Taxi Politics

First published on March 18, 2009

On Monday and Wednesday mornings, we send the girls to the subway station with our regular, reliable taxi driver, Tarek. He knows the way and presents no stress for them. John and I will then secure a passing taxi and this always proves interesting.

Some days we get in, the driver gets an Arabic greeting from us and he just drives. Other times, he'll engage us (John) in conversation and ask polite questions, "Why are we here?" "What is your name?" "Where are you from?"

The last question is always iffy. When we say we're from America, we get the following responses:

1. Nothing

2. Oh, America good. Good.

3. Obama! Very, very nice. Bush? No good, but Obama? Very, very good.

We always take the apolitical stance in the car because you never know which way a conversation will really end up and we just want to get where we're going.

Most of the time, the driver will make his comments and then change subjects. Other times, he might begin to wait for us to add to the conversation. This is when we have to remember that we do not speak fluent Arabic and to even try to get into anything deeper than "I live at..." and "I like to eat..." is beyond us and dangerous.

So John smiles and just looks out the window until the driver gives up or moves on to other things.

Once the discussion of politics has opened up (one-sided), sometimes the driver will start talking about his own government. He'll mention the former president and the present president and ramble on in his native tongue while we check out the skyline.

So far, it's never been a problem. We've managed to tread these waters and not cause any international incidents. The girls even had an encounter like this except at our local banana stand... They were making a purchase and when the vendor found out they were from America he said, "Obama?! YOU get a discount!"

Yes, the dynamics of learning a culture are invariably throwing us curves, but each day I ask the Lord to "put His arm around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth until just the right time."

So Much CARE!

First published March 17, 2009

Many a kind friend and family member have offered to send us CARE packages. I am NOT one to turn down potential gifts, but we have to exercise caution because of the postal system here. One "Cairo Guide" said that you can easily receive packages directly at your door so we told those interested "Send them on!"

Then we read another Cairo book and it said, "Don't waste your time. They tear it open and you'll never get it." So we told everyone, "Wait until the test package arrives and then we'll let you know." 

Yesterday, we were walking back into our building when our security guard motioned us over to his window. He handed us a padded envelope addressed to Aria. We knew she'd be thrilled. The end was taped but it had Arabic letters all over it so I assumed it had been opened and then taped shut.

We presented the package to Aria which you see in this included picture. It was from one of her friends at her local school in Springfield. He had sent her a letter, gummy worms (her favorite) and a geometry assignment that she is to complete and return. Yes, it looked like everything made it. Unbelievably the date on the package indicated that it was sent from Missouri on March 8th! We received it on March 15!

As for our test package from my sister? We still haven't gotten it. I'm hoping that the workers at the post office didn't need all the craft supplies that she was sending unless they promise to use them and make something spectacular.

I told Aria that I think God sent her a love note that day. You see, out of all of us she LOVES to receive mail the most--not just packages, but any bit of handwritten letters. She has always been like this. Every day in Springfield she'd run out to the mailbox to see if she had any mail. So for her to receive her favorite candy and a handwritten letter on a day that she needed it...well, it couldn't make me happier.

She has graciously shared the gummy worms with her sister and she's completed her geometry assignment. John told her that she could scan the homework and email it to her friend. She told him, "That takes all the fun out of it!" So we'll go to the post office tomorrow and drop the letter in.

This isn't a note to solicit packages for us, but rather a sincere thank you to Jesus for caring for us at our own point of need and for a wide circle of incredible people who encourage us with their love and friendship.

NOTE: As I began to edit this note to post, we received 2 more envelopes from our friend, Peggy, in Arkansas. It's like Christmas! We all whoop and holler (My side of the extended family is from Arkansas) and dance about as Emileigh and Aria rip open the envelopes. (Sort of like the Oscars...) Anyway, every bit of thought and care that goes into these gifts and every handwritten word sent in a letter is appreciated beyond words. Okay. I'll try...

Thank you so much. It means more than we can say. Your thoughtfulness is appreciate. You are so incredibly kind. What an encouragement you are you us. This provides a complete morale boost. May you kindness be returned to you many times over. Thank you so much. It means more than we can say. Your thoughtfulness is appreciate. You are so incredibly kind. What an encouragement you are you us. This provides a complete morale boost. May you kindness be returned to you many times over. Thank you so much. It means more than we can say. Your thoughtfulness is appreciate. You are so incredibly kind. What an encouragement you are you us. This provides a complete morale boost. May you kindness be returned to you many times over. Thank you so much. It means more than we can say. Your thoughtfulness is appreciate. You are so incredibly kind. What an encouragement you are you us. This provides a complete morale boost. May you kindness be returned to you many times over. Thank you so much. It means more than we can say. Your thoughtfulness is appreciate. You are so incredibly kind. What an encouragement you are you us. This provides a complete morale boost. May you kindness be returned to you many times over. 

LOVE! Pam

One Step at a Time

The girls and I took the plunge and joined the local fitness center. They did it out of excitement. I did it more as an option to practice my Arabic and perhaps a slim chance of well..slimming. 

A young woman wearing a tarha (headscarf) greeted me at the front desk with a smile and handshake. She escorted me to a cafe area and gestured for me to sit. She pulled out a thick book and began to write. Then she handed me the pen and told me to write my name, address and sign at the bottom. I looked at the contract and noticed that the front was in English but the rest was in Arabic. I paused for a moment thinking about what could be in the contract and wondered if I should sign.

She looked at me wondering why I was waiting. I looked back and then looked down at the contract. I shrugged and signed. If getting ripped off by a fitness center is the worst thing that happens to me in the travel extravaganza then I'll count myself extremely blessed.

She took the document, added some more writing of her own and tore off copies for me. She ran our credit card and handed the receipt to me to sign. Well, it's a done deal. I've now signed up for 10 months of exercise bliss. Come on endorphins.

I put the paperwork in my jacket pocket and made my way to the aerobics room. My friend from ILI was already setting up getting ready for Josipa's (yo-SEE-puh) Cardio Class of Death. I greeted her and pulled out some mats and steps. Emileigh came in after running on the treadmill to "warm up." Either I run on the treadmill or I do aerobics. There's no such thing as both--yet (or maybe ever).

A few others arrived. One guy came in wearing all muscles, no neck and barely fit through the doorway. A little round guy grabbed a step and added 4 additional snap-ons for his. It was now 2 feet tall. I looked at Josipa and she said, "I tried to tell him that's too tall, but he's crazy." 

I secured a very low-to-the-ground one, prepared my space and looked around the room. I saw two women on the side so I marched right up to them and in my best Arabic said, "Hi, my name is Pam. How are you? What is your name? Nice to meet you. I am studying Arabic here in Cairo. My Arabic is (insert a gesture of a hand sticking straight out with the thumb and pinky alternating up and down)." 

They responded with names that I can't reproduce. I smiled and hoped the conversation would continue, but it didn't. I guess I should be glad because the other Arabic vocabulary that I remembered had nothing to do with exercise or new friends or anything.

We all took our places and got ready for the class to begin. "Guy With Tall Step" was in the back. I had to keep my eye line clear because I couldn't wait to see how he was going to manage that step with this teacher. Bwa ha ha ha. (Sorry. That's a bit cruel, but when you're out of shape you'll do anything to distract yourself from your own pitifulness.)

The music was cranked and we were off and running...literally. We leaped and stepped and did a Broadway move over to the other side. I actually have decent rhythm. I can do all the moves and keep up. That is until my heart and lungs find out and begin to rebel. The class is a reserved group with none of the characteristic "whoops" and "You can do it!s" in the air. Josipa continued in her happy, positive, non-gasping direction and encouraged us to a new fitness level.

10 minutes into the class I looked over at "Guy With Tall Step." He was making one step for every 5 the rest of the class was making. Finally he looked around and disappeared out the door. A couple other guys were doing their best to keep up with the aerobics moves, but frankly they were highly uncoordinated. I'm not saying it's a girl's thing, but maybe...

She announced that our warm up was over and now the real cardio work would kick in. I stepped up, down, side to side and was singing along with the "Numa Numa" song. Another guy walked in and took his place in the class. He had more coordination than his counterparts so I was beginning to think there was hope for the male aerobic species.

35 minutes into the class and I was now officially done. No, Josipa hadn't dismissed us, but my flaming red face and burning lungs gave me my cue to exit gracefully before a stretcher was necessary. I waved at my very fit daughters and told them I'd be out in the hallway cooling down.

I thought at that moment that I should review my contract. I should have had it written in that although the fitness center does have air conditioning that it should be required to actually turn it on regardless of the weather outside when 40-something American women walk through the door. Of course, the lady who helped me with the contract had on a turtleneck and sweater during this blustery, chilly day of 80 degrees. I was doomed.

I peered into the class and just observed while my heart rate slowed to an actual beat instead of a timpani player on Red Bull. They were now sideways on the floor with one arm extended pushing the body up. The other arm reaching up toward the ceiling. I think I saw this move once in one of the "Rocky" movies. I had never attempted it myself and now I had missed my chance, but I wasn't too sad about it.

They finished with a wildly, painful version of a doubletime Charleston. The only sounds I heard from the class was one man who groaned, "No way!" when she announced 5 more of whatever new contortion movement she was instructing them to do.

She dismissed the class with a word of encouragement and a round of applause. I clapped, too. While I've never been thrilled with exercise, I was happy that doors are opening up. It seems that once our friend leaves at the end of the month, they won't have anyone to take her place as an aerobics instructor. There is a possibility that... (Okay...pause...did you think for a second that I was going to be the replacement?!) Emileigh and Aria might lead the class.

Who could imagine that at such an age they'd be given such a wonderful opportunity? I suppose that also means that I'll have to go for moral support. I should go regardless. I wonder if they need someone to direct the Sauna Station?

Cookie Counseling

First published March 15, 2009

I poured the last few drops of vanilla extract into the measuring spoon and carefully dribbled it into a bowl of ingredients. I paused for a moment and looked at the brown liquid saturate the little mound of flour. All gone. No more extract. It wasn't even name brand. It was the Wal-Mart brand. Still I found myself overly sad. It's gone. All gone.

I started to take inventory of my other pantry items that I brought with me from the US. Baking soda, baking powder, Hershey's cocoa, ground cinnamon. Each were about at the halfway mark. I hadn't really considered how much I'd want or need prior to our departure. Vanilla extract could potentially last me months so I didn't expect to run out so soon.

Then I understood. I cook a LOT more here than I ever did in Missouri. In fact, I make many things from scratch. I'm quite the little Laura Ingalls with the exception that Laura would have known to pack the Conestoga wagon better than I packed my Samsonite. Now I'm running low on all of the beautiful ingredients that I didn't know I should be cherishing and it made me blue.

It's not that I can't replace these items. I'm sure that somewhere in this city there's a store that sells vanilla extract. It just won't be MY vanilla extract from MY Missouri in MY Springfield from MY Wal-Mart. I'll find it in a random location that I have no history with and it may or may not taste like I expect.

With each following dish, I mourn a little more the disappearance of the pieces of home. Yes, I could find other ingredients, but that means that I take something that's familiar to me and replace it with something new. I don't know what the packaging should look like, I don't know the price and I don't know if it will taste or work the same way.

The vanilla is just a symbol for all that has been happening around me. I've been saying goodbye to pieces of my life bit by bit and each time it brings a bit of sadness. Friendships that were rich in years are now maintained long-distance. New friendships come in different packaging with a cost I'm not sure I'm able to pay. I'm not even sure how they'll work out. 

Even the ability to purchase the vanilla is now an unsure task. Where do I look? How will I find it? Will I recognize it? My abilities in general are also in question here. What does my role look like here? How will I find my place? Will I know it when I see it?

I never knew making cookies could bring on such a sense of introspection. But as I bite into this delicious little reminder of home, I'm also looking ahead to new ingredients, recipes and flavors in this area. As I step out to each new day, I anticipate new relationships, opportunities and experiences. 

All that from a little cookie. Good thing I wasn't making Thanksgiving turkey.

Pinball Pam

Cairo offers a variety of transportation modes within the city. Taxis, buses, "flying coffins," an occasional donkey cart and the Metro, a type of subway system. The traffic becomes more and more congested as the day progresses so most Cairenes choose the reliability of the subway. 

We've ridden many times now since arriving and have the stops, correct trains and directions figured out. We have also discovered the times of day that are most crowded. The trouble is that we can't do anything about that. We, along with everyone else, need to be at certain places at certain times just as they do. So we join the masses and catapult ourselves on and off at the right stops.

The problem I have is the starting and stopping procedure once I'm on the train. Usually we will bustle shoulder to shoulder with the other people and ride on the coed train. You have to be quick or the doors will shut and you'll be waiting for the next one. So we try to nicely but hockey playeresque get on the train and look for a railing or loop to hold onto.

Sometimes this is a problem because the overhead loops are all taken and the side rails are covered in men. This means that the fam has to form somewhat of a "human chain." John finds a loop. I grab his other arm. Emileigh takes hold of mine and Aria attaches to Emileigh. 

One day on the train it was especially crowded. Sardines could say that they had spacious accommodations compared to our situation. We looked around for something to hold onto, but couldn't because there were so many people. I looked around and noticed that there were only men around that day which makes it extra tricky.

The key is not to bump or touch anyone especially if your a female. So I was acutely aware of my need to be proper. I took a stance like that of a surfer and waited for the lurch of the train. The other 3 family members apparently have incredible inner ear health because they had no problems. I, on the other hand, fell onto John and Emileigh. They kept their balance and pushed me back into place.

The train finally caught it's rhythm and I was doing well. The problem came at the next stop. The doors opened and more men piled on. We only thought it was crowded before. Now there's exactly 5 mm of personal space left.

The doors closed and pulled out of the station. For a split second, I forgot my surfer-like stance and fell forward. This time John and Emileigh were not there. I bounced into one man and tried to correct myself. The train turned and made me veer left which caused me to ricocheted off two more men. My apologies couldn't be made because I overcompensated and fell back into two more unsuspecting victims.

Finally, I was able to right myself and look into the face of my family. They all had their jaws dropped and each grabbed ahold of me. I couldn't even look up. I was mortified. I was a human pinball machine.

The train finally stopped and we needed to disembark. I quickly, without making eye contact, stepped off the train. The other three looked at each other and began to laugh and laugh and laugh.

I laughed, too. It was pretty funny when you thought about it. Now when we get on the train, I don't even have to ask. Each family member grabs my arm and maintains contact the entire ride. They don't want to risk me making "extra points" and earning a "bonus game." I think all the other passengers would agree.

Rip PamWinkle

First published March 13, 2009

A few years ago I discovered a pattern of behavior albeit an embarrassing one. I was in the school parking lot waiting for my daughter's classes to dismiss for the day. I turned off the engine, rolled the window down and listened to music. I had 15 minutes just to savor the moment.

Suddenly my eyes flew open and I jumped at the loud noise. I looked around and saw my daughter getting into the car. "Did you get out early?" I asked.

She looked at me quizzically and said, "No. Just the normal time."

That can't be right. I just got here. I looked at the car clock and sure enough it was time for school to let out. I had fallen sound asleep for 15 minutes. 

Most wouldn't be alarmed by this. I mean everyone has moments where they doze off at odd times of the day. I didn't think much about this until I was sitting on the couch later that same day and fell asleep again.

For the next several days I could barely drag myself anywhere. Before any of you get any ideas, there weren't and won't be any more future Morton blessings so that wasn't the problem. 

I began to think about all the things I had to do in my day to day routine. Some were major projects demanding a lot of time and attention. I had a few business decisions to make. I was worried about a family member. Yes, it was all adding up to a very simple word "stress."

Stress was weighing on me in ways I didn't even realize consciously. However, my physical body knew it and was taking action. I think the conversation went something like this:

"Earth to Pam. Earth to Pam. We've got a problem here. You're making your stomach lining look like swiss cheese."

"Uh...Pam. I know you may not feel it, but some of your internal organs are beginning to riot."

"McFly? Your heart is taking a bit of a workout. Do you mind toning down the adrenaline-pumping activity schedule?"

Receiving no response from the Conscious Pam, a mutiny ensued. If I can't manage the stress consciously, they will do it for me. Thus, I self-diagnosed myself with the condition known as "Stress Narcolepsy."

It's true. Whenever I am feeling overwhelmed or stressed, an unbelievable sense of tiredness overtakes me. I'm not a tightly-wound person. On the contrary, I'm pretty laid back and take much in stride. Yet when my brain has decided I've had enough to cope with, it sends the trigger for me to go into a deep sleep.

At first I was distressed by this. Now I realize it's a total gift from God. I don't stay up late worrying about things. I don't fret. I don't even get ulcers. I just close my eyes and sleep and sleep and sleep.

I understand that I can't live my life like this all the time. I could never get anything done, but on days that I think it's necessary I will simply take my body's advice and lie down.

Since coming to Cairo, I've been in a fairly good state of mind. This was a major move, a job change, new relationships, new culture, new language... I have had good support from Jesus, my family and friends.

Then one day John announced that he and the girls were going to check out a new open air market. He told me that I should stay home and enjoy the quiet, read a book or do something creative. I was thrilled with the possibilities of 4 glorious hours alone (no offense family).

They waved their goodbyes and I began to plot. I poured a Diet Coke, pulled out an episode of "Frasier," got a blanket and took a deep breath. Yessiree, I'll watch this, then I'll read a mystery, make a card and....

That's right. I fell asleep. Next thing I know I hear the doorbell. Half-awake, half-comatose I staggered to the front door. John and the girls had returned. I thought they had forgotten something. It was not to be. They had been gone over four hours and I had slept through it all.

Goodbye new mystery novel. Goodbye creativity. Goodbye no-guilt afternoon. I was so mad at myself. John smiled and said, "Stress narcolepsy?" I nodded my head and tried to regain full consciousness.

I guess I had reached my limits. Finding all the places and items we needed to live, starting the study of a difficult language, building new relationships took its toll. I'm even sleepy now just thinking about it. I know that I'll even out here soon enough and I'll be able to be fully function again.

Until then, John is on alert to keep me propped up, nudge me when necessary and prevent me from drooling. He's simply thrilled. Good man that John Henry. Good man.

Bananas Over Our Girls

First published March 12, 2009

Pam needs to get milk, bananas and yogurt.

Pam walks with Aria to neighborhood store #1. No items in stock, but buys bread to keep the relationship good and to practice Arabic. Aria directs me to the next store.

We continue down the street to store #2. No items in stock. Didn't buy anything because the teen was on the phone and didn't care that we were there. Aria said she and Emileigh have a goal to make that boy greet them one time before we leave Cairo.

She turns right and walks a little ways down the street. Store #3 has all three items, but Aria informs me that we don't buy bananas from this one.

We make our purchases and begin the walk back. We cross the street to Store #4. This one has fresh bananas hanging off the stalk at the entrance. The man smiles broadly and greets Aria. Apparently she's been here before. She expertly tells him in Arabic that we need a kilo of bananas. He pulls out a machete and hacks off just the right amount. She pays him and waves goodbye.

As we complete our walk back to the flat, I tell Aria how proud I am of her for being able to navigate all those stores to find what we need. She says, "Hey, when you go on as many errands as we have, you learn some stuff."

Not exactly the answer I was expecting, but I had to chuckle. With every adjustment I've had to make in learning to live in Cairo, our two girls have had to do the same. They've been amazing in their attitudes and eagerness to experience the people and culture.

So I went for a few groceries and came back with a new depth of appreciation for our daughters who are willing to follow hard after Jesus rather than tag along on their parents' faith.

It's true. I'm bananas over these girls. 

Simpli Fi

The decision to purchase a vacuum cleaner while in Cairo came down to this— Would it fit in a container when we leave in 10 months? Before this only three months before, I asked the very same question for every item in my Springfield, Missouri house.

If it doesn't fit in a tote, it doesn't go. Simple fact. With parameters that restricting, I find that it does help simplify my life. When we arrived in our new home, it took me exactly 4 hours to set up an entire household. I just didn't have that much stuff to unpack. I'd like to keep it that way which means I have to think through every single purchase I make between now and moving day.

The never-ending dust overruled the vacuum's cumbersome size so we bought it. Now I have to decide what will stay behind to make room for it. Having so few possessions is a freeing experience.

We don't have many clothes so laundry can't pile up. There are enough dishes for two meals so the kitchen can't remain dirty. The flat is about 1/3 the size of our former house. That's 2/3 less cleaning, dusting, maintenance and straightening. Now I can do "spring cleaning" every week and still have most of the day left. 

All this new found time isn't used to sit on the couch and eat bonbons. On the contrary, all my time is devoted to language studies and cooking EVERYTHING from scratch. Yes, the simple life also includes fresh fruits, just-harvested vegetables and not one single boxed meal with glorious preservatives in sight.

No "One Skillet Meals," no frozen lasagnas, no rotisserie chicken at the front of the department store...It's like a "Survivor" episode for busy moms. So each day I look in my refrigerator and wonder what delectable meal I can create in 3 hours or less. Did I mention we don't have a microwave either? Even thawing is traumatic and time-consuming.

Thank goodness we have resources with great recipes. I use my computer to discover new options. First, I go to Google and then in the search bar I type in all the ingredients that I have available to make a meal (chicken, parsley, peanut butter and garlic salt). Then it will display pages of recipes using those items. I didn't say they all taste good, but at least I can give the concoction a name.

Another resource is this great cookbook that was gifted to me prior to our departure. It's written especially for cooking overseas. It has fab recipes and many helpful entries. Some of my favorites are:

"One ostrich egg will serve 20-24 people for brunch or breakfast."*
"...adding a bay leaf to my flour and sugar tins makes those little pests flee for their lives."
and my personal favorite: "Gelatin: 1 ox foot, 4 egg whites, sugar, 1 lemon"

Okay. So maybe if I were to be honest (and I am) I'd admit that I haven't made an ostrich egg frittata or even treated my family to one helping of ox foot jell-o. I'm not that granola. Still the minutes in my day have taken on a totally different look from those in my "former" life.

As I become more familiar with the local dishes, I'm shortening my prep time for meals. Since I have mastered three dishes so far, I'm practically a short-order cook (give or take 2 hours).

I'm appreciating this segment of my life because so many other areas consume my thoughts and energies. I couldn't spend the hours needed to learn the language and develop friendships if I had so many other "domestic" duties taunting me.

And to those of you out there joining me in this newfound "less is more" lifestyle, I raise my right arm, make a fist and say, "Simpli Fi."

*"Cooking from Scratch Overseas" by Neva M. Pugh & Jan Cunningham

Grapevine Like an Egyptian

First published March 10, 2009

Sitting in a crouched position with one leg extended, I teetered on the other bent leg while inhaling deeply. "How did I get myself into this?" I thought. The question had two answers. One—very painfully and two—I'm attempting to build a bridge to a new friendship.

A friend from the language school told me about a fitness center that's on the same street where we live. She enthusiastically told me all about the equipment and the classes available. I responded with excitement and celebrated the fact that she could still train during her time here in Cairo. I breathed a sigh of relief, too. "Whew! Now I can train. I was so worried about keeping up with my triathalon preparation. What a relief!" Uh, no.

I know. I know. Exercise is good. Keeps depression at bay. Makes one's heart strong. Let's a girl choose voluntarily whether she wants to wear a flowly Muslim outfit or whether she has to... With that in mind, I actually toyed with the idea of checking out a possible membership. I could just skip this step, hold a wad of money in my hand and throw it off our balcony, but I like to go through the motions.

A week passed and my friend announced that she was now teaching an aerobics class at the gym AND she had arranged free guest passes for the girls and me. I knew I was at a crossroad. I could smile and wish her well or I could go to the class and support my new friend's efforts. I asked her when the class started. She said 9 pm. I asked her, "9 what?" She confirmed that she said 9 PM.

Apparently all the classes begin this late because Egyptians don't really get their evening started until then. I moaned inwardly and thought, "Oh, great. Exercise AND staying up late. If you added a bikini contest I would be over the moon."

All day I looked at the clock and counted down. 7 hours to exercise. 6 hours to exercise. 5 hours to...wait...maybe I'm getting a headache...nope. 4 hours to...wait...I don't think I brought any jogging...oh, here they are. 3 hours to exercise. 2 hours and I'm sinking on the couch after a very full day. 1 hour to exercise. The time has come. As Mr. Nike would say, "Just do it."

The girls were thrilled for this opportunity. They were dressed and ready to head out the door early. The three of us bopped up the street and made our way to the Platinum Mall. We walked in and looked for a sign to tell us which floor the fitness center was on. I didn't see one.

We asked a cleaning guy and he answered. Unfortunately, I didn't understand a word he said. He pointed up and since we were on ground floor took him at his word and headed up the stairs. Second floor? Nope. Third floor? Nope. On up until we reached the fifth floor. I was ready to call it good since I was already sweating when a woman in a hijab (headscarf) greeted me and asked if I was here to see my friend. I nodded. She said she would take me on a tour first and then on to the class.

We rounded the corner to the main fitness area where it is supposed to be co-ed. However, only men were present. You could have heard a pin drop when the three of us walked down the middle aisle. They all stopped what they were doing and looked at us. We did our best to keep the tour moving. Several pieces of modern equipment adorned the polished wood floors.

Through a door and down a hallway she showed us the women's only room. This small room had only four pieces of equipment and a TV, but provided a space for Muslim women who do not interact with non-familial men or women like me who'd like to avoid the stares that we had just received.

We looked at the women's locker room complete with jacuzzi, steamroom and sauna. With the tour now complete, I could prepare myself for the aerobics class. I found my friend and she had on her cute little exercise outfit. She was glad to see us and I was glad that we had come--at least I thought I was.

We proceeded to the aerobic room where we each grabbed a mat and a step in preparation for the class. One man and a scarved woman walked in. We began the class with basic step moves to the rhythm of Rascal Flatt's "Life Is a Highway" blaring. "So far, so good," I thought, "I can do this."

Two more men came and attempted to join in. They may be able to benchpress a lot of weight, but they couldn't step up and down to save their lives. Three women came in to complete the class. Now we are all stepping and leaping and jogging in place.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until my friend announced, "Okay. Now we're warmed up. Let's crank it up!" My face had gone from pink, to red, to deep purple. By all rights, I should be preparing myself for a yoga-like cool down by now. It was not to be. She leaped from side to side over the step, then front to back, then doubletime. Emileigh and Aria were keeping up like the background girls in a Billy Blanks DVD. I, on the other hand, had to admit that I may not be at their current fitness level and may need to get a drink of water, cool down a bit, check to see if they had defib paddles.

I walked out in the hallway hoping to catch a breath of air and decided that I would go talk terms with the lady who had given me the tour. I wondered what she would pay ME to return. We discussed options for a while and I thanked her. I returned to the class just in time for the cool down. Ah, yes. I can do this. 

I spoke too soon. She began to do Spiderman moves swaying back and forth. That's when I began to ask myself what brought me to this point. I finished the class (just barely). Afterward, I introduced myself to two of the women and waited while my friend deflected a male pursuer.

I congratulated my friend on a good class and she returned kudos to me for still breathing. Wait, that was what I said to myself. She was glad that we came to provide moral support. She also invited us back on Monday for another round.

The girls and I nodded in agreement. We reviewed our evening as we walked back to the flat. This could be a good thing. Exercise, new friendships and a chance to practice our Arabic. Now if I can only manage to get these newly discovered sore muscles off the couch, I'll be headed out to class again...Doubletime, Pam!

Flying Coffins

First published March 8, 2009

In a city of 24 million, a citizen may locate a wide variety of transportation. Down our street on any given day I will see small cars, big trucks, bicycles, wagons with donkeys, taxis and a minivan that acts as a type of public transportation.

Whenever we've seen these minivans we've found that they are jampacked with passengers so much so that the exit door isn't closed so that two or three more riders can find a handhold.

I've been curious about the way these "bus lines" actually operate. It seems that the minivan will pull up to a corner and slow down. It won't actually stop mind you, but it will put on the brakes a little bit. Then a guy hanging out the door will yell where the bus is going. If you hear what he says and need to go there then you run toward the van and try to jump on before he regains full speed.

Some riders are quick, agile and do this with ease. Others have packages, children and long skirts to contend with and then it gets more tricky. The guy making the route announcements also helps give that last needed shove to get the new passenger completely on the van.

There are no schedules, no printed routes...just vans and guys with declarative voices. One unwritten understanding is that if you are the driver of one of these then you have to drive faster than the taxis. I don't know if this rivalry stems from salary differences or if it's a friendly competition. All I know is that if I'm in a taxi and a van is anywhere near us, the taxi driver will immediately give it the gas and do everything in his power to ensure that the van doesn't pass us.

The van of course isn't happy with this arrangement and will speed up as well. The problem is that the taxi driver has only one stop to make while the van has to keep his momentum and pick up and drop off passengers along the way. This is the reason that these public transports have been dubbed, "Flying Coffins." 

Most travel books advise that anyone visiting should avoid these at all costs. I'm thinking that we will abide by this advice. It's cheap transportation only if you can negotiate the run, the jump, the landing, the handhold and the final shove.

I can still barely cross the street without creating some intensely angry drivers that have been slowed down by my inept Frogger abilities. I'm thinking the Flying Coffin drivers wouldn't tolerate me for a second. I might ruin the Coffin to Taxi win-loss race ratio. I don't want to have that on my conscience.

Midnight in Cairo

First published March 6, 2009

View from our 12th floor balcony

It's midnight in our neighborhood in Cairo. 
The current sounds I hear simultaneously are:

A police siren
A chainsaw
A backfiring taxi
Firecrackers
A live drum corp
A male solo
An ambulance
A calliope
The James Bond theme played on electric piano
Whistles
A solo trumpet playing "Taps"/Spanish Mariachi medley
Taxi honks
Men singing and clapping in rhythm
Crowds cheering
A revving motorcycle
A woman screaming from her balcony, "Why don't you people go to bed for Pete's sake?!"

Oh, wait. I just thought that last one.

Loving Words

First published March 5, 2009

John and I had an evening to ourselves since the girls were meeting with their youth group from church. I was going to order pizza and watch an NBC news podcast, but he thought we should go on a date, dine out and practice more Arabic. (It sounded romantic for a split-second.)

We walked to a local cafe and were greeted by Meena. He has been our waiter on two prior occasions and a friendship is forming. He asked us why we hadn't called him to take a tour of the Coptic churches throughout Cairo. We told him that we had been working hard learning Arabic and that we would definitely take him up on his offer.

The cafe was bustling with a variety of Egyptians looking to relax after working all day. Behind us a couple sat with a laptop between them and each had a cigarette lit. The table next to us was filled with young, well-dressed men who ordered their food and then two of them got up and left.

The rest of the tables had varieties of chatting men and women with laptops, cellphones and cups of steaming coffee.

We looked through the menu and made our food choices. We were determined to order in Arabic, unfortunately (or fortunately) I wanted Italian which means there is no difference when I say it. The ordering process went on in Arabic as much as possible with the exception of verbs, definite articles and most modifiers.

Halfway through our meal the two men who had disappeared returned just in time for their food to arrive. They had a bag and began to display their purchases. Each had bought a different type of cologne and they were all checking them out. They laughed and ate and ate some more.

Our meal was served and tasted delicious. John prepared his closing remarks to the waiter. He told Meena (once again in Arabic) that he loved the cafe and that the food was very good. Meena looked at him and said, "I love you. I love you, too." Then he laughed. Then I laughed. John just looked dazed.

Meena walked away shaking his head and I could not stop laughing. John was certain he was using the correct phrasing for his comment. Apparently, Meena thought differently. 

We will go back in a week or two and have a few more words under our belt. Maybe then John will be able to say exactly what's on his mind without declaring his unwavering love for service people. Until then, "I love you, too, John."

Street Vendors

Sweet Potato Guy

I was sitting in Arabic class today when a loud voice from the street below began yelling. The students looked around at each other, but still tried to maintain their concentration. The man continued his shouts until finally the teacher looked at us and said, "Don't you want to know what he's saying?"

We all laughed and said, "YES!" She smiled and told us that he was selling roasted sweet potatoes. One student from the US (not me though) said, "Well, he comes on my street at 7:30 in the morning! Who needs a potato that early?!"

We discussed for a more few minutes the different types of vendors. That made me think about the ones in our neighborhood. Each one has his own distinct method of attracting attention from those within the walls of all the high rise buildings.

The "Tea Man" pushes a wooden cart with 4 silver urns full of steaming tea. He has an assistant that takes two trash can lids and bangs them together to let people know that it's tea time. Interested customers will walk to the wagon or motion for tea to be brought to their work station. They sip their tea in glasses served on a saucer. Once they're finished they nod to the vendor and he sends his assistant to come get the empty containers. (All this before consumables were uncool.)

The "Junk Guy" is fairly high tech. He has a PA system attached to his wagon. I'm not quite sure how it's powered, but what he doesn't have in wattage he makes up for in distortion. He will speak into his handset and announce that he's coming through the neighborhood. If you happen to have old items that you wish to be rid of, he will take them. Most of the time you would just give your stuff to him, but some might hold out for a dollar or two. He has less routine hours than the "Tea Man." He seems to prefer collecting stuff just as I close my eyes or right before I'm ready to open them.

The "Egg Sandwich Guy" and "Basket Man" are our fairly quiet sellers on the street. They pretty much know that people will come to them. I have no beef with these guys. 

Finally, "Propane Pal" is a fast-moving vendor who rides a bicycle. Attached to the bike is a holder that will keep four propane tanks secure as he whizzes through traffic. In order to let people know he's coming through the neighborhood he will take a long metal spoon and beat one of the tanks, "Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!" I wouldn't mind this so much if he and "Junk Guy" would coordinate their schedules, but sadly they do not. So the "Junk Guy" roams early and late while "Propane Pal" will come mid-day, holidays and middle-of-the-night emergencies.

As a business person, I admire their assertiveness and consistency in promoting their wares. As a neighbor trying to get some sleep...well, there just might be a wire cut and spoon missing when they least expect it.

Table for Four?

First published March 3, 2009

A delicious dish...can't remember the name

Once again, Tarek gave another recommendation. He drove by slowly and nodded toward a little restaurant with white trim and many Egyptians clamoring to get in. 

"Mahtom kwyees," he says. (This restaurant is good.)

On the days that the girls do not have Arabic studies we try to do something outside the flat to reinforce all that we're learning during language classes. This includes dining. We thought that we should follow up on Tarek's advice and try the local eatery. We walked into the first door and looked at the wall full of food pictures. I recognized a can of Pepsi, French fries and a pineapple. The rest of the colorful items looked delicious, but nothing that I could put a name to...

A man was sitting near the door with a small register. We think he takes your order and your money in exchange for a white ticket.

Behind him we saw a counter surrounded by men waving white tickets in their hands. The white tickets were being passed to two men behind the counter who were working as fast as they could to fill the orders. No numbering system needed here. You simply push your way to the front and hope your arm is longer than your neighbor's.

I looked at John and we were debating if we were going to throw ourselves into the fray. Stepping back we reviewed our options. To our right we noticed another door to the same restaurant. This door had a few tables and not nearly the hubbub. We took Door #2. We looked at the waiter and he motioned for us to sit at any table. We did.

He smiled broadly and handed us four menus...all in Arabic. He smiled and asked, "Arabi?" We told him we knew a little bit of Arabic, but asked if he happened to have an English menu. He shook his head sadly and said, "La." (No.)

We passed the menus around and told him that these would be fine. Afterall, there were pictures available. Emileigh began immediately sounding out the words. She found the page in the menu that had all the fuul selections. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. We can read numbers, so we could tell the price of things. They seemed incredibly cheap, so we weren't sure if we were reading them right.

I pointed to a bowl of something that looked good and asked John if he would like to share it. He laughed and said, "Might as well." The girls chose their main entrees and the waiter returned with pad and pencil in hand.

We ordered our food and then asked a few questions. 

"Is that a salad?" "Do you order that separately or does it come with the meal?" "What is that yellowish looking stuff with an olive on top?" He responded graciously, but unintelligibly. He waited for us to finalize our dinner. There was a long pause because we had no idea what he had said. I looked around the restaurant again and saw something that resembled a salad bar.

I pointed to it and said, "Anna aiza ensalata." (I want salad.) Or so I thought. He nodded yes and walked away. Aria looked at me and said, "You are using some Spanish words again."

No wonder he looked at me with that glazed look.

I got up to walk toward the salad bar, but slowly because I still wasn't sure that's what it was there for. The waiter saw me and motioned for me to come to it. A young guy behind the encased salads pulled out a plate and waited for me to tell him what I wanted. I pointed to 3 items and then a fourth. I started to ask for a fifth item when I noticed that he was pulling out little triangles of pita bread and making little separators between each item. He had completed his artwork when he saw that I wanted one more thing. I think he was a little perturbed that I was asking him to ruin his masterpiece. He took the small scoop of cucumbers and plopped them on top with very little flair. 

I thought that I shouldn't push my luck any more and thanked him. I sat down at the table with my plate and saw three pairs of eyes zero in on it. I pushed the plate in the middle and let the rest of the family vultures dive in. You see, in Egypt even fast food is not fast. You will wait and wait and wait. So rather than risk the wrath of protein-deprived loved ones, it's better to share the bit of nutrition that comes early to your table.

A basket of hot pita bread arrived and we were happy campers. Emileigh and Aria's fuul orders arrived and we gave them the go-ahead to eat. We've also discovered that the people at your table do not get their food all at the same time. It might be 5 minutes in between or even 30 minutes depending on the cook. So you'd better eat while the eatin's good.

John and I did get our dish that we ordered and it was really good. John especially liked it because it had a smoky meat flavor. Since I couldn't read what we ordered, I decided that "ignorance is bliss" and I would just assume that it was nice little pieces of beef in there. I didn't really want to know if it were something else.

We finished our meal and began the game of "Can you catch the eye of the waiter to ask for your check?" I want to alert the restaurant help when we arrive and say, "We are Americans. We do not take leisurely meals. We order. We eat. We get out. We do not linger over our food. Bring me the check before I order so that I can pay as soon as I take the last bite." But I don't and we wait and wait and wait.

John's much more culturally inclined than I am in moments like these. He will actually wait until the waiter happens by. I am trying to rub two toothpicks together, use a sugar packet as kindling to start a small fire and attract some attention.

Finally, the waiter arrives, clears our table and asks if everything was good. John (Mr. Nice Guy) talks to him in Arabic and assures him that the meal was delicious and that we'll be back. I want to say, "Yes, it was great, but I'm growing old here. If we stay any longer we're going to have to order supper." But I don't. John ends his nice dialog with a request for our check and the waiter hands it to him.

The total bill 37LE. That's around $7. Not too bad for a family of four. I soften a bit and realize that I am here to learn not only the language, but the culture and the pace of life. Deep breath, Pam.

We exited the restaurant. The girls headed to the Metro station to go shopping at the big market and John and I began our walk home. We rounded the corner and spotted a Cinnabon store. John looked at me and says, "Of course." That's what 21 years of marriage will do for you. He practiced one language at lunch and seamlessly switched to the language of love effortlessly. 

Oh, the menus were in English and you had to pay before you got your cinnamon roll. Ahhhhh, sweet, rude American enterprise.

Stay Tuned

Our furnished flat includes some extra things such as artwork, dishes and a television with satellite. Af first, I thought this would be awesome. Satellite TV? We wouldn't be cut off from the world after all. I began flipping through channels and discovered that we have access to as many Arab soap operas that we could ever want.

I kept thinking that it's satellite TV. Surely there are some TV waves from America floating through the air. Sure enough, John located 6 channels that are in English. They are:

CNN International
BBC
MBC Action--Random action American "B" movies from the 1990s. 
FOX Movies--Newer American movies that fortunately have had all questionable scenes removed.
MBC 4--American shows such as "90210," "Friends," Arab dramas and Oprah (very popular here)
MBC 2--British movies, American shows like "Dukes of Hazard" and thankfully Cricket matches.

In 2 months, we've found only a few recurring TV shows that we can count on. "The Unit" (one of our personal favorites) will show every Tuesday night. The episodes are reruns from seasons past, but hey we'll take what we can get. A real surprise was the discovery that American Idol is on Thursday and Friday nights AND they are the most recent episodes. I try to avoid all internet connections until we find out about the voting each week.

The commercials are good practice for our emerging Arabic vocabulary. We can make out at least 2 or 3 words in each one so far. Some days when we are going for "full immersion learning" we will turn on the Arabic stations and just listen. Although I understand approximately three words, I think that the words might be seeping into my memory brain cells and will sometime somewhere emerge at just the right time. 

Random shows will pop up now and then. One day the show, "Let's Speak Korean!" came on. The girls thought it was hilarious and sat down to watch it. There were adult Koreans teaching "useful" phrases to a studio audience. With each phrase they would have someone act it out. The phrases for that day were:

"Kim has a very bad headache." (Kim is holding his head and showing pain on his face.)
"Kim has a hangover from drinking too much alcohol." (Kim acts like he's drinking from a bottle and then passes out.)
"Kim's friends help him to his house." (Additional audience members pick up the "drunk" Kim and carry him to the couch.)
"Kim is going to sleep now." (Kim lays his head down and closes his eyes.)

I looked at the girls and said, "Wow. That is so helpful. Next time we go to the Korean restaurant in Zemelak we'll know just what to say!" We laughed and shook our heads.

TV's not a big part of our lives so it's okay. We're thankful to have a few selections that help us feel connected with the rest of the world and of course there's always iTunes which provides podcasts of the national news. These moments help alleviate pangs of homesickness and keep us "in the loop" of life of our family and friends.

I have to close this note now. I think John just flipped past an episode of "Rockford Files." Gotta go.