Kolle Sana Wenta Tayib (litearlly "Every year, the same"-a traditional Ramadan greeting that is roughly equivalent of "It's the most wonderful time of the year...it's the hap-happiest season of ALLLLLLL")
Yes, it is Ramadan again…the Muslim equivalent of Christmas…only with a month’s fasting, lots of prayer, and an inward focus on God and all that is right and good. Then again, Ramadan in Egypt is nothing like Christmas in America is it?
So, in Egyptian parlance, today was Thanksgiving Day +1…the biggest shopping day of the year. Where was I? Carrefour-the Egyptian (French actually) Wal-mart. Pretty crowded-and I do crowds. Still, I loved every minute of it…mostly because I got to see some many funny things. Here is an example:
I reach the pasta pinnacle of Carrefour at exactly the same time as a very ordinary-looking Egyptian lady and I offer my hand signaling that she should go first. Naturally, she goes first and stops right in front of me and loads 4 FLATS OF MACCARONI (24 bags per flat and 8 servings per bag) INTO HER CART!!!! Really…this is the month of fasting? What was she doing—preparing for Moses to come back? Who needs that much macaroni? I would have just passed it off as a “weird Egypt sighting” but the woman behind her got 2 flats, the woman behind her, 2 more flats. I sat there for a full 2 minutes people watching. Have I missed the announcement that pasta was being discontinued world-wide?
Anyway, our lanterns are up. Ramadan Kareem (Happy Ramadan!)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Re-Entry!
I have never known an astronaut personally but I suspect there is a moment when returning from space…you know right at the last minute when they pull the rip cord and go sailing into the ocean. Surely, it feels like a bizarre mixture of relief meets hitting a brick wall. It’s gotta be like when you are going 50 mph on a roller coaster and it suddenly comes to a “full and complete stop…thank you for riding the Brain Scrambler at Paramount’s Kings Dominion and have a great day”. Anyway, this is a feeling that all humans share…be it going back to work after a week at the beach, or that first day of post-Christmas diet…getting a credit card statement. Today, I got my turn. Yep, ya just swallow it and try to keep moving forward. So it was with our first official “return from summer leave”.
I have been warned of the difficulty of just such moments. Returning from 2 months of fun in the sun would be difficult on anyone. However, I, like most ex-pats, am surprisingly self-absorbed about every little difficulty in my charmed life. I will say though that 24 hours never seems longer than when spanned over 3 continents and human species virtually unknown to each other except by tenuous ex-pat threads such as our own. I spent what could have passed for an eon at Raleigh/Durham airport crying my eyes out about how much I’d miss my family. I felt comforted that the kids were crying too…they’d miss the sunshine, and the toads hopping around at my parents’ house…and then I figured out they were faking it to make me laugh. Despite the overcrowded airport, people began to slowly back away from us. Yes, we are the ones crazy enough to live in Egypt.
We made the connection in England with all the speed of a socialist official reforming health care…clunky, with lots of prim looks and virtually no help. I don’t understand Anglophiles at all.
Arrival in Egypt was hot (predictably), chaotic (predictably), crowded (predictably), frustrating (predictably) and filled with cross-cultural gaffes (should have been predictable). There was the woman in line ahead of us at baggage claim who refused to acknowledge a clean, upper-class, and well-intentioned Egyptian family who followed her around yelling “you are welcome in Egypt”. I explained to her that in Arabic “welcome to” and “welcome in” mean the same thing. She looked at me as if I had two heads (oh crap! Was I speaking in Arabic or English?) and told me “yeah, I just couldn’t understand her broken English”. Oh boy! I feel pretty bad for her tour guide already. “This is zee Sphinx. “Oh, it is ‘ZSPINX”…I thought it was just called ‘the Sphinx”. He already looked haggled with about 10 such travelers. I should have given him a little appreciatory tip just for existing for Americans like that. I didn’t. Because I am American and cheap like that.
We checked the maximum amount of luggage allotted to our family size-8 suitcases of 50lbs each and 8 carryons. Sixteen in all! One checked bag was lost in transit. It is always about the one that got away isn’t it? I can’t help but think of all that bag could have contained (World peace? Whirled peas? Which would I want more here in the land of stinky Pharaoh food?) While Joe was filling out a missing bag report (joke) and trying to figure out who to bribe to go look for it (truth), I took the kids to meet our driver. Once we located him, we sat ourselves comfortably beside a large family who looked to simply be picnicking in the airport for the day. If they were waiting for anyone, it wasn’t obvious to us. With the family sat a boy about 10 years old who sheepishly looked quite interested in the many bag of books and activities that my thoughtful mother packed for our journey (thanks mom!). I handed the boy a “Where’s Waldo?” or “Waldo feyn?”) book to look at with Aedan who at this point was over the airport seats making himself comfortable among the caftans. Naturally, everyone in the airport encroached to take paparazzi style photos of my little 6 year old blonde wonder “oh my…he is reading a book”….”look at that, he walks to his mother to ask for a Kleenex!”. Virginia was off in her own starlet-world receiving kisses on the cheek from TSA official (NOT kidding! Aren't they supposed to be protecting travellers?). I wondered for the millionth time how my kids would do with all the attention and blinding flashbulbs in their faces. I need not have worried. Aren’t all kids programmed to be adored?
Two minutes before Joe arrived with the fateful news about our missing bag, the leader of the caftanned group asked me (in Arabic) if he could take “EEEEEdan” (Aedan) to “my country”. To buy myself time to keep from screaming “are you INSANE”, I politely asked where his country was. After all, it had been a long flight to be a mother of a small child and maybe Australia wouldn’t have been too bad. Just kidding! Anyway, once convinced that I would not allow Aedan to travel without one of his parents, Grandfather Caftan asked us all to dinner at his place (in "his country" which turned out to be Egypt). This was not a joke nor is it uncommon in Egypt. I think that Egyptians fantasize about having a blonde child to their house (more paparrazi photos and without the annoying problem of running out of battery charge!) the way I fantasize about running into Gloria Steinem in the airport and inviting her for a Starbucks. Anyway, his offer was totally sincere and despite my rational, logical, politically-correct training, I started getting a little panicky. “Well”, I reasoned to him, I really would LOVE to come with my husband, but you see, we were just returning from a long journey and I needed to return home to ready our home”. “AHHHH, okay” opines a patient Grandfather Caftan. “Take my mobile number so we can do it tomorrow. I will cook many chickens to welcome you in Egypt”. “Thank you Thank you” I say, trying to avoid an international incident before ever technically stepping on Egyptian soil. “I will try to call”. Just then and with the timing of a stand-up comedian and the attitude reserved only for daughters to their mothers, Virginia says to me “Mooooom. Didn’t you know that Pinocchio’s nose grew when he lied!”. Whoops! Time for a nose job!
Yes, welcome in Egypt indeed!
I have been warned of the difficulty of just such moments. Returning from 2 months of fun in the sun would be difficult on anyone. However, I, like most ex-pats, am surprisingly self-absorbed about every little difficulty in my charmed life. I will say though that 24 hours never seems longer than when spanned over 3 continents and human species virtually unknown to each other except by tenuous ex-pat threads such as our own. I spent what could have passed for an eon at Raleigh/Durham airport crying my eyes out about how much I’d miss my family. I felt comforted that the kids were crying too…they’d miss the sunshine, and the toads hopping around at my parents’ house…and then I figured out they were faking it to make me laugh. Despite the overcrowded airport, people began to slowly back away from us. Yes, we are the ones crazy enough to live in Egypt.
We made the connection in England with all the speed of a socialist official reforming health care…clunky, with lots of prim looks and virtually no help. I don’t understand Anglophiles at all.
Arrival in Egypt was hot (predictably), chaotic (predictably), crowded (predictably), frustrating (predictably) and filled with cross-cultural gaffes (should have been predictable). There was the woman in line ahead of us at baggage claim who refused to acknowledge a clean, upper-class, and well-intentioned Egyptian family who followed her around yelling “you are welcome in Egypt”. I explained to her that in Arabic “welcome to” and “welcome in” mean the same thing. She looked at me as if I had two heads (oh crap! Was I speaking in Arabic or English?) and told me “yeah, I just couldn’t understand her broken English”. Oh boy! I feel pretty bad for her tour guide already. “This is zee Sphinx. “Oh, it is ‘ZSPINX”…I thought it was just called ‘the Sphinx”. He already looked haggled with about 10 such travelers. I should have given him a little appreciatory tip just for existing for Americans like that. I didn’t. Because I am American and cheap like that.
We checked the maximum amount of luggage allotted to our family size-8 suitcases of 50lbs each and 8 carryons. Sixteen in all! One checked bag was lost in transit. It is always about the one that got away isn’t it? I can’t help but think of all that bag could have contained (World peace? Whirled peas? Which would I want more here in the land of stinky Pharaoh food?) While Joe was filling out a missing bag report (joke) and trying to figure out who to bribe to go look for it (truth), I took the kids to meet our driver. Once we located him, we sat ourselves comfortably beside a large family who looked to simply be picnicking in the airport for the day. If they were waiting for anyone, it wasn’t obvious to us. With the family sat a boy about 10 years old who sheepishly looked quite interested in the many bag of books and activities that my thoughtful mother packed for our journey (thanks mom!). I handed the boy a “Where’s Waldo?” or “Waldo feyn?”) book to look at with Aedan who at this point was over the airport seats making himself comfortable among the caftans. Naturally, everyone in the airport encroached to take paparazzi style photos of my little 6 year old blonde wonder “oh my…he is reading a book”….”look at that, he walks to his mother to ask for a Kleenex!”. Virginia was off in her own starlet-world receiving kisses on the cheek from TSA official (NOT kidding! Aren't they supposed to be protecting travellers?). I wondered for the millionth time how my kids would do with all the attention and blinding flashbulbs in their faces. I need not have worried. Aren’t all kids programmed to be adored?
Two minutes before Joe arrived with the fateful news about our missing bag, the leader of the caftanned group asked me (in Arabic) if he could take “EEEEEdan” (Aedan) to “my country”. To buy myself time to keep from screaming “are you INSANE”, I politely asked where his country was. After all, it had been a long flight to be a mother of a small child and maybe Australia wouldn’t have been too bad. Just kidding! Anyway, once convinced that I would not allow Aedan to travel without one of his parents, Grandfather Caftan asked us all to dinner at his place (in "his country" which turned out to be Egypt). This was not a joke nor is it uncommon in Egypt. I think that Egyptians fantasize about having a blonde child to their house (more paparrazi photos and without the annoying problem of running out of battery charge!) the way I fantasize about running into Gloria Steinem in the airport and inviting her for a Starbucks. Anyway, his offer was totally sincere and despite my rational, logical, politically-correct training, I started getting a little panicky. “Well”, I reasoned to him, I really would LOVE to come with my husband, but you see, we were just returning from a long journey and I needed to return home to ready our home”. “AHHHH, okay” opines a patient Grandfather Caftan. “Take my mobile number so we can do it tomorrow. I will cook many chickens to welcome you in Egypt”. “Thank you Thank you” I say, trying to avoid an international incident before ever technically stepping on Egyptian soil. “I will try to call”. Just then and with the timing of a stand-up comedian and the attitude reserved only for daughters to their mothers, Virginia says to me “Mooooom. Didn’t you know that Pinocchio’s nose grew when he lied!”. Whoops! Time for a nose job!
Yes, welcome in Egypt indeed!
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