Tarek Tours

A couple notes ago I mentioned that our adoptive taxi driver, Tarek, had a few places around the neighborhood that he wanted us to experience. The first place stop was a grocery store. It was, indeed, a nice one and I was glad for the opportunity to add it to my shopping repertoire. The second place that Tarek wanted to take John was to get a haircut.

About a month ago, John had his hair trimmed at the Nile Hilton. This was the same place I recently received my new Julie Andrews look. However, when the guy cut John's hair he came out looking like...well, John. Tarek thought that John might want to go to the same barber that he did. John looked at Tarek's well-styled hair and decided that it was worth a shot. 

After class on Thursday, our taxi waited for us outside ILI (International Language Institute). He reviewed our notes from class and practiced our new verbs with us all the way to our flat. I got out of the taxi and waved to them both as they headed to the barber. I began preparing lunch and waited for the outcome. 

Sidebar: In language class that day we had discussed careers. The careers included barbers. Our teacher told us that the barbers that she has taken her son to "has no style." They just cut it really short so she takes him to a female hair stylist. John should have paid closer attention.

The girls and I ate lunch and I began to look at my watch wondering how long a cut could possibly take. Our front door opened and John walked in. He rounded the corner and stopped.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked.

"I...uh...wow. That is really short." I said as I ran my hair over the short little bristles.

He told me that the barber started out shaving the sides which is how he normally gets it cut. He said he looked away for just a minute when BAM the shaver went right down the center of his head. Any recovery was no longer an option. The rest of the hair had to follow this new 1/4" length.

So now my Little Chia Head will not need a haircut for several weeks...maybe months. After the great "Head Shaving" the barber wanted 40 LE. John didn't comply. Tarek had told him to start at 20 LE and not to go over 30 LE. John held his ground and handed the man 30 LE.

John decided next time he'll pay the extra and go to the Nile Hilton guy who had "style." 

We aren't sure what else Tarek has on his "must do" list, but we know that it will never be dull. Maybe he'll help us find a pharmacy so John can buy some SPF 50 sunscreen for his new pink head.

Parallel Parking: Cairo Style

First published February 27, 2009

When I turned 16, my parents owned a Chrysler station wagon. In case you're not familiar with this type of vehicle...It was huge, pale yellow, wood-paneled and very, very long. My mother loved it. My father tolerated it. I borrowed it for the all-important first driver's license test. Once you passed the written exam, a State patrolman would escort you to your car and ask you to drive him around in it and then horror of all horrors parallel park it. 

My father had taken me driving multiple times, but the parking always struck terror in me. The day came. I took my written test and passed. I walked to the station wagon and began the driving exam. Everything was going well. Finally, it was time to parallel park. Two orange cones were placed a semi-truck's distance apart from one another on a deserted street. I had to somehow get my vehicle inside those two cones. After a 46-point turn, it was successfully within the cones albeit 2 feet from the curb. Still I had done it. I passed the test and for the next 25 years I have attempted to avoid all forms of this kind of parking.

In Cairo, parallel parking takes on a whole new form. The cars are tiny, but the parking spaces are even smaller. If you park your car on the street, you have to leave it in neutral. This allows the self-appointed "parking attendant" to push your car forward if the driver behind you is having trouble fitting into the alotted space. If you don't put it in neutral, you make the locals angry and a new dent will be found when you come back to your vehicle.

Parallel parking doesn't just stop there. The cars will fill up near the curb, but more need to park so they create a second layer of parallel parking. Now the cars are two-deep. Anyone can now see that this is truly a live Tetris game in the making. I have even witnessed a street 3 parked-cars wide. 

"But what happens when the car in the first layer of parking wants out?" you ask.

Several options:

1. He gets in his car and honks.
2. He gets in his car, honks and waves his arms.
3. He gets out of his car if 1 and 2 don't work and tracks down the "parking attendant" to see if he can find the other drivers.
4. He gets help pushing on the other cars to see if somehow he can eek enough space to get his car through.
5. He is joined by 5 or 6 other lamenting friends who can do nothing, but still sympathize.
6. He buys coffee at a local cafe and waits until everyone goes home.

While we are here, we do not own a car. At first, I thought I would miss driving terribly. I like to be able to go spontaneously somewhere. However, after seeing the traffic, parking and other drivers, I happily resign myself to taxis that simply pick you up and drop you off.

So when we're out somewhere and stop to get something to drink, we'll sit near a window and watch the cars park for entertainment. We just won't add any of the Arabic phrases that they're using to our notebook dictionary.

AbouZekry

Today our taxi driver, Tarek, picked us up from language school and introduced us to a new grocery store called, "Abou Zekry." He pulled up to the front and said, "Two doors." I looked at the storefront and sure enough...two doors...actually three, but I didn't have the language skills to argue.

John and I got out and Tarek told us that he would wait for us. I wondered why he wanted us to try this particular grocery store since there are several in our neighborhood. I did manage to figure out the words, "fish" in his description. I'm not a fish fan, so I was hoping for something else to warrant my visit.

I pulled a rusty, rickety cart out from the collection area and pushed it up a small ramp. The store had exactly 2 aisles. One aisle had bread and dairy on one side and frozen foods on the other. I picked up some fresh bread, yogurt, 2 dozen eggs and rounded the corner. In the second aisle was a glass case full of meat. I began looking to see if I could identify any pieces. I saw something that looked like a beef roast. 

I told the butcher, "Roast please?" (My Arabic skills hasn't covered cow parts yet.) He pointed to a different piece of meat and said, "Steak!" and smiled really big. I shook my head and said, "Roast, shukran." I hoped that if I threw in a little Arabic he would comply.

He pointed at the roast and said, "No." "Steak. Good. Yes?" 

I shrugged and said, "Aiwa. Anna aiza arbah shukran (Yes, I would like four please.)"

"Arbah?" he questioned.

"Aiwa. Arbah." (Yes. Four.)

He printed out a receipt and motioned for me to go to the cashier while he wrapped them up. I didn't quite understand why I couldn't wait for the meat and then go to the register. He showed me that he was going to trim the fat off and then wrap them. Ooooooooookay.

So I stood awkwardly for a moment, started toward the cashier and looked at John. He said that he'd go stand in line at the register while I waited for the steaks. I noticed that a few flies were buzzing around, but they were being repelled by the sticks of burning incense taped to each end of the meat case. Whatever works I guess... The butcher handed me the steaks.

I thanked him and met John in the other aisle. We paid for our goods and realized that we still hadn't gone through the third door of the store. There wasn't any connecting aisle from the inside so we walked out of the first portion of store and entered the second.

This also had two aisles, but this one had ramps to go up two levels. I pulled out another cart and pushed it up the first ramp past the shampoos and toiletries. I picked up some sugar, flour and Nutella (for Emileigh). (I'm getting used to the stares and the overall amusement that we provide every time we try to do something normal.) I pushed the cart up the second ramp and found the juices and Diet Coke.

I finished up in about 10 minutes and pushed my cart back down the ramps to the cashier. I tried out my Arabic greetings and she promptly ignored me. I paid her and thanked her but she had already moved on to the next customer. John and I took the bags to the taxi.

Tarek asked us if we liked the store and we assured him that we did. He asked us if we purchased fish and we told him that we had not. He looked disappointed. He put the car in gear and began driving.

He turned, looked at John's hair and asked if he wanted a haircut. I snickered because John had just said he needed to get a trim and I guess Tarek agreed. Tarek said that he would take John to a barber. So on our way home he drove us to the entrance of a barber shop. Two of the barbers were outside smoking so Tarek called to them. One came to the taxi and Tarek announced to him that, "Mr. John will be coming tomorrow to get his hair cut." The barber nodded and walked away.

He drove a little further and showed us a place to eat good fuul and get good coffee. Of course, he doesn't just point. He makes us repeat each word after him. If he's not happy with our pronunciation he makes us keep trying. If John tells him that we don't understand, he will continue to talk and point until we nod in comprehension.

We arrived at the front of our apartment building and one of the building maintenance men met us at the entrance. He took the bags from me and began walking. One bag dropped and unfortunately it was the egg bag. I told him, "No problem" and we walked to the elevator.

Our elevator was broken so we had to take the one on the left which is dedicated to all the odd numbered floors. We arrived on the 11th floor and walked up to the 12th. At our flat, I unlocked the door and he brought the bags inside. I thanked him, gave him a tip and began to unload the groceries. I noticed that John hadn't followed us in the elevator. A few minutes later he arrived. It seems that Tarek had a few more verbs to get in before he would release John from class.

Now John's walking through the apartment muttering verb conjugations under his breath while I prepare our new-found steaks. Each time we venture out, we come home with a bag full of goods and a good many things that can't be bagged...new words, fun experiences and deepened friendships.

Personally, I'm looking forward to John's haircut tomorrow...heh heh heh.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

First published February 25, 2009

Having navigated the waters of grocery shopping over the last couple weeks provided a much-needed shot of confidence. I had been chomping at the bit to invite some of our new friends over for dinner. I collected emails from some fellow students and sent out the invitation. Then I waited...I wasn't sure if 20-somethings would want to "hang" with people of our...uh...wisdom. I did have the lure of a home-cooked meal so that would at least provide some incentive.

I received RSVPs that would bring 4 guests to our home. I immediately began assessing our available dishware. I inherited a variety of pieces with the furnished flat. There was a hodge-podge of plates with patterns and chips, but it didn't matter to me. A long time ago someone shared great wisdom with me. Entertaining focuses on perfect surroundings. Hospitality places emphasis on the guests. I wanted our friends to feel completely welcomed.

I cooked "The Dish." "The Dish" is currently thinly sliced chicken breasts sprinkled with Italian spices and grilled in my cook-everything-in-this-pan pan. I added plenty of American comfort foods mashed potatoes, buttered corn, fresh bread and a fruit salad for Aria aka "The Fruitbat." Emileigh stopped at the bakery by the language school and picked up a kilo of chocolate croissants. John had a beautiful bouquet of flowers put together by our neighborhood flower guy. A few hor'deurves set out, Michael Buble' singing in the background and we were ready.

Johann (Yo-hahn) and Monica arrived first. Johann is an awesome guy from Sweden. He's keenly intelligent and genuinely kind. Monica hails from many countries, but claims Mexico as home. She's lively, outgoing and has a tender heart. The final two guests arrived. Jan (Yahn) comes from Germany and Elie is from Switzerland. They are roommates in a flat near the school. While very different, they are each learning Arabic and building their resume. Jan is witty, smart and knowledgable about world affairs. Elie's sweet, a bit shy and a peacemaker as we would discover.

We sat down to dinner and explained that it is our custom to pray a blessing for the food and for our friends. We joined hands and John prayed. We enjoyed food and conversation as the buddings of friendship developed. As the evening progressed, the subject of languages naturally came up. Between the eight of us, English, Spanish, German, Swedish, Swiss-German, Russian and Arabic were spoken. We laughed as we would try to understand bits of each language being dropped into our conversations. If anyone began to argue a point, they would point at Elie (Swiss guy) and say, "Remember he's doesn't have an opinion. He's neutral."

Finally at around 11 our friends decided it was time to head back to their flats and study. We bid them farewell and began stacking dishes. We were all encouraged by time with new friends and are so thankful for the opportunity to meet such amazing people. We plan to begin a "Dinner and a Movie" night each week and provide a place for them to just feel welcome. Now I have to come up with a new "Dish."

Cry My Hand Full

First published February 23, 2009

The Saloon...(Salon)

I couldn't put it off any longer. I was beginning to look like a sheepdog. I needed a haircut. Last month, our family met a friend at the Nile Hilton. While we were there, I noticed that they had a salon. I inquired as to their services and their rates and decided that this would be a good spot to start a new haircare regimen.

Thursday, I called and made an appointment for Aria and me. I began to get a bit excited because this was so normal. A haircut...how gloriously boring. 

After 6 weeks of nothing routine, this was highly anticipated.

 I woke up Saturday thinking we could make a day of it. We'll go a little early, get some lunch, get a haircut and look around the shops. Yes, a happy day.

John walked over to me and said, "If you don't mind, I'm going to beg off today. I'd like to brush up on my Arabic. I'd just be sitting in the lobby waiting for you anyway."



Under different circumstances, this would have been perfectly fine. Afterall, I had never in 21 years of marriage asked him to accompany me to a haircut before. But this was different. I told him that would be fine and unbelievably he believed it and walked back to his desk.

I closed the door to our bedroom and stood there. Soon tears were welling up in my eyes as I wondered what in the world was wrong with me. I sat on the bed and cried some more. 

My grandma used to look at me when I was crying, hold out her hand and say, "Cry my hand full." I would lay my cheek against her hand and have a good cry. I needed someone to say that to me now. What was my problem? I began to create a list:

1. I do not know where the Nile Hilton is.
2. I can't tell my taxi driver how to get there.
3. What if my taxi driver gets lost?
4. What if he's a cranky taxi driver who just stares darts at you in the rearview mirror the whole way?
5. What if I get a bad haircut?
6. What if I can't find my way back from the Hilton?
7. What if I get into an argument with the taxi driver about the amount to be paid?
8. Why would my husband choose Arabic over the mental well-being of his wife?
9. Why is he letting me bawl my eyes out and not coming in to check on me?
10. Why did God think that I could even do this?



Wash and Rinse

With each thought and question, I cried some more. Finally I got a hold of myself and asked John to talk with me. I used to wait until he "felt" or "sensed" that something was actually wrong, but I didn't have hours (or days) to wait or the energy to give obvious, but secret signals.

I explained to him all the varied emotions I was having. (The pieces of shredded Kleenex on my face were a MAJOR clue...) Immediately, he wrapped his arms around me and assured me that he would be more than happy to go with me. Then I felt ashamed at being so weak. He smiled and told me that it wasn't weakness to feel this way and that if I were a bit fragile then he'd do whatever was necessary to help me. 

Yes, he's an amazing man. 

He promptly went downstairs and got small bills for the taxi ride. He packed his laptop and his earbuds so he could study while he waited for us. He hailed a taxi and we arrived at the front door of the Nile Hilton just as planned.



We ate lunch together and then he went on to the lobby while the girls and I headed to the salon.

A woman greeted us and gestured for us to go upstairs. A man in his fifties was waiting for us. (This is a major bummer since I was hoping for a woman.) He washed, cut and styled Aria's hair first. She just got a trim so she had minimal potential for disaster. He meticulously blowdryed her hair into bouncy fullness.

Bint Gameela (Beautiful Girl)

I came next since Emileigh decided that she didn't want a cut. He gave me the same shampoo treatment and then proceeded to work on the cut. He pulled up fairly large amount of hair and lopped it off with something slightly smaller than hedge trimmers. I thought, "Well, this is just the first trim. He'll come back with a smaller more precise pair of scissors for texturing and such."

Lop. Lop. Lop. Hair was flying and he kept looking at me for reassurance. What could I say? "I love the way you're cutting large amounts of my hair in no particular pattern." I smiled and waited.

The large scissors were put away and he reached for the blowdryer. Blowdryer? We're done? No little snips here and there?

He did a quick all over dry and then pulled out some little hair clips. He deftly clipped sections of my hair up on my head so he could easily access the lower layers of my new cut. He dried and dried and dried. He'd remove a clip and dry some more.

Finally he had everything just the way he wanted it. He pulled the blowdryer out one more time and did an all over shot and made my hair look like it went through a wind tunnel.

He pushed and pulled and flicked my hair until it was just as he wanted it. He sprayed it with hairspray and asked me how I liked it.

I looked in the mirror and smiled. "Kwy-ees," I said meekly. It was "good." Good in the fact that I wasn't bald and good in the fact that I still had bangs.

I thanked him and made my way downstairs to pay. I shot the girls a look and they were doing everything they could to keep from laughing.

I paid the lady and promptly asked the girls to lead me to the nearest restroom. We went inside and I asked them what they thought. Emileigh answered, "You remember Julie Andrews when she was in

Julie Andrews?

'The Sound of Music'?"

Aria said, "It's like a pixie cut."

Just when I thought I would burst into tears, they both piped up..."It makes you look younger. I don't know why, but it does."

Call me "shallow," but it worked. I looked at my reflection and decided I could work with what was left of my hair.

We met John out in the lobby. He was still working on his Arabic so we left him to seek out a consolation pastry. We shared a dessert and decided it was time to go home.

We piled into the taxi and made our way home uneventfully. Something so easy became something so large and unmanageable to me. It shook me up. But as I sit and type this at the end of the day I realize that I shouldn't seek "normal" or "easy." When something is "normal" and "easy" I immediately default to self-reliance and self-sufficiency. Only when something is obviously beyond my ability, control or foresight do I genuinely depend on the Lord.

So for now...I'm good again. My hair is cut. My husband is awesome and Jesus offers His hand to me and allows me to rest my face in His palm and cry.

Spanarabglish

Native Arabic speakers...

More and more my ears are beginning to tune to the sounds of Arabic. Bits of conversation and sporadic words have started to actually make sense to me. 1% down only 99% to go.

Prior to Arabic studies I had taken classes in Spanish. I'm not sure that having a history like that is helpful at this point. You see, I seem to be mixing all the current languages that I know into one new language. For instance, if I can't think of the correct Arabic word for something, I'll insert a Spanish one.

A waiter asked me if we were doing all right during our meal. I said, "Yes. Kwyees. Gracias." (An English "yes," an Arabic "good" and a Spanish "thank you.") Sometimes it's not that obvious. I won't know the correct preposition or conjunction in Arabic so I'll just add "en el" or "en la" or "con" and call it good.

The corker is that I don't realize I'm doing this until Emileigh and Aria begin smiling. I look at them and know I've just done something wrong. They pat my arm and assure me that I'll get it.

I hope so...otherwise I'm going to have to look for a very unique country to live in.

Dust to Dust

First published February 21, 2009

View from our 12th story apartment

When we first moved into our flat, our landlady suggested that we hire her housekeeper one or two days a week to help me clean. I laughed and looked at the size of our new place and told her I'd think about it. I actually had no intentions of doing such a thing. If I can't keep a house this size, then I should turn in my "Domestic Engineer" card. 

We've been in the flat now for 1 month and I've managed through some maintenance mishaps...broken washing machine, cracked kitchen faucet, water-damaged flooring. Each time we've been able to correct the problem with a lot of creative charades and local assistance.

Day to day cleaning has become an all new adventure. I am in a constant state of dusting. This is different because I've always been agreeable to a small layer of particles on my household goods. I considered it a "protective coating" against future damage. However, here in Cairo that approach only lasts for half a day at most. 

Just yesterday, I dusted in anticipation of guests coming to the house. I attacked the sand and grit with a complete arsenal of cleaners. I beat rugs. I flung brooms and dustpans. I sprayed Pledge until it smelled like an entire lemon orchard. I had reached "Cleaning Nirvana"--for exactly 12 minutes.

I opened the curtains to our balcony and viewed the city. A low cloud hung over the skyscrapers. That was not good. It meant the sands were coming--the very sand that I had just evicted from my pristine, polished home.

I sighed and realized that I will have to alter my cleaning routine. Rather than a bi-monthly scouring for a truly deep down clean, I would now have to consider a twice-daily effort. Thankfully I have two cleaning elves to help me--otherwise known as our daughters, Emileigh and Aria. They are thrilled with their new role. I've built it into their homeschool curriculum. I call it, "The Dust Bowl Reenactment of the 1930s." It's slotted within their history lessons. They're given extra-credit opportunities also.

This morning I reached for my laptop and saw a thin layer of "Cairo" on the lid. Fabulous. My white socks confirmed that indeed the dust had infiltrated in the night and I could be assured of another day of job security. What a relief.