Sticky Pud for everyone!

My first visit to a grocery store in Wales was quite the adventure! The size, the cleanliness, the vast array, the lack of being side-swiped by someone’s cart, the recognizable products and brands, the lack of dust coating everything. It was all so delightful. Mom and I spent well over an hour looking at everything, spending most of our time in the chocolates, biscuits and frozen food aisles. I am on a mission to taste-test as many veggie food products as possible to determine what’s worthy of being bought in bulk and brought back (some may deign to use the word “smuggled”) to Cairo. So I chose a few to try – particularly the fake-meat sausages. It’s such fun having so many options! (No particular complaints about our commissary, but any supplemental goodies I can find will be well appreciated – by me.)

In addition to oogling the options and variety, we also had great fun just reading all the different names. English is not always English, and it certainly does vary when it comes to localisms. I mean, you’d never see a product in the states called “Sticky Pud”. But there it was, sitting on a shelf (it’s essentially a bread pudding with a sugary-toffee syrup that’s served hot). Or “Toad in the Hole,” or “Cornish Pasty,” or “Sausage Rolls.” And the flavor variations! It’s not just the wild and crazy salt-n-vinegar crisps (potato chips) anymore. They even had cream cheese that came in flavors such as Thai and lime and BBQ. Odd (we did not try those).

Even some veg have different names. Since I have yet to find any fresh spinach or fresh (or even frozen) sugar snap peas in Cairo, we grabbed some, along with some fresh mangtout (simply snowpeas). Eggplant is aubergine, zucchini is courgette, and if you ask for squash here, you’ll be directed to the soda aisle as it’s typically diluted fruit juice – which I forgot, however quickly remembered when I tried the blackberry-cranberry we bought and found it so thick and sweet my throat practically closed up.

I believe I may have mentioned my partiality to English chocolate and biscuits. You can blame my grandparents for introducing them to me, or you can agree that they’re just better. Either way, I’m delighted to have access to them in Cairo, although it’s apparent we do not have access to all of them. Mom and I checked everything out with great glee. We did not sample everything, but we certainly sampled some – including some wonderful cappuccino Kit-Kats (they also had dark chocolate and orange), German hazelnut or chocolate filled wafer cookies that looked like little hippos, some old childhood standbys of Jelly Babies (far superior to “gummy” foods) and Maynard’s Fruit Gums. Now, all this gorging was not just for personal gluttony, we also took daily treats to the hospital for Uncle Harold (as well as oranges, pears and apples from his own trees -- which I managed to make into my first attempt at tartlets -- and other non-chocolaty items).

In regards to the biscuits and sweeties that are on sale, I will comment that English shops have far more of these for sale than U.S. shops, even on non-holiday days (holidays such as Easter and Christmas make you feel like you’ve wandered into Wonka-land instead of the local grocers). And typically these aisles are often crowded with all ages, from the young grabby children to the elderly carefully choosing their favorite digestive biscuit or chocolate Penguin assortment. And yet despite the volume of sweets that are being consumed, the English are typically rather fit. So it’s either the combination of sweets and a lot more walking than is done in the states, or while distracting us with the Spice Girls and David Beckham, the English have found a way to circumvent calorie absorption and just refuse to share. You choose.

Other shopping ran to the far less fun, but more practical realm of grout paint (I just can’t find any in Cairo and would like to spruce up our bathrooms), cat treats (I know, but Ron did remind me to look as we can only get one flavor at the commissary and the poor deprived fat felines do like variety), and even a small metal trashcan for our compost (as the plastic one I bought recently broke, and when you can actually find a non-metal one in Cairo it’s outrageously expensive – I did verify that the new can will fit in my suitcase and I’ll just stuff it with t-shirts or even fake sausages!).

Now, I will say that the one main, and very important, thing that Cairo has going for it is prices. The UK prices are quite high, higher than the states, and therefore ten times higher than Cairo. So you pay a little more for variety, cleanliness, dust-free products. But I had vacation-brain on, so prices were not a primary concern of mine.

I did end up choosing two fake-meat sausage brands to bring home – nine boxes total. When I was asked at the airport if I had any food, I quietly said, “Some chocolates and … uh, vegetarian food.” No one blinked an eye, or even rolled one.

Roman remains & Welsh lessons – or “Cymraeg gwersau”

My grandmother’s family (including Great Uncle Harold) were raised in Caerleon, which is a small town just north of Newport, which is right on the Bristol Channel that separates southern Wales from England. Other than my grandmother, who moved to southern England, everyone else stayed in Caerleon.

Caerleon has an amazing history, with records dating back to 830 AD listing it as one of Britain’s 33 cities. It has the remains of Roman Fortress Isca, actual walls of a Roman bath, and some believe it may even be the location of King Arthur’s Camelot. In addition, they have excavated remains of a hill fort that dates back to the early-middle Iron Age, ~300-600 BC, and right next to the current elementary school and local library, are the remains of a Roman amphitheater. According to the 2001 census, Caerleon had just under 9,000 residents (I can claim to be related to seven of them).

Ron and I had serious discussions about getting married in Caerleon, at St. Cadocs church where my grandparents, and all great aunts and uncles were married (my parents were married in Weymouth, where my mother grew up). Sadly, I’ve attended many family funerals at St. Cadocs, but no weddings. It’s a wonderful old stone church, with parts dating back to the 12th century, and I will admit to having some dreams as a little girl of getting married there. But logistically Ron and I felt it was just too cumbersome, so we opted for Baltimore and lots and lots of friends.

Growing up and visiting my relatives, I didn’t know (or really care) about any of its history. I do remember finding it odd, however, that despite being in Wales, this area of southern Wales did not speak Welsh. Now, in the last ten years, I’ve noticed that that’s starting to change. They have started posting signs (street signs, traffic signs, grocery store directories even) in both Welsh and English, and there are some television channels in Welsh, but you never hear it spoken “down the town” or “down the pub.”

Welsh is a very interesting (strange) language to listen to. After trying to read the signs and listening to the soap operas, I came to the conclusion that it sounds a bit like Swedish, backwards. I tried to capture some of the signs I saw around, just to give a flavor. Some of the town names are good examples: Cwmbran, Croesyceiliog, Pontnewynydd, Llanyrafon, Blaenavon (this last one, my mom told me my grandmother would use as a curse word – we have no idea why but towns always seem to have a healthy rivalry with the next town, don’t they?).

(Is anyone else envisioning a large ficus ambling across the road?)

Never Relax Your Toe Concerns

So I’ve mentioned before my abject fear of getting my toes squashed while crossing the streets of Cairo. Luckily, I have managed to avoid any such injuries, however on my first day in Wales, while walking in soft slippers (cute little blue fuzzy ones, I might add), heading out the back door to say hi to my cousin Jeremy, I managed to bash my toe against the door jam in the conservatory. It really hurt! Cartoon-stars kinda hurt. But I went through the day with a minor limp and a few whimpers and didn’t notice until I came home that night, took my shoes and socks off and saw that my second toe was completely purpley-blue, heading into the black. So either I managed to severely bruise it, or even inflicted a slight fracture.

For several days after, Ron kept nagging me to go see a doctor in Wales, reminding me, “Whatever you do, DON’T go to the hospital in Cairo!” We have a medical unit at the embassy for basic needs (got shots #13 and #14 there just a few weeks ago – yeah – now I think I’m impervious to the Black Plague, Botulism and possibly even Cannibalism). There is a fairly new hospital down near Maadi called As'Salam. The story goes that one of its first patients was a French diplomat who came in for a routine appendectomy. The surgery went without incident and as they were wheeling him out, down the hall to the elevators, they casually wheeled him into the elevator only later realizing the doors had opened despite the elevator car not being there, so the French diplomat fell to his death. In response, the Egyptians now call the hospital Maasalama with a little sparkle in their eye (“maasalama” means good-bye).

Due to a slightly embarrassing incident in sixth grade involving a volleyball and a very large classmate, I do know that the only thing done for an injured toe (even a “hairline-fractured great toe”) is to tape it to the next little piggy and let it heal. So for the entire vacation I dutifully taped my toes together, and vowed to never be so cavalier about toe care in the future.

Through the Hajj and Beyond

I'm back home and wanted to share some of my non-Cairo adventures:

My trip to Wales started at 4:35 a.m. when the expeditor we had hired was scheduled to pick me up. I dutifully was packed and ready, but not necessarily pert and chatty, and waiting for him outside by the guard shack. Even as I stood there in the dark at 4:30 a.m., I could feel the sweat start to gather.

The ride to the airport was wonderfully uneventful and expeditious – there was very little traffic on the roads. The airport is located out past City Starts Mall, but even so my driver made it to the first airport sign in about 20 minutes. It took another 10 minutes to wind our way through the construction rubble and I was definitely grateful that we had not attempted this on our own as there were no signs anywhere. Luckily he obviously knew where he was going. Finally we pulled up to the airport and I was immediately surprised to see how busy it was.

At this point I was handed off to the airport-expeditor who wound me through the throngs, through security (which all passengers are funneled through before even getting to the ticket desks), and up to some random ticket desk where my bag was checked, my boarding ticket printed, and I was handed off to yet another expeditor person. This one took my passport and ticket up to the passport window and told me to wait just beyond it. He got my passport stamped, handed everything to me, and the two expeditors wished me well, only after apologizing for the masses of people and telling me that it was always like this during “The Hajj.”

Oh, right. The Hajj. In addition to fasting and feasting, Ramadan is also the time that Muslims make their pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. So at 5:30 in the morning it was me and hundreds (thousands?) of devout Muslims crowded into the Cairo airport. Aside from the obvious, it was easy to tell us apart. Muslims traveling to Mecca wear all white, and it doesn’t seem to matter what manner of clothing, just as long as it’s white. I saw beautiful white linens, white scarves, white gallibayas, and even white towels (in a range of distress, I might add) held up by large safety pins. They all carried a small bag and many of the women walked around the airport with it balanced on their head (I still find this delightfully fascinating and so impressive).

I walked through the airport, past the duty-free shops selling perfume and chocolates and toys (no liquor); past seats filled to overflowing with the white-clad just waiting around; past those who overflowed sitting, lying and sleeping on the hard, cold, (not to mention, less-than spit-spot clean) airport floor. I got to my gate, which was located at the end in a circular area, with six gates spaced around a central food-court. Here also the people were piled about. I managed to find a chair and settled in.

I attempted to read, but I was in that early-morning haze and kept getting distracted by the activities around me. There was a lot of bustling about, wandering, chatting, talking, mingling, and after about ten minutes those who were mingling started to rouse those who were sleeping (some on the floor, some stretched out on chairs). As the sleepers awoke and joined the minglers, the noise levels increased. Everyone seemed excited and eager and very happy, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in an airport so noisy – thinking about it, unless you’re a rowdy group of teenagers, there seems to be this reverential attitude for airports, you don’t yell, scream, or even talk loudly. Not so in my surrounding area. This hive of activity only increased as the boarding process began. I swear I heard women making the high-pitched ululation cry. At this same time, a man came up to me and asked if I was on the British Air flight to London (how did he guess?), and told me that it had switched gates. Another woman near me also got up and started walking around the circle to the new gate, but she stopped and suggested we try the other way as this was blocked by a teeming throng of overly-excited Mecca-bound white-clothed pilgrimagers, so I agreed and followed her the other way.

We chose seats near our new gate and a few others soon joined us. We were in direct view of the boarding meleé to Mecca. The woman near me laughed a little and said, “Look at the poor guard, holding his hands up trying to get everyone to calm down.” I have to admit, I didn’t really find anything amusing. It was a bit like being on the sidelines of a riot boiling up to full strength. (NOTE: The concept of lining up or queuing or just plain mob courtesy isn’t really adhered to in Egypt. Even in grocery stores, people will try to shove in front of you. I don’t think it’s done with ill-intent, I just think in a city of 20 million people, waiting your turn seems like an eternity, so whether you’re driving, walking, shopping, or boarding a train, plane or camel, you shove to the front. I have managed to embrace the art of human Frogger, but I sincerely hope I never embrace the shove-ahead method (I find standing your ground takes an equal amount of fortitude and is less rude).)

The flight to Mecca boarded without bloodshed and suddenly the airport din diminished to normalcy. There were only a few people milling about, however the piles of trash that were left behind were astronomical. I watched with great Jane-Goodall-like interest at the trash collecting methods that were being employed. The cleaner would approach a pile of water bottles and pick up just a few, then would move on to the next pile, all the while skipping over trash along the way. It was mystifying. I was sitting next to a plant and it took four separate visits for all of the debris in the plant to be collected (and the cleaners had large garbage bags, brooms, rolling carts, etc., so they were amply prepared). At one point, an airport official (recognized because he was wearing a tie) told the cleaners to clean up the area around the gate, so the woman came promptly over to where we were sitting, the one area with people I might add, and started sweeping up under our seats, causing us all to lift our legs up and swing them around wildly, dragging our carry-ons from side to side. At one point she inadvertently swept the broom across the top of my foot and I had immediate visions of scabies, typhoid or rheumatic fever leeching into my skin.

The boarding of our flight was far less exciting than that to Mecca, but we had a lot of Brits heading home and let’s be honest, unless it’s a football match, Brits are just so damn polite (it’s lovely). The flight itself was excellent (I’m becoming quite a fan of British Air). I found myself at one point looking out the window to see all the way down to a body of water and land approaching. Checking my personal TV screen I could watch our progress and saw that we were just flying over the Adriatic Sea into Italy (ahh, Venice, I shall see you soon if my plans come to be…). I watched as we flew directly over the Alps, seeing lakes of deep blue between vast green mountains and snow-capped peaks, across Zurich and France and onto the coast of the English Channel. The clouds were almost non-existent so I could see boats (granted, probably very large ones) on the Channel, smaller planes flying below us, and then finally the coast of England. We flew over the south-east coast, but I still found myself peering into the west to see if I could catch a glimpse of Weymouth where my mother grew up. I like to believe that I could see it.

Arriving at Heathrow was like walking into a newly-opened hospital. Everything was quiet and oh-so-clean. I got through customs in a flash, retrieved my bag, and was out in airport central within minutes. It was beautiful! There were huge windows looking out into bright clean air, lovely trees, periodic sun (it is England), and it was cool, quite cool in fact. My mother had forewarned me to bring wet-weather shoes and a sweatshirt – and as mothers tend to be, she was right.

The plan was to get a bus/coach to Newport in Wales. Mom had pre-purchased ithe ticket for me so I was supposed to be able to just plug in my confirmation code and print out a ticket. Always sounds so easy, doesn’t it? The machine wouldn’t acknowledge me, so I had the man help me. He printed the ticket, and told me where I could go to pick it up. I had about an hour to wait so I called Mom to verify I’d arrived, then wandered off to get a spot of lunch (lovely Marks & Spencers (M&S) with their food to go shops). I ate my lunch then wandered over to the bus stops to wait for my coach (like a Greyhound). A woman in a reflective vest came up to me and asked to see my ticket (you’d never think an electric yellow reflective vest would command authority, but it really does). She looked at my ticket and told me I’d missed the bus. I was 15 minutes early! She said that my ticket was actually for a different pick-up point, so I needed to get there to catch my bus. No one told me! But there was another bus in 30 minutes so I’d just have to switch my ticket. I stomped back to the bus counter and expressed my sincere displeasure at the mix-up. They were semi-apologetic, however tried, unsuccessfully, to point out that I should have seen on the ticket where it said Central Station, not Terminal 5. I counter-pointed out that the dippy man had not only circled the time, indicating when I needed to catch the bus, but also wrote down the bus stop number where I should catch it, not at Central Station. Then they had the audacity to try to charge me an additional £5! Oh no, not having that! I think in an effort to just get rid of the demanding American, they gave in and just printed the new ticket.

The coach ride was pleasant enough. I sat next to a very nice elderly lady who was also heading to Newport. We chatted a little, she’d been visiting her cousin for the day outside of London and was heading home, and like me, had missed the earlier coach. She was very sweet, but had rather pungent breath, and there’s nothing like having a conversation with someone less than a foot away whose breath reminds you of skunks, to make you less-than-chatty.

The scenery was lovely though. The green was oh-so-green! Rolling green hills, bordered with dark green shrubs and trees, creating nature’s patchwork. With intermittent fluffy white spots of happy sheep (fat and woolly), or grazing cattle or meandering horses wearing their cold-weather blankets. Flashing back to the poor sheep, cows and horses I’d left in Cairo, I actually smiled at these sights, instead of feeling heartbroken.

I did get a glimpse of one bunny, and was utterly delighted, but kept my cool so as to not frighten or worry my fellow coach passengers. But he was a wonderful brown cottontail, sitting up perfectly, big ears up giving the perfect bunny profile. Thank you – wildlife spotting has been achieved.

In search of wildlife, green rolling hills & tofu pups

I scoot off for ten days to Wales tomorrow, with great eagerness at seeing Mom, family, and REAL wildlife (I may faint at the first sight of a squirrel or chipmunk, be forewarned). Unfortunately it’s not just a fun-trip, as I have a cousin and a Great Uncle (he really is a GREAT uncle) in the hospital, so we’re there to raise spirits and hopefully see them home.

It’s really the first time Ron and I will be apart since the wedding, other than a few days during the pack-out when he flew to Washington to finalize plans and I stayed in Ohio. So, as the husband-left-behind, he’s planning appropriately and has stocked the freezer with frozen pizzas and such, arranged for a friend to come over for “Prisoner” DVD marathons (I’ve been subjected to it once, which was enough), and I’m sure will spend countless hours as a dwarf/elf/sword-wielding-creature slaying all those need-to-be-killed monsters who live in the video games that can capture his rapt interest, whereas when I try to talk to him he whines that he can’t listen right now because he needs a sandwich. Maybe I should wield a sword and a pb&j next time?

Anyway, our housekeeper is coming while I’m away, so I know at least I won’t return to a disheveled heap with Ron, the four remote controls and two felines sleeping amidst it all.

I’m taking over some little tokens of Egyptian craftwork, a little clothing, my camera and some books, but have full intentions of bringing back some wonderful English vegetarian goods. The Brits far-exceed anyone else in the quantity of vegetarian food options, and my suitcase will happily house their endeavors. Yeah!

So, I shall return with photos and tales of another less-dusty (and apparently cold and rainy) world. Refreshed and ready to continue life in the Cairo World.