You have to be careful whom you smile at in Egypt. Before elaborating, let me tell you that we are having a fabulous time in Cairo. I think it is in large part due to having personal guides - our sons, who seem to have lived here all their lives. Everything is so alien, without them we would likely feel isolated as spectators rather than participants. Such estrangement detracts from absorption/connection with the culture. With the boys, we are instantly at home and the result is wonderful. It helps I am sure that the people are so very friendly, not in the least aloof or distant, as you will learn more fully when I get back to the smile.
The boys have been plotting for our arrival and fawning over us for some time. They meet us at the airport at two thirty in the morning with two cabs. As we were leaving the airport, the first cab with Becky, Phillip, Liz and little James, gets pulled over by the police. Our cabie pulls up and stops as well. Words are exchanged between our driver and the officer and then we speed off on our way, leaving half my family behind in the clutches of alien law. We could not really get a clear explanation from our driver as to what was up, but it did not seem anything he was concerned about. Perhaps, I speculated, our cabies broke a queue or something.
Later we learned that it concerned a perceived excess of baggage on top of the vehicle. All the cabs have racks on top of their little square nineteen sixty something Fiats, given the absence of truck space. What makes the story worth telling though, arises from the officer trying to get Phillip to sign something, which Phillip was loath to do without know what and why. The officer became a bit indignant at Phillip's questioning, which brought the cabie back into the fray and a three-way exchange. James, age four, was seated in the back seat and having been traveling like a trooper for twenty six hours straight and having picking up a few Arabic words at home from his father, decided to interject himself into the fray making it a four way.
Becky said she heard him utter to himself a couple of times, “Mishkquyous habebee, mishkquyous habebee” (ph/sp), which means, this is not good my darling (or my sweetheart if you prefer). Then as the debate continued, he impatiently blurts the words out loud for all to hear. The officer and cabie both turned to witness the source of their mutual rebuke with obvious astonishment. Few agnabees (europeans) speak Aribic, let alone four year old ones and with such assertiveness. The driver turned back to the office and shrugging his shoulders toward James, as if to say, “See even this child knows this is silly”. The officer, shrugged in response and waived them on. But that to is an aside, this is about the elevator encounter so we must move on.
The hotel was awesome. Kaedive, Ismail Pasha (under whose rein the Suez Canal constructed) needed a palace to accommodate “the love of his life” Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III. He had the Nile altered as it flowed through Cairo, creating Zamalek Island, so as to mimic the islands of Cite and Saint Louis in Paris, and built the palace and its gardens there. Unable to be hauled off to europe, the palace and it gardens have been converted to a Marriot; next best thing. The palace, serving as the common facilities and reception area, is flanked by two modern towers of rooms. Our room overlooks the expansive palace garden grounds on the one hand and the Nile on the other.
When we arrived (at three in the morning or later) the desk clerk, upon hearing Becky’s name, responds with an exclamation, “Rebecca, you are finally here!” We never have quite figured it all out. But it seems that while we booked three rooms, for some reason, which the desk clerk could not explain, "Rebecca’s room" had been sacred for several days. No one was allowed to book the preceding day as it had to be “pristine” according to the clerk. It might have had something to do with the fact that the boys had come by earlier to double-check everything the day preceding our nocturnal arrival, stocking our room with a bottle of Lebanese wine. The overall effect of the reception and attention was a welcome end to a twenty-seven hour journey.
The highlight of the trip, so far however, was the next afternoon (we slept in late) then we plunged into Conakalalee (ph/sp), the old center city market, with the boys as our guides. Think street scenes from Indiana Jones or Casablanca and then narrow everything by half and you have the sense of it. The market is three or four blocks wide and runs for miles, all pedestrian as the “streets” and alleys are to narrow to support vehicle traffic. There are not a lot of Agnabie (Westerners or American) there; in fact I don’t think I remember seeing any. We went to an Ahwah (café), one of the oldest in continuous operation in the city, where we sat around small brass tables on simple wooden chairs with hand painted seats. They brought us each a small pot of special hot tea that you drink from a small glass rather than a cup, with fresh mint, which you sweeten with unrefined sugar. We also smoked Sheesha in a Hookah (bong). The Sheesha is a mild tobacco seasoned with one of many fruit flavors. It is covered with aluminum foil and hot coals are placed on top of the foil, which fires the tobacco. When you inhale you hardly can tell you are smoking at all, but when you exhale slowly through your nose, the flavor/aroma is quite pleasant - tasting like a good pipe smells. In fact it leaves a rather pleasant odor on your person, not unlike a musky perfume.
We had a great time being the obvious but welcome tourist amongst natives. Hawkers would come by and try and sell us things, which of course, I could not resist buying. I have needed a new wallet and once the peddler proved that his were made of real leather by putting the flame of his lighter across it, then all that was left was to negotiate the price. I got him down, with Sid’s help but a few minutes later Robert bought the same wallet for five pounds (just under a dollar) less from a more generous Egyptian. One old man walked by while another hawker was accosting me with some other merchandise and offered, jokingly, to sell me his keys. Very friendly people, no one ever said or did anything to make any of us feel in the least unwelcome, to the contrary politeness and solicitation at every turn - especially if they had something to sell. But the elevator incident!
I got in trouble, as alluded to in the beginning, via a smile when we returned to the hotel. I had left everyone in the garden to return my camera to the room before going to dinner. (Sam would love it here, food is at least a third less than at home, when eating out.) I got on the elevator and a man and two women joined me; I assumed the three were together. The younger woman had a rather pronounced “Roman” or Semitic nose and angular features that caught my eye. I allowed my gaze to lingered for just a moment. It was hard to judge in part because both women were dressed in long black dresses with black head coverings open only at the face. Anyway the man pushed his floor button, which I assumed was theirs as well, and the younger woman looked at me with a smile. Not being sure whether maybe she had sensed my earlier observation of her, I offered a modest good evening kind of smile in return to both women, like I have done a thousand times in elevators everywhere when eye to eye with a stranger.
With that though, the younger woman turned to the older woman (maybe just enough older to be her mother I assumed) who gestures at her own ring finger, where upon the younger woman says to me “girl friend, boy friend?”, as if she were uncertain of the right words. Now if I had been anywhere else or they had not been Muslims women in a nice hotel dressed in long black robe like gowns, I would have put a different interpretation on the situation. As it was, that interpretation just did not dawn on me. Rather I assumed she was trying to be conversant by acknowledging I was married and that she had meant to say husband, not boyfriend. Rather than correct her (we were on an elevator, language and time would not permit) I just nodded affirmatively and said “yes, boyfriend”.
The man had gotten off the elevator by the end of this abbreviated conversation and I noticed that only my floor was pushed as the doors closed behind him. I gestured at the panel and asked what floor I should push for them. The older woman gestured that it was fine as it was. So we were on the same floor then I thought. While we were all going to the same floor, however, we were not doing so in the same frame of mind. The door opened and I gesture for them to precede me. They declined, so I headed out - they followed. Even though my room was the first one in the hallway, dawn broke for me less than half way to the door. They were in tow, not heading to another room. I had acquired some form of social commitment with these women.
I could not just go in my room and have the door close behind me, so I opened it and set my camera inside without going in and then returned straight to the elevator without acknowledging their existence. I really just did not know what else to do. Thank god the elevator arrived quickly and was full of people. We all got on and I just avoided any further eye contact and smiled at no one else and they let me escape without further complication. I still am not positive that I know what it was all about. It is hard to believe that pimps in Cairo wear long black dresses but maybe they do. If so, is a married man a more likely “John”? If not, was mama shopping for her daughter a date, or was a daughter shopping for one herself, over mother’s not very strenuous objections?! I am hoping that Rabob or Maahmood (our boy’s best native friends here) will have some insights. We have dinner with them tonight at Mahmood’s café. In the mean time I am not smiling at any women I don’t know.
PS. Had a wonderful local dinner with all the boys local friends and their children and another student. I can’t believe that Starbucks has not discovered Turkish coffee. No booze Nancy but with the Hookas, tea and coffee (and a bit of fortification before we arrived) we did not miss it. At any rate, Mahmood confirmed that I had encountered a woman of the evening and that the older woman serves as the broker. Apparently you pay her the negotiated price and she holds the money until the services are satisfactorily rendered and then pays the younger woman. I will say that unlike what one typically sees in America, the young woman seemed like she might be pleasant enough to converse with. Her approach in retrospect was forward, obviously, but delicate not tough. I doubt that she chews bubble gum for example. Now I wonder how you get to evaluate the merchandise. In the West you can pretty much see what you’re buying. Perhaps I should have inspected the merchandise at least.
Oh well another experience of life but not one I would have anticipated in an up scale hotel in a Muslim country. Meal for all of us at Mahmood’s café was about fifty bucks with gratuity Sam, cab ride back across town two bucks. I might move here some day. Love Bruce
The boys have been plotting for our arrival and fawning over us for some time. They meet us at the airport at two thirty in the morning with two cabs. As we were leaving the airport, the first cab with Becky, Phillip, Liz and little James, gets pulled over by the police. Our cabie pulls up and stops as well. Words are exchanged between our driver and the officer and then we speed off on our way, leaving half my family behind in the clutches of alien law. We could not really get a clear explanation from our driver as to what was up, but it did not seem anything he was concerned about. Perhaps, I speculated, our cabies broke a queue or something.
Later we learned that it concerned a perceived excess of baggage on top of the vehicle. All the cabs have racks on top of their little square nineteen sixty something Fiats, given the absence of truck space. What makes the story worth telling though, arises from the officer trying to get Phillip to sign something, which Phillip was loath to do without know what and why. The officer became a bit indignant at Phillip's questioning, which brought the cabie back into the fray and a three-way exchange. James, age four, was seated in the back seat and having been traveling like a trooper for twenty six hours straight and having picking up a few Arabic words at home from his father, decided to interject himself into the fray making it a four way.
Becky said she heard him utter to himself a couple of times, “Mishkquyous habebee, mishkquyous habebee” (ph/sp), which means, this is not good my darling (or my sweetheart if you prefer). Then as the debate continued, he impatiently blurts the words out loud for all to hear. The officer and cabie both turned to witness the source of their mutual rebuke with obvious astonishment. Few agnabees (europeans) speak Aribic, let alone four year old ones and with such assertiveness. The driver turned back to the office and shrugging his shoulders toward James, as if to say, “See even this child knows this is silly”. The officer, shrugged in response and waived them on. But that to is an aside, this is about the elevator encounter so we must move on.
The hotel was awesome. Kaedive, Ismail Pasha (under whose rein the Suez Canal constructed) needed a palace to accommodate “the love of his life” Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III. He had the Nile altered as it flowed through Cairo, creating Zamalek Island, so as to mimic the islands of Cite and Saint Louis in Paris, and built the palace and its gardens there. Unable to be hauled off to europe, the palace and it gardens have been converted to a Marriot; next best thing. The palace, serving as the common facilities and reception area, is flanked by two modern towers of rooms. Our room overlooks the expansive palace garden grounds on the one hand and the Nile on the other.
When we arrived (at three in the morning or later) the desk clerk, upon hearing Becky’s name, responds with an exclamation, “Rebecca, you are finally here!” We never have quite figured it all out. But it seems that while we booked three rooms, for some reason, which the desk clerk could not explain, "Rebecca’s room" had been sacred for several days. No one was allowed to book the preceding day as it had to be “pristine” according to the clerk. It might have had something to do with the fact that the boys had come by earlier to double-check everything the day preceding our nocturnal arrival, stocking our room with a bottle of Lebanese wine. The overall effect of the reception and attention was a welcome end to a twenty-seven hour journey.
The highlight of the trip, so far however, was the next afternoon (we slept in late) then we plunged into Conakalalee (ph/sp), the old center city market, with the boys as our guides. Think street scenes from Indiana Jones or Casablanca and then narrow everything by half and you have the sense of it. The market is three or four blocks wide and runs for miles, all pedestrian as the “streets” and alleys are to narrow to support vehicle traffic. There are not a lot of Agnabie (Westerners or American) there; in fact I don’t think I remember seeing any. We went to an Ahwah (café), one of the oldest in continuous operation in the city, where we sat around small brass tables on simple wooden chairs with hand painted seats. They brought us each a small pot of special hot tea that you drink from a small glass rather than a cup, with fresh mint, which you sweeten with unrefined sugar. We also smoked Sheesha in a Hookah (bong). The Sheesha is a mild tobacco seasoned with one of many fruit flavors. It is covered with aluminum foil and hot coals are placed on top of the foil, which fires the tobacco. When you inhale you hardly can tell you are smoking at all, but when you exhale slowly through your nose, the flavor/aroma is quite pleasant - tasting like a good pipe smells. In fact it leaves a rather pleasant odor on your person, not unlike a musky perfume.
We had a great time being the obvious but welcome tourist amongst natives. Hawkers would come by and try and sell us things, which of course, I could not resist buying. I have needed a new wallet and once the peddler proved that his were made of real leather by putting the flame of his lighter across it, then all that was left was to negotiate the price. I got him down, with Sid’s help but a few minutes later Robert bought the same wallet for five pounds (just under a dollar) less from a more generous Egyptian. One old man walked by while another hawker was accosting me with some other merchandise and offered, jokingly, to sell me his keys. Very friendly people, no one ever said or did anything to make any of us feel in the least unwelcome, to the contrary politeness and solicitation at every turn - especially if they had something to sell. But the elevator incident!
I got in trouble, as alluded to in the beginning, via a smile when we returned to the hotel. I had left everyone in the garden to return my camera to the room before going to dinner. (Sam would love it here, food is at least a third less than at home, when eating out.) I got on the elevator and a man and two women joined me; I assumed the three were together. The younger woman had a rather pronounced “Roman” or Semitic nose and angular features that caught my eye. I allowed my gaze to lingered for just a moment. It was hard to judge in part because both women were dressed in long black dresses with black head coverings open only at the face. Anyway the man pushed his floor button, which I assumed was theirs as well, and the younger woman looked at me with a smile. Not being sure whether maybe she had sensed my earlier observation of her, I offered a modest good evening kind of smile in return to both women, like I have done a thousand times in elevators everywhere when eye to eye with a stranger.
With that though, the younger woman turned to the older woman (maybe just enough older to be her mother I assumed) who gestures at her own ring finger, where upon the younger woman says to me “girl friend, boy friend?”, as if she were uncertain of the right words. Now if I had been anywhere else or they had not been Muslims women in a nice hotel dressed in long black robe like gowns, I would have put a different interpretation on the situation. As it was, that interpretation just did not dawn on me. Rather I assumed she was trying to be conversant by acknowledging I was married and that she had meant to say husband, not boyfriend. Rather than correct her (we were on an elevator, language and time would not permit) I just nodded affirmatively and said “yes, boyfriend”.
The man had gotten off the elevator by the end of this abbreviated conversation and I noticed that only my floor was pushed as the doors closed behind him. I gestured at the panel and asked what floor I should push for them. The older woman gestured that it was fine as it was. So we were on the same floor then I thought. While we were all going to the same floor, however, we were not doing so in the same frame of mind. The door opened and I gesture for them to precede me. They declined, so I headed out - they followed. Even though my room was the first one in the hallway, dawn broke for me less than half way to the door. They were in tow, not heading to another room. I had acquired some form of social commitment with these women.
I could not just go in my room and have the door close behind me, so I opened it and set my camera inside without going in and then returned straight to the elevator without acknowledging their existence. I really just did not know what else to do. Thank god the elevator arrived quickly and was full of people. We all got on and I just avoided any further eye contact and smiled at no one else and they let me escape without further complication. I still am not positive that I know what it was all about. It is hard to believe that pimps in Cairo wear long black dresses but maybe they do. If so, is a married man a more likely “John”? If not, was mama shopping for her daughter a date, or was a daughter shopping for one herself, over mother’s not very strenuous objections?! I am hoping that Rabob or Maahmood (our boy’s best native friends here) will have some insights. We have dinner with them tonight at Mahmood’s café. In the mean time I am not smiling at any women I don’t know.
PS. Had a wonderful local dinner with all the boys local friends and their children and another student. I can’t believe that Starbucks has not discovered Turkish coffee. No booze Nancy but with the Hookas, tea and coffee (and a bit of fortification before we arrived) we did not miss it. At any rate, Mahmood confirmed that I had encountered a woman of the evening and that the older woman serves as the broker. Apparently you pay her the negotiated price and she holds the money until the services are satisfactorily rendered and then pays the younger woman. I will say that unlike what one typically sees in America, the young woman seemed like she might be pleasant enough to converse with. Her approach in retrospect was forward, obviously, but delicate not tough. I doubt that she chews bubble gum for example. Now I wonder how you get to evaluate the merchandise. In the West you can pretty much see what you’re buying. Perhaps I should have inspected the merchandise at least.
Oh well another experience of life but not one I would have anticipated in an up scale hotel in a Muslim country. Meal for all of us at Mahmood’s café was about fifty bucks with gratuity Sam, cab ride back across town two bucks. I might move here some day. Love Bruce
