Our First Egyptian Concert

First published January 23, 2009

Our friend, Hisham (I think that this is the actual spelling), was transacting some last-minute business regarding our flat when he asked if we would be interested in attending a concert that evening. John told him we would welcome such an opportunity. Hisham said that he would call later in the day and let us know when the exact start time was and give us directions.

At first I kind of groaned to myself because it requires so much fortitude just to get across town. This involved getting across town, finding a new building, sitting through a new social setting and worst of all...John did NOT ask what the dress code was...a woman's worst nightmare. I pouted for exactly 37 seconds when I shook myself and said, "Hey, this is what we're here for. We've been in town exactly a week and this guy is inviting us into his world. We shouldn't and can't pass up this opportunity." Smiling, I knew that somehow I had just made our mentors very happy.

True to his word, Hisham called and gave us the time and location for the Saiwy (Sow-ee) Center. John had him repeat several times the street names so that we could relay them to the taxi driver. They do not have short street names here. Apparently if you are going to honor someone with a street name you have to include their first, middle and last names and throw in a couple nicknames to boot. He was wrapping up the call as I was yelling in the background, "Ask him what to wear!" John put his finger in his ear so he could hear Hisham better and drown out the "noise" in the background. He hung up and began giving me details.

"Uh! Didn't you hear me?" I asked.

"No. What did you want?" he replied innocently.

"Grrrrrrr," I muttered and walked to my closet.

"Whatever you have on will be fine," he said.

He had NO idea all the things a woman has to consider when planning an outfit for an event. Adding to this situation was the fact that I was IN A NEW COUNTRY MEETING NEW PEOPLE AND HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS APPROPRIATE, but I'm sure what I have on will be fine.

We all dressed in quasi-casual clothes and jumped in a taxi leaving plenty of time for an extra stop. The concert was on the opposite side of town so we wanted to make maximum use of our cab fare and visit the bookstore at the American University at the same time.

John told our taxi driver where the bookstore was and as usual he nodded that he could get us there. (Note: They always say that they know how to get there--sometimes they actually do.) He took off in a great fervor and we were whizzing past stores, people, donkeys and cars with lightning speed. Once we reached the other side of town, he began craning his neck from side to side looking for street names. "Uh oh," I thought to myself, "here we go." Sure enough he asked a fellow taxi driver where the American University was. Several gestures were made and he went a few more blocks. He asked a man standing on the street and that got him a couple more blocks.

Finally, he stopped in front of a store and asked one more man. He waved his arms and talked for a good long while as our taxi driver nodded repeatedly. Another man joined the conversation and told our driver that there was a better way and began flailing his arms to prove his point. We watched as 3 more men came to see what all the hubbub was about and soon all 5 men were talking at once, pointing in opposite directions and thoroughly confusing the guy. He threw the car into reverse and drove down a new street when miracle of all miracles we arrived at the American University. He smiled broadly and waited for his payment. John paid him and we trotted up the steps to the American University Bookstore.

We were going to go to the door when the guard stopped us. "Store closed," he said.

"Closed?!" we all chanted in unison.

"Yes. Martin Luther King Day. Closed today. Open tomorrow. You come back," the guard told us. How ironic. Americans... at the American University... in Cairo... on Martin Luther King Day. Closed. Too funny.

We groaned and turned around hoping to catch our taxi driver. He was long gone. Now we had to find a new taxi and make it to the Saiwy Center on time. We found a driver and he (of course) told us he knew where the center was. This driver (we discovered) knew absolutely no English so I was flipping through my Arabic guide trying to have certain phrases ready on demand. It proved useless as he couldn't understand any of our pronunciations or arm-flapping. I was already coming up with a contingency plan in the back of my mind.

"There's a great Korean restaurant right around the corner. We could go there. Our trip won't be a total waste." However, John doesn't give up so easily.

He allowed the driver to wander aimlessly through the streets until we remembered that we had Hisham's cell number with us. John called Hisham and then handed the phone to our taxi driver. Hisham gave the driver directions and soon we were actually going places.

We arrived at the Saiwy Center with time to spare. Our directions said that it was located under a bridge. We should take our information more literally next time. It was actually under the bridge--attached to the bridge. We went to the window and purchased tickets to a concert featuring the music of "Basheer."

To say we stood out is the understatement of the century. Not only were we the only non-Arabs, but John and I were the only old people in sight. Emileigh and Aria were lamenting their lack of friends for this event. I was lamenting 20 too many years and my last-minute swap from jeans to dress pants. Pressing on we headed toward the door to a little, wrinkled ticket taker. He shooed us away and told us, "Sound check."

We stood near the entrance and looked around. More and more hip, young Egyptians began pouring into the wait area. Hisham told us he'd be late so we were really on our own.

Finally, the soundcheck was over and we were allowed into the concert area. The venue would probably seat 350 people. We were in Row E. People began filling in the seating. We were all alone in our row for a while until a young Egyptian man came and plopped himself right beside Emileigh. She turned her back to him and spent the remaining pre-concert time completely intrigued with every word her family had to say.

(Note: Emileigh was responding to our experience in the market. If she even made eye contact or said "hello" to any young Egyptian guy, marriage proposals and camel offers began flying so she was trying to avoid another incident.) The poor guy tried so hard to get Emileigh or Aria to look at him. Obviously, he had never run into two such determined young women. They thoroughly ignored him before, during and after the concert. Their father smiled in approval.

The concert itself was scheduled to start at 8 pm, but around 8:25 pm things began to roll. 10 musicians came on stage complete with smoke machine, laser lights and top-notch sound equipment. Basheer, the lead singer, sang his heart out (in Arabic, of course) with a background of violin, bass guitar, drums and saxophone. Also in the mix was a sitar (stubby little guitar), 3 kinds of bongos and a guitar that had 3 strings. We were tapping our feet and clapping our hands hoping and praying that no mosh pit would ensue or that I'd somehow be caught in a wave of body surfing. To our relief and I'm sure to the relief of the small-bicepted Egyptians nothing like that happened. Instead, the audience was subdued, entertained and having fun.

About halfway through, Hisham arrived and found us in the crowd. (I don't need to tell you how.) We listened and watched absorbing everything around us. A group of young men began to dance on the left side of the stage, but they weren't able to interest the rest of the crowd. We exhaled in relief and enjoyed the remainder of the concert. We thanked Hisham for the invitation and told him we'd see him later in the week.

We wrapped up the evening by eating at a nearby cafe before grabbing a taxi and making our way back. Around midnight we opened the door to our flat thoroughly exhausted and began to get ready for bed.

Each venture out requires a mental peptalk, a prayer and a new pair of "brave pants." The means of getting there drains the very life out of me. The event itself expends more energy and emotional capital than I ever dreamed. But at the end of each attempt, I'm glad we went. I'm glad we ventured out. I'm glad we made that relationship bridge just a bit stronger. And frankly, I consider it a small miracle every time we arrive anywhere from a taxi ride alive and well to continue serving--for that I am most grateful.