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.

All I Want to Do Is Go to the Grocery Store

First Published January 14, 2009

John's eyes popped open this morning fully convinced he heard our apartment intercom ring. He ran to the button and said, "Hello?" Our security guard responded in broken English, "Hello?" Then John said, "Yes. Hello." Then he said, "Hello." The conversation was going no where when John began to ask him if he had called us for a reason. The security guard asked if John spoke Arabic. John said no. The man spoke no English. They said "hello" about 5 more times and John decided a face to face would be better. 

He went downstairs and began gesturing to our guard in hopes of making some progress. Thankfully a small girl was dressed for school complete with backpack and earmuffs (It's 60 degrees here) and she saw the situation. She promptly listened to John and then translated to the guard. After she conveyed John's initial question, "Did you call me and what did you need?" The guard responded that "No, he did not call John." John came back up to a wife who looked at him and began laughing really hard. However, I was not to get the last laugh.

John needed to wait for our landlady to come to the apartment today to take some floor measurements for new flooring. It seems only 2 days before our arrival, her perfectly prepared apartment was invaded by a neighbor's exploding water pump and now her wood floor was buckling into fragments all throughout our livingroom. So while he waited for her and a friend to show up, he suggested the girls and I take a taxi and go to the internet cafe.

Again, I put on my "Brave Pants" said a prayer and took the girls with me for our first trip out into the big city of Cairo. I got in a taxi and asked the driver to take us to Metro Market. This market is like a small grocery store with all the amenities. In fact more amenities than I need. Afterall, does a store really need to carry 75 types of olives? I hate them all now times 75. Anyway, I digress. 

The Metro Market is right next to the internet cafe. I thought since the Metro Market was better known I would have a better shot at getting there than trying to act out an internet cafe. (M Training did NOT have any charade classes and I think they would be VERY helpful...note to HQ.) So he took us to the Metro Market and dropped us off. I paid him 5 pounds and was very proud to have made the transaction. Once we were out we realized he took us to the wrong one. Apparently there's more than one in our neighborhood.

Since we were there I went in and bought bottled water and more milk. I looked around and decided that it would be futile to keep looking without a proper address. We hailed a taxi with a young driver and began the ride home. I am trying desperately to pay attention to landmarks and such so I can familiarize myself with my neighborhood. (TomTom does not have a chip for this area of the world.) So we drive...and drive...and drive... Looking around I noticed that NOTHING looked familiar. Thinking of every 20/20 special I've ever watched I began a very serious dialog with Jesus. However, he wasn't sinister just miserably lost. He must have asked 10 people how to get us to our street.

He muttered, honked, wrote things down, flipped his cassette tape of Arab pop music over and drove some more. Finally we recognized our street and motioned for him to stop. I handed him a 5 pound note and he told me that he needed 2 of them. I said, "No" with a very serious look on my face. He made motions that he had to drive so far he needed 10 pounds. I told him that it wasn't my fault he was lost. So it was a stare off for neither of us could speak the other's language. I then handed him 20 pounds and waited for 15 back. He gave me 10. I motioned I wanted one more 5 back. He shook his head and said, "No." Now I'm really mad because he has my money and he has the audacity to borrow my pen all at the same time.

I asked for my pen back and waited for my money. No more came. The girls had already bailed out and were watching from the sidewalk to see how this would play out. Score one for Ahmed; zero for Pam. He did hand me a piece of paper with our apartment address written in Arabic. He pointed and said, "Good address!" I guess the extra 5 pounds was for a piece of paper that I could now give all taxi drivers so that they wouldn't suffer as he did. I was still fuming.

Once upstairs, John commented on the brevity of our trip. I relayed the events to him and he gave a sympathetic smile and then began laughing. Touche'.

Just wait until I learn some Arabic, Ahmed. Just you wait...