For the first hour, we stared at each other across the Formica table at Burger King and shared our thoughts. Any thoughts. There weren’t many, for it was 6:30 a.m., the sun had risen, and we’d been up for almost 24 hours. The ups and downs had exhausted us.
We shared pipe dreams of Germany. Our tickets had us flying from Cairo through Frankfurt on into Washington. If only there were some way for the diligent travel agent in Kentucky to get us on the first leg of the flight. We could spend the night in Germany. Anything to GET US OUT OF EGYPT.
I love Egypt. But on this day, I hated Egypt.
Our stories turned to naps on the Burger King booth-benches, and we took turns watching the luggage.
I visited the restroom, and remembered to bring a crumpled, rumpled 50 piaster note with me. To tip the toilet lady. She smiled graciously at me – a foreigner in the airport at this hour knew to tip the toilet lady! I smiled. I knew to tip the toilet lady! I considered myself to be building culture karma.
One and a half bleary naps later, at 9:30 a.m. (not at 9, as the sign outside stated. This is, after all, still Egypt) the Lufthansa office opened. I swooshed in, exhaustion mixed with angst on my face, and spoke to Nagham, the woman who would help save our lives.
Well, you know, not SAVE our...I mean...you know what I mean. She helped us a lot.
She just GOT it. I told her our story ONCE, after asking in Arabic if she spoke English. Once through, and she got it. Simply GOT it. She was a polar opposite of The Blue-Lined Bitch who ran us in circles while failing to inform us that our quest was futile. Ran back to the Burger King benches, its stench now reminding me of psychedelic hours hallucinated away wondering what the next step would look like, I informed my classmates of this latest development.
Despite Nagham’s help, everything remained a struggle: I offered classmate C a piece of gum, and the tinfoil container sliced open his thumb. We heaved two months’ worth of luggage onto the elevator that separated Burger King from the main floor of the terminal, pushed the “down” button and went up. We bounced back and forth between floor 1 and 3 until some hungry flier requested the elevator and brought our sweating, trembling bodies to floor two. In the Lufthansa office, Nagham offered her spare computer to us to use the internet, which we soon discovered required entering a password. The password had to be re-entered when bringing up ANY new page. An hour later, after waiting for breaks in her workday for her to type in the password, she finally GAVE the series of letters and numbers to me. A phone sat just a swivel away from the computer, and she graciously offered it to us to make any calls we needed. When making my first call to Washington D.C. (where it really WAS 3 a.m. by that point) she picked up the phone on her desk and began dialing a separate call – into MY phone call. Our D.C. correspondent’s first moments on this land-line call with me went something like this: “Hi, it’s *beeeep* Liz *boop boop* again *BEEEP*.”
So we sat then…in the office. We napped then…on Lufthansa benches. They were surreal naps nuanced by occasional meaningless but exciting updates. Nagham connected with our Kentucky travel agent! Oh, but we have to wait for another e-mail to arrive. So tired. The travel agent found us alternate flights! Oh, but we would have to pay for them out of pocket…not a possibility. So deeply, deeply exhausted. And hungry. And hopeless.
Around 1 p.m., nine hours after our classmates left Egypt behind in dual turbine-trenches of dust, we regretfully realized we wouldn’t make our overnight vacation in Germany. The afternoon passed waiting for pre-dawn e-mails from the States, faxes that never arrived, and our Washington coordinator who worked through a battle with food poisoning.
4:30 p.m. arrived. We had literally spent all day in the travel agency. Nagham informed us regretfully that the office was closing, and she had to leave. Her kindergartner had to be picked up from school, and the office was closing.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Leaving Egypt, Part IV: Bargaining
I returned to my classmates and we formed a small circle of anxiety and despair, waiting for that phone call, on a borrowed phone, with no familiar faces in sight. The digital clock on a far wall flipped forward. A few moments later, the call came in:
Neither the D.C. coordinator nor the travel agent several states away have copies of our plane tickets on them. They both are going to head to their respective offices in D.C. and Louisville to fax the copies. At 10:00 at night. It will be 10-15 minutes.
We watched the clock count forward some more. Tried not to let our imaginations carry us away to irreparable insanity. Could we possibly make this flight? Leaving the borrowed phone with my classmates, I go to the bathroom. Mostly to kill time, also to move my limbs. Would the call have come in by the time I returned? It hadn’t. We continued to sit on our suitcases on the floor in front of the ticketing stations. This shouldn’t have been so difficult.
Finally the call comes in. The copies have been faxed. I return the borrowed phone to its amused owner, thank him graciously, and inform him that he probably has 15 pounds remaining from the 20 I loaded. So no skin off his back for loaning us his phone.
We run to the ticket booth at 5 a.m., 25 minutes before the departure time. The copies should be there! We would like our tickets reissued! But…no one is hurrying, why aren’t they hurrying?! We need to catch this flight and have only 25 minutes!
The ticket agent shrugs. “It is too late,” she says, and turns blue-lined brown eyes back to her nightly schedule. “The gate closes 45 minutes before departure.”
Wait. Really? Like, really? Y3ANY, REALLY?! What are our options? “You can change your flight and leave tomorrow, but that will be a $200 rebooking fee. Or you can buy a new flight.”
We look at each other. And look back at her. And beg. Please. PLEASE, can we get on this flight? We’ll run, we’ll take one of those fat-people carts that drive from gate to gate. We’ll do anything. ANYTHING. Just get us on that flight, that flight which doesn’t even leave for 20 minutes!
She shrugs. “I am very sorry.”
Fuck.
Neither the D.C. coordinator nor the travel agent several states away have copies of our plane tickets on them. They both are going to head to their respective offices in D.C. and Louisville to fax the copies. At 10:00 at night. It will be 10-15 minutes.
We watched the clock count forward some more. Tried not to let our imaginations carry us away to irreparable insanity. Could we possibly make this flight? Leaving the borrowed phone with my classmates, I go to the bathroom. Mostly to kill time, also to move my limbs. Would the call have come in by the time I returned? It hadn’t. We continued to sit on our suitcases on the floor in front of the ticketing stations. This shouldn’t have been so difficult.
Finally the call comes in. The copies have been faxed. I return the borrowed phone to its amused owner, thank him graciously, and inform him that he probably has 15 pounds remaining from the 20 I loaded. So no skin off his back for loaning us his phone.
We run to the ticket booth at 5 a.m., 25 minutes before the departure time. The copies should be there! We would like our tickets reissued! But…no one is hurrying, why aren’t they hurrying?! We need to catch this flight and have only 25 minutes!
The ticket agent shrugs. “It is too late,” she says, and turns blue-lined brown eyes back to her nightly schedule. “The gate closes 45 minutes before departure.”
Wait. Really? Like, really? Y3ANY, REALLY?! What are our options? “You can change your flight and leave tomorrow, but that will be a $200 rebooking fee. Or you can buy a new flight.”
We look at each other. And look back at her. And beg. Please. PLEASE, can we get on this flight? We’ll run, we’ll take one of those fat-people carts that drive from gate to gate. We’ll do anything. ANYTHING. Just get us on that flight, that flight which doesn’t even leave for 20 minutes!
She shrugs. “I am very sorry.”
Fuck.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Leaving Egypt, Part III: Making the call
It was 4:30 in the morning, and my two classmates and I had one hour to catch this plane. We were no longer with our Egypt-specific program director, all but a few of our remaining classmates had picked up their tickets and proceeded to customs, we didn’t have cell phones, and it was 9:30 p.m. on the east coast of the U.S. What the HELL were we to do?
The three of us without tickets spun in circles and blinked frantically between the digital clock that counted on toward 5 a.m. and our last classmates clearing ticketing.
Okay. First. We needed to call the scholarship overseer in D.C. She had explicitly instructed us to call her on her cell phone 24 hours a day with problems. I hope she was ready for us to take up her advice…
Okay. Next. How to call her?
I walked up to an employee, one of about six men standing nearby wearing lanyards around their neck and watching us sweat. Where could I make a phone call? He shrugged. Okay. My 3amiyya stretched a little more. We lost our plane tickets. We need new ones. I need to call America. We need a phone right now. He looked to his friend, as if for support, and then offered us his cell phone. But he didn’t have any money loaded on it. This man obviously did not sense the URGENCY behind my sleep-starved, anxious trembles.
Okay. Need to get some money loaded on his phone. Where can I buy phone cards? He tells us: Outside security, downstairs, down the hall and through the cafeteria.
Okay. Need to get down there. The Tourism and Antiquity Police stopped me at the checkpoint – why was I leaving? they asked bemusedly. As my anxiety increased, my Arabic buckled and sputtered. Hand gestures and a look of impending supernova in my eyes conveyed most of my message. They were amused, and offered their laziest (and therefore, most unoccupied) coworker to go get my phone card.
Okay. I turned to him – I need an etisalat brand phone card RIGHT NOW. Alright, he says, for what balance? I don’t care. Twenty pounds. Thirty – I don’t want to have to go through this again. He agrees.
We stare at each other. Dilwa'tee, I say – RIGHT NOW. Okay, he says.
Why isn’t he… argh…bisur3a, QUICKLY. Okay, he says. And continues to look at me.
Finally I asked “can you please go now?!” and it’s then he conveys to me that he wants me to give him the money for the card first.
*Sighhhhhhh*
I do, and he takes off at a gentle lope. When he thinks he’s out of eyesight, he slows to a walk. I think I’m going to melt down.
Okay. I think ahead – once I DO get that phone, what information will I need to provide? The airline wants copies of this plane ticket, and they’re going to need them faxed. I’m going to need a fax number. I head back to the ticket counter and approach the sharp, small woman who had originally informed the three of us that we would need to buy new tickets. Where can I fax copies of our tickets?
She ignored me.
Excuse me, to what number should I send the fax? She tells me to wait one moment, and continues chatting with another woman at the ticket counter. I give her five seconds, and ask again. One moment, she tells me, and walks off slowly. A few minutes later she returns and continues her conversation with her friend.
EXCUSE ME, WHAT THE [BLOODY HELL] IS THE [^&$%&$] FAX NUMBER HERE?
“One moment,” she responds, and finally points to the screen and reads off a number. Thank. You.
I return to wait for the man with the phone card. Five agonizing minutes later, I see him scurrying down the long terminal hallway, with a 20 Le phone card and eight pounds in change. I collect these, and hand him back five pounds as a tip, although, judging by the amount of change I was given, it looked as though he’d taken a tip already.
Okay. I get that phone. Time to make this phone call.
The screen doesn’t illuminate.
*One more hair goes gray.*
The phone owner’s friend woos it, and now I can see the screen. I load the balance. I call the coordinator in the U.S. And she answers. Al hamdulileh.
Ten seconds of explanation, and she’s got a grasp of the situation. At this point, I do love Arabic. BUT I LOVE ENGLISH MORE. I gave her the fax number. Next: she needed to call the travel agent several states away, who had ALSO offered herself to be contacted by cell phone 24 hours a day. We end the call, that sweet, momentous call, and my classmates C and E and I wait.
Photo courtesty E.
The three of us without tickets spun in circles and blinked frantically between the digital clock that counted on toward 5 a.m. and our last classmates clearing ticketing.
Okay. First. We needed to call the scholarship overseer in D.C. She had explicitly instructed us to call her on her cell phone 24 hours a day with problems. I hope she was ready for us to take up her advice…
Okay. Next. How to call her?
I walked up to an employee, one of about six men standing nearby wearing lanyards around their neck and watching us sweat. Where could I make a phone call? He shrugged. Okay. My 3amiyya stretched a little more. We lost our plane tickets. We need new ones. I need to call America. We need a phone right now. He looked to his friend, as if for support, and then offered us his cell phone. But he didn’t have any money loaded on it. This man obviously did not sense the URGENCY behind my sleep-starved, anxious trembles.
Okay. Need to get some money loaded on his phone. Where can I buy phone cards? He tells us: Outside security, downstairs, down the hall and through the cafeteria.
Okay. Need to get down there. The Tourism and Antiquity Police stopped me at the checkpoint – why was I leaving? they asked bemusedly. As my anxiety increased, my Arabic buckled and sputtered. Hand gestures and a look of impending supernova in my eyes conveyed most of my message. They were amused, and offered their laziest (and therefore, most unoccupied) coworker to go get my phone card.
Okay. I turned to him – I need an etisalat brand phone card RIGHT NOW. Alright, he says, for what balance? I don’t care. Twenty pounds. Thirty – I don’t want to have to go through this again. He agrees.
We stare at each other. Dilwa'tee, I say – RIGHT NOW. Okay, he says.
Why isn’t he… argh…bisur3a, QUICKLY. Okay, he says. And continues to look at me.
Finally I asked “can you please go now?!” and it’s then he conveys to me that he wants me to give him the money for the card first.
*Sighhhhhhh*
I do, and he takes off at a gentle lope. When he thinks he’s out of eyesight, he slows to a walk. I think I’m going to melt down.
Okay. I think ahead – once I DO get that phone, what information will I need to provide? The airline wants copies of this plane ticket, and they’re going to need them faxed. I’m going to need a fax number. I head back to the ticket counter and approach the sharp, small woman who had originally informed the three of us that we would need to buy new tickets. Where can I fax copies of our tickets?
She ignored me.
Excuse me, to what number should I send the fax? She tells me to wait one moment, and continues chatting with another woman at the ticket counter. I give her five seconds, and ask again. One moment, she tells me, and walks off slowly. A few minutes later she returns and continues her conversation with her friend.
EXCUSE ME, WHAT THE [BLOODY HELL] IS THE [^&$%&$] FAX NUMBER HERE?
“One moment,” she responds, and finally points to the screen and reads off a number. Thank. You.
I return to wait for the man with the phone card. Five agonizing minutes later, I see him scurrying down the long terminal hallway, with a 20 Le phone card and eight pounds in change. I collect these, and hand him back five pounds as a tip, although, judging by the amount of change I was given, it looked as though he’d taken a tip already.
Okay. I get that phone. Time to make this phone call.
The screen doesn’t illuminate.
*One more hair goes gray.*
The phone owner’s friend woos it, and now I can see the screen. I load the balance. I call the coordinator in the U.S. And she answers. Al hamdulileh.
Ten seconds of explanation, and she’s got a grasp of the situation. At this point, I do love Arabic. BUT I LOVE ENGLISH MORE. I gave her the fax number. Next: she needed to call the travel agent several states away, who had ALSO offered herself to be contacted by cell phone 24 hours a day. We end the call, that sweet, momentous call, and my classmates C and E and I wait.
Photo courtesty E.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Leaving Egypt, Part II: Oh So Egyptian
In Egypt, a timed departure can take place anywhere from half an hour before an appointed time, to two and a half hours afterward. Luckily our departure from Alexandria fell somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. The bus that arrived was more or less on time, but was the wrong bus. It was only about half the size of the charter bus we expected, with no room below for our bulging suitcases. We stood on the Corniche for a half hour, and vendors tried to take advantage of our situation to surround us and offer rugs, bubble blowing machines and squeaky squeezy puppet things that we will NEVER FORGIVE TOM FOR BUYING.
To make matters more complicated, we had turned in our cell phones and had no way to contact classmates who hoped to use the extra time for a last cup of tea at a seaside café.
I double-checked with our sweet program director: I would be able to reissue my ticket at the airport, right? Right.
We ultimately decided to take this short bus, and classmates formed a prison line to pass suitcases packed to capacity down the length of the bus and stack them ceiling-high in the last two rows of seats.
At 3:30 a.m. we arrived at the Cairo airport. Grabbing our belongings, we took off for the first security checkpoint, which “screens” us before we check in for our flights. (I say “screen” sarcastically, because every metal detector you will walk through in Egypt will be ignored. It will beep and wail and scream, and the Tourism and Antiquities Police will wave you through.) However, once coming out on the other side of this checkpoint, I realized that we left behind two classmates who were off to other destinations, as well as our Egypt-specific program director. I waved. Our numbers were down from 25 to 17.
In line to check in and heave those heavy suitcases on the conveyor belt that would eventually feed them into the plane, our southernmost-accented classmate, with the best 3amiyya skills, called me and two of my fellow ticket-less classmates to the front of the line so we could have more time to fuss with reissuing our tickets. He had no authority to call us past the 15 people between us and him, but did. And no one questioned it, because he acted with authority. Because this is Egypt.
The man checking me in was floored. I was checking in with a PAPER ticket? Why had I chosen a PAPER ticket?
I didn’t. It was provided. To me and my 24 classmates.
Well, where was it?
I don’t know. I must have lost it sometime in the last two months.
So where is it now?
SEE PREVIOUS ANSWER.
Do I have a copy of the ticket, or the issuance information from the travel agency?
NO.
*Scoff* Well then. I’d need to buy a new one.
To make matters more complicated, we had turned in our cell phones and had no way to contact classmates who hoped to use the extra time for a last cup of tea at a seaside café.
I double-checked with our sweet program director: I would be able to reissue my ticket at the airport, right? Right.
We ultimately decided to take this short bus, and classmates formed a prison line to pass suitcases packed to capacity down the length of the bus and stack them ceiling-high in the last two rows of seats.
At 3:30 a.m. we arrived at the Cairo airport. Grabbing our belongings, we took off for the first security checkpoint, which “screens” us before we check in for our flights. (I say “screen” sarcastically, because every metal detector you will walk through in Egypt will be ignored. It will beep and wail and scream, and the Tourism and Antiquities Police will wave you through.) However, once coming out on the other side of this checkpoint, I realized that we left behind two classmates who were off to other destinations, as well as our Egypt-specific program director. I waved. Our numbers were down from 25 to 17.
In line to check in and heave those heavy suitcases on the conveyor belt that would eventually feed them into the plane, our southernmost-accented classmate, with the best 3amiyya skills, called me and two of my fellow ticket-less classmates to the front of the line so we could have more time to fuss with reissuing our tickets. He had no authority to call us past the 15 people between us and him, but did. And no one questioned it, because he acted with authority. Because this is Egypt.
The man checking me in was floored. I was checking in with a PAPER ticket? Why had I chosen a PAPER ticket?
I didn’t. It was provided. To me and my 24 classmates.
Well, where was it?
I don’t know. I must have lost it sometime in the last two months.
So where is it now?
SEE PREVIOUS ANSWER.
Do I have a copy of the ticket, or the issuance information from the travel agency?
NO.
*Scoff* Well then. I’d need to buy a new one.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Leaving Egypt, Part I: Preparation
We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re done with classes, tests and Egypt. We’re leaving.
I’m happy, but I’m also just getting to know this place. I know to toss “tsks” at overzealous young (and old) men on the streets and in a keshk (كشك), or storefront kiosks. When one is particularly egregious, I now know two phrases that will stop them in their tracks: “Respect yourself,” and “Haram to you.”
The approximate translation, as provided by my brother: “Boy, you best chiggity-check yo’self before you wreck yo’self.”
I know to precede every sentence with “MUMKIN,” which can translate as “maybe,” “yes” or “is it/it is possible,” as well as “YA3NI,” which translates to “I mean…”, and “so I says to Mabel I says…”
Our last day of class also encompassed a presentation in our Media class, and our written 3amiyya exam. Which is somewhat of an oxymoron. More ironically, this written exam testing our ability to understand colloquial Arabic encompassed listening to a recorded biography of the pilot who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Not exactly café and shisha conversation. After class, my roommate and I retired to the hotel for an epic nap, and then proceeded to visit two highly-lauded cafes in town that I had never been to. We had a lovely evening with the classmates whose company we knew we only had days left to enjoy.
Friday evening I met with my language partner for the last time. As usual, my nervousness arose from a particular mix of social anxiety, cultural buffoonery and inadequate language ability. This time it was also nuanced by those sweet, familiar Egyptian stomach cramps that three times now have crippled my ability to exist peacefully. So M, her mother, my roommate and I met at 9:00, walked for about ten minutes, and paused while I considered whether to throw up right then or back at the hotel. M walked me back, and we parted ways for the last time.
Saturday was a doozy. Our FusHa final was cut short for a listening portion, which I wrote about on this blog immediately afterward. However, thanks to the hard work and creativity of some of my classmates, we all relaxed before our oral 3amiyya exam over a 25-minute slideshow. I went into the 3amiyya exam not nearly as infuriated and indignant as I had been coming out of the FusHa exams.
From the language center, my roommate and I met up with our bicultural friends from Café R. She waddled up and gave us a grumpy hug, then apologized for being grumpy and informed us that the doctors moved up her due date to about two weeks from now. After lunch, we invited the two of them back to our hotel, where the staff had organized a lovely party and ordered what we have determined to be Egypt’s standard Celebratory Cake.
An hour later, when the party dispersed and our throats were sore from talking, they drove us to the Manshaya Souq, known for its twisting, narrow walkways lined with nothing but jewelry shops.
I had heard about this souq (market) from classmates, but hadn’t visited until this, the day before leaving Alexandria and Egypt. Er, the supposed day before leaving.
We walked the length of Alexandria's shopping district on the way back to the hotel that night. Visited the 20-story shopping center that I had walked by dozens of times but never before entered, and supported the healthy black market and purchased handfuls of scarves off a street vendor loudly advertising them for 3ashara giney wa nus, or 10.5Le. We returned to our home-not-home and packed two months’ worth of sweat-stained shirts, classroom notes and handouts, and Egypt swag.
My roommate noted to herself where she was packing her plane ticket. I noted that I seemed to not have said plane ticket. Good thing airports will reissue tickets – I’m sure I hadn’t seen that sucker since the day we arrived in Cairo!
And then came Sunday.
By noon, the remaining classmates were knocking at our door, for ours was one of three rooms set aside for storing luggage for the day. We officially checked out of Hotel E.
I accompanied my sweet kosher classmate to the train station, where she departed for Cairo and ultimately a 24-hour journey by train, bus and probably taxi for the country north of this one. On the way home, walked past Alexandria’s greatest ruins, the Roman Amphitheater. I explained to a classmate my reason for not having gone out of my way to see it sooner: I spent four months in the global capital of ancient societal ruins, and grew accustomed to the prevalent excavations that sprung up any time a new building had been contracted and groundbreaking lead to new archeological discoveries.
That night, I had my last meal of kosharee,
visited our favorite keshke for a bottle of water,
bought my last book of hilarious Engrish,
and waited in the hotel for our departure.
I’m happy, but I’m also just getting to know this place. I know to toss “tsks” at overzealous young (and old) men on the streets and in a keshk (كشك), or storefront kiosks. When one is particularly egregious, I now know two phrases that will stop them in their tracks: “Respect yourself,” and “Haram to you.”
The approximate translation, as provided by my brother: “Boy, you best chiggity-check yo’self before you wreck yo’self.”
I know to precede every sentence with “MUMKIN,” which can translate as “maybe,” “yes” or “is it/it is possible,” as well as “YA3NI,” which translates to “I mean…”, and “so I says to Mabel I says…”
Our last day of class also encompassed a presentation in our Media class, and our written 3amiyya exam. Which is somewhat of an oxymoron. More ironically, this written exam testing our ability to understand colloquial Arabic encompassed listening to a recorded biography of the pilot who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Not exactly café and shisha conversation. After class, my roommate and I retired to the hotel for an epic nap, and then proceeded to visit two highly-lauded cafes in town that I had never been to. We had a lovely evening with the classmates whose company we knew we only had days left to enjoy.
Friday evening I met with my language partner for the last time. As usual, my nervousness arose from a particular mix of social anxiety, cultural buffoonery and inadequate language ability. This time it was also nuanced by those sweet, familiar Egyptian stomach cramps that three times now have crippled my ability to exist peacefully. So M, her mother, my roommate and I met at 9:00, walked for about ten minutes, and paused while I considered whether to throw up right then or back at the hotel. M walked me back, and we parted ways for the last time.
Saturday was a doozy. Our FusHa final was cut short for a listening portion, which I wrote about on this blog immediately afterward. However, thanks to the hard work and creativity of some of my classmates, we all relaxed before our oral 3amiyya exam over a 25-minute slideshow. I went into the 3amiyya exam not nearly as infuriated and indignant as I had been coming out of the FusHa exams.
From the language center, my roommate and I met up with our bicultural friends from Café R. She waddled up and gave us a grumpy hug, then apologized for being grumpy and informed us that the doctors moved up her due date to about two weeks from now. After lunch, we invited the two of them back to our hotel, where the staff had organized a lovely party and ordered what we have determined to be Egypt’s standard Celebratory Cake.
An hour later, when the party dispersed and our throats were sore from talking, they drove us to the Manshaya Souq, known for its twisting, narrow walkways lined with nothing but jewelry shops.
I had heard about this souq (market) from classmates, but hadn’t visited until this, the day before leaving Alexandria and Egypt. Er, the supposed day before leaving.
We walked the length of Alexandria's shopping district on the way back to the hotel that night. Visited the 20-story shopping center that I had walked by dozens of times but never before entered, and supported the healthy black market and purchased handfuls of scarves off a street vendor loudly advertising them for 3ashara giney wa nus, or 10.5Le. We returned to our home-not-home and packed two months’ worth of sweat-stained shirts, classroom notes and handouts, and Egypt swag.
My roommate noted to herself where she was packing her plane ticket. I noted that I seemed to not have said plane ticket. Good thing airports will reissue tickets – I’m sure I hadn’t seen that sucker since the day we arrived in Cairo!
And then came Sunday.
By noon, the remaining classmates were knocking at our door, for ours was one of three rooms set aside for storing luggage for the day. We officially checked out of Hotel E.
I accompanied my sweet kosher classmate to the train station, where she departed for Cairo and ultimately a 24-hour journey by train, bus and probably taxi for the country north of this one. On the way home, walked past Alexandria’s greatest ruins, the Roman Amphitheater. I explained to a classmate my reason for not having gone out of my way to see it sooner: I spent four months in the global capital of ancient societal ruins, and grew accustomed to the prevalent excavations that sprung up any time a new building had been contracted and groundbreaking lead to new archeological discoveries.
That night, I had my last meal of kosharee,
visited our favorite keshke for a bottle of water,
bought my last book of hilarious Engrish,
and waited in the hotel for our departure.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Awkwards are always goodbye.
The following is an ad-hoc guest blog from former contributing blogger "Zeke."
I have spent the summer admiring Liz for her very determined speech. You can almost watch the wheels turning in her head as she thinks, word by word, of what she will say next (in both English and Arabic). So it was a clear indicator of how worn down we all were when she started her thought with this quote. And that was before we even left Alexandria, before our uncomfortable micro-bus ride to Cairo and before I never got the chance to awkwardly say goodbye.
This is a story about a story. Liz and two companions have their own story to tell, and I cannot describe what they went through. But word of their story (or, the bare details of it) led to a story of our own. This is the story of The Three.
We traveled to Egypt on Paper Tickets. In Washington, we were each given an envelop of tickets. On the flight over, two tickets were torn out of this packet. Despite three sheets still being in this envelop (Cairo>Frankfurt, Frankfurt>DC, receipt), The Three did not grasp the importance of keeping track of -- or of not throwing out -- this envelop. It was about as important as knowing where your passport was at all times.
It should be said that The Three included one of the most organized people on the trip and also the person who was most looking to get out of Egypt. I was sitting in a cafe next to the Gate when rumors started to circulate about "Those Who Had Misplaced Their Tickets." Liz was "The Organized One" (and, let's be honest, she was itching to get home too... not to mention her busy time crunch before she starts school). As our good friend, she became the central character in a long joke: we knew both that she would be able to take eventual razzing, and that she should have known better.
The joking starting to be less funny the closer we got to boarding the plane, and the more unlikely it appeared that The Three would make it on board. Indeed, they did not. As far as we knew, the Program Director had gone home, The Three were without mobile phones, and they were stranded indefinitely at the Cairo Airport. What actually happened will have to come straight from Liz.
I have spent the summer admiring Liz for her very determined speech. You can almost watch the wheels turning in her head as she thinks, word by word, of what she will say next (in both English and Arabic). So it was a clear indicator of how worn down we all were when she started her thought with this quote. And that was before we even left Alexandria, before our uncomfortable micro-bus ride to Cairo and before I never got the chance to awkwardly say goodbye.
This is a story about a story. Liz and two companions have their own story to tell, and I cannot describe what they went through. But word of their story (or, the bare details of it) led to a story of our own. This is the story of The Three.
We traveled to Egypt on Paper Tickets. In Washington, we were each given an envelop of tickets. On the flight over, two tickets were torn out of this packet. Despite three sheets still being in this envelop (Cairo>Frankfurt, Frankfurt>DC, receipt), The Three did not grasp the importance of keeping track of -- or of not throwing out -- this envelop. It was about as important as knowing where your passport was at all times.
It should be said that The Three included one of the most organized people on the trip and also the person who was most looking to get out of Egypt. I was sitting in a cafe next to the Gate when rumors started to circulate about "Those Who Had Misplaced Their Tickets." Liz was "The Organized One" (and, let's be honest, she was itching to get home too... not to mention her busy time crunch before she starts school). As our good friend, she became the central character in a long joke: we knew both that she would be able to take eventual razzing, and that she should have known better.
The joking starting to be less funny the closer we got to boarding the plane, and the more unlikely it appeared that The Three would make it on board. Indeed, they did not. As far as we knew, the Program Director had gone home, The Three were without mobile phones, and they were stranded indefinitely at the Cairo Airport. What actually happened will have to come straight from Liz.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
An Egyptian countdown
The last three days or so have been an ongoing countdown in my head. The last day of class in Egypt. Our exams, and the last day in the language school. My last shower in the hotel. My last nap in that tiny bed.
Nine of us wait in the hotel lobby for our last half-hour of interneting. We load up the bus around 11 p.m. local time to go to Cairo. From there, we fly to Frankfurt, then to D.C. And then we disperse in a spider's web of flights that covers the country, delivering us to Boston, New York, Atlanta, Austin, Minneapolis, Denver, Seattle and San Francisco. And half a dozen of the group have already dispersed for reasons of their own.
I'm going to most miss seeing Arabic every day. It has forced me to struggle through the different shapes these letters can take, to overcome my classroom clumsiness and scan the storefronts as they whiz by outside the bus/taxi/tram.
I'm going to second-most miss hearing Arabic every day. Silly little phrases, "b't'kelimni 3arabee kwayyis!" ("you speak Arabic well," meaning "I want to flirt/sell you something/inquire into your origins and then flirt or sell you something"); the classic "al-hamdu lileh," which thanks god and can be invoked to mean "thank goodness," "it's ten o'clock," and "my, you're pretty."
I'm going to miss my favorite Egyptian dish, kosharee. It looks a little bit like what's left in the drain catch of your sink after you've finished washing the dinner dishes, but it's utterly, thoroughly delicious and satisfying and CHEAP.
I'm most NOT going to miss the ever-present taxis, and their incessant honking. To quote a classmate: "They come up right behind you and honk to scare you out of your mental world, just to inform you 'I'M A TAXI.'" -Basha.
I'm second most not-going to miss the under-the-breath statements I hear on the streets, and the unwanted attention. From the minibus driver who makes kissing noises as me flies by me on the Corniche, to the man walking with his 2-year-old-daughter who mutters "very nice" as he passes me, and more recently, to the woman about my age who carries a small child and comes up to me, bubbling in broken English while she paws at my purse. I was sad to experience that, although I can only imagine what situation must drive her to stalk foreigners.
Absolutely, I will miss most of all the fabulous people I spent this trip with. The 25 of us were in this together through comfort and through heat stroke, through hunger and through lavish buffets, through test preparation and hotel celebrations. We have all shown to each other our best and worst sides, and I'm pretty impressed with how everyone's fared. I will miss these precious people dearly as we scatter around the world. You remind me daily of why I'm studying this language.
Though there are other days when I remember why I'm taking Arabic. This photo was reprinted in the local newspaper Al-Misri al-youm:
In case you need a reminder of the actual geographic placement of Egypt, here's a map.
Ya3ni, Iraq, Egypt, same thing to Fox News.
Nine of us wait in the hotel lobby for our last half-hour of interneting. We load up the bus around 11 p.m. local time to go to Cairo. From there, we fly to Frankfurt, then to D.C. And then we disperse in a spider's web of flights that covers the country, delivering us to Boston, New York, Atlanta, Austin, Minneapolis, Denver, Seattle and San Francisco. And half a dozen of the group have already dispersed for reasons of their own.
I'm going to most miss seeing Arabic every day. It has forced me to struggle through the different shapes these letters can take, to overcome my classroom clumsiness and scan the storefronts as they whiz by outside the bus/taxi/tram.
I'm going to second-most miss hearing Arabic every day. Silly little phrases, "b't'kelimni 3arabee kwayyis!" ("you speak Arabic well," meaning "I want to flirt/sell you something/inquire into your origins and then flirt or sell you something"); the classic "al-hamdu lileh," which thanks god and can be invoked to mean "thank goodness," "it's ten o'clock," and "my, you're pretty."
I'm going to miss my favorite Egyptian dish, kosharee. It looks a little bit like what's left in the drain catch of your sink after you've finished washing the dinner dishes, but it's utterly, thoroughly delicious and satisfying and CHEAP.
I'm most NOT going to miss the ever-present taxis, and their incessant honking. To quote a classmate: "They come up right behind you and honk to scare you out of your mental world, just to inform you 'I'M A TAXI.'" -Basha.
I'm second most not-going to miss the under-the-breath statements I hear on the streets, and the unwanted attention. From the minibus driver who makes kissing noises as me flies by me on the Corniche, to the man walking with his 2-year-old-daughter who mutters "very nice" as he passes me, and more recently, to the woman about my age who carries a small child and comes up to me, bubbling in broken English while she paws at my purse. I was sad to experience that, although I can only imagine what situation must drive her to stalk foreigners.
Absolutely, I will miss most of all the fabulous people I spent this trip with. The 25 of us were in this together through comfort and through heat stroke, through hunger and through lavish buffets, through test preparation and hotel celebrations. We have all shown to each other our best and worst sides, and I'm pretty impressed with how everyone's fared. I will miss these precious people dearly as we scatter around the world. You remind me daily of why I'm studying this language.
Though there are other days when I remember why I'm taking Arabic. This photo was reprinted in the local newspaper Al-Misri al-youm:
In case you need a reminder of the actual geographic placement of Egypt, here's a map.
Ya3ni, Iraq, Egypt, same thing to Fox News.
Dark nights
As I (wrote this in my journal four days ago), a flashlight is packaged between my chin and chest. The balcony doors sit wide open, as well as the door leading to the hallway. This serves two purposes: to let in as much light as possible from the cafe across the street, and to invite any blind soul in the hotel to spend this dark night in my company. Also, in the company of the only flashlight in the building.
The power went out when I was about three seconds from the shower. It didn't stop me, either. Perching this tiny LED flashlight on the glass shelf in the bathroom conjured memories of showering in candlelight at the co-op after the electrical fire.
The power is on across the street. A few of the occupied rooms at the B Hotel are illuminated, and their occupants lounge on beds and chairs in front of wide-open balcony doors. Only three floors up, I stand in darkness with wind from the ocean drying my hair. Then again, maybe I'm being observed by someone else even more invisible.
Occupying the ground floor of B Hotel's building, Cafe P serves dozens of loungers, regulars and families at its busiest time of day (11 p.m.) The power is not off in their homes, but it may as well be. They would be at Cafe P under neon light or candlelight.
I should be out there, too. Enjoying the breeze, oblivious of the electrical state of this temporary resting house, cooling this overheated body with winds from Greece. But...I just showered. And need to catch up on sleep. Ya3ni, there's always a reason.
No one's returned yet from their evening excursion to join me in chasing away the shadows from this small circle of light. Time for bed, then.
The power went out when I was about three seconds from the shower. It didn't stop me, either. Perching this tiny LED flashlight on the glass shelf in the bathroom conjured memories of showering in candlelight at the co-op after the electrical fire.
The power is on across the street. A few of the occupied rooms at the B Hotel are illuminated, and their occupants lounge on beds and chairs in front of wide-open balcony doors. Only three floors up, I stand in darkness with wind from the ocean drying my hair. Then again, maybe I'm being observed by someone else even more invisible.
Occupying the ground floor of B Hotel's building, Cafe P serves dozens of loungers, regulars and families at its busiest time of day (11 p.m.) The power is not off in their homes, but it may as well be. They would be at Cafe P under neon light or candlelight.
I should be out there, too. Enjoying the breeze, oblivious of the electrical state of this temporary resting house, cooling this overheated body with winds from Greece. But...I just showered. And need to catch up on sleep. Ya3ni, there's always a reason.
No one's returned yet from their evening excursion to join me in chasing away the shadows from this small circle of light. Time for bed, then.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
What have I been doing?
"Šodienlielbritānijāprotestuspietrīspadsmitapcienājumuunpriekšsēdētājsnoplūktiemviņadeguna."
Question 1: Where did the protests take place and [WORD] their [WORD] dog kennel?"
"Danas je u Velikoj Britaniji protesta dovesti do trinaest ДнесвъвВеликобритания протестидоведедотринадесет. äta mina shorts och skal mina bananer och flubugate den wonderflonium."
Question 2: Where did the space ants get their bananas?
This is more or less how the listening portion of our final exam transpired today.
Rather than testing the ability to listen to our teacher, as we have been practicing diligently for 8 weeks, our listening test submitted us to a buzzing television broadcasting Al-Jazeera news that included lots of shouting (from this I determined there was a protest going on) and dubbed-over English. We were then to answer questions like those I wrote above, with equal comprehension of the quoted portions. I wasn't sure where one word in the broadcast ended and the other began - it was like those sped-up recordings of English that make the announcer sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. I wasn't even sure the announcers were speaking Arabic.
Halfway through the exam, we determined that the announcer was indeed speaking fusHa Arabic - but using 3amiyya pronunciation. Hence, we weren't being tested on our ability to listen to the Arabic that we had practiced all summer long either.
By the end of this section, I cast my cares into the desert and circled answers that looked visually appealing.
The written exam that took place before this was a three-hour test of patience. The 20 of us who remain (for some have left the program early) were grouped in one classroom. Half used dictionaries, the other half wondered if they, too, were allowed to use dictionaries. The door squeaked open and slammed shut about once every 20 seconds...for three hours. With one hour remaining, our program director entered the classroom, walked up to the front and whispered and laughed with the woman proxying our exam. I, sitting in the front of the classroom, asked them to keep it down because we WERE STILL TAKING OUR EXAMS.
Then Al-Mudeera, the director of the language school, squeaked open the door. "Why haven't you finished the test yet?" she asked incredulously. "Because we still have a half-hour," I responded. "No, THAT'S for the listening section! You have three more minutes."
So I returned to the last page of questions:
"Based on the previous text, why was the [WORD] racist speech [WORD] killing at-human-like-[WORD] until stop for [WORD] space ants? President Obama."
Have...I really just spent the last eight weeks in Egypt studying this language?
Question 1: Where did the protests take place and [WORD] their [WORD] dog kennel?"
"Danas je u Velikoj Britaniji protesta dovesti do trinaest ДнесвъвВеликобритания протестидоведедотринадесет. äta mina shorts och skal mina bananer och flubugate den wonderflonium."
Question 2: Where did the space ants get their bananas?
This is more or less how the listening portion of our final exam transpired today.
Rather than testing the ability to listen to our teacher, as we have been practicing diligently for 8 weeks, our listening test submitted us to a buzzing television broadcasting Al-Jazeera news that included lots of shouting (from this I determined there was a protest going on) and dubbed-over English. We were then to answer questions like those I wrote above, with equal comprehension of the quoted portions. I wasn't sure where one word in the broadcast ended and the other began - it was like those sped-up recordings of English that make the announcer sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. I wasn't even sure the announcers were speaking Arabic.
Halfway through the exam, we determined that the announcer was indeed speaking fusHa Arabic - but using 3amiyya pronunciation. Hence, we weren't being tested on our ability to listen to the Arabic that we had practiced all summer long either.
By the end of this section, I cast my cares into the desert and circled answers that looked visually appealing.
The written exam that took place before this was a three-hour test of patience. The 20 of us who remain (for some have left the program early) were grouped in one classroom. Half used dictionaries, the other half wondered if they, too, were allowed to use dictionaries. The door squeaked open and slammed shut about once every 20 seconds...for three hours. With one hour remaining, our program director entered the classroom, walked up to the front and whispered and laughed with the woman proxying our exam. I, sitting in the front of the classroom, asked them to keep it down because we WERE STILL TAKING OUR EXAMS.
Then Al-Mudeera, the director of the language school, squeaked open the door. "Why haven't you finished the test yet?" she asked incredulously. "Because we still have a half-hour," I responded. "No, THAT'S for the listening section! You have three more minutes."
So I returned to the last page of questions:
"Based on the previous text, why was the [WORD] racist speech [WORD] killing at-human-like-[WORD] until stop for [WORD] space ants? President Obama."
Have...I really just spent the last eight weeks in Egypt studying this language?
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