Active Culture

I'm still doing that other thing.

2008-03-04T09:55:00.001+02:00

500andcounting.blogspot.com

Go there!

Um. In other news, I forgot why I opened this site to post. Shit.

I think I'll call them Sparky, Motsy, Philip, Professor Wikipedia, Rex....

2007-11-21T10:20:00.000+02:00

I think we all know, I am not the classiest of girls. On any given day you'll find me wearing whatever I fell asleep in, which is usually what I was wearing the day before. (I'm kidding! I only fall asleep in my clothes 4 times a week, and I typically change in mornings. Though its getting cold and even that's starting to seem less important.)

So when I moved onto the boat of luxuriant hedonism, I expected it to be, well, a luxuriously hedonistic lifestyle. I assumed I would have to invest in a fur bathrobe and Paris Hilton-esque sunglasses, and spend my nights sipping Italian wine while coyly flirting with Arabian princes on the balcony. No luck, sadly no sheiks have made their way to the Imbaba slum district, surprising I know!

However, I quickly learned that houseboats on the Nile are buggy. Looking like I was raised in Canada by lumberjacks means that it didn't take long for me to not be bothered by the bugs. But this weekend I realized that comfortableness that has developed might be too extreme. I woke up and went out to the balcony to have my morning tea, only to see my roommate had dropped a tablespoon of peanut butter on the ground, my immediate thought was "I should clean that up." Then, I thought "Nah, the ants will get it."

Couple hours later, the peanut butter was just a slight oil stain.

That's right. I treat the bugs like they are the house dog. Well, I've always wanted a pet in Cairo, I suppose.

Coming up with names for all of them is going to be a hassle though.

School-yard rules

2007-11-12T11:21:00.000+02:00

A little behind the rest of the world, I've been reading Thomas Friedman's "From Beirut to Jerusalem," beyond being a wonderfully well-written insightful though obviously sided account of the 70s and 80s in the Middle East its gotten my wheels turning again about this region.

Friedman's Op-Ed for the New York Times this week makes an interesting argument- that democracy may not be as important diversity. Respecting others rights, after all, is a keystone of democracy.

The very essence of democracy is peaceful rotations of power, no matter whose party or tribe is in or out. But that ethic does not apply in most of the Arab-Muslim world today, where the political ethos remains “Rule or Die.” Either my group is in power or I’m dead, in prison, in exile or lying very low. But democracy is not about majority rule; it is about minority rights. If there is no culture of not simply tolerating minorities, but actually treating them with equal rights, real democracy can’t take root.

But respect for diversity is something that has to emerge from within a culture. We can hold a free and fair election in Iraq, but we can’t inject a culture of diversity. America and Europe had to go through the most awful civil wars to give birth to their cultures of diversity. The Arab-Muslim world will have to go through the same internal war of ideas.

Maybe instead of state-building we should worry a little more about "creating an environment of tolerance" as my high-school guidance counselor used to call it.

Better Thongs and Tassles

2007-10-24T09:43:00.000+02:00

Nothing has been happening in Cairo lately, well for me anyway. So I'm going to tell you a story about my mom.

A few years ago my mother's best friend, K, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. As she got ill, my mom took it really hard. I've learned it isn't easy to make close friends when you're middle-aged, and having lived in the city for only a few years, I was glad my mom had a friend she felt she could talk to. Near the end, when this friend was in the hospital permanently, my mom decided to bring K some of her favorite magazines to help keep her busy. This friend loved home decor magazines, Country Homes-esque glossies profiling beautiful living rooms and well-lit kitchens.

My mom on the other hand, finds these magazines to be, well, dull. Her approach- Who cares about looking at furniture? Let's give K something worth staring at.

So she bought a stack of interior design magazines, a stack of Playgirls and set to work. I came home for the weekend to find my mother, at the age of 53 with scissors and a glue-stick at the dining room table cutting out photos of naked men and meticulously gluing them onto the pages -- positioning the man wearing nothing but cowboy boots delicately on the expensive sofa, and perching a man in a silver g-string on the white granite kitchen counter.

She filled the pages of one of the Better Gardens & Whatever with naked, leering men, shoved it in the middle of the stack of magazines and headed to the hospital.

I should be so lucky to someday be the kind of adult she is.

The Great American (unwritten) Novel

2007-10-15T23:36:00.000+02:00

Whenever anything bad happened in my life, my mother always would tell me "someday you can use it as material for your novel." Until she had expressed it, I had never even considered being an author. The first time I had my heart broken by a musician, the first time I broke someone else's heart (an mechanical engineer), the medical scares (cancer, unknown), all the short-comings and failed auditions (Shakespeare), it was always the same reaction-- "your novel."

I thought she was insane. She probably is. The thing is, I don't feel a novel coming, and bad things are happening to me less and less often. Its been almost a year since the last bad thing found its way in and out of my life (XXXX). So that book that will never be written is getting thinner and thinner with each passing year of happiness, which I think would be a good thing. But my mom, so full of faith in my writing ability, might disagree.

Bowling as passion

2007-09-12T13:09:00.000+03:00

This weekend I finally had a chance to utilize my Midwestern up-bringing in some way that's more useful than not being squeamish about dead animals or eating off the floor.
Hold tight, we're getting there.
On Sunday night, I went bowling. On the Nile (why do I feel like every since I moved onto the houseboat, everything I do has a Nile-centric theme. Maybe I should walk around with a martini and fur wrap and respond to every party invitation with "well, I'm sure thats a very diverting idea, but I think I would prefer to attend if it was held on the Nile.")
It was actually someone else's genius idea to go bowling, but I was the one who set up the phone tree of invites. Let's be fair, the phone tree is a huge responsibility, Someone should be giving me some kind of medal. This was special bowling for many reasons-
1. Harrison, the silky Nigerian had never been bowling before. As I was about to leave for the bowling lanes, Harrison asked if he could come, I told him I was in a hurry, so he immediately decided to shower for 20 minutes. Now, I was understanding a non-American's first-time bowling must be what my christening was like, Harrison was getting a step closer to god (or at least a step away from burning in afro-heathen hell) and he wanted to look good. I don't know if Harrison was confused or what and somehow thought bowling was a real sport but he dressed up in the shiniest white sneakers I had ever seen, basketball shorts and matching t-shirt. Sure, I had been wearing the same skirt everyday for the past 3 weeks, but it was my Action Skirt, good for impromptu street soccer and climbing over things, so I guess I can relate to Mr. NBA over there.

2. I dominated. (by dominate I mean I bowled 104, while everyone else barely broke 95) Finally all those years feeling embarrassed because I was lame enough to join a summer bowling league at the age of 14, (age requirement 12-14) paid off. In Wisconsin I was the worst bowler in the league, but in Cairo, there weren't any 12-year-old farm kids to outdo me, and I was a powerhouse. The fact that I used a eight pound ball doesn't detract from the completely unstoppable force that is me at all, in any way. I swear. (That's right, being up-staged by 12-year-old girls is not a new thing that has only been occurring since I've hit my twenties, but pre-teen girls have been humiliating me for a decade.)
I learned an important lesson: All I need to do to be good at sports is find someone from the third world who has never seen said sport played before. I challenge them to the sport, then refuse to tell them the rules. Finally, I secretly use children sized sports gear to win... because I am weak.

Next up, I think I'll take on Harrison at speed sledding, I bet Nigeria doesn't see a lot of snow.

Love at the Big Top

2007-08-24T13:41:00.000+03:00

Remember when I left Egypt in June, telling everyone that when I returned I would be a different, better Megan (read: wash my hair more than twice a week, wear mascara). I had met Injustice Megan in the week before I left and it terrified me. I saw what my life would be if I somehow veered horribly off my righteous path of awesomeness. Injustice Megan has all those unfortunate tendencies that I know I possess but try to avoid: loud, unfunny, unkempt hair, dresses only in t-shirts and jeans, talks too long about things no one wants to be listening to, and on the job front, over-dedicating oneself to something completely lame, not realizing its lame. And so, to prevent this horrible future I made a declaration: I, Megan E. Detrie, am going to get classy.

I went back to the USA for a month, got a haircut, bought a couple new shirts and my first set of decent heels. I was ready for Classy Megan to start making its way into my lifestyle more often.

Sadly, it’s been over a month back in Egypt and twice this week I went to work wearing the same clothes from the day before, I slept on a floor Tuesday, and I ate some spilled oatmeal off a coffee table. Today, I’m not even wearing my clothes, I’m wearing my co-workers, whose couch I passed out on after a party. I started out strong, but I’ve slipped. I’ll say it now, washing my hair is a lot of hassle, I know its chin-length and everything, but man, shampoo, who needs it? You have to lather and er.. condition. Hassle! I still haven’t mastered eye make-up or anything, but I didn’t think I looked so bad. Sure, I’m a little scruffy (read: homeless looking) but I own a skirt from the Banana Republic outlet, that should count for something.

But the continued un-classiness was made painfully clear to me last night. I went to a party in a dress and heels. Did the whole eye makeup thing, styled my hair (it takes three minutes, but somehow I still can’t bother) put the bottle of whiskey in the purse (just in case, you know) showed up and people started crying. Yes, I was that beautiful.

I knew about 70% of the partygoers, and I couldn’t pass a person without getting spun, complimented, or flat out told I asked by I always look so bad if I can look like this. I think I’ve backed myself into a corner. Now the nice-looking thing is no longer a fantasy, but an expectation. Sadly, while I proved I can look good, I’m still a loud, obnoxious drunk. So, I guess unless you define classy as “challenging an Ethiopian to a wrestling contest” or “opening beer bottles with my teeth” or “being really, really sweaty” I still have a ways to go before I make good on my declaration.

I figured I’d try out some of that old Megan charm, but now with heels!, and sidled up to one of the more attractive men at the party, a British guy. It immediately became clear that I had made a mistake when he told me “Well, you know the Egyptian circus? I’ve been living with them for the past four months.” The circus. Not just any circus, but the Egyptian circus. Judging from what the rest of the country’s entertainment in that price bracket looks like (unenthusiastic belly-dancing, the pyramid rides on horses with open sores, bribing the guard at the zoo to let you hold a tiger or vulture) I can only imagine living at the circus would involve a lot of accidental deaths, and spending time with bearded, but hijab’d, women.

To be fair, I bet it’s pretty awesome. Imagine inviting a girl back to your place: you make her some coffee, while your roommate brushes the lions. It sounds sexy. Ultimately the guy was more interested in me for my job contacts than my, ahem, other assets.

Leave it to me to go out, try to pick up a carnie ... and fail.

I’m wearing makeup today, so I’m awarding myself +6 classy points for wearing makeup to work, but I’m taking away 4 classy points from my overall classy score for the makeup being makeup I slept in and then left without washing it off.

World Press Photo

2007-08-23T14:42:00.000+03:00

The World Press Photo exhibit is in town. If you're in Cairo, go and see it. It runs until August 29 at the Sawy Culture Wheel.

Never in my life have I felt so insignificant just looking at pictures. There are a lot more stories in this world that are barely being told. Sometimes I think we all get caught up in our immediate reality, and forget about just how fascinating, horrific, and amazing the world really is.

The exhibit was a sharp reminder of why I'm in Cairo, working where I work. There are stories I want to be a part in telling, the present is just step one.

If you're not in Cairo go look at the gallery. Even on a computer screen, it's powerful.

Injustice Day

2007-08-12T10:22:00.000+03:00

I've always said, Egypt has a gift of kicking you while you're down. Somehow, on a bad day, Egypt just knows... The cab drivers will scream at you, the kids will grope, the shops are out of everything and everyone is miserable to you.

Last night I went to bed early in hopes of getting a full 6.5 hours sleep (the most I would have had in weeks). Sadly, Egypt figured out my plan and proceeded to send a swarm of hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-mosquito-scorned army to my bedroom. I woke up in the middle of the night because I itched so badly, my arms, shoulders, legs and back covered in bites. I showered, hoping it would reduce the itching, and then in 32 degree celsius (90 degrees fahrenheit) I dressed in a t-shirt, long pants, socks and crawled back into bed. I changed the bug device, lit a outdoor de-bug flare in the corner of my room and tried to get some sleep.

All of my efforts were met with limited success, somehow, the bugs, impervious to my intense chemical cloud, and 5 layers of clothing still managed to attack.

I woke up at 7:30 am covered in welts, exhausted and moody.

Then, the day began. I went out to catch the bus downtown only to find, overnight, for no apparent reason, the bowaab (doorman) changed the padlock on the front gate. I tried all four of my gate keys and none of them fit, I walked up to the bowaab's shed and shouted, knocked on his door, and generally acted annoyed.

Obviously, because this is Egypt, and I was having a bad day, he didn't answer.

I went and woke up my roommate to ask if he had given her a new key for the lock, she said no, but told me the second gate can be forced open with a lot of pulling. I went to the side gate, and sat there jabbing at for ten minutes, nothing happened. I looked at my options, I could not go to work, call in sick, go back to bed and wait for it to be tomorrow (this would've been the right choice) or I could scale the wall in my already slightly too short for the neighborhood skirt, get covered with Nile dust and jump the gate.

So, I did what any foreign girl dressed a little bit too trampy for the extremely poor and conservative neighborhood across the road would've done- I jumped the fence, got covered in grime, and flashed Imbaba.

That's right Imaba, the underwear is red today. I know you all were wondering, well, now you know.

I figured a latte would fix all of this, and while I don't normally indulge in the more expensive prospect of proper coffee, I thought it was my only shot at salvaging the day. I got off a metro stop early, walked to the American-style coffee shop Cilantro and ordered what turned out to be the weakest latte ever.

Warm milk, and more warm milk.

Sigh.

It's only 9:30 am.

Some kind of Egypt justice and then complete injustice America-style

2007-08-09T11:41:00.000+03:00

Let's give Egypt a hand: despite the unbelievably frequent use of torture in police stations, the invincibility that has led officers to video tape tortures and sodomize prisoners, and share the tapes with friends (and unintentionally youtube), it seems the cronies are finally getting something right.

Look! The justice system at work! Police enter a home, throw a man from the balcony, man dies, police investigated. It's beautiful.

"Gadallah's family alleges that police broke into the apartment and demanded he withdraw a complaint 39-year-old plumber had filed against one of their colleagues for stealing money from him about week before. When he refused, they threw him off the balcony, the family said Wednesday."

Functioning on the side of the righteous, just this once, the official response was to detain and investigate the officers.

"It's rare you get all the information right after the incident takes place," said Gasser Abdel Razeq, the director of regional relations for Middle East and North Africa of the New York-based Human Rights Watch. "Usually people are tortured and die in police custody and it takes a long time for people to find out what happened."

"Prosecutors are under increasing pressure to act quickly after several reports of police brutality were published on blogs and in local media over the past year, Abdel Razeq said."

Considering the severe oppression of political and religious reformers, its nice to see the common Joe Egyptian having a chance at due process, though sadly post mortim.

You can't help but hope, while being detained the officers get a little of what they are dishing out.

AND BACK IN THE LAND OF DEMOCRACY

...things are barely any better.

God, I really can't pick a winner, can I? A solid reminder of everything that is wrong with Milwaukee:

"Milwaukee police said a 3-year-old girl found a gun inside a home near Teutonia Avenue and Chambers Street and pulled the trigger. Investigators said the bullet hit the 6-year-old in the stomach.

A 32-year-old man who lives in the house told police he stores a loaded gun behind the stove and that the girl got a hold of it somehow and walked into a room where two 6-year-old boys were playing.

The gun accidentally fired, striking one of the 6-year-olds in the abdomen and bicep, police said.

According to police, the adults in the house fled with the exception of the 32-year-old man, who was arrested on charges of being a felon in possession of a firearm and leaving a loaded firearm within the reach of a child.

Police recovered the weapon -- a .32 caliber semiautomatic."

Where do I even begin on this one? A loaded semiautomatic behind the stove. Adults fleeing the scene. What the hell is wrong with you Milwaukee?

There is something fundamentally messed up with the freedom to bear arms translating into keeping a semiautomatic in the kitchen.

Lucy does America

2007-08-09T10:49:00.000+03:00

I'm taking things a little personally today. Well, I guess that's a lie, I'm taking things incredibly personally today. The fact that I almost welled us with tears when I read that Lucy was being moved to the United States for a ten-year tour lets our readership know I desperately need a nap.

I'm calling it now, those bones will never see Ethiopia again in the next 50 years.

What got to me was that the Smithsonian was against moving the bones, and the government went "Um, well, look, I'm sure you're very qualified to make that call and all, but we'd like to draw in a few more Safari adventure tourists, so... um. yeah."

Hey Ethopia, you're Ethiopia, Americans think Cancun is exotic and Canada is still frontier territory, sending your most precious scientific discovery on over isn't going to make Midwesterners drop their beer and hop a plane to the Horn of Africa. Newsflash, you're in Africa, Americans aren't coming.

(I'd come, I'd love to. But I also own a passport, unlike 79% of the population. Look. I'll make you a deal, Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia - You get the plane ticket for me, and we'll have Christmas at your house. I'll bring my mom's 7-layer salad.)

The downfall of a Cairo Champion

2007-07-31T09:43:00.000+03:00

After a year of living in the crowded, filthy downtown streets, I have earned my baladi credentials. When we moved into the Ahmed Shokry St. Apartment, nestled in the middle of the auto district, with the family of seven living in the one-bedroom flat across the hall, Kent and I decided to "zazz it up" by painting the living room neon blue. Kent got the paint from some guy down the road, and we painted until I inhaled enough blue to get a vicious cough that didn't leave for two weeks. The paint metastasized in my lungs right around the same time I was supposed to do the edgings (along with other gaping patches of primer). So we gave up, went on vacation, and promised to finish the job when we got back.

Since then I've moved to Israel and back, went to the USA and back, and finally, moved the hell out (Hello, houseboat on the Nile!). Kent leaves permanently on August 20. Kent's already brought in replacement tenants to tool around the neighborhood calling everyone basha, but all the same, I still feel the need to make a statement.

Kent Babin:
You are a disgrace to all that we stand for in Cairo. A job half done? Who do you think you are, The Cairo Metro planning committee? There isn't ever going to be a third line through Zamalek, but there sure as hell better be a completely blue room on the ninth floor of that building before you fly back to Canada.

All your months eating fuul, wearing your man-dress, and making our oven explode are meaningless if you don't finish the room. I won't be able to respect you once you're gone. The blue room is your last Cairo challenge. Go on, make the world a better place.

I may have sold out, but we all saw that coming. You on the other hand were meant to be baladi until the bitter end. Don't let down all those neighborhood kids who look up to you for your foreign passport and delicate white skin.
Paint the room.

A photo montage to remind you of your responsibilities to past and future residents:
(Former roommate Natasha, braving the unfinished paint job while sitting in the internet corner.)

(Kent, entertaining guests, amongst the fake-book TV stand, and giant hole in the wall. Please notice all the white spots, and hidden terror the guests feel.)

(Finally, me, sitting in the internet corner making a stupid face and wearing my favorite winter outfit. Hoodie, jacket, green scarf, thermal sleeping bag, unwashed hair. The tape is still on the windowsill for Kent to finish painting, and I am too depressed by the uneven wall color to breathe regularly. )

I'm calling you out, Babin. Yala ya Kent. Yala.

Welcome to Egypt

2007-04-24T11:22:00.000+03:00

I'm back in Cairo. Within the first 24 hours of being in town I ran into the fallen-saint Horreyia waiter. And stepped into a street fight involving a close friend, 4 punk kids and a giant stick. I actually threatened "What, what are you going to do ? You wanna fight? Fucking hit me, see how the cops like that."

Cairo makes me belligerent. God, it feels good to be home.

The Prodigal Son Gives Two Cents

2007-03-30T12:55:00.000+03:00

I refer to Egypt as home, and to returning to America as "going back to the states." I don't know exactly when I this happened. All I know is by the time I moved in with Kent, I was referring to my life in these terms. I am invested in that big mess of a country at the top of Africa.

I've been following the news closely this week, from BBC to activist blogs, to nomadlifers in Egypt's first hand accounts and feelings. I can't help but feel frustrated on two levels.

In the past the United States has stepped in and pressured Mubarak for democratic reform, and while changes were small, it showed promise. This time around Rice essentially bowed out, and the state department called the referendum a "domestic affair." Do I think the United States has any right to force democracy on countries? No. I think that often times the US assumes democracy is the holy path to political salvation and destroys a country's infrastructure trying to impose it. But while I don't feel the USA has a responsibility to convert the heathens to democracy, I know we have a history of shoving our nose in places that it doesn't belong. The constitutional amendment in Egypt is a prime example of a vote the United States would rush to the soapbox to condemn.

But our government didn't. What does this mean to me? That the United States is so afraid of another religious leader/party taking power in the Middle East that we are willing to abandon the "ever-important" mission of spreading democracy to the farthest reaches of the earth. Forget civil rights, the US is happy to encourage despotism where it previously supported self-determination, as long as the despot is less threatening than public will.

Beyond being obviously hypocritical, (we are good at that in the US) it makes me wonder what will happen to US foreign policy in the coming years. Is it possible that our mission of "spreading democracy" may finally be put to bed out of fear of unfriendly voters?

On a second note, while I was not surprised by the low voter turnout in Egypt. I was disheartened by the responses Egyptians gave me in regards to the constitutional amendments. I know some very intelligent, analytical locals; but when I asked how they felt about the protests or the constitution in general the answers were the same. They weren't concerned, it wasn't going to affect them. The government was too corrupt to care. They had better things to spend their time on.

Makes me wonder, beyond the United States' PR people, who really cares about democracy anymore? And as long as the elite possesses such a cynical attitude towards self-efficacy, could anything ever change for Egypt?

I don't know, but the second question really worries me.

Jerusalem

2007-03-22T17:15:00.000+02:00

One of the rewards of traveling is the people you meet. Over the past year I have been incredibly lucky, the people I've met have opened my world just as much as the things I've seen and the stories I tell.

Every child is taught 'Don't talk to strangers' and 'If someone offers you a ride, don't get in their car.'

We know life out there can be dangerous, but when you're a lone nomad in an ancient city, in a tension-filled country, you become a little more willing to take risks on people. Two weeks ago I went to Jerusalem alone, within 4 hours of getting off the sherut (service taxi) the ink had already worn away on my photocopied pages of the guidebook and I was trying to map a route to the Wailing Wall.

Out of nowhere, I was tapped on the shoulder by a 30ish guy, who asked me if I knew where the Mount of Olives was. I kindly explained to him that I was an idiot and he'd be better off asking the signpost if it had seen any dancing clowns lately than try and get directions out of me. Turned out he was Israeli, he and his two friends were playing tourist for the day. They had gotten bored with the old city and wanted to see if they could walk to Mount of Olives.

They invited me along. There's a backpacker culture when you travel; team up with other hostelers/hikers and make a day of it. But these people weren't backpackers, they were locals, locals inviting me to get in their car. I hesitated for a few seconds, but decided if I was ever going to make friends, I had to start somewhere.

It was a good choice. Biblically, Mount of Olives is famous as the mountain Jesus entered Jerusalem from, but now a days it offers a spectacular view over the old city as well as a more sobering view of the Israeli/West Bank partition wall on the other side of the mountain. The partition wall is called different things, based on whose team you're on. On the Israeli side they refer to it was the separation wall, while in Palestine it is the apartheid wall, the annexation wall, the racial segregation wall. One thing I've realized in this country is that the words you use to describe something or someone have a lot of meaning. (The importance of names in this country will, for the flow of the entry, be postponed for another day)

The section of the wall that I was looking at from the mountain cut a neighborhood in half. Adds a whole new degree of difficulty to borrowing a cup of sugar from your neighbor when you first have to cross a police check-point. The wall runs inside the West Bank, not on the border, "encircling Palestinian towns and villages and cutting off communities and families from each other, separating farmers from their land and Palestinians from their places of work, education and health care facilities and other essential services." (Amnesty International)

If the wall was built between the border of Israeli and the West Bank, along the Green Line, then the Israeli claim that it is a matter of security would seem more valid, and the wall would look less like an attempt at land-grabbing and oppression. One of the documentaries our sister company is working on is about a refugee camp in the West Bank, Aidia. In the documentary, the 'star,' an old man and ex-PLO member, travels two hours every other day to till a plot of land he has purchased for his sons, hoping it would ensure them a good future. The wall's construction has since cut him off from his land, and the documentary is looking for funding to be able to address the affects of this on the star and his family's lives. A report from Amnesty International gives more information on how the wall violates Palestinian rights.

It was one of the Israeli's who pointed the wall out to me as we stood on top of the mountain. She had disdain in her voice when she talked about it, but explained that three years ago Jerusalem was a ghost town, and while the wall was troublesome, it had stifled the bombing attempts, an unfortunate side effect was that it also stifled the Palestinian people.

But back to the fluffy stuff:

Afterward I was treated to an amazing picnic, with a ridiculous amount of food, brought home to play with a newly rescued and retardedly cute street cat, and taken out at night to some great bars. I slept in one girl's house, and ate leftovers from the picnic while I wandered around the city again the next day, and was sent home with a bottle of wine.

Amazing people. Sometimes I have all the luck.

(Karim, I expect more educational information in the comments on this one too. Get on it.)

In the family

2007-03-06T13:40:00.000+02:00

After the Purim party at the Kibbutz on Friday night, I went to stay with a friend's aunt. An entire set of extended family is all within a 10 mile radius, with three generations having houses on the same driveway. It's been a long time since I've been inside someone's familial house. It was pretty fantastic, and the whole Jewish-feeding-syndrome isn't exaggerated. All I did for two days was eat. Every conversation went: "Megan, are you okay? Do you want anything? a nap? some tea? a jacket? Do you want some fruit?" "No, no thank you." "Okay, so no fruit, how about an apple?" I liked it.

At the Purim party there was a little bit of a scene (not my fault) and my friend would wait until I was out of the room before telling the story to whatever family member was in front of her. Then when I returned to the room the questions changed slightly to "Megan, are you okay? Do you want anything? a nap? some tea? a jacket? Have you met any nice boys yet? I hear you were quite a hit at the party. They were shoving each other? It's that blond hair."

I went out for a drink with two of the twenty-something male cousins. While chatting, cousin #2 interrupts to tell me that cousin #1 is talking in Hebrew about me with a friend. They chat for a minute more, the friend walks off, and cousin #1 returns to the table’s conversation without saying a word.

Later on the friend I was traveling with told me this was the conversation I couldn’t understand:

“Hey, how are you? She’s American, right?

“Yeah.”

“Does she speak any Hebrew?”

“No.”

“My friend wants to meet her; can he come talk to her?”

“No, he can’t.”

“Oh.”

Absolutely hilarious.

I really have to get a handle on the language if men are ever going to get past the guards.

The Kibbutz Party

2007-03-05T09:48:00.000+02:00

[Me at the kibbutz this weekend, with my favorite hilltop of the Golan Heights]

I am doing Israel backwards. I entered the country at Eliat, hopped a bus to the Arab city of Nazareth and have since managed to go to a Kibbutz on the Sea of Galilee, and a very americanized area of small settlements created and supported by Edmond de Rothschild.

It's okay. So I have a warped understanding of Israel, a little more travel will fix that.

But the main point is, this weekend I was invited to a Purim Party. Purim is the Jewish holiday
that commemorates a story from the book of Esther, where the Jews were saved from Haman's plot to exterminate them. It's also an excuse to do all the things that are usually forbidden AND dress up in costumes. How could I not love this?

More interesting to me than the history of Purim was life on a kibbutz, technically its a collective. But to me it looked like a life-long summer camp.

Kibbutzim is one of the largest communal movements in history. It stems from the members Jewish population wanting to claim positions as farmers, move away from the stigma of the jews only having "clean jobs", but lacking the resources to do it individually. Supposedly they wanted to start a society free of exploitation, where all workers would be equal. Hell of a dream, it worked surprisingly well and 7% of the current population lives on Kibbutz's today.

The Kibbutz I visited was on the Sea of Galilee and besides being next to the Golan Heights (a whole other history lesson).* All the people there have grown up together in a community numbering around 300. At the age of 16 kibbutz members leave the family home and move into their own dorm style strip mall. If you're not married by the age of 25, again you get shifted to a different strip mall of apartments. People grow up with a whole lot of freedom, but not a lot to do with it.

The party itself wasn't as wild as Madison on Halloween, but its free alcohol and Jews dressed like 80's rock stars. All this on a banana plantation, pretty awesome.

I had a great time. Danced a lot, learned Arak tastes best mixed with lemonade and mint and served from a giant bucket.** Met some new people, argued terrorism with a special units soldier at 5 am after puking three times. All in all, a good party.

*back when Syria held the Golan Heights, snipers used to sit on the top of the hill and shoot into the Kibbutz. They killed a man inside his home once. I've been told it's a big part of the reason Israel is afraid to give the Golan Heights back.

**I kept calling it "jew wop" in my head, which is still hilarious, even now that I'm sober. So many racist implications, so close to 50's glib banter, fabulous.

Red Headed Step-Child

2007-03-01T17:16:00.000+02:00

So I've been doing a lot of photoshop art lately, and it makes sense to keep it off Active Culture.

so, there's a new comic up at www.thematteroffrance.blogspot.com

Enjoy. Or don't.

Coded messages and Immaculate conceptions

2007-02-27T11:15:00.000+02:00

I have a few wrap-ups to do about Cairo, and an introduction to my new life in Nazareth, Israel. But, I wanted to share a little of my Christian upbringing.

Last night, I drank a bottle of red wine sitting at the place Gabriel came to tell Mary she would bear the son of God. I got tipsy on a bench in front of Mary’s Well with an Irishman. I think everything is going to be okay.

it's all indie-morbid

2007-02-22T16:52:00.000+02:00

I deal with stress through photoshop.... I know it doesnt really suit my blog's style or tone, but art if for sharing. Print it out, put it on your fridge. Father's day is coming up, maybe turn it into a card to let daddy know how you feel.

The dance of the seven veils

2007-02-12T14:30:00.000+02:00

Last night I lived one of my biggest dreams. I saw skivvy belly-dancing. The Rough Guide outlines a handful of the cheap belly-dancing clubs in Cairo. Their recommendation was Palmyra, promising limited con tactics and a moderate amount of rhythm.

(Photo of the cafe we went to after the club)

Overall the experience was not dodgy enough for my tastes. The “hostesses” left us alone, focusing instead on the big spenders in the front row, no one tried to charge me for using the bathroom and only one person got thrown out for touching the dancers.

The Club was one of those awesomely crap experiences that Cairo excels in. It was by far the best display of sad old men I have seen yet in Cair. They were eating cheese trays displayed in a tinfoil tree, petting street cats and holding hands with the “hostesses.” Every once and a while the sad men would get onstage with a dancer and “shower” her with a few five pound notes, as they pranced around her barely moving, incredibly bored body. It was more about the buxomy cleavage than any kind of dancing.

Onstage was chaos. All the dancers were less than enthusiastic and everything about the place felt like open mic night at the townie bars. The first dancer merely swayed side-to-side, sometimes stopping to blow her nose in a tissue she was carrying. She got a money shower once, earning her 3.75 LE. Nice catch. Another dancer dressed in silver sparkles got two showers, probably netting her twenty pounds and the dancer of the week award.

The hostesses would just wander onstage and start talking to the band in the middle of a song. The audio system was crap, and the MC unintelligible. The only words we could make out were when he would be introducing the audience to other members of the audience.

“This is Ahmed from Boub al louq.” “This is Mike from Pennsylvania.”

Gradually the dancers became more attractive, and the outfits more revealing, but while is failed to meet my sleaze standards, it outmatched my previous Sad Cairo experiences.*

Last night was also a right of passage for Karim. Many young Egyptian men check out a sleazy belly-dancing club as a pack in their teens, our sweet Karim did not. Leave it to us to gutter his tastes up a bit.

All in all I give it a 6/10. Averaging 2/10 for effort, 8/10 for last nights in town points and 5/10 for creepiness.

*Cairo is broken up into districts- Downtown, Islamic Cairo, Coptic Cairo, etc. I figure, Sad Cairo should be a official zone, and all the streets/building/rooms in the city that are filled with sad people entertaining themselves in sad ways should be pinpointed for easier navigation. Sad Cairo is most definitely my favorite place to spend a Sunday night.

And it's a Long Day, Livin’ in Reseda

2007-02-10T13:42:00.000+02:00

Living in Cairo has meant countless dinner parties and nights passed with guitar playing, and me belting out the wrong words while everyone around me is three-part harmonizing to sing a-long songs. My first month here, I got it into my head that we needed to sing Tom Petty’s “Free Falling.” It is the first song every college guy who’s teaching himself to play guitar learns because it’s so simple. I thought it would be a breeze.

Dody tried and failed to master the 3-chords, Ziyad had never heard it and couldn’t get the right tempo. We tried for a half hour before we gave up.

My second week here, I was lucky enough to meet Dody and Ziyad. They were the first to take me on adventures, mock me for thinking I wouldn’t let Cairo drama claim me and are counted among the few who really looked out for me. They’ve been the most under-appreciated friends I’ve had here. Friends I took for granted. Friends who I missed out on too often. Ziyad left in fall, and I missed him, Dody is leaving in a few days, and he too will be missed.

I’ve always been shy about telling people how much of an impact they had on me. But I want to tell someone about them, so I’m telling you. I count the two of them amongst the most important discoveries I have made in Cairo. I still ask Dody questions when I need to put things in perspective, and I think about all the long train and bus rides spent trying to explain to Ziyad American dating terms. Knowing them has made me a better person, and for that I am grateful.

Last night was my final dinner party with these friends, we stayed up singing until 4 am, and I swear this time I was hitting the right notes and everything about the night felt like my world felt eight months ago. It was a really good feeling.

We tried and nailed "Free falling," I guess that's as good of a sign as an it's time to leave.

I made modern day macaroni art

2007-02-06T18:05:00.000+02:00

I used to superimpose sexy Bond quotes on photos of my friends for fun. As today's lesson in unproductiveness, I turned last night's dream into a pathetic amount of time spent with Photoshop.

In search of Mohammad

2007-02-01T19:59:00.001+02:00

This is Gerardo Cavazos.

He arrived a few weeks after me, approached me at a party and drunkenly asked, “Who are you?” I gave him my name and country, but he wanted to take it existential. “No. WHO are yooou?” Drunkenly repeat. Every time I see him. For 3 weeks. “Who are YOU?”

Well dear Gerardo, screw me, I bet the state department really wants to know about you. Its just a matter of time before you cross their borders to become my illegal maid.

True things I know about Gerardo:
1. He was born in a Mexican city with a cement factory
2. He has pet names for his nanny
3. I never understand a damn thing he’s saying
4. Constantly is requesting for people to shower with him, offers soap
5. While dancing shoots uses his hands as pretend guns, shooting into the air like a cowboy. It’s beautiful.
6. Shares my love of Rilo Kiley, and will have to fight me to sleep with her
7. Every Egyptian company that has employed him immediately financially implodes.

Which leads me to believe:

8. Gerardo is involved in high-level embezzlement, CIA-like precision recon work
9. He can afford to buy me lunch every now and again. Cheapskate

The final true fact:

10. Gerardo is a total dude. And I will miss him.

As many readers may have noticed I am a girl, and for some reason Gerardo thought I would know what girls like. This led us on a trek to Khan Ah Khalili, the very touristy market in the middle of Islamic Cairo yesterday.

At the bar the night before, Gerardo tried to buy the chair he was sitting on. Horeyiah’s waiters intelligently refused to sell. The chairs are pretty cool, but they are the standard wood chair at every coffee shop in the city. Still a business needs chairs, I wouldn’t let it go without a fight either. The one Gerardo wanted had the seat with pyramids on it, and his little burrito-filled heart would break if he didn’t have it.

And so, the quest for Mohammad began.

The street leading to Khan Ah Khalili is filled with cookwares and furniture. The waiters had told us to look there. Within ten minutes we had found and purchased a Cleopatra seat, but Gerardo wanted the Pyramids. We were told to go down a dark alley to find more designs.

What followed was a treasure hunt that Cairo alone could provide. We walked around the Wood Beveling District (oh it exists) holding the Cleopatra Seat and asking “Where? “Where?” over and over again. Everyone kept directing us to “Mohammad”* but, just like with the real prophet, no one had a clear idea on his life and whereabouts.

At one store Mohammad was an easy third street on the right, turn left then left again.
At the place that sells doors, Mohammad was one right and an ala tuul (straight ahead).

Everywhere we went it went like this:
Gerardo, pointing at the seat “This, Where? Where?” (Arabic) “I want Pyramids!” (English)
Egyptian man: “Rapid-fire Arabic, Mohammad, Rapid-fire Arabic, left-right-right-left” (Wild but entirely unhelpful hand directions)

(A dedicated explorer)

Eventually we found a man who seemed to think he could help. Gerardo began speaking foreigner-using-limited-language-to-explain-a-complex-want Arabic. It looked like we were getting results.

The man started scribbling on scrap paper. I assumed it would be a map, but instead, he was taking our order. Gerardo had just accidentally bargained the price of four pounds per piece for this man to do something, What? We don’t know. Eventually the man got a better idea of what we wanted, wrote something in Arabic on a piece of paper and sent us off.

( Chair found during search, that is made in typical chair style. Note: Lacks Pyramids.)

We added the paper into our routine of asking, pointing and wandering, but had no idea what it said. Eventually I also drew the pyramids on another sheet of paper because we realized we didn’t know if “pyramids” was pyramids in Arabic.

After about two hours we found the man who made the designs on seat covers. MOHAMMAD! He could offer us flowers and Nefertiti, but no Pyramids.

(Looking for a cheap Kofta and Kebab place for lunch, it seems our friendship centers around heartbreakingly fruitless searches)

At Khan Khalili I convinced Gerardo his girlfriend would go crazy with lust if he bought her a rug made out of rabbit pelts as a souvenir. I’ll make sure to post the angry e-mails from her when they start rolling in.

*Mohammad is the name of every 1 out of 3 Arabs. Don’t believe me? Go to your nearest Egyptian embassy, scream out Mohammad and watch the staff stampede.

The call of the wild

2007-01-29T21:13:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I visited the Manyal Palace, built around the 1900’s for Prince Mohammad Ali, a monarch-hopeful who never made it to the throne. The interior is a fabulous display or Turkish influenced architecture. But we’re not here to talk fabric and tile.

By far the best part of the palace is the Hunting Museum. Created entirely from animals killed by King Farouk and his friends, it’s a long and narrow corridor on the side of the grounds. It is filled with over 300 gazelle heads, 35 ducks and many other dead animals.

I understand the collection of gazelles. I am from Wisconsin, it is not uncommon to enter a friend’s home and find decapitated deer hanging off their wall. But, Ducks? Sure, maybe a mallard and a lady duck on display. Come on, King Farouk, thirty-three ducks?

Ducks aren’t that hard to kill, I’ve watched Emily try numerous times with a spatula and some raid.

Watch out ducks, she once called me sobbing hysterically cause she thought she heard a bat in her bedroom, but she’s not messing around anymore.

Now if there’s one thing we know I love its dead animals. But the display had by some of the creepiest attempts at taxidermy I’d ever seen.

If loving bad taxidermy is wrong, then I don’t ever want to be right.

What is that thing? Supposedly it's a hermaphroditic goat. Which is awesome.

Now, I’m not a stickler when it comes to displaying animals or anything, but what exactly is so amazing about all those hooves. I get it, deer come in various sizes, and you’ve killed them all. Well done, let’s move on with our lives. Please note the especially unfortunate braided deer leg. Somehow I have nightmares of hipsters sporting similar examples at NY hot spots.

“This belt? Complete vintage. King Farouk, 3rd Dynasty. Natch.” (clearly, I have no idea how indie kids speak)

At the very end of that long hallway was the best part. Roped off so you couldn’t get closer than 5 feet, was the best display of Sahara animals, ever. Obviously, I wasn’t about to let arbitrary boundaries stop me.

An up close look showed some sad, sad road kill. Despite being covered in dust, the poor bastards who set up the display seemed to have no understanding of the natural world. Foxes were chilling with sea turtles, lions were spooning with salamanders, and birds, well, they didn’t even have wings.

Animals that in life would’ve been natural enemies were forced to spend eternity at an imaginary Egyptian tea Party.

My two favorites though was the ocelot made from a saddlehorse, and the lion fighting the deer to the death.

I was just waiting for the traffic cone wombat.

I don’t know about you guys, but my money’s on the deer. Clearly that little guy has a good grip on the Lion’s neck, while the Lion only has one foot in the mouth. What is that shit? Everyone loves when the underdog wins.

Upon closer inspection I learned why the deer was so obviously kicking ass. The lion’s body had been replaced with canvas. It wasn’t even a fair fight. The lion had no arms, or claws. Well at least that also means he didn’t have a central nervous system and couldn’t feel the pain. (Or the humiliation of losing to a herbivore.)

I think the curators need to spend a little more time in high school biology before they create their next display.