try to argue, although I could think of a few words he should have heard. "Where can I get cash?"

At this point, a round, helpful man walked up, perhaps taking pity on my teary eyes, and directed me up the stairs to the ATM. I went up, past the crowds, to the ATM. I got 20 pounds. As I withdrew the money, friendly taxi drivers hassled me, "Taxi, taxi, taxi? You need taxi to Cairo? I have meter in taxi!" I kept walking and waved my hand too angrily in their direction. I returned to the store. I bought the phone card. I slided to the pay phone. I dialed my parents, knowing they would be up at 7 am on a Friday morning.

My father picked up the phone. I started crying as soon as I started talking, tears of exhaustion and frustration. "Daddy, I'm stuck in the Cairo airport and--sniff--they say I don't have a reservation to fly to Germany and --sob--I can't call united because it's an 800 number and -- cry--I just want to leave *sob* this CITY." He was getting ready for work, but he put my mom on and I sobbed the story out to her, when the phone died. I bought another phone card and called again. The line was busy. I left a message saying I would call in ten minutes. There was no way they could call me.

I sat on my luggage with my back on the yellow tiled wall downstairs in the Cairo Airport. I felt alone. Men were gathered in small groups, praying, drinking tea, talking on cell phones. None of them offered to help. Even if they had offered me a cup of tea, I thought, how hard would that be? If I saw a stranger crying in an airport by a pay phone, I would offer her a cup of tea if I had one. (I didn't want to think about if this were really true or not. It probably wasn't. But it is now: If I see you crying in an airport, I will help you.) I felt them watching me as I sat there, tears gathering in my eyes and sometimes escaping down my cheeks. They stared, but they didn't move. The few women stood in groups and glaced over occasionally.

That's when I got out the Blackberry. It still had a bar of charge left. I emailed Fares and my parents, and not two minutes later, my mother wrote back. She was on the phone with United, sorting it out. 15 emails later, she wrote back: go check in at the Austrian Air office, it should be ok.

I walked into the Austrian Air office and sat down defiantly. "Please check my reservation again."

The woman clooked at her nails and then started tapping. "Hmm, yes, erm, Range? Yes. So...this ssays you never had a reservation on the 23rd!"

"...yup."

"That is so strange."

"Yup."

"Wellll, I guess...you can go through to check in now!" she chirped.

"Yeah. Great."

I walked up the stairs, outside into the dusty Cairo air, and back into the first security check. The man recognized me. "How did you get out without me seeing you?" I wasn't in the mood to explain, so I pointed vaguely in the direction of the other exit.

My mother sent another email: You should be going to the check in now. Sure enough, I was walking to the check in counter where this rigamarole first started. I got the same man, Mr. Goatee, at the counter. "I should be ready to go now. Please check."

He acted as if I hadn't just spent the last hour jumping through Egyptian hoops, calling overseas in a building with no international lines, and explaining that I didn't actually have a reservation on the 23rd. He acted as though he'd never seen me. Maybe he didn't recognise me with the red, puffy eyes. "Oooooh, your bag is 12 kilos. You will have to check it."

I looked at him blankly. "No. I am not checking this bag. it's 1 or two kilos over? I could take my shoes out and carry them and it would make the weight. Plus, last time I checked my carry-on, you lost it."

Mr. Goatee shrugged, "I am sorry, it is too heavy."

"Ok, let me take out the things that will break." I took out my camera, lenses, and headphones. "Now is it underweight?"

He looked puzzled. "Well ... I will check it through to Dulles."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I have a 20 hour layover in Frankfurt."

"Yes, it is rather long."

"You want me to spend 20 hours in Frankfurt with no change of clothes? You want my bag to sit in Frankfurt for 20 hours? You think it won't get lost sitting there all day."

Mr. Goatee thought about this. Then he tore up the ticket. Then one last thought seemed to occur to him. "Well, you shouldn't have wheels on your suitcase. That is a problem."

"They come off."

"...oh. Can you take them off? I mean, I just don't think the lady at the gate...she won't like it if it has wheels, maybe she will make you check it. I just want you to have a smooth entry."

I took the wheels off.

"Oh..." he handed me the boarding passes for my entire trip back. "Have a nice flight."

I didn't say anything. I walked to the gate. 20 minutes later, they called for boarding.

The lady at the gate? Was Mr. Goatee.

---

The rest of the trip was seamless.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Chicks Dig King David

My favorite Internet Quote of the week:

Young men out there, take a lesson from David: He's a warrior, he plays the lyre—the guitar of his day—and he's not afraid of a good cry. Now do you understand why the chicks dig him?

From Slate.com.



Egypt Stories Coming Soon!

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Marrakech Express

Because Phil requested them: Photos.

Monday, September 18, 2006

The Road to Marrakech

I know it seems like the only time I post is when I travel to another continent. Fair enough.

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I flew to Marrakech the day after my 24th birthday party (which, incidentally, consisted of Ecuadorean tapas, a rum and coke, Chi Cha Lounge, a few mojitos, three of my favorite people in the whole world, some excellent salsa dancing, a light drizzle, and two boxes of Godiva Chocolate) Because I was flying through Paris on the way there and London on the way back, I thought I would be smart and pack light, and by light, I mean my small gym backpack and my laptop case. No way is Air France going to lose more of my clothes. I'll show them. I got many comments by Air France officials to the tune of "So, traveling light today!" And I felt like saying, "Yes, because you LOST MY STUFF" but I did not. I just smiled and hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and walked away. Now I'm in MArrakech and wondering why I did not think to bring a bigger bag so that I could BUY STUFF. Because the shopping here. The shopping here!

The arrival was seamless. The visa is free. I had no checked luggage. A small wrinkled Moroccoan man greeted me at the Marrakech airport with a sign that spelled my name correctly. It was alarming how smoothly it went.

But this was not to last. Because while the shopping in Marrakech may be excellent, the conference planning is ... not so much. The business center in this hotel doesn't have a copy machine. Or a stapler. Or tape. Or paper clips. Or anything. They did not make our group reservations for dinner despite it clearly being marked in the agenda I gave them. They wanted us to pay cash for the projector for the conference room--about $135 in cash. Sketchy. You have to pay cash for the front desk to make copies--75 cents per page. For 5 research papers, the bill is steep. The list goes on. Hey, at least there's a pool. (An alarming number of scantily clad young brown people hang out at the pool. I didn't expect it to be so ... Baywatch.)

---

The day I arrived, Tyler and I walked to the medina, old city, for dinner. He had read in "1,000 Places To See Before You Die" about a restaurant called Yacout, Arabic for "sapphire," located "somewhere in the medina." Always up for an adventure, and fully knowing how easy it would be to find a restaurant located "somewhere," I signed on and we walked to the city center. It was a circus. The crowd throbbed and swirled around kiosks, snake charmers, kebab stands, henna artists, jugglers, carnival games. It was a strange vibe that felt like a combination of an Arab wedding and the State Fair--get your hands henna-ed, toss the ring over the jar and win!, eat some food on a stick, dance under the lights hanging from the kiosk awnings. After turning down several kebab peddlers, we wandered down an alley of the souk and stopped in a charming hotel (much more charming than ours, and it even had a tiled fountain in the courtyard) and the clerk gave us directions: "Go down zees street, et, then you see the road, it is name Mohammed V, you turn a droite, et puis, you will see the Center Artisanale, and then it is right, right, toujours a droite, and then you see big doors" - here he made a double arch motion with both hands - "then you ask someone, it is very close, very close." Simple enough.

We walked back through the crowd and down Mohamed V, turning right at the Centre Artisanale. The road forked a lot, and there was no big door. Rather, there were many big doors but none that seemed more remarkable than the others. We stopped in a small grocery store and the man driected us back and to the left. "C'est tres pres d'ici" he promised. I think he lied.

After once more stopping for directions and being told it was only "300 meters!" from where we stood, we had almost given up and gotten a cab back to the part of town we knew, when a tall thin man in a striped shirt that made him look taller and thinner told us he knew exactly where it was but it was "Assez loin d'ici"- rather far. "Really? We were told it was close! 300 meters!" He shrugged in a particularly French manner. "Non, c'est loin, peut-etre 15 minutes." Tyler and I were skeptical. 15 minutes is not the same as 300 meters. "Je peut vous aider, suivez-moi, 15 minutes. Gratuis!" Free! he says, and my guard went up. Is this a scam? Will he ask for a handout? Or lead us down a dark alley to our death? Ok, the death is unlikely. But we didn't have much to lose, and we were already lost. So we followed him. For a long time. Through alleys and past kebabs and cats and shoes for sale and guava vendors. Past henna parties, children playing in the street, laundry hanging above our heads, and street signs illegible from wear and weather. At a small, dusty mosque, he asked someone where the restaurant was and we walked down a dark, empty alley, which was nerve-wracking until we saw that it lead to a smaller, darker alley, at which point I might have gotten scared if I had been alone. But at the end of the alley he pointed out large, fancy, clean cars driving past slowly through the alleys, "Ils sont des voitures du restaurant"--the valet service was parking them. A few left turns and there we were, and an old man in a white galabaya and a red fez greeted us, "Bonsoir" with a polite little bow and a warm smile. We had found it--rather, been led to it- Yacout, with no name on the building, no street address, and a doorway that didn't even face the street but was two right turns behind a small dirt lot and an unlit alley. There is no way, no way, we could have found it ourselves. Our lean, striped guide said, "Et voila!" and turned on his heels to leave without even asking for a tip. We stepped into the doorway.

All the pictures you have in your head about what a Moroccan palace must look like--that is Yacout. Small and intimate, but grand, intricate, and breathtaking. The blue and white tiles in the entryway, graced by two dark wood chairs and candles on an inlaid table, was just the beginning-the hallway lead up some small stairs, pas a room with a tile fireplace and we could see at the end the gleams of candlelight on a reflecting pool. The gracious host greeted us and when he realized we didn't have reservations, directed us to the terrace where we could, "relax, enjoy the view, have a drink, and get ready for dinner..." Which we took to mean, "You should have had reservations." No matter. The terrace, up towo flights of circular blue tiled stairs and a second terrace with plants and candles, was charming, a split level with lanterns, musicians, and ghost-like waiters in their long white galabayas. Just above rooftops, you can see the whole city of Marrakech and its alleys and minarets spread out beneath you like a nubby carpet. Our aperatifs (we classily orderd un coca and a beer) was served in gold-engraved glasses and accompanied by silver dishes of rich golden raisins and plain almonds. The night was perfect as only a Mediterranean night can be.

Aperatif

After they decided we had relaxed enough, they brought us downstairs to the main restaurant. Down the tile stairs, past the reflecting pool and into what felt like a honeymoon suite: a long, immensley tall room with three french doorways adorned with burgundy floor-length curtains, easily 20 feet tall. Seven circular tables with thick tablecloths, decorated with scattered rose petals and single white taper candles, a tiled fireplace at the end of the room, and a bench with striped embroidery and red pillows that reached from one end to the other. We sat in front of the middle doorway with a glimpse of the pool and the best view of the two musicians, castanets and oud, with their tassled hats. They rested against the glass French doors with the ease of cats, folding their legs under their long embroidered robes and leaning against triangular pillows while they played and sang. They were later replaced by two different musicians who played much more Arabic, Northern, Andalucian music rather than the Southern, African beat the first two had played. The courtyard was open and visible from the terrace, where we had just been, and the night breeze just barely whispered across the candles.

Candlelight

The set menu began with about 10 Moroccan salads: carrots with cinnamon, sweet tomato paste, zucchini, liver, olives, marinated peppers...the names do them no justice. It was not JUST carrots with cinnamon. It was carrote puree with cinnamon and ... something else ... that didn't taste like a dessert, nor like a sauce. It was rich and vibrant. Nor was it JUST liver, but liver cooked to a pleasant, almost sweet, texture, with a sauce and spices hiding inside. They tasted effortless, like when you see a good dancer who makes ballet look easy.

Chicken with preserved lemon and olives. I love this dish, even in its American (or, worse, my homemade) version. Something about lemons with olives makes the world better. To taste it as it should be, in Marakech, listening to an oud, was pretty close to heaven. This was followed by lamb and quince tagine and couscous with vegetables, and the lamb was so tender it came off with a spoon. The quince added a sweet spiciness to the lamb, and with the boiled - but not to death - vegetables, it was perfectly balanced. The couscous was light and fluffy, floating on the side.

By this time, we were wondering how much more food we could possibly fit into our bodies. Granted, we had walked for two hours to get to this place, but one can only be so hungry. Luckily, dessert was next, a light flaky pastry with a rose water-milk sauce followed by an assortment of rose water and sugar-nut bites and, of course, mint tea poured from a foot above the glass to acheive the perfect frothiness.

All this was ours for a price I won't even name, because it was worth it (but no, it wasn't over $100.) It's everything you want Marrakech to be.

Yacout: Sapphire

Monday, August 21, 2006

The Best Of DC

The Washingtonian does it, so I'm going to, too.

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Hair: Hands down, no contest: Trim Salon.

Nails: Color Nails on 17th and R. $35 Mani/pedi, and a nice massage in the package. Can't beat that.

Facials: Andre Chreky Salon, 16th and K. Seriously, go to Mila. She will FIX YOUR SKIN.

Shoe repair: George's Shoe Repair on U street. He's been fixing shoes for 57 years. When he fixes your high heels, they don't break again after 2 weeks, like every other shoe repair store. Also, he's very old and cute and he laughs a lot.

Coffee: Tryst's Cuban Coffee is the best cuppa I've tasted in DC.

---

That is all. I have updates from Marrakech when I return. Stay tuned!

Friday, August 18, 2006

Only in LA, man. Only in LA.

An interesting variation on the idea of a sushi platter.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Fresh Figs

Figs are best when picked straight from the tree in the morning, after they've had a few hours to wake up and warm up in the sun, after you've had a good night's sleep on the roof under Jordanian stars. They are especiailly good with fresh mint tea.

Dead Sea Marriott (18)

I went to Jordan for work, but the last few days I spend not working at all, mostly eating figs and swimming in the Dead Sea. Don't worry, your tax dollars didn't pay for that.

Dead Sea Marriott (29)

Dead Sea Marriott (23)

Despite warnings that it would be TOO HOT, JUST TOO HOT, it was not in fact too hot. It was fantastic, beautiful weather, dry and hot and blue and brown. I heard reports that DC was sticky molasses hot, and I could smell the sweat through the e-mail.

Dead Sea Marriott (22)

The Marriott at the Dead Sea has three pools on different levels with fountains and waterfalls. The bogainvilla's bright magenta is appropriately brilliant in the blinding sun, and the Dead Sea's blue gray swirls spread down the horizon.

Dead Sea Marriott (13)

There is a patio where you can sit outside at night when the stars come out and smoke sheisha and drink mint lemonade. A brunette bellydancer comes out and twirls her hips. You can walk down the stairs to the shore of the Dead Sea and listen to the lapping of the waves on the rocks.

Dead Sea Marriott (26)

I find most spa experiences to be much the same--soft new age music playing over the speakers, scented candles, and intense herbal smells. I thoroughly enjoy it, but sometimes doubt the effectiveness-besides the feeling of being pampered-of spas. But if you go to the Dead Sea Spa and get a Mud Envelope, they will rub you with oil and salt, much like a chicken before it is roasted, and then rinse you off and lather your whole body in mud. Then they wrap you in the spa equivalent of Saran wrap, put a few heavy layers on you and leave you to roast for a few minutes. When they unwrap you, you still feel rather like poultry, but then they rinse the mud off and you see that your skin is new and soft, baby skin, and you're drowsy with the salty thick smell of the sea.

-----

I think that this is more enjoyable after you've been wearing the same clothes for a full week. One week of laundering your clothes in the hotel sink because Air France sent your luggage to the wrong Middle Eastern country and you feel ready for a spa treatment. (You also feel ready for a new wardrobe, courtesy of Air France.) Despite the fact that Air France promised us each 100 Euros to go shopping, 100 Euros doesn't go far, even in Amman. In fact, it will buy you exactly one pair of trousers, two cheap shirts, two undershirts, and possibly a pair of underwear. Needless to say, these are not business clothes, but teeny-bopper store clothes--camisoles with sequined hearts on the bust and underwear with cheap bows.

Air France insisted that of COURSE it would send my luggage STRAIGHT AWAY to the Marriott in Amman. In fact, it would be there the next morning! Then they insisted that of course they would sent it to the Dead Sea Marriott! Then they insisted that of course they would forward my luggage STRAIGHT to my permanent address in the States. It's been two weeks and there's no sign, no news. It's gone. Air France owes me a new business wardrobe. And a new Huit swimsuit. A Tahitian pareo. My purple Anthropologie kimono, and a pair of purple suede flats. An international adapter/converter kit. My favorite white pants. All my t-shirts. And a grey Christian Dior suit.

----

The day before the real work began, Peter and I drove with Fares to his parents' house in Madaba. There is nothing like the smell of the country--the desert and the stars and the cool night air, the plates of fresh fruit and figs and pomegranate, the cups of mint tea. Better, the people you love with you. Friends and family, celebrations and weddings and good Tawjihi scores. A new garden that has your favorite plant, named after you: "Catherine's Majnouna." Dinner made from vegetables fresh from the garden, organic cucumbers and ripe tomatoes. The girls slept on the roof under the stars on mattresses under bright felt blankets and woke up to the dawn. The first thing we did after waking up was pick figs and drink mint tea, and it made me wonder what I was doing living in Washington riding the Metro everyday when really all I want to do in life is eat figs at dawn and drink mint tea.

---

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

There's a Reason They Call it the Red Eye

Reason #1: No Blanket
Reason #2: No Pillows
Reason #2: Loud, naggy couples seated in the row behind you
Reason #4: Your neighbor's air turned on full blast and pointing at your legs, making it impossible to get and stay warm: see Reason #1.

I love JetBlue. I love that they have a direct flight from Dulles to Long Beach. I love that it's cheap and easy and you can check in online and print your boarding pass from the kiosk in the airport. I love the choice of snacks they give you. I am not so fond, however, of the lack of pillows and/or blankets. Really, one or the other would be nice, I don't need both. On the whole, though, it was a nice flight, and for the price, I guess you can't really expect pillows. I guess. I landed at 5:20 AM and was home by 6:30. It took me about four minutes and thirty seconds to collapse on my bed and fall asleep. I woke up refreshed and smelling very distinctly of Stuffy Airplane Cabin, which is alright if you're in a stuffy airplane cabin, but not so nice if you're at home in your own bed. I examined my back and was pleased to find that my cranberry burn has faded to a lovely lobster bisque color, a color I might consider painting my walls if I were allowed to paint my walls.

LA was a nice break, a good vacation with friends and food and sun and beach and weddings and freeways and shopping. I remembered why I love SoCal: the food and the attitude and the individualism and the weather, the WEATHER, and the easy life. I don't feel like it's my home anymore, although I can still drive like a local, and I realized how much I like being home in DC. I like being a regular at the Cuban place down the street. I like that I drive by the Jefferson Memorial every day on my commute to work. I like meeting people who think like I think, and feeling like I fit. I like having my church and my friends from all over who happen to be passing through, and I like that, finally, my mailing address and my permanent address are the same.

That said, I'm still considering grad school at UCLA just because it's in LA.

Monday, July 17, 2006

My Recommended Summer Friday Itinerary.

Friday, July 14

4 AM: Wake up to BBC blaring on the radio. Decide you can sleep just 5 more minutes.

4:45 AM: Jump frantically out of bed, pull on clothes, grab the (pre-packed, thankfully) carry on.

5:15 AM: Drive to Dulles

6:00 AM: Check in at Jet Blue kiosk.

6:05 AM: Walk approximately 4.5 miles to Gate B36.

6:30 AM: Board Plane.

6:31 AM: Fall asleep.

9:20 AM, PST: Wake up. Exit plane and find yourself in happy, sunny, Long Beach Airport.

9:21 AM: Be greeted by Lori. Yay!

10:30 AM: Eat Big, Delicious French Sandwich at C'est Si Bon. Meander to Lori's cute apartment.

11 AM Meander around said cute apartment.

11:15 AM: Ride ferry to Balboa Island. Eat Chocolate-dipped strawberry. Eat Cold Stone Ice Cream. Buy red Flip Flops. Get whooped 7-2 by Lori the Air Hockey Queen.

Somewhere around 1?: Ride ferry back to Newport. Decide to go to beach.

2 PM: Go to beach. Test the water. Decide it is Cold. Build sand dragons. Build sand castle. Sand Castle!


Watch cute little kids building sandcastles. Make Sand Chair. Lie in sun. Fall asleep. Wake up to find a cute but vicious child thoroughly destroying your sandcastle. Watch him make his way across the beach systematically destroying every sandcastle in sight. Nickname him Hurricane Steven.
Behold, Hurricane Steven:


5 PM: Get hungry. Wonder if you're sunburned.

6 PM: Buy groceries for dinner. Begin to realize that you are, in fact, very sunburned. Buy Aloe.

Dinner Fixings

7 PM: Grill meat. Meat! Mmm, meat! Also grill asparagus. Try to grill potatoes but fail.

Lori and the Grill

7:50 PM: Eat meat with tongs because you forgot to bring forks. Feel very primal. Wish you had room to eat more meat because it is so tasty.

Meat!

Tongs

8:50 PM Admire sunset over Newport Beach.

Newport Beach

9 PM: Realize that you are very, very sunburned. Go home. Watch Stargate.

10 PM: Fall asleep.

Saturday, June 24, 2006

New Apartment!

The reason I've been absent lately: Decorating my Swanky New Pad.

I love it.

And I did it all for under $100. Craig's List! Rocks!

--

And, since we ran out of room in the comments on the previous post, thank you, Phil, for confirming what I suspected all along--girls that look like they'll snap if you hug them aren't attractive to guys, either. (Well, most guys. I can't speak for all guys. Heck, I can't even speak for one guy.)

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Totally Useless Fashion Advice

All right, I know that any fashion advice you get from Instyle.com is probably...unreliable. I read it for the kicks. But I do have sort of an issue with the recent bikini slideshow. Take, for example, the props they give to Mischa Barton:
Mischa
"Mischa Barton has picked the skimpiest combo of the classic triangle and string bottom. She’s wearing it straight across her hips, which proves that you don’t have to pull the leg line high to make legs look long."

Um, guys...Mischa could wear ANYTHING and make her legs look long, because her legs ARE long. Also, her thighs are about the size of my wrist. The fact that she's wearing a bikini straight across her hips proves nothing. Also, Mischa, I can count your ribs. Please go get some boardwalk fries or a scoop of ice cream.

Next?
052606_200x400_dunst
“Kirsten Dunst is a pale girl with red hair and a pale yellow suit—she’s probably doing what you’re not supposed to do, but I love it! It’s very retro and fun, and the cut is perfect—it couldn’t fit her better.”

So how does that help us, the reader looking for fashion advice? "This is what you're not supposed to do, but look! Kirsten can do it!" I don't know if they want to say "Kirsten can do it but you probably can't because you're not Kirsten! Too bad for you." or if they want to say "Kirsten can do it and YOU CAN TOO!" Either way I think she needs to stand up straight. And Kirsten, go with Mischa and get some ice cream.

Next?
052606_200x400_alba

"Jessica Alba has picked a great suit in terms of her age and personality— it shows her coquettish side. Simple hair and bare feet are nice complements to the rest of her."

Jessica Alba is toally way cute, and I love the picture and I want her swimsuit, but guys, seriously. OF COURSE she's wearing simple hair and bare feet. What ELSE would she wear? A tiara? Her Manolos?

Next:

052606_200x400_hudson

“This is a great example for all the girls who want padding—you don’t need it! Kate Hudson looks great from head to toe—she’s not trying to make her chest look big. A straight top with a straight bottom is very flattering on any shape.” If this is the "You don't need it!" of padding, I'll take padding. Just because she's a celebrity doesn't mean this actually is a flattering look. That is all.

Finally, props to J. Lo who looks Normal and Healthy, like she eats occasionally and has muscles, too, and has a nice swimsuit in a nice color that she is neither falling nor poking out of.

052606_200x400_jlo2

Monday, June 12, 2006

Cool things you should know about

www.freecycle.com: source of some free stuff I got for my apartment!

www.thelunchclub.com: Meet new people! Random! Fun!

www.craigslist.com (Ok, I know you already know about Craig's List, but since it pretty much furnished my apartment, I though I should give it, you know, public recognition.)

Friday, June 02, 2006

Thwakety Thwack

The summer months bring steamy afternoons, lazy weekends and the urge to go thwackety-thwack, thwackety-thwack into the salt mines. The flip-flops already are out in force. Their cheap rubber soles melt against the hot concrete and get all squishy, dirty and distorted.

...Flip-flops should be paired with surf shorts and swimsuits; they should be found on beaches and in public showers. Exceptions can be made for walking the dog, watering the lawn, taking out the trash and ensuring that a fresh pedicure makes it from salon to home without getting smudged.Flip-flops are sloppy, cheap and generally unattractive. And that is part of their charm. They represent the blissful informality of summer, the most grudging, reluctant response to the admonishment, "No shoes, no service."

Thank you, Washington Post, for setting the record straight. Flip flops, my friends, are NOT OFFICE ATTIRE. They do NOT go with business suits. They look SILLY with straight skirts and pearls. When you wear them in the metro on the way to work, your feet get dirty before they've even passed the turnstile. The thwakety-thwack is distracting in the office. Pleeeeeease leave them at home. Or at least change once you get to work.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Pandora's Box

My new favorite Internet thingamajig: Pandora.

This is so, so cool.

Haven't you been frustrated with the recommendations that you get from, say, iTunes? I have. "Other people who bought this also bought..." helps me...not at all, because my interest in / love for the song amounts to a lot more than genre or artist. Just because I like Lauryn Hill doesn't mean I like ALL hip hop, and I can like one OutKast song and hate all the others. (Same goes for you, Amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com: Just because I once bought "A Brief History of the English People" doesn't mean I want to buy EVERY BOOK YOU HAVE about British history.)

Pandora looks beyond genre and artist and captures the *mood* of the song by filtering it down to the fundamentals: rhythm, melody, harmony, vocals, lyrics, key, cultural inspiration... This makes perfect sense to me. Bravo to the Music Genome Project.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

New pictures!

Well, old pictures, but maybe new to you: Wadi Rum, Petra, and various iftar activities in Jordan. More to come, but not for a few weeks.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Distraction

Introducing: Google's newest way of distracting us.

Now you can, for instance, find out that far more people in the Philippines and Ireland googled Pope John Paul II than in the US, but no one really cared much about googling the pope until he died. People in Halifax really like Oprah. And Britney Spears has been on a downhill curve in popularity with only a few spurts when something exciting happens, like babies. Besides that, more people in Venezuela, Mexico, Argentina, Peru, Chile, Portugal, and Finland care about Britney than in LA. (Besides that, they wanted the news in Danish, Spanish, and Swedish.)

Think of all the wonderful things you can explore when you should be working...

WMATA

Dear Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority,

I realize that summer is approaching and the outside temperatures are rising. However, this does not mean that all the metro trains need to have the air conditioning set to 40 degrees.

Thank you.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

We Are Scone Models

This weekend:

Lisa came to DC! We ate scones on the Mall!



Life is good.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Summer Means ... Farmer's Markets!

10 Reasons to Eat Local, posted on the Eat Local Challenge blog.

Community Supported Agriculture : What it is, why it's good, where you can find it in your area.

Every city has Farmer's Markets, right?

If you're in DC and you're interested in home delivery, sign up here.

Spread the word!

Friday, April 28, 2006

I hang out with smart people!

Congratulations to Anthony, who 1. got a fat scholarship to study in Egypt for a year, and 2. wrote this Wikipedia article ALL IN ARABIC.

Belated congratulations to my brother, who will be transferring to VMI this summer.

And congratulations to Fatema, the one on the right of the picture, who ended up published in the Daily Star.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Splenda

"Tastes just like real sugar!" they say. "No calories!" they say. "Made from sugar, tastes like sugar! You can even bake with it!" they say.

The other day, I couldn't find any sugar in the office for my tea, so I shrugged and decided to give Splenda a try. I recall trying it some time ago, and perhaps disliking it, and I have a general suspicion for anything that claims to be just like something else (taste!), particularly when it is also claiming to be not at all like that something else (calories!). But I tried it.

Splenda, my friends, DOES NOT TASTE LIKE SUGAR. It tastes like fake sugar, powdered, chemical sugar. My mouth tasted like stale toothpaste for an hour afterwards, and my tongue felt numb-ish. I drank another cup of unsweetened tea just to get the flavor out, and still it remained!

Also, how do you bake with fake sugar? Ew! EW.

My aversion to Equal and Sweet n Lo (is that what it's called?) is solidified, too. I don't trust any of them. Not only do they not taste like real sugar, they aren't real...anything. If I want sweet, I want *true* sweet, not fake sweet. I don't think a teaspoon or two of the real stuff in my tea is going to cause me any real harm. I can spare 30 calories for a real teaspoon of sugar.

Monday, April 24, 2006

What I did this weekend

I finally uploaded my stash of pictures from my computer to the internet. Istanbul, Family, Friends in LA. Yeah, they go all the way back to my LA days. I procrastinated a little on the uploading.

Oh, and I looked a lot of apartments (Anyone looking for a roommate on June 1?), but had no luck, so I went and watched Finding Nemo in Arabic with Anthony, tried to burn his dorm down by leaving the popcorn butter on the heat too long, and ate lots of brownies.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Friday, April 14, 2006

How it went in Istanbul

It went great!

Except when the man at the restaurant made us stand up and sing "Rollin' on the River," the words to which I do not know. That was kind of really obnoxious.





And although we are capable people who are relatviely experiened with putting on conferences, we owe our hides to this wonderful Turk, Alp. Three cheers for Alp! Without him--disaster.




Everyone showed up, my new shoes did not fail me, only one person had serious airplane troubles, which worked out in the end, there was fruitful discussion, the meals were reliable, no one got sick, the weather was beautiful, my mom gets along swimmingly with Fares, as you can see.


AND we had ample opportunity to enjoy delicious lamb kebab. Here, look, Mohammed and I in Sultanahmet eating kebab! Mmm, kebab.



So, all in all, an excellent trip. More pictures!

What made my week

Before I went to Istanbul, I went dancing almost every night because I knew I wouldn't be able to go for another two weeks, as a business meeting in Istanbul does not usually include salsa music. (Actually, I go almost every night even if I'm not planning a trip to Istanbul, but never mind that.) I met a nice guy, and we talked a bit, and toward the end of the evening, they played my *favorite salsa song ever ever ever* and so I said, "OOOOOH this is my favorite song EVER ever ever! But I don't even know the name!" And he told me the name, but it is Spanish, and I forgot it.

So then I went to Istanbul, and I came back two weeks later, and I went last night to the place I ALWAYS go on Thursday nights and there he was and, my friends, guess what he had done? He had burned me a CD of my favorite salsa song ever ever ever AND other songs he thought I would like. He had even labelled the CD with the titles and artists! And the CD case!

How sweet IS that?

On a related note, I've decided to learn Spanish because I am tired of shouting over the Latin music, "WHAT? I DONT SPEAK SPANISH. WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

Monday, March 27, 2006

Calamity and Consolation

I have this great hairdresser. She can read my mind. She makes my hair look fantastic. She's adorable, funky, sweet, and has art coming out of her tattooed pores. I can't stop raving about her. I actually do carry her card with me and give it out often. People stop me on the street and say how great my hair looks, and I haven't even DONE anything to it! It's all her! She's a genius!


She's moving to California this week.

I'm devastated! HOW WILL I LIVE WITHOUT HER? DOES SHE KNOW WHAT SHE IS DOING TO ME? DOES SHE KNOW HOW LONG IT WILL TAKE ME TO TRUST ANOTHER HAIRDRESSER?

California will be great for her. DC is uptight, conservative, and boring, at least as far as hair and makeup goes. She will thrive in LA! Her name will be in lights! I really think it's a great move, and she'll love it there. But I will be wallowing in hair misery.

To console myself, I went to Nordstrom and bought shoes. This only partly makes up for a scary, uncertain hairdo future. But look how cute they are! At least I can be well-heeled if not well-coiffed.

Friday, March 24, 2006

One more thing about the Oscars

that bothered me, and I KNOW the Oscars are old news, but it's my blog, and I'm going to write about it.

Best Song: "It's hard out here for a pimp." On so many levels, I just...can't... understand why this is celebrated.

Level 1. This is awarded the same prize as works by Henry Mancini? Really?

Level 2. Do all y'all realize what this song is about? It's about men selling women to other men. Is that kind of really disgusting to anyone else? I don't think that songs can't be about controversial things, or about disgusting things, or about non-PC things. But guys singing about selling girls for sex is degrading in one of the basest ways. All that fuss about feminism and equality, but the little golden man goes to a song about pimping.

And mixed in with all this fuss about Brokeback Mountain -- The general feeling is that homophobia is Not Cool. We are ALL about supporting LOVE between people! No more taboo love! (I agree. Homophobia is bad!) But does it seem a little...hypocritical...to say, "Boo, homophobes!" and then turn around and celebrate misogyny? We're for gays but not women?

Level three: the obvious: "Woooe is me, I have it so hard as a pimp, wahwahwah" I have a hard time sympathizing, and the song doesn't make me want to, either.

We award this song because...it was the best song out there this year? Because it sheds light on the hard life of of America's overworked and underappreciated pimps? Because it's musically important? None of the above?

George Clooney gave a very good speech about how Hollywood is always out of the loop by reecognizing the unfortunate, highlighting social problems, talking about taboo subjects. Next subject: mistreatment of women.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Fashion Statement

I don't own any shirts with words on them, but I would wear this one.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Two thoughts on Oscar fashion, as if anyone cares what I think about Oscar fashion

1. What was with the pockets?



Since when do evening gowns have pockets? Don't you want to show off your manicures and dazzly rings? What are the pockets even for? Chapstick?

2. Plain black dresses? This is Oscar night! Do something shiny! This:


Not shiny. *yawn*