Resuming normalcy – such as it is

Well, we (really I) survived my first Ramadan and Eid al-Fitr without seeing one live slaughter. I consider that a success. Maybe the guidebooks were overstating it, but I really don’t feel like trying to prove or disprove their validity. I shall take them at their warning-words.

The Eid (pr. Ade) is the final three days of Ramadan and is essentially the Muslim “Christmas,” in terms of religious significance, family, feasting and presents. Businesses shut down, and for three days there are throngs of people everywhere. In terms of automobile traffic, it was quite light, but instead of dodging weaving cabs and crazy shuttle buses, we had to snake through and around pedestrians on all major roads and especially bridges. (Bridges here seem to serve several functions, first to cross water or roads, second for young courting couples to hang out on – Ron refers to these at “Bridge dates” and admires the frugalness, and third it’s a place to see and be seen – especially true on holidays.)

Ron pointed out that everywhere you looked, there were new jeans, new sneakers, new sparkling hijabs and gallibayas, and all the little boys were running around with toy guns and all the little girls had gold or silver purses to match their new hijabs. It really was like Christmas, with everyone wanting to show off their new duds. Even the ancient sun-baked men perched on plastic chairs on the street were donning new white turbans. The evenings were filled with the sound of fireworks (which at times sounded unnervingly like cannons) and people laughing and talking well into the night. It was all very joyful and merry, and if possible, there were even more colorful light displays throughout the city.

As lovely and festive as it was, I’m definitely ready to resume life as I knew it, or was getting to know it. The Eid technically ended Friday, but Saturday was a weekend, and Monday, October 6th is Egyptian Armed Forces Day, where they celebrate “winning” the war against Israel in 1973. (There’s even a bridge here called “Six October” – a lot of the bridges are named after dates. The main one crossing Zamalek is “26 July” – this is the date in 1952 when the Egyptian military ousted King Farouk and Egypt has remained a police state ever since.)

Part of resuming normalcy for me (because it’s all about me), in addition to shops actually being open, will be starting up Arabic classes again on Tuesday. Technically I continued to take classes through the summer, but with a delayed start, because I couldn’t get any information as to when and where they were being held, plus my travels to Wales, and compounded by the instructor’s lack of any structure, I pretty much just learned how to tell time. Or rather, how to say time. At one point he was teaching us how to conjugate future tense, and he gave us “I,” “you” masculine and “you” feminine, and then stopped. I asked if we could get the rest, for those rare occasions we might need to use “we,” “he,” “she,” “you” plural or “they,” and he replied, “Oh, you want all of them?” I guess he had low expectations for our sentence complexity. But I’m looking forward to resuming classes with my previous teacher from Spring session as I felt I learned a lot from her. Feeling a bit embarrassed at my lack of progress since she last saw me has spurred me to do some massive cramming these last few days. So there are flashcards, notebooks and papers piled up everywhere, and I’m happily making verb conjugation charts on Excel. (Okay, I can hear the guffahs from here. I may be able to fight some aspects of being a “Type A” (or rather, Egypt may fight it), but if I can employ organizational methods where possible, I will do so. This was never more apparent when Ron recently went to use some spices and asked where the curry was and I told him they were all alphabetical. He actually stopped, dropped his jaw and stared at me as if he’d never seen me, or worse, had suddenly realized whom he had married. I think in terms of our differences, our organizational needs and methods are our biggest disparity, in that I have them, he doesn’t.)

I’ve also signed up for two trips/tours in the coming weeks, “Medieval Walls of Cairo” and “Mashrabiya Institute” (Ron asked if I’d be getting an honorary degree from the institute, so depending on my mood I may inquire).

We got our brakes replaced on the Jeep, our kitchen trash can that we ordered online has arrived, and I’m starting to look into flights back home so I can retrieve Clifford and Max who have been having way too much fun taking over Mom’s house in Ohio. So life progresses and hopefully this will be true outside our apartment as well, and I can finally get some photos framed that I’ve been carrying around for four weeks trying to, unsuccessfully, catch the moment when the framers is open.

Returning Home: No Hajj, just Extreme Exhaustion

So on our day of departure, Mom and I were up and at the Newport bus station at 6:00am, thanks to my cousin Jeremy’s kind offer to drive us there, waiting for the coach to take us to Heathrow.

The ride back to London was nicer than the ride out; Mom’s breath was considerably better than my last traveling companion’s. We slept a little, drove through some more small towns (no idea which ones), and arrived at Heathrow about 8:30am. This early coach was really our only option as Mom’s flight left at noon, so we had to be there at least at 10:00am. My flight departed at 5:30pm, but it was the only flight to Cairo so I came well-stocked with airport-friendly activities.

First we got Mom all checked in, luggage carted away, seat assigned, flight confirmed. Then, we took a train to the new terminal for British Air flights. Door to door, with walking, waiting, riding, and dragging my suitcase, it was probably about a 20 minute journey. Doesn’t sound like a lot, but when you’re tired, and your damn suitcase weighs too much (how can veggie sausages, a trash can, grout pain, some mugs and a wee bit of chocolate weigh that much?), it felt rather monumental. (I was curious where Heathrow fell in the realm of busiest/largest airports and was surprised to find that the King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia is by far the largest, with 81 square miles of space – whereas Heathrow seems almost puny at only 4.7 square miles – but in terms of busiest, Heathrow handles the most international travelers, and if you combine all the airports in London, London is the definitely the busiest “aviation centre” in the world.)

Our plan was to check in my bags, then head back to her terminal, get a coffee and wait for her plane. However, British Air (I can’t speak for other airlines) apparently has a rule that bags cannot be accepted for a flight prior to three hours before departure. And I found out that when they say three hours, they mean exactly three hours, not four, not even three hours and fifteen minutes. So we found where you can pay to have your luggage stored (new-fangled lockers essentially) and I checked in the sausages.

So, we had our coffee, relaxed, and Mom made it through security without any incidents. I then took the train back to my terminal and proceeded to wander around, explore, window-shop, and try not to fall asleep, while I waited for my three-hour indicator.

In the last 30 minutes, I had reclaimed my suitcase, finished my book and was literally sitting on the floor in the departures area watching the flurry of airport activities. As I mentioned, this is a new terminal, so it’s sparkling clean, so much so that I had carried around an empty soda bottle for over an hour before I found a trash can (how is it that Brits can not only keep it spotlessly clean, but do so without a trash can in sight? Really miraculous, I think. Cairo has a similar no-trash-can policy, but it tends to lead to the opposite result of piles upon piles of rubbish).

I watched a whole slew of British Air employees, noted for their matching blue polos embroidered with “Can I help you?” on them, just milling about with almost an air of desperation to help people. As a group they looked like census takers waiting for the next victim.

At six minutes before my three hour mark, I went up to one of the hundreds of windows accepting luggage. “I’m sorry, but we can’t accept bags before three hours.” I looked at her and said, “It’s six minutes away.” “I know.” Boy, talk about by-the-book! She actually suggested that I walk slowly down to the farthest booth to kill some time. So I did. I walked through sections marked A through H, with either 16 or 26 windows in each. Then I stood slightly in front of one window and calmly filed my nails while I watched the countdown. In my final rebellious act, I walked up with great determination, placed the bag half on the scale (fearing a over-weight charge), and noted with a tad of glee that they had accepted my bag one minute early. Ha! Live on the edge, I say.

So now I only had three more hours to kill. I got through security, and was suddenly exposed to duty-free world and all the shops that just love an impulse buyer – Tiffanys, Harrods, Gucci, etc. What is it about a “Duty Free” sign that makes us consider buying a $400 ounce of perfume that otherwise we wouldn’t consider? Saving $20-45 in tax?

By this point my exhaustion was taking on physical qualities and I was doing a combination shuffle/stumble as I walked from one end to the other and back again. I did see a bunch of heavily-armed police ambling about – guess they’re supposed to make one feel safer, right? I also heard a gasp followed by a crash and turned to see a woman who had fallen backwards on an escalator. She was laying prone upside-down and wasn’t moving. They stopped the escalator and emergency came quickly and managed to get her standing up, but it was rather disconcerting.

Throughout the terminal there were huge TV screens high overhead broadcasting very long elaborate advertisements involving pixels blowing back and forth across the screen, become one person on one side, and another on the other. Then the screens were filled with “I love you” written in everything from candies to doodles to chocolates or flowers. In my growing delirium, I found them utterly fascinating. I also found myself examining the towering glass windows that bordered the length of the terminal on two sides, connected by the high industrial ceiling. It all felt like we were in a huge human terrarium, but instead of a captive lizard on a log, it was full of a thousand little colorful blobs in constant motion – I was a pink blob. (Delirium is funny.)

At one point I was sitting near the “Caviar House & Prunier” where I was subjected to their continuous silent promotional video -- ick. Luckily, I was distracted from that by a man behind me typing erratically and a German woman a few chairs away who chose to use her outdoor-voice while on her cell phone in the airport, so I got to hear, “o-k, o-k, o-k” over and over. At one point the male part of the beautiful sleeping couple across from me, opened one eye to glare at her, to no avail.

I continued to people watch and found myself amazed at two things in particular: what people choose to wear during travels (I mean, I guess if you can get away with wearing a slinky black dress and strappy heels on a plane, more power to you), and how light some people travel. Ever since I was little and would fly to see my dad, I would pack a carry-on with books, games, walkman/ipod, etc. I guess the fear of being bored outweighed any overpacking concerns. Even today, just going for ten days to Wales, I took five books. I know, issues.

So I was finally able to board the plane, get my seat, stow my gear and settle in. I slept a bit, watched the latest “Indiana Jones” film, and chatted with the nice couple from New Zealand who were meeting their daughter in Cairo for a vacation. They had a bunch of typical questions, “Can I drink the water? Is there crime? How do you deal with the heat?” etc. I answered everything and then found myself offering up all types of info on life in Cairo. I felt very excited about the adventure that was ahead of them.

Have to admit that the excitement didn’t last long for me. I thought I’d return to Cairo with a new sense of patience and calm, but in all honesty, being away from Cairo merely heightened my annoyance sensitivities and my type-A tendencies were raw and surface-level. I think it’s being in a country (city, village, basic hovel) where things run smoothly, trash is picked up and discarded, customer service is friendly and capable, promises are made and kept, appointments are held, etc. So returning to inshallah-land, will take some getting used to – again. But I did it once, so I can do it again. If nothing else, Cairo quashes the type-A with amazing efficiency.

Country Drives, Cows, and Elizabeth I

One day, before we headed to the hospital to see Uncle Harold, Mom and I decided to take a country drive. Initially we were going to head to Christ’s Church, which is at the top of a hill overlooking Caerleon and offers a wonderful view. But on the way there we saw a smaller side road and following Mr. Frost’s advice, took it.

It was a classic English road, about 1½ lanes wide, with hedges or mini-hills banking each side. After the first scare with an overly abundant shrub, I opted to keep my elbow inside the vehicle and spare myself any more vacation-related injuries.

Despite its miniature stature, the road was lovely. Gorgeous trees towered overhead, a breeze blew us along, not a hint of rain anywhere, just blue skies and white fluffy clouds. And we spotted four squirrels and one bunny. I know, who cares about squirrels, right? Well, I do. And I miss seeing wildlife of any kind in Cairo – the dusty ancient men perched on plastic chairs on the street corner just don’t do it for me!

We drove through a few small villages and at one point we came upon an old church. Thinking it’s a good time for a leg-stretch, we parked alongside the graveyard (all English churches are surrounded by graves). I grabbed my camera and we started ambling through. Our presence was obviously noted, as suddenly we were hailed by a tall man walking towards us. He was the church warden and was kind enough to find a brochure on the church for us, as well as unlock it and let us in and give us a little history of the place.

We were standing in the Church of Saints Peter, Paul and John in Llantrisant, Wales. The oldest part of the church is a small narrow window, which is believed to be from the 13th century. The main section was built in the 16th century, and the tower and porch are from the Tudor period and have “1593 ER XXXV” written high on the wall, indicating it was erected during Elizabeth I’s time. The exterior is stone, and the interior is very simple whitewashed walls, stark wooden pews, and one stained glass window that was dedicated in 1981. They’re in need of a new roof, and I could see determined (possibly devout?) vines were actually creeping through the walls. There were heaters all along the floors in front of each pew and the warden told us that since there was no heating in the church, and the congregation was getting older, they had recently opted for the electric heaters. It was all really quite charming.

We left Llantrisant and continued on, after the warden assured us we would see signs for Usk (which we knew how to get home from). Along the way, we stopped in front of a stretch of deep green fields with happily grazing cows and sheep. We ate our vegan sausage rolls and watched the cows. Afterwards we took a little walk and tried to get closer to the cows, who managed to maintain the distance regardless of where we stood (stupid cows). So we then turned our attention to the sheep, but realized that the ‘edges were a tad too tall to see over (about 10’ tall) and too dense to see through, so we gave up and merely watched from a side-angle.

A little farther on we finally saw signs for Usk. So we drove through the town (which is much like Caerleon, I think), back to Caerleon and then on to the hospital for visiting hours with traveling tales and vegan sausage rolls to share.

Driving Flip-Side, Still Better than Cairo

So, my mom was doing all the driving about town in Uncle Harold’s relatively new car (I think there were less than 300 miles on it). She was doing a good job, what with the whole opposite-side-of-the-road thing. There were a few close calls, grazes, even curb bumps on the left side during turns, as we’re just not used to gauging that side. And with the roads also being so narrow, as a passenger I soon felt most comfortable with my arms fully inside the car. I’d already learned the hazards of dangerous car parts such as like side-mirrors in Cairo. But I will say, on the occasions where Mom was hesitant to squeeze between cars or buildings, based on my personal observances of physics-bending in Cairo, I would urge her on pointing out that she had gobs of room in the two inches separating us from the wall.

After a few pointed questions as to whether I was going to attempt driving, I finally relented and agreed to drive home from the hospital one evening. By now I knew the route so I could put most of my concentration into the actual mechanics of driving a car on the opposite side of the road. Luckily Uncle Harold’s car is an automatic. I wouldn’t want to add the layer of figuring out how to shift with my left hand to the mix. There were a few quick-breath intakes from the passenger seat as Mom apparently felt I was too close to something on the left, but I figured there were no sparks nor scraping sounds, so under my guidelines we were far within “Cairo limits.”

I did have a bit of an issue, as did Mom, with the turn-signal and wipers, as they are on opposite sides of the steering wheel to what we’re used to. So when we’d come to a corner, our car would suddenly appear to have a spastic fit, with wipers going, blinkers indicating right then left then right again, and finally with some arm flailing and a few “Blaenavons” under our breath, we managed to stop the wipers, and indicate the correct direction we were intending to turn.

So I managed to get away with only driving the one time. But you know, being a passenger is not merely a spectator sport – it requires quick thinking, lightening reactions and the ability to not scream out loud and frighten the driver. All things I learned in Cairo.

Husband Antics

I’m not sure about the adage, “When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” but I can say, “When the wife’s away, the husband will eat strange concoctions.” Ron admitted one night that after boiling pasta he got lazy (because boiling pasta is so taxing) and merely poured sauce directly from the fridge over the pasta on his plate, creating a rather unappetizing luke-warm globby mass. Then another night, he managed to cook dinner well enough (good old frozen pizza), but when having a newly purchased frozen fruit bar, he managed to reenact the scene from “A Christmas Story” and got it stuck to his tongue and cheek. He said the extraction was rather painful and I would think most likely removed a hefty dose of epithelial cells from his mouth. Those things should have a warning label (like, “Only consume in the presence of a fully-conscious adult.”)! He did pay the housekeeper, do some grocery shopping (in addition to the frozen fruit torture bars), and fed and entertained the cats as needed, so all in all he did fine. But it’s always nice to hear that I was missed, even if it’s primarily for my dinners and ability to dial the phone when he’s saying, “Helb, the o‘sicle i uck oo eye fae.”

As a side note: I did come home to find that this brilliant man I married managed to, with quite a bit of struggle I would imagine, put new sheets on the bed – sideways – fitted and all. I continue to be bewildered in my married life by the fact that fitted sheets and cutlery drawers with four sections (knives, forks, large spoons, small spoons), completely befuddle my dear betrothed. He can build a computer with a bit of twine and an old button, and can recite Plato's breakfasts preferences, but under his control cutlery drawers become a jumble of steel and have him make the bed and it turns out looking like a one-armed blind man had to do it in under 30 seconds. The mysteries of marriage continue to unfold.