The "Hallmark" Store

First published February 20, 2009

Valentine's Day was the first official holiday for us to celebrate in our new location of Cairo. Normally, I look for any excuse to celebrate and create an "event." One of the first stops I used to make was in a Hallmark store. I could spend hours there looking through cards, choosing the perfect thank you notes, reviewing the newest ornaments....ahhhhhhhhhhh.....sweet bliss. However, much to my chagrin I discovered that Hallmark did not include Egypt in its collection of locations.

This almost caused a complete meltdown. In the States I am a platinum member...not to brag, just a fact. I began feeling very sorry for myself and most deprived. How could anyone do anything without at least a few resources? The lame-o cards from 1952 imported from China do NOT count.

I tucked the celebration idea away because the girls needed to go to youth group in Maadi. Maadi is a district of Cairo on the complete other side of town. Since it was a new location, John and I thought we should go with them the first time to make sure they got to where they needed to go. We took the subway and arrived early. To pass time we walked around the area. To my surprise and thrill a little store covered in red merchandise appeared before my eyes.

It was a store that sold all kinds of fun things to celebrate Valentine's Day. I looked at John and said, "THIS could be my Hallmark store." He smiled and gave me a little hug as I started perusing the aisles. Emileigh informed me that she would prefer a red and white scarf at another vendor for her gift, so I nodded and kept looking.

I found a photo frame (for John and me), a stuffed hippo (for Aria) and a bag of Dove chocolate. (I actually expected a light to shine from above and angels begin to sing when I put the Dove chocolate into my basket.) The bag was a bit worn looking, but chocolate is chocolate regardless of the exterior. (I know there's a sermon illustration in there somewhere.) I finished looking around and went to pay for my stuff. The lady told me the amount and I thought it was a couple dollars more than it should be, but maybe there's some weird tax. I still haven't figured all of it out yet and I don't have the Arabic skills to argue. She bagged the stuff and handed me the bag. I exited with my family and we made our way back to the sidewalk to head to the youth meeting.

Once we arrived home later that evening, I began to pull the items out of the bag from the "Hallmark" store. I pulled out the frame and the hippo. I looked in the bag and THERE WAS NO CHOCOLATE. I stared at the bottom of the empty plastic bag waiting for the Dove bag to appear. I looked at the frame and the hippo. I looked back in the bag. Still nothing. Are you kidding me? Before I jumped to conclusions, I looked at the bag to see if some gigantic rip had allowed the precious cargo to slip through. It remained perfectly intact.

I reviewed my actions from the store to the flat. I could only come to one conclusion: the cashier, chicky, lady had opened the plastic bag on her lap when she placed the items in it. That would give her opportunity to set the Dove chocolate aside and continue placing the other two items in the bag. She closed up the bag, handed it to me sans candy and sent me on my way. 

The more I thought about it the angrier I became. How could she do this? This wasn't for me, it was for my visiting friends. The heart-shaped Dove chocolates would be set on their pillow as a welcoming gesture...now it was all ruined--ruined because of the sneaky cashier on the other side of town who overcharged me AND kept my candy. Grrrrrrrrrr.....

Our friends arrived and I escorted them to their guest room. Their pillows were adorned with candy albeit non-heart shaped. I finally confessed to my friend that I had great intentions of surprising her with her favorite candy, but alas it was not to be. I could feel the anger rising in me again and she sympathized with my plight.

I stewed about "THE INCIDENT" off and on for 2 days. I imagined the bag of candy being put back on the shelf for the next unsuspecting customer. Then I thought that that was probably why the bag was beat up in the first place. It had probably been sold and reshelved multiple times. I was only one in a long string of chocolate-sales-reversal victims.

I knew that my anger was not only inappropriate but bordering on the ridiculous. I took a psychological step back and realized that I was mostly angry at my inability to communicate well enough to discuss my displeasure with the transaction. I was also reminded that while I can find some things that are similar to my former home in the States, I'll never find anything "exactly" like I had. All my anger was actually a displaced sense of mourning. 

Whew! It's such a relief to know that I'm not becoming psychotic over extended cocoa deprivation. Yes, she pulled one over on me. As a country singer might croon, "I was done wrong." But should I be surprised by someone who acts like this? Why would I? Jesus said, "Does a physician go to the those who are well? No, he goes to those who are sick." My Savior has extended grace and mercy to me over and over again. Can I do any less?

My whole life should be a constant expression of love and forgiveness. So will I return to that store a second time? Yes. Will I check my bag before I leave? Yes. Will I show love during each interaction? Lord, help me to say, "Yes."

Taxi Teacher

First published February 19, 2009

 A taxi driver named Tarek has adopted us. We didn't realize this until he asked us how long language school lasted during our first ride. We told him. When classes were finished, he was waiting for us. The next morning he was at our apartment. This has continued over the last several days.

He's intensely curious about our Arabic studies. He speaks fairly good English so we can converse between the two languages. As he drives, he points to things and tells us the Arabic word for them. Then he has us repeat them. He can cram a LOT of words in a 10 minute taxi ride. After class, he quizzes us about our lessons. He looks at John's notes and handouts and asks questions about them. John must then respond with the proper Arabic response.

This morning, he actually had letters written down for us to recite when we got in the car. He's very happy that he's teaching us and he says that he "doesn't even charge us any moneys." Tomorrow we will be learning our colors. I just hope he doesn't assign homework.

The Great Pyramids

First published February 18, 2009

 A few days ago I posted some photos from one of the most amazing Valentine's Days I've ever had. Even if it hadn't been a holiday, it would have still been in the Top 5 of Life. Our family had opportunity to visit the Great Pyramids in Egypt. Even better was the fact that some of our dear friends were with us...(the proverbial cherry on top).

We called our friend, Mahmud, to arrange transportation. This is the first friend that we ever made in Egypt. He was the first smiling face who greeted us, took our luggage and drove us to our hotel. He also arranged the Nile Cruise, but we have chosen to overlook that part.

So John called him and he arranged for a van to come pick us up at our flat. Our driver arrived right on time the next morning; we piled in excited and ready to go. My family was giving me a bit of a hard time because I insisted on bringing some necessary items for pyramid visits.

-Wet Wipes (2 for each person)
-Charmin to Go (2 rolls: 1 for girls and 1 for boys)
-Hand sanitizer
-Bottles of water
-Sunglasses
-Lip gloss
-Small bills for any purchases

These items were neatly tucked in a stylish, over-the-shoulder bag since I have a firm rule against fanny packs.

The pyramids are on the outskirts of Cairo in an area called Giza (GEE-zuh). Opportunities to spend your dollars were everywhere as we drove through the narrow streets leading to the entrance of the site. Our driver stopped in front of D & I Stables. We were promptly greeted by a man and ushered into a small room with bench seats. He offered us tea or Bepsi (Pepsi). We declined and braced ourselves for the shpiel. He had a map of the historical site made out of wood. He pointed to the pyramids, the Sphinx and a couple hills. This tour could all be ours from high atop a camel or horse which he could provide for a low, low price.

Negotiations began and John finally settled on a price. We paid him and he said he would go prepare the animals. He mentioned that there was a bathroom upstairs that we could use if we wanted to...then he apologized that it was "a bit dirty." 

"A bit dirty" didn't really begin to describe the condition of the room. If I hadn't been deeply concerned about the Diet Coke that I had ingested 30 minutes earlier I wouldn't have considered it. I went in and asked Aria to hold the door. I pulled out my handy-dandy Wet Wipes and went to work cleaning as best I could. (Laugh at me now, Family....)

We returned downstairs with hand sanitizer still drying on our hands when we were introduced to our guide. He was an energetic young Egyptian man named Hisham who told us that he was going to make sure we had a good trip.

John was already outside on top of a gigantic camel. I laughed and saw that "my" camel was kneeling in preparation for me to hop on. Let's just say that I'm very glad there isn't any video available revealing me and the camel trying to get in sync to get moving--not pretty.

The other 4 in our party had horses. It seems that our friend had been on a camel before and she had suggested that we travel with horses in order to switch out throughout the trek. (I would discover this was a FABULOUS idea.)

We all got in line on our respective beasts o' burden and were led by 2 young boys holding the reins. We marched through the streets past uninterested locals until we arrived at the entrance of the site. A policeman of sorts was there to inspect us and our bags. Everyone had to dismount, but our guide pleaded my case and allowed the camel riders to stay put. I was very grateful and I think he was, too. He was the one who had to help me on the camel in the first place.

They absconded John and Emileigh's pocket knives and told them that they would be at D & I Stables when we return. Seriously, what did they think they were going to do out in the desert with the knives? Anyway, we made a note not to forget them.

Our guide led us up the path into a completely desolate desert scene. I had a square of white cloth shoved into my hands and a black circular head wrap. It was from a vendor who thought we would all like to look like Lawrence of Arabia as we rode through the desert. I gave it back and declined his offer.

We continued around a corner and to our shock saw a dead horse on the right side of the path. I'll save the graphic description, but the circling vultures and ferrel dogs give you an idea of its condition. We were proud that Aria didn't throw up at such a sight and hurried on.

Hisham led us to a hill and asked us all to dismount. I was extremely happy about this. I'm not sure about all camels, but this one seemed particularly lumpy. The guide and the two young boys gathered on all sides of me as the camel flung forward and then back until he came to rest on his haunches. If it hadn't been me causing the fright in their eyes it would have been quite funny. I hung on, but I didn't give the appearance of a woman in control of her camel. I managed to get off just as my friend announced, "Ha ha! I got THAT on video!" (Why did I bring her along?!)

We were all told to move in various poses as our guide snapped picture after picture of us with the Great Pyramids in the background. Since it was Valentine's Day I had also included a red heart-shaped pillow with the word, "LOVE" on it to include in the photos. I made each person pose with it in at least one picture. They were good sports and accommodated the romantic, crazy woman camel rider. 

After each picture our guide would say, "You are good? You are happy? No problems?" 

We would answer, "Aiwa. Aiwa. Kwyeesa." (Yes. Yes. I am good.)

A dark-skinned man in a turban walked with a donkey in our direction. He pulled out a bottle of cold Bepsi and handed it to me. Before I could say no he flipped off the lid and it immediately became mine. He did it two more times until he got to John. John folded his hands behind his back and told him, "La. La. La." (No. No. No.) The man laughed and tried to give it to someone else. I paid him for the opened sodas, turned and gave them to the young boys who were guiding our caravan.

We talked the girls into riding the camels this time and we were off to view the pyramids close up. We were allowed to walk to the small pyramid and touch the stones. I stood and thought about the thousands of slaves who worked to create this monument, the years and resources required to build this last of the Seven Ancient Wonders. I was awestruck, moved and reminded of God's faithfulness to a suffering people.

By this time, our hour long tour had almost stretched to 2 and our guide got a phone call from his boss telling him to move us along. The last leg of the journey gave our friends a chance to ride the camels. I still remained happy on a low-sitting horse. Once we arrived at the Great Sphinx, he didn't have us pose or even dismount. He was anxious to get us back and make his boss happy so we snapped a few pictures and made our way back to the stable.

We thanked our guide and reminded him that his fee was already paid at the beginning. He had not so subtly told us that he should get a good sum more. John held fast. Hisham gave us a disappointed look, but knew we were right. We did tip the boys with us and retrieved the two pocket knives.

Our driver was waiting for us and prepared to take us from a dusty, ancient land into a modern, air-conditioned van. I was thrilled. Once again the Wet Wipes, hand sanitizer and water came out. I wasn't the only one using them either. We returned to the flat thoroughly thrilled and humbly grateful for such an opportunity. Well, except for maybe the camel part...

Hormonal Option Transition

First published February 17, 2009

For those new to these notes, I have to give you a little background. My family and I recently moved to Cairo, Egypt to learn Arabic. Preparing for this move required hundreds of hours and thousands of details. We tried to organize as much as we could to make the transition as smooth as possible.

We looked through our home and packed some things and sold others. Each item had to be sorted and with the help of some fabulous friends, it was accomplished. While we packed we kept our house at its usual temperature...around 67 degrees. We live in Missouri and weather is as unpredictable as the current stock market. No matter the atmosphere outside, the M home was always a perfect cave temperature.

I hate to sweat...for any reason. Add humidity to that and well...it's just not pretty. I thought it rather humorous that as we were considering living abroad that Africa would be dropped into our hearts. They only have 3 temperatures there...hot, hotter still and brain-searing. I couldn't see how this was going to work, but I went willingly personal fan and extra batteries in tow.

We gratefully arrived in Cairo, Egypt in January...their winter. The temperature in the mornings could be as cool as 50 degrees. By afternoon the temperature will climb to 80. Egyptians walk the streets with turtlenecks and puffy ski jackets. I have a long-sleeved shirt more for culture than for warmth.

A ride on the subway made me start to worry. It was later in the afternoon. I was standing on the train holding the little loop above my head and began scanning the crowd. They all had coats on and the windows up. I had little beads of sweat trickling down the side of my face. I thought, "This is the beginning of the end."

I am sweating in winter. Summer can only result in some form of spontaneous combustion and finding me as a pile of powder somewhere. So I got to thinking...what if our superiors created a Hormonal Option Transition (H.O.T.).

This is how it would work...

Women over the age of 40 (some in their late 30s could receive special permission on a case by case basis) would be exchanged to locations in the world that have a temperature of no higher than 69 degrees. Those that are younger, male or super skinny could take their places until their home countries experience the cool season again.

I'm asking that this policy be fast-tracked. Summer is coming. Think of all the sweaty, angry women around the world just trying to keep themselves from showing up on the government radar as nuclear material. World peace is at stake, gentlemen. Think about it as you make your decision.

You Gotta Have Friends

First published February 15, 2009

Dear friends of ours arrived today for exactly 9.5 hours. They had a layover in Cairo and shared their time with us. We began hatching a plan of fun and excitement using all of our skills that a One Month in Residence Family had to offer. First, we would drive them straight to a good coffee shop. We knew just the one. It's a few blocks from our house.

I guess since our arrival I've become accustomed already to the cars, donkeys, motorcycles and pedestrians all trying to share the road. We led the way and helped them weave their way to our destination.

We sipped Diet Bepsis. (That's not a typo. There is no "p" sound in Arabic. All "p"s become "b"s. So Pepsi become Bepsi and yes, Pam becomes Bam or Ham depending on the dialect--not flattering either way.) Our food of paninis, croissants and chocolate cake arrived. We were celebrating a birthday so we were pulling out all the stops.

We laughed and sipped and ate and for the first time in several days, we were just normal people having a normal moment. It was refreshing. We still had several hours so we had to pace ourselves. This was a progressive meal. They couldn't get a lot of the food that Cairo offers so we were trying to hit all the good spots while they were with us.

After breakfast we caught a taxi to the other side of the city. Our friends requested that we go to a popular store called, "Carre Four." This is like a Wal-Mart SuperCenter. We couldn't all fit in one taxi so John hailed 2 of them and told both the drivers what the plan was. The drivers took off with women in one car and the men in the other. Our driver began yelling something to the other driver. The other driver was ahead of us and was obviously not hearing him. We didn't speak Arabic so obviously we weren't understanding him.

Our driver followed closely behind and then whipped along side the lead taxi and began shouting again. The lead taxi yelled back, waved his arms and kept pace with our taxi. They continued back and forth until our driver conceded and fell back behind him. He rubbed his head and kept muttering.

We finally arrived at our destination and thanked both the drivers. Our guests got the deluxe treatment--close calls and yelling car to car. What I didn't realize is that my friend understood what our driver was saying. He was telling the other driver that he was taking a route that was too busy. He also told him that his brain must be tired because he's not choosing the right streets. I like being on the inside of these discussions.

The women led the way to this shopping extravaganza. The men said they were leaving us to go look at tools. We agreed to meet back together in 30 minutes. They were back after 10. Men. My friend looked at me and said, "Can you believe we're all here together in Cairo?! This could be like a day at Wal-Mart in Springfield."

"I know," I said, "Weird and awesome at the same time. I have to keep reminding myself that I really am LIVING in Africa."

To increase the thrill of the day, we offered to take our friends on the subway back to our flat. They were up for it so Emileigh went to purchase our tickets. She distributed them and then told us she would meet us at the next platform because she wanted to go visit with the women on the "women's only" train.

We rode without incident the first leg, but still marveled at the coats and sweaters being worn in 80 degree weather. I personally was melting. Summer is going to be VERY ugly, but I digress. The second leg we caught up with Emileigh made sure she was fine and were ready to board the next train. Emileigh and Aria left us to go to the women's train while the remaining four were taking our position to step into the car for that magic 30 second loading door it provides. Just as I was stepping in, a college age girl stepped in also. As she did she poked her hand into my purse very quickly and subtly. I very quickly and NOT subtly grasped her by the wrist and flung her hand down at her side. She took her place on the train and acted like nothing happened.

I was proud of myself at that moment because I had ninja-like reflexes and gave her a look that said, "You don't wanna mess with me, girlie." I'm sure her knees turned to jell-o.

My friend commended my bravery. I told her that this was the first time anything like that happened. It's not unique to this culture. Any big city anywhere would have things like this. So I chalked it up to another experience.

The rest of the ride was uneventful and we regrouped for rest and water at the flat. We had one more stop to make before they needed to get back to the airport. This was the all-important search for a hamburger that really tasted like a hamburger. I've purchased hamburger (or rather "beefburger" because "hamburger" has the word "ham" in it and that refers to pork which is a no-no so don't use that word...) at the grocery store, but it comes already seasoned with cumin and cinnamon. Try it sometime, just don't add taco seasoning to it like I did for dinner last week.

Anyway, we had researched and discovered that Fuddrucker's World's Greatest Hamburgers has a restaurant in our neighborhood. (This could be VERY dangerous.) So we took 2 more taxis to the restaurant. Again, our drivers did not agree on the chosen route and yelling ensued some more. Miraculously, they arrived at the restaurant and we piled out. John got the business card of his driver who said he would drink coffee with him and help him practice Arabic. The driver wanted to learn English so it's a win-win.

I don't get offers like that. It's rude to talk to women in such a familiar way. So I tell them what address to take me to and our conversation ends there. I'll have to seek out other measures.

We walked into Fuddrucker's and listened to American 80s music while choosing the perfect burger. We savored our food, but mostly the conversation that comes from having deep, trusted friendships.

The day ended too soon, but we joked and said, "We should do this again real soon." The fact is...they will be coming back through Cairo at the end of the week and we'll get to see them again. How awesome! It's great to exhale and just be with friends that make you laugh and encourage your heart. Friends...you gotta have 'em. A good hamburger is a close second.

Happy Love Feast!

First published February 14, 2009

By nature, I am prone to make events for any reason. I simply love them. I love the planning, the listmaking, the search for themes, food, decorations...ahhhhh.....

I packed some essentials in our totes for moments just like these...red tablecloth for Christmas or Valentine's, birthday tablecloth that reverses to Christmas, Easter baskets and grass, various strings of lights, candles, papers and things to string about. My daughters laughed and said, "When Martha Stewart Moves to Egypt."

The first holiday since arriving in Cairo is Valentine's Day. I didn't know if that was something that they would even celebrate, but I looked for clues. In the US, they begin decorating for Valentine's on Dec. 26th. I was walking around town yesterday (Feb. 11) and they were just starting to put up decorations for it in some places.

In Arabic class I asked my teacher if Egyptians celebrated this day. She said that they do little by little more every year. Our German friend piped up and said, "Vee do not celebrate dis in Chermany." I smiled and said, "Does your girlfriend know this?"

So I began formulating a plan to celebrate this day of love one way or the other with our new friends whether they wanted to or not. (This isn't new. I've had many a people sucked into the vortex of Pam's Celebrations in the US as well. Just ask some of them...)

There are 5 girls in our class and 5 guys. What would girls want for a special occasion? Flowers. What would guys want? Food. Okay. That was easy. I had made friends with the corner flower vendor and knew he could help me. I went and picked out peppermint carnations (one of my favorites) and had him add greenery to each one and wrap them individually. He carefully tied each one with a pink curling ribbon.

Emileigh stopped at the bakery after language class and picked up a kilo of chocolate croissants. These are little bits of heaven in a bag. Now it's all coming together.

I had asked my teacher after class how to write, "Happy Valentine's Day" in Arabic. She wrote it for me on the whiteboard and explained that they don't actually use those words, but rather say "Happy Love Feast" (see included graphic written by moi'.). Ahhhhhh, a male dominated society would probably want the emphasis to be on the food portion of the celebration thus explaining...(Any other guys thinking the same thing?)

So on Thursday our last day of class before Valentine's Day, I packed my bag full of celebration and headed to class. John smiled at me knowing that this was my way of making friends and he's come to appreciate the benefits that these moments bring. 

Everyone filed into class and I set a flower in front of each girl and wished her a "Happy Valentine's Day." Of course, girls do what girls do and began to "oooo" and "aaaah." I told the guys that I didn't bring them flowers, but rather food and I would give it to them when we had a break. Class began and we worked hard. At break time, I placed a chocolate croissant at each chair. They were all grateful and even the German smiled a bit. 

Our friend, Nick, (who's the 60ish Nat.Geo. looking guy) said, "I don't believe I've ever received anything for Valentine's Day before." I almost gave him a hug and cried for him, but I refrained.

We all wished each other a "Happy Love Feast" and then continued on with class. Who could imagine even a year ago that God would give us opportunity to show kindness to such a diverse group of people? I'm so grateful. Now I need to start thinking about St. Patrick's Day...

A Series of Unfortunate Events

1. John has fever.
2. John can't go to Arabic class.
3. Pam goes alone.
4. Pam gets taxi.
5. Taxi driver tells Pam he can get her to the address she told him.
6. Pam gets in taxi.
7. Taxi driver begins to ask where one of the streets is.
8. Pam answers in English.
9. Taxi driver only speaks Arabic.
10. Pam uses her 10 Arabic words to tell him that she knows no other Arabic.
11. Taxi driver raises his voice and asks Pam to write the address in Arabic.
12. Pam forgot her English to Arabic Pocket Guide.
13. Taxi driver flails arms and gestures again that I show him the address in Arabic.
14. Pam says the address outloud to him hoping that he realizes that the street names ARE IN ARABIC.
15. Driver raises volume again and shakes his head.
16. Pam raises volume and tells him again that SHE CAN'T WRITE IN ARABIC.
17. Driver slows down and looks around.
18. Pam tells driver to stop the car.
19. He slows even more.
20. Pam in her most serious voice says, "STOP THE TAXI."
21. He stops and she gets out.
22. Pam gets a new driver.
23. Pam asks if he knows how to get to this address.
24. He says yes. (You'd think Pam would be wise to this answer by now.)
25. He takes 2 turns and arrives in front of the school.
26. Pam tells him, "Shukran" (thank you) and barely makes it to class.
27. Pam's instructor tells her that tomorrow we will be learning how to talk to taxi drivers.
28. Pam says, "It's too little, too late."

You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

First published February 12, 2009

We've been in language school exactly one week. We completed our studies at lunchtime and went home to celebrate our 40 new words of vocabulary. Verbs are still scarce and not conjugated so we speak like Tarzan and Jane wherever we go.

John has been taking every opportunity to speak to the security guards and assistants in our building using the new words he's learned in class. Each time he'll look at them and send a greeting, "Sah-bak Khil-here!" This is supposed to mean, "Good morning." However, "our guys" listen to his greeting and then just laugh and laugh. NOT the way it is supposed to work.

Undeterred he talks with our taxi drivers each day as we commute to and from the school. Sometimes we receive a giant smile and a string of words following his initial greeting when entering the car. He then tries (key word, "tries") to tell the driver that he doesn't speak that much Arabic--(shway-uh shway-uh) is the word. So they tell him (again in Arabic) that he's doing a good job and he should keep trying--at least that's my translation to John.

One taxi driver was so pleased that he took the long way home so he could keep talking to us. This could backfire.

The Egyptians we have met have been incredibly encouraging when making any attempt to communicate in their heart language no matter how feeble. I'm planning strategic sessions with the women who work in our neighborhood. There are few places that women are seen during the day with the exception of them enroute to a location. So the girls and I will go to the local McDonald's and talk with our new friend, Rania. She's the manager there and has talked with us on several occasions now. Other plans include attending a church with Arab believers. (There is a small percentage in Egypt.)

Yes, one week of study. A million words to go. It's worth it though. A new language opens up an entire new people group in which to talk to, learn about, share life with...speaking of...the security guys in our building? They were so proud of John's question about where to buy bread that they invited him to sit with them and eat fuhl (fool). That, my friend, is progress.

Mrs. Cellophane...That Should Be My Name

First published February 7, 2009

Egypt boasts an amazing history, heritage and culture. I had studied Egyptology for years growing up as a hobby and was always fascinated by this diverse, intelligent people. Once we moved here, I was curious to find out how we would interact with them on a daily basis. Would we be accepted, mocked, ignored, repelled? 

Of course, not one blanket statement could be made about the people of Cairo any more than a sentence would adequately describe any city made up of individuals with varied backgrounds. However, overall I can say that we have found them to be extremely helpful, accepting and friendly.

On more than one occasion we have needed to rely on a stranger to direct us to a location and each time he/she would pause and direct us or even walk us there. Our apartment agent has helped us locate an apartment, secure a cellphone, invited us to a concert and written things in Arabic for us to give to others. Yes, their kindness has been overwhelming.

I have noticed a pattern though. When we are with a group of Egyptians, the men will look at John and say hello. Then they might inquire about the girls. I stand ready to greet and shake hands. But I just keep waiting. The opportunity never comes.

On the subway, I have been standing in the co-ed train when a man will look at John and insist that I sit down. So John offers me the chair and I sit. Again, I am not addressed.

In a taxi, the driver will speak with John greeting him and asking about the girls. I look into his rear view mirror and prepare my statement in Arabic. I never get to use it.

I am perfectly invisible...cellophane...non-existent. Of all of us in our family, I am the one most given to be chatty in group settings. I get nervous at too much silence and getting to say absolutely zero has proven (probably a blessing for my husband) to be most difficult.

I was about to be insulted by the whole thing until a friend told me that it's a breach of etiquette for a man to inquire or even greet another man's wife. They can ask general questions about the family, but never specifically about the wife. Ooooooooooooh, maybe I'll stop with the complex I was developing.

I'm still trying to adjust my cultural antennae to pick up these nuances, but sometimes I do have to be hit over the head with a stick. Still I keep watching, observing, and learning a bit more each day. Until then I'll just happily hum to myself, "Mrs. Cellophane....That Should Be My Name...."

Next Window Please

The Mugamma

I first walked into the Mogamma building at Tahrir Square in the heart of Cairo. It's an imposing building bulging with bureaucracy. The first metal detector seemed like more of a formality than a function of security. I guess if I had looked a little more menacing, the guard may have stopped me.

I ascended the dusty granite stairs to find a second metal detector. I went through again without attracting much attention. 

The directions said go to the "first floor," which in American vernacular is really the second floor because in Egypt, the ground floor does not figure into the counting.

I looked around and saw only Arabic signage, well beyond my level of reading. So, I asked the man looking at the bag screening monitor, "Visas?" He pointed down a long hallway. I walked. When I got to the first juncture, I asked a guard, "Visas?" He pointed and then motioned for me to follow him. We walked a long way down the hall, then around a corner into a long, narrow hall with about 40 "windows." Now things were at least in Arabic and English. I found the window marked, "Fees and Stamps." According to my instructions, I needed 2 "stamps." So I paid the lady 36 Egyptian pounds and got my 8 stamps since I was getting 4 visas (one for each of us in the family).

I asked the very kind grandma, "Forms?" She said something in Arabic and pointed further down the hall to her left, my right. I walked a ways scanning for "forms." Returning with a sheepish look of "I have no idea" on my face, she motioned to wait a minute. Then she came out from behind her glass and walked me down to where the forms lay on the counter. They were in plain site. I saw them the first time, but didn't know what I was looking for!

Now I sat down on an orange, cracked, plastic waiting chair and began to fill in the blanks. All the blanks were obvious, but one: "Profession." What's that? It's not "Religion" because that was a different line. Oh, well, I left it blank and it did not seem to matter.

Completed forms in hand, I head to window 38 (as per the instructions I was given). She looked at my paperwork and letter from the school. After a minute or two of deliberation, she sent me to window 26. She also looked at my stuff and after a couple minutes, sent me to window 12, the very last window at the end of the long hall.

I stood for what felt like 5 minutes before the new lady, smacking her gum, acknowledged my existence. She looked over my stuff and asked where the photocopy of my visa was. Well, I had made a photocopy of the first page with my picture, name, number, etc. Nobody had mentioned a photocopy of the Egyptian visa page. I did not remember seeing a photocopier, so I fully expected to have to go blocks away. I asked her, "Feyn?" (Where?). She said "downstairs."

So I walked back down the long hall, then the next long hall, back through the metal detector and down the stairs. Sure enough under the stairs in what can only be described as a closet with a little window was a lady taking money and a man making photocopies. For 8 Egyptian pounds I got the copies I needed. 

Back up the stairs I trekked, through then metal detector, down both long halls, back to window 12. She held out her hand to receive my form, photocopies, passports, and passport sized photos (which I had printed 24 of back home at Walgreens before we left!).

Then she writes a note on a piece of paper, hands it to me and said in broken English, "more stamps." So I walk back to the first window to buy more stamps. This time it's 334 Egyptian pounds for 16 stamps. Back down the hall to window 12 with 16 stamps in hand. She meticulously places 4 additional stamps on each form confirming I had "Paid" for the visa. Then she said, "Come back 2 hours."

I walked back down both long hallways, through the metal detector, down the stairs, and out of the Mogamma building. Scanning the area, I could not see a cafe, so I found a bench with the sun to my back. It was a great vantage point for people-watching and practicing my Arabic alphabet.

One hour and forty five minutes later I go back into the Mogamma! You guessed it, through the metal detector, up the stairs, through the 2nd metal detector, down both long halls to window 12. By this time, however, the area was crowded. I wove my way to the very end, window 12. At the window, I was 4th in line. I waited. My turn finally arrives. I motioned and looked inquisitive. Remembering me from earlier, she smacked her gum said, "Window 38."

I snaked my way back to the beginning of the hall to window 38. After standing at the window for a couple minutes unacknowledged, the lady asked me, "What nationality?" I responded (in Arabic), "ana amreekeeya." Then I told her, "Arbah," (four). She studied my paperwork and realized we all had the same "family" name, so she began digging through the pile. As she found each one, I would say, "Aiywah," (yes).  I looked at each one and sure enough the new visa was good for one year! Wahoo.

So I went back down both long halls, through the metal detector, down the stairs, out of the Mogamma building and onto the Metro headed for home. Believe it or not...that's a pretty efficient day in most countries.

Only Fuuls Rush In

First published February 8, 2009

Our apartment (or "flat" as they call it) is located in the district of Mohandiseen in Cairo. This neighborhood is home to little convenience stores, shoes stores and a couple fast food places. We haven't yet adjusted to all the noise, but we are getting used to the stares and quizzical looks that say, "What are you doing here? Tourists never come to this part of town."

Living in an apartment with many families also gives opportunity to share life, smiles (until we learn more Arabic) and food smells. We have come home many times from different outings and are welcomed by the most incredible aromas wafting through the hallway.

After class today, John went and purchased "aish" (flatbread) from the local vendor. Truly you can't get fresher bread than this since it is wheeled out on a wagon every day right out of the oven. I needed the bread to go with a dish I was preparing to make. This recipe is a staple in Egypt so I thought I should learn how to make this tasty little bit of heaven. It's name is "fuul" (fool). The name should have tipped me off.

I knew a few of the ingredients that I needed, but still didn't have all of the spices figured out so I did what any student of Arabic for one day would do--looked on the internet.

I found a recipe from Egypt and made a list of all the items I would need. They are: fava beans, red split lentils, cumin, coriander, garlic cloves, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, hard-boiled eggs, lemon juice and feta. I went to a new store and searched for everything. I couldn't find fava beans, so I purchased black-eyed peas. I couldn't find red split lentils so I got yellow split lentils. The cashier put my garlic cloves back because I forgot to have the lady in produce put a sticker on it and he wouldn't check the price for me. I forgot the feta and lemons, too. Sigh.

I pulled myself together and began the first steps of the process. I could get the other ingredients later. First, you soak the beans in a big vat of water for 24 hours. (This ain't no fastfood or Hamburger Helper meal...) So that ended the first step. After you soak the beans, they are to be rinsed and placed in a giant container of boiling water adding the lentils. You boil the combined items for an hour and then set it to simmer with a lid FOR ANOTHER 8 HOURS!!! Okay, seriously. What cook could survive this?! I'm already up to 33 hours and I have nothing to show for it.

Once the beans have cooked down to complete mush, you mash them some more with a potato masher. Then you add the other ingredients with some water and you guessed it...let it simmer some more. Once it has simmered for an hour or so, you spoon it into bowls and eat it with flat bread--which has now gone stale because I didn't know making this would take so long.

I guess I'll be sharing with our neighbors. When I was pulling together all the ingredients for this delectable dish I didn't check how many it fed. Somewhere around 48. I hope it tastes good--really, really good..

The finished meal. More work than Thanksgiving dinner...That's just wrong.

Loads of Trouble

First published February 6, 2009

Day 7 of a broken washer. Once I figured out the pictoral guide on the machine, I was washing and hanging and whistling a happy tune. I noticed that some water ended up on the floor and dismissed it as dripping laundry. After the third time, I had to admit something was wrong. Drips turned into puddles and puddles into a river. I stared intently at the 2 buttons and one dial. I wiggled the dial and pushed the buttons and tried again. It leaked and now I'm running out of towels which is a delicate situation because I only brought 6 to start with and there are 4 Mortons.

John looked at it, too, twisted the same dial, re-pushed the buttons, ran a load of clothes and more water out the bottom of the washer. He said we'd have to call in help.

I looked through my Arabic pocket guide and there were no tabs for broken appliances. I searched through a few guidebooks with no luck. I finally Googled the phrase, "my washing machine is broken in Arabic" and many posts came up of people living in Middle Eastern country with the same appliance woes as me, but no phrases to correct the situation. Arg!

Our security guard downstairs is a smiling man who knows two words in English, "hello" and "goodbye." I can't fault him I only know, "Salaam" (greetings) and "shukran" (thank you). So between our four words and an entertaining session of charades, we relented and realized we were getting no where. Laundry has been a depressing topic in my life before, but this time it was depressing with a scoop of frustrating on top.

A few days later we were able to have lunch with a fellow worker whose also a Westerner who spoke Arabic. We had a great time and were so grateful for her insight. Before we said goodbye, I sheepishly asked if she would please write down the phrase in Arabic, "My washing machine is broken." She gladly complied.

I felt empowered now as I arrived at our flat and handed our security guard our note. He read it and smiled. Then he motioned something to John that looked like he would call when the repairman came. So we went happily up to our floor and waited. Nothing happened. Not that day. Not the next. Or the next.

We were eating breakfast this morning preparing to register for our language classes when I announced to the family, "I am a woman on the edge. I'm starting school after being out of classes for over 20 years. My laundry is piled high and this is not how I wanted to start my academic career. I'm completely serious so take heed."

They all looked at each other and smiled knowingly. They've heard the "on the edge" speech before and knew to salt their words and deeds with kindness until further notice.

We went to register for classes and returned a few hours later. The regular security guard had the day off so his replacement greeted us. I had my handy-dandy piece of paper with me. John took the paper and said that he would take care of it while I ran another errand. What a wonderful guy!

Before I left the building a man happened by advertising laundry services. John siezed the moment and had me grab a few pairs of pants and shirts to be laundered. I placed 14 items in a laundry bag and handed it to John who in turn handed it to (guess!) Mohammed. Mohammed said that the clothes would be back tomorrow. It was a few minutes before I realized...I have no phone number. I have no business card. The only thing I have is a guy named Mohammed who does laundry. Great. I never prayed so ferociously over clothes before. I decided to go ahead and run my errands and let John figure out the rest.

I returned after 2 hours and asked John how his afternoon went. He said that he had been busy WASHING CLOTHES! Could it be? Seriously? I ran into the bathroom and watched the miracle of the spin cycle. I asked him what was wrong with it. He said the repairman came and opened up a little trap door and cleaned out a ton of lint and gross stuff. After he shut the door and turned the machine on, the water didn't run out the bottom but instead ran out the tube into the bathtub like it was supposed to.

Normally I would have been embarrassed at such a simple fix. However, nothing is obvious--not even a little lint door well-hidden on a washing machine. John paid him his 40LE ($8) and then opened the windows to let out all the cigarette smoke that came with the repair.

Now I have clothes once again dangling throughout the house and a load of sheets whirring efficiently in the washer. We'll see if our clothes really do return from the laundry man tomorrow, but for now I'm content and wonder if it would be too weird to hug my washing machine.

The Curious Case of Pam

First published February 5, 2009

A peek into the classroom

In the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," the main character is born as an old man and progressively gets younger as the years go by. An interesting idea to say the least. I've heard that "youth is wasted on the young" and "if I knew then what I know now..." spoken by seasoned individuals longing for yesterday.

Today I had an opportunity to return to a previous stage of life. From ages 5-21 I walked the halls of educational institutions learning first my numbers, colors, and spelling my name then eventually scientific concepts, mathematical equations and which foods to avoid in the cafeteria.

Time passed and life brought more joys and challenges than I could have dreamed or imagined. Now 20 years later I find myself back in a classroom, surrounded by other students from a variety of countries with all the same goal--to learn Arabic.

John shooed all the girls out the door at promptly 8 am today. We would each take language classes. John and I will study full-time at International Language Institute (ILI) and the girls will go part-time at the Episcopal Training Center (ETC) to supplement their online high school curriculum.

We went our separate ways and the older fam members arrived 20 minutes early for class. (John and I are notoriously punctual people and if you multiply this times nervousness plus a speedy taxi driver it explains our extra 20 minutes of just "hanging" at the school.)

The classroom had tables set up in a "U" with a whiteboard in the front of the class. Students began filing in and John and I designated ourselves as the official "greeters." Our first friend was from Denmark. Her name is Lemula. She's a pretty, 20-something, half-Danish, half-Egyptian anthropology student. We hit it off right away. For one thing she spoke English and another she was a face other than someone from our family. We talked about taxis and traffic and reasons for studying Arabic.

Others filtered in and we asked similar questions, "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "Why do you want to study Arabic?" Holland, Switzerland, Korea, Mexico, Canada and of course the USA were all represented.

A sweet Egyptian lady in her early 30s arrived wearing a lime green hijab (headscarf) with coordinating winter jacket (60 degrees today afterall) and a long, dark denim skirt. She was our teacher. She greeted us in Arabic and 2 or 3 of the students responded...in Arabic. Wait a second! How can they respond in Arabic? This is supposed to be the Beginning of All Beginners Class. No one should be saying anything in Arabic except the teacher. She smiled and said the greeting again and again. She looked at us and told us in English that when she says something, we should repeat what she said 3 times outloud.

She moved on to another phrase and then pointed at us to repeat. Again, the "advanced" students piped up like it was the easiest thing in the world. We continued this exercise using different phrases and working on pronunciation first as a group and then individually.

After a few minutes, some of the things she was saying were beginning to make sense. Others not so much. She taught us 2 letters of the Arabic alphabet too. She pulled out large pieces that were from a jigsaw puzzle that a 3 year old might use. She adhered them to the whiteboard and began making sounds having us repeat them. She combined a few letters and soon we were making unintelligible syllables. It was glorious.

She pointed to herself and told us her name is Aisha (Eye-ay-shuh). She then pointed at me and asked my name. I sort of told her. She moved about the room asking the same question and giving each of us an opportunity to dazzle her with our brilliance.

The morning wore on and I felt like I had been in class for hours, but we had only made it halfway. She dismissed us for a break. I think she saw the red light flashing over my head indicating "overload" and decided to let it cool down for a while.

The girls ran to the bathroom, a few guys up to the cafe and the remaining ones to registration to see if they could be put in a more difficult class. (I was not in the latter group.) We purchased our caffeine of choice, joked at our progress and went back in with renewed determination or at least minimal resistance.

The second half continued with conversational questions and responses. John and I would quietly prompt the other if we were stuck during the individual pronunciation and recital portions. Others were doing it too so I didn't feel so bad.

Personalities were showing through as we looked around the room. Some of us were writing furiously on our new lined tablets purchased especially for class. Others were mooching paper and pencils because they were simply lucky to be there on time.

Aisha instructed us to dialog with other students putting together all those phrases that we had asked earlier in English and had now learned in Arabic. We turned to Jenny from America and Elly from Switzerland to begin conversing. We all took a deep breath, paused and started laughing because no one could remember how to greet. We flipped through our notes, found the phrase and started rehearsing like proud parrots. Our teacher eased by (like all teachers do) and listened to our interaction. We received a smile and a nod. The only thing I needed to complete my happiness was a smiley sticker for my shirt.

Eventally those awesome words "Goodbye. See you tomorrow," were spoken. We gave each other survival smiles and headed down the stairs.

I laughed and told John that this was tough stuff because I'm a visual learner and most of this is by hearing. Then I laughed even more and said that it must be hard to have to learn to chitchat in Arabic when my normally introverted husband doesn't even do that in English. He agreed.

We hailed a taxi and began the ride back to the flat. We were already planning our greeting to our security guard upon our arrival. However, once the taxi stopped and we began walking toward his station, I noticed I had left my new textbook and all my beautiful notes in the now-departed, never-to-be-seen-again transport. I sighed a deep sigh, looked at the security guard and couldn't remember a thing. I smiled and I waved as I have done every day and sulked all the way to our floor.

John promised he would share his notes which are now entered into the computer, organized and tabbed for quick reference.

I would tell you an Arabic goodbye as I close this note, but as in the Fitzgerald story, Benjamin Button eventually became so young that he had the mind of a 2 year old and could not process information like he could when he was an adult. Here's hoping I can reverse the process before it's too late.

Pam's first completed page of homework. I hope I get a gold star or smiley sticker.

Guide to Taxi Honks--Abridged Edition

First published February 3, 2009

Beep beep
Do you want a ride?

Beep
Hey, car on my right, I'm over here!

Beep
Hey, car on my left, I'm over here!

Beep
I'm merging into your lane and by the time you hear my horn I will already be there.

Beep
Get out of my way donkey cart.

Beep
Get out of my way (basket/bread/banana) seller.

Beep
Get out of my way pizza delivery moped.

Beep
Get out of my way darting pedestrians.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
Get out of my way because I'm not braking!

Staccato Beep
Sorry to cut you off.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beep! B-B-B-Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! 
You are blocking the whole intersection!

Beep! Wooooooo! Wooooooooo! Wooooooo!
I am clever. I have a horn that sounds like an ambulance so people move out of my way quicker.

Beep! (10 seconds) Beep! (10 seconds) Beep!
I have Horn Tourettes. I honk for no reason because I'm in such a habit of doing it.

Beep with hands thrown up in the air.
Crazy woman driver!

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep! Bang hands on steering wheel and mutter words under your breath...
I am having to drive these Americans across town in the busiest part of the day to a mall that I couldn't even begin to shop at and now I'm stuck in the middle of this mess and they probably won't even give me a decent tip so I'm going to play terrible acapella Arabic music really loud as a way to make you pay!

Koshary

First published February 2, 2009

When we first arrived in Cairo and began to unpack, Aria found a little book that a friend had given her entitled, "Cairo in Your Pocket." This little book contained all kinds of interesting things that newcomers would want to know--which hotels to stay at, things to do, where to eat and even who had the best bellydancers (We inadvertently found out about that, didn't we?). I have perused the pages several times since then. Yesterday, I looked through it again and found an ad for Koshary. Koshary (as I understand it) is a popular dish that originates from Egypt.

The Coptics needed something that would still be a healthy combination of foods that didn't include meat during Lent--thus, Koshary was created. One restaurant in particular advertised heavily that their koshary was the best in Cairo. We thought it might be a fun outing to find this place and try it even though we were probably poor judges because we had never had bad koshary or any koshary at all prior to this, but nonetheless...

Of course, John poured over the maps--got a plan and told the PSK (Pam's School of Knowledge) students (Emileigh and Aria) that it was time for lunch and World Geography. We were going to take a taxi to a Metro station and then ride the Metro the rest of the way to the restaurant. This had worked before. We hopped in a taxi (a new one with the plastic still on the seats) and began darting through traffic. We drove for quite a while when I realized that we were not anywhere close to the Metro station we had used before. In fact, he drove and drove and drove. We crossed a bridge over a body of water and John whispered to me, "We might as well have him take us to the restaurant. We're almost there anyway."

Thankfully, we still had our pocket guide and we showed him the picture of the ad. He nodded, rolled his eyes and said, "You want go there now?" John said, "Aiwa" (yes). He drove a bit longer and dropped us off at a corner of a very busy side street. 

It was somewhere between Electric Avenue and Stationery Lane. We looked at the sign and it read, "Abou Tarek: Kashary" Another sign said, "This is the only branch." I'm not sure why it said that, but maybe it reflected a failed expansion or competition around the city.

We walked in and of course turned heads as we were the only non-everythings in the restaurant. I looked at the cashier and asked if we should be seated first and he motioned for us to go upstairs. We did. We found a table for four in a corner of the almost full room next to two women. One of them smiled at me as we sat down. I can't wait until I can actually say something more than, "Hello" and recite my Arabic numbers 1-10.

A waiter appeared and asked us what we wanted. John said, "Koshary." He asked if we wanted 4 of them. John nodded. Then he asked us what we wanted to drink. We told him.

He disappeared for a while. He returned a few minutes later and began talking to John. John told him, "I don't understand." He repeated it. John said, "I'm sorry. I still don't understand." This continued back and forth like a bad ping pong game until the waiter gave up and went back downstairs.

He came up the stairs with a tray of drinks. He handed us four bottles of water. I had asked for a Diet Pepsi or Coca Light, but I got water. I've learned it's better just to take whatever they bring you. We sipped on our water and took in the sights. Arab men were all talking with one another. People in the street below were purchasing, selling and carrying their goods.

Our thoughts were interrupted when our waiter set four steel bowls on our table. Each bowl came with its own small pitcher of sauce. He pointed at a tall pitcher on our table and said, "Spicy." We said a prayer of thanks and began to dive in. This was carb heaven in a bowl...rice, spaghetti, chickpeas, lentils, fried onions and some unidentifiable spices. The little pitcher of sauce tasted like the kind you would put on spaghetti. John got adventurous and tried the "spicy" pitcher. He breathed fire for 10 minutes and thoroughly fried his tastebuds. I decided that I would pass this time.

It was quite delicious and very filling. As we were finishing up, I noticed a sign in a corner written in English. It read, "Please pay first." Ooooooooh, so that's what the waiter had been trying to tell us. Oh, well. Next time. We put the extra in a to-go box, paid our bill and left.

Another delicious meal. Another bit of Arab culture tucked away. Little by little we learn and begin to understand our new friends. Thanks for reading. Thanks for giving. Thanks for praying. We feel so privileged.

Current Currency

First published February 2, 2009

Math very sadly has not ever been a strong suit of mine. While I can calculate and come to some degree of accuracy, it hasn't been without great effort or unusual methods. Compound this with the fact that Cairo uses pounds rather than dollars and the exchange rate is 5.5 (give or take a few thing-ees) and you have real opportunity for some Einstein-worthy formulas.

We can withdraw money from the local ATM around the block. Honestly, it still feels like Monopoly money to me. I'm trying to grasp how much things are, what is a reasonable price and to pay for something without standing there stupified holding a handful of bills for their choosing.

Coins here are very rare. Rather they use a small bill called, "piastres." The pound bill is slightly larger. Before I leave to go anywhere, I organize my wallet putting the smallest bills in front. With the help of John, I have been able to calculate fairly quickly how much things are in US dollars. This helps me know if I'm paying too much or too little for something. Once I learn Arabic I'll be able to really get in there and barter, but for now not getting ripped off is the objective.

I took Emileigh and Aria shoe shopping the other day. Our street is known for its many shoe stores--not a bad thing. We walked up and down the street viewing varieties of shoes practicing our Arabic numbers by looking at the price tags. Aria spotted a pair of brown boots that she liked. She tried them on and decided that she would like to make the purchase. She counted her money and realized she was 9 pounds short. I told her to give me what she had and I would make up the difference. (What a nice Mom!) Anyway, I handed the salesman the money and he shook his head. He told me something in Arabic and acted as if he needed more money. I looked at the bills and told him in English, "It's all there." He shook his head no again and got out a calculator to show me the amount he needed. We went back and forth before he finally held up a 50 bill. He turned it around and in bold letters it said, "piasters."

Very quickly and very sheepishly, I grabbed some bills out of my purse and completed the purchase. It seems that Aria had not paid attention when counting her money and had given me a handful of "change" rather than pounds. We were anxious to get out of the store. We were so anxious that Aria forgot the bag with her new boots in it so they called us back and handed it to her.

She apologized and we laughed promising we would pay closer attention from now on.

The next day I was once again at the grocery store. This time I was ready. I do not want to go to the store every other day so I made a list of things that should last us for at least a week. John was going printer shopping at the same time in the computer mall above the Metro Mart. We both checked our money situation and were in good shape.

We arrived at the store and John went on up the stairs as Aria and I grabbed a shopping cart and began to gather items. I took my time and slowly began filling the cart with a variety of goods. I found some foods I recognized and made my way to the meat counter. During another visit I had asked for the butcher to give me some slices of smoked turkey. It was so good I thought I would get some more. The man asked me how much I wanted. Last time I ordered 1 kilo (I thought) and he gave me 4 slices. This time, I doubled it and asked for 2 kilos of meat. He sliced and sliced and sliced and sliced. Finally, he handed me 2 trays of turkey. I was too embarrassed to make him take it all back so I smiled, said thank you and put it in the cart.

By now the cart was nearing full because Aria had been getting things off the list while I waited for the butcher. I guess it was interesting because people would stop and look in our cart as they walked by. I'm not sure if the items were interesting or the volume. (Did I mention the carts are tiny?)

Aria and I finished up the list and made our way to the checkout. Before we arrived though I wanted to make sure I had my money organized. I knew I had spent more than I expected because of the sliced turkey bonanza. I got my money in order and pushed the cart to the cashier.

She began ringing up the items and I held my money. When out of the corner of my eye, I saw the word "piastres." Oh, no! Flipping quickly through the bills I had counted out thinking it was pounds when actually it was piastres. Yikes! I frantically started fishing through my purse trying to find the pounds that I knew were somewhere in there. I grabbed a wad of them just as she showed me the total: 406 pounds. I had 430 pounds to my name. I breathed a prayer of thanks to the Lord and received the rest of my change from her--more piastres.

John was waiting outside with a printer on his lap. We hailed a taxi and took our goods back to our flat. When the driver stopped I asked John to pay. It seems I was all out of money for the day.