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.