Falling in love with those brown eyes

   I never thought preschoolers could be such heart stealers. But they are and they do it so well. Took me completely by surprise. I have never been a baby-crazy person. I have always been indifferent to having kids of my own. I always thought kids are fun, but mostly fun because at the end of the day, they go home with someone else and become their problem.

   But after just three months in an Egyptian nursery, all that has changed. I have become that person who constantly posts pictures and statuses to social network, cooing about how cute my students are. I'm worse than that obnoxious parent who always goos and gaws over their first child, because I got ten all at once! Ten walking, talking, prepackaged with hilarious antics children. My friends regret asking me how work is, because I have to gush about all the adorable things Moustafa and Marawan and Hala did that day. How did this happen?
   And everyday it happens over again. I walk in to class and get ambushed by happy three-year olds shouting, "Miss Liza! Miss Liza!" They may have stolen my heart but at least they keep it warm and happy for me.

Fareda walks up to me and goes through the usual routine. "Miss, miss! Mama gaya imta?" (When is mommy coming?) I got tired of making excuses a long time ago, so I look down at her seriously and respond, "four hours." "Four howers?" She asks with her baby voice, looking back up at me. "Yes, mama is coming in four hours." "Okay," she responds happily, as if that answer makes everything okay. She goes back to drinking her apple juice, making her brown eyes cross as she looks curiously at the straw in front of her.

Moustafa spends five minutes telling me about his mom's reaction when he is being naughty. He tries to impersonate her face, which looks like a face you might make while eating lemons with a click at the end. He's such a talker, and I'm sure that's not exactly the face his mom makes when she is mad at him for running around too much and breaking everything (according to his story), but his three-year old impression of it is hilarious. And the way he squeezes his little brown eyes shut to look angry.

Yassin goofs off at the breakfast table, playing with his cousin Marawan. The two are absolutely inseparable. Everything one does, the other has to do. But they are good friends to each other, and as much trouble as they sometimes cause, who can be angry with happy little boys who just have too much energy? Yassin's elbow knocks over his water bottle, spilling half of it onto the floor. I breath in and out slowly, because this isn't the first time. But his startled, innocent brown eyes remind me it was just an accident, and it was only water, and he's just too cute.

Malak sits quietly at the table where she is coloring next to the other children. She never fights over colors like the others, but rather patiently waits her turn, and sweetly asks me to sharpen pencils when they need it. Every time I come near she says, "bussy miss, aamalty eh?" (Look what I made!") And proudly shows me her colorful scribbles. "Good job, Malak! I love the green!" I'll reaffirm her, and she just smiles happily with her perfect brown eyes, and goes back to her professional three-year old scribbling.

My first Arab wedding

   

   I went to my first Arab wedding. Finally. I've seen my share of wedding processions drive honking by, and heard the celebrations go into all hours of the night. Seen the brides in their gorgeous dresses get pictures taken in the park. Heard the fireworks. And more fireworks. But I never had enough guts to crash one and see what all the fuss was about.  

   But a friend of a friend got married a few weeks ago, so a group of us put on our best going-out clothes and drove up to Alexandria. Late, naturally.

   We still made it to the hotel's reception just before the wedding party. They had quite the entrance. First at the staircase they were welcomed by a band playing traditional music, surrounded by guests taking pictures and videos with their phones. Honestly, the guests didn't need to bother because there were four camera men taping the whole scene from different angles, and everything was being streamed onto flat screen TVs in the reception hall.

   Then at the main doors they were announced to the crowd by a DJ, flashing lights, upbeat music, and a dancing troupe of men with poles lit on fire. It was intense to say the least.

   That was the theme of the whole night. Intense. Disco music. DJ. Flashing lights. Swirling cameras, zooming in and out, in and out. It was an interesting contrast to the very elegant and fancy décor of the hall. Beautiful table clothes, place settings, decorations, flowers, the works. The cake had five layers to it, and the cameras spent five minutes swirling around it, zooming in and out, in and out. It was a beautiful cake but I was a little dizzy by the end of it.

   After the bride and the groom were introduced, the dancing began. First, a slow dance for the newlywed couple. Then, the tempo sped up. All the men surrounded the groom and all the ladies surrounded the bride. Clapping, and laughing, and spinning. It took some pressure to get my friends and I to join. Let's be real, I love dancing and am not afraid of much, but it was so devastatingly obvious that we didn't know anyone. And we were so, so white. There was no way to blend in. At first I stood politely at the edge of the group, clapping and smiling politely, because I didn't know what the heck I was doing. But then some aunt pulled me into the circle with the bride, forcing me to join the group. I smiled and danced as best as I could, trying to gauge the bride's reaction to my random appearance at her wedding. She was graceful and welcoming, as I expected.

   I tried to look happy and not completely overwhelmed whenever one of the four camera men zoomed in on me, so that when the newlyweds watched their very expensive wedding video down the road, at least I would look like a fun wedding crasher. But I still predicted everyone the next day to stop and wonder, “who were those random white girls?”

   We followed along with the group for the dancing that lasted for the next hour. I was really confused because in America, dancing follows the food. So as the hour dragged on, I started to get hungry, and I started to worry that maybe at this part of an Arab wedding, there was no food. I tried to be rational. Arab culture feeds you all the time. You take a forty-five minute flight on an Arab airline, they feed you. And I remembered there being silverware on the table, so rationally food must be in the schedule at some point.

   It was. After the dancing, the doors were opened to the buffet room. After seeing the amount of food being served, I understood why the dancing happened first. No one would have been able to move if the order was reversed. It was a good strategy.

   As people left, the bride and groom sat on their platform to receive their congratulations and have pictures taken with the guests. We stood in line for our turn, I gave one more big smile for the camera, and left my first Arab wedding. Now I know what all the fuss is about.

Missing my fellow bread-carrying judger

Walking to school, the Abu Houl intersection.

   The art of bread carrying. I always admire the stacks of bread being transported from point A to point B while on my way to school. Bread is a staple of the Egyptian diet. The flat, round pita-type bread is eaten with everything, often times used as the utensil instead of a fork or spoon. And in a city of over twenty million people, that means a lot of bread has to make it from the oven to the home.

   The most common way I see is on a large, woven tray carried on top of the head, but there are apparently other methods to get that bread safely through the busy streets. Sharon, my walking buddy, and I used to rate the levels of expertise exhibited by these bread transporters.

   The bigger the tray, more points. The higher the stacks, more points. No hands, more points. Sometimes the tray has multiple levels, so more points. My favorite are the women who navigate the traffic, tray balanced precariously on top of their head, while talking on their cellphone. Or the kids swerving around cars on their bikes, bread tied in front or behind them. Bikes equal more points.

   Sharon and I couldn't believe it one morning when a car passed us with bread laid out on the hood. We had to create a special bonus round for that level of skill!

   Sharon was an awesome walking buddy to school every day, and I'm going to miss her while she goes back home to the states for a few months! Even though I have so many great friends from other countries, sometimes there is a special connection that can only be found in someone from the same place, same background as you.

   Sharon is a solid, down to Earth woman who understands my lingo, my accent, my mannerisms, how I see the world, everything. She lived in the room next to me at the hostel, having hung out in Egypt for a few years after marrying a sweet, shy Egyptian man. I definitely took advantage of her advice and experiences from living here, from how to get to the grocery store to how to have the best “don't mess with me face” while walking through the street.

   Sharon, I am going to miss walking into the flat every day after school and calling out, “Sharon, my Sharon!” And hearing you answer, “Liza, my Liza!” Then immediately sitting outside on the patio with your LM Whites, you listening so attentively to all my adventures with the three-year olds that day, and taking my side on anything that might have gone wrong.

   I might even miss you feeding the street cats that you spoiled so much now one doesn't even run away from me. And who is going to make me chicken soup? Because I know you said it's simple, and explained the process to me, but cooking an entire chicken is still intimidating.

   Don't worry, though. I will send you any updates about new ways I see to carry bread through the streets on my way to school!

The Thrill of the Microbus

   Moving to Cairo, I thought the most important language I would need to learn was Egyptian Arabic. Nope. It was the language of the road. The roads here are a crazy, hot mess. Looking both ways before crossing the street is a must, right? Yeah, but here, even for one way streets, look both ways twice. Or maybe three times.

A really bad picture of crossing the street.
Not exactly going to stop mid-crossing to try to
capture the craziness, but at least there's some
microbuses in the background to see.

   Crossing the street is like a game of Frogger, except the stakes are a bit higher. Like, no extra lives for one. You know the phrase, “walk like an Egyptian”? Yeah, I'm convinced that's not a funky dance. That's crossing the street like a boss; knowing how to perfectly time between those two cars, microbus, tour bus, and the motorcycle delivering McDonalds without dying. Whenever I am unsure about a road, I just find an Egyptian crossing the street and match their steps just a little upstream of them, so they can make the break in the flow of traffic for me. They are at the expert level, I am not. Works every time.

   Crazy traffic. Cars, big trucks, taxis, buses, tuk tuks, motorcycles, vegetable carts and donkeys, all trying to push ahead to get to where they are going. This is simply the result of so many people being stacked on top of each other in the same city after a rapid period of urbanization. There's at least 20 million people in Cairo, which always blows my small-town mind. It's weird to think that more people attend one mosque on Friday for prayer than live in all of Kalkaska county. For some popular mosques, maybe twenty times as many. It's a big thought to wrap my head around.

   And then there's the microbuses. White, crowded, box van looking things (they have the big sliding doors on the side, which sometimes appear to be optional) zipping through the streets of the city; connecting intersections, neighborhoods, districts, cities, basically whatever is economically profitable to connect. They are each privately owned, and an incredible example of supply, demand, and the “invisible hand” of economics. If a route is popular, there will be microbuses to pick you up.

   They are so intimidating to use, because they move so fast and there's no schedule or sign to tell me where they are going. So I stand on the side of the street, flag them down, and yell out a name of a location to see if they are going there or not. If they're not, they shake their head and keep going. If they are, I pile in on top of the other passengers and hope that I said the right place and they heard the right place before I end up on the other side of Cairo.

   I usually flag them down by just sticking out my hand to grab their attention, but if I was really cool, I would use all the really cool hand signals that correlate with specific locations. But they feel too much like gang symbols to me, what if I do one wrong? Like to go to Giza, you do an upside down “hang loose” sign. Total gang material.

   I don't bother flagging down the ones that already have a person hanging out of the bus where the door is supposed to be. Obviously, that one is already full, because that person doesn't have a seat. Sometimes I don't have to flag them down, they pull over because someone is getting off. A couple people get off, a couple people get on, from where I am standing it looks full so I don't even bother asking. Then two more people will get in, somehow, somewhere, and I get really confused wondering where they fit! Then I get upset because I could have taken that bus!

   Also I always hope I know exactly where to get off, so I don't pass it. Everything's so fast-paced, and everything looks the same. Walls with graffiti, restaurants, clothes stores, fruit vendors. It's like a reel of film that keeps looping. There's not exactly signs or anything. And it gets really old to keep asking the people sitting next to me, looking like the foreigner who has no idea where she is going, even though that's exactly what's happening most of the time. I just always feel stupid, because everyone else looks like they know exactly where they are going, so I feel like I should be cool like them and just know. I want to be part of the in crowd already! But it's nice when I sit next to a nice lady who helps me figure out where to get off. It's an extra bonus when she is getting off at the same place and I can just get off with her.

   The seats on the buses are bench style, no seat belts to be found. We just rock with the sway of the bus, as it zips around the road, dodging traffic and pedestrians, to the rhythm of the Arabic music on the radio. Since it is all privately economically driven, there is a strong incentive to get through the route as fast as possible so the driver can pick up passengers going the other way. I just try to ignore all the near misses we have, and all the accidents that could be but haven't been yet.

   The buses that have the sliding door permanently open have an extra thrill factor. I avoid the seat next to the door if I can, since one time we swerved and I wasn't prepared for it. I know in reality I probably only leaned out the open door maybe ten inches, but at the moment it felt like I was hanging perpendicular out the door, my head over the pavement. My friend Sharon though prefers that seat. She says it's because it's easier to get out when she's at her spot, but I know it's because she likes the added danger and thrill of it.

   The next trick is getting out. I have to tell the bus driver where I am getting off, he'll pull over and if I'm in an inside seat, it may require crawling over people to make it out. Sometimes they are nice enough to get out and let me out, or are at least skinny enough for me to squeeze by. Sometimes not. If I am in the front seat, I have to pretend to be smooth and open the door like a pro. This can be tricky because sometimes the inner handle doesn't work, and I have to stick my hand out the window and open it from the outside. Look smooth. Look smooth. Try to look as little like the blatant foreigner that I am.

   I know with time, I will become more and more confident using this “system” of transportation, but until then, it's a pretty entertaining adventure every time. Actually, it will probably always be an entertaining adventure for me.

Seeing the City, One Step at a Time

 I sat on the ledge of the Citadel's platform, overlooking the city. Cairo flowed out in every direction below us like a rippling of buildings, roads, and parks, until it faded into the hazy horizon. The Citadel is a huge, medieval fortress at one of the highest points in the city. It is now a huge, tourist attraction, complete with museums and the Muhammad Ali mosque, and an absolutely amazing view of the city.

“Is it clear enough to see the pyramids today?” someone asked.

“Yeah, look, there they are.”

At the very edge of the haze hanging over the city, the shape of the pyramids could just barely be made out.

“Hey look, Tarek,” I joked with my flatmate, “there's home. Wanna walk?”

He laughed. Just because we were still in Cairo did not mean that we were anywhere near to home. Going back would take an hour and a half. The city is just that big.

We had made big plans for Friday, my friend Reda and I, to check some things off of my ever-growing “Cairo To-Do List.” We were going to see the Citadel, Islamic Cairo, Coptic Cairo, and even grab breakfast before we started. We did two of those things, and obviously breakfast was one of them.

We ended up just moving our way through the Citadel very slowly and spending our time there, enjoying the quietness of the mosque, the pictures in the museum, and the view from outside. There were seven of us spending the day together, a good chunk of it spent people watching at the Citadel.

Coming from Giza was myself; Rene, the curly-haired Dutch intern; and Tarek, the tech support Egyptian from Alexandria. From downtown we had Reda, the most obscenely nice guy I have ever met, Egyptian or otherwise; Norm, a fellow American evacuee from last summer's program who is just hanging out in Cairo; Mahmoud, Reda and Norm's good friend from the language buddy part of the program last summer; and Nouthayla, Mahmoud's best friend of four years. Four Egyptians. Three foreigners. Not a bad ratio.

I decided this laid back approach was a very nice way to enjoy Cairo. Sometimes I am jealous of the tourists who come and see more of the city in a few days then I have in over a month. But then at moments like that, sitting on a bench watching children play on the lion statues of an empty fountain, I realize that it is much more pleasant to actually enjoy the sites that I am seeing. It's better than just rushing to cross them off my list.

Cairo can be an overwhelming city, and getting from one place to another is not very time efficient because of traffic and overcrowding. It can be stressful if you are on a tight schedule, so I think we made the right decision to postpone some sightseeing for another day, rather than trying to fight the traffic to fit them all in.

I really liked visiting the mosque, it was very spacious, with a beautiful chandelier and hanging lights. We sat on the rugs on the floor, with our shoes in our laps so they wouldn't touch the floor, looking up at the lights and the designs on the walls and the ceiling.

We finally left because we decided we wanted something sweet, and to catch a falooka for the sunset. We got “sobia,” I think it was called. It was amazing! It was like coconut pudding, with coconut pieces in it, with cinnamon on top. I was in heaven! Immediately after that, we walked to the Nile to ride one of the traditional sailing boats, a falooka, for an hour and watch the sunset. To say the least, it was beautiful.

 

Bribing babies

 I was pushing for a successful circle time with my students. Well, technically semi-circle time. Their little wooden baby chairs were arranged in a half circle on the Finding Nemo rug in front of the whiteboard. It was already a few hours into the day and their attention spans were fading fast. I sat in the middle of the group, with a plate full of apples. My scheme was to bribe them with food in order to learn something. But even with four bright red Washington apples, they were still easily distracted. Oh, to be three again. So cute, but so hard to be productive.

I started teaching preschool at the last minute, right at the beginning of the school year, when I arrived in Cairo unexpectedly. Teaching preschool was new to me, especially working with babies all day, but I was excited about the opportunity in order to spend the year in Egypt.

“What is this?” I asked loudly, hoping to gain someone's attention. Malak was out of the circle sitting next to Asmaa, the classroom helper. I didn't push for her to leave Asmaa's side, knowing she would only break down crying. Again. Hala was wandering around the room, she wouldn't come when I told her to so I gave up, not wanting to risk losing the rest of the babies by trying to get one. The rest of my babies, who were sitting in their chairs, were all distracted by Fareda. She was, as usual, messing with her pink Hello Kitty backpack. She hated to be separated from it, and was always attempting to rearrange things inside in a way that didn't make sense to me why it was important.

“Marawan, what is this?” I asked the little boy next to Fareda. One paying attention is better than none paying attention.

“Apple!” He shouted, his face bursting into a huge smile as he recognized the object from last week's lesson.

“Good job, Marawan!” Relief washed over me, at least that much had sunk in from our “A” week. I turned to the boy on the other side of Fareda, still messing with her bag. “Moustafa, say apple.” He looked at me with his wide eyes and his head tilted. He didn't understand. “Moustafa, ool apple.”

“Apple!” he repeated. By now, Fareda was paying attention to the red fruit in my hand. “Apple,” she echoed, smiling shyly.

“Good job! Apple! A is for apple. Renad, oolee apple.”

“B!” said the little girl in pigtails enthusiastically.

“Apple.” I insisted.

“B!” she tried again. Close enough, I thought to myself. And honestly, that was her answer to everything. She was one of the youngest in the class, just over two and a half, and barely even spoke Arabic yet. I would take B. At least she would ace the next lesson after A.

“Who wants apple?” I asked the students in from of me. Silence. Wide confused eyes. “Meen aeez apple?” I repeated.

Fareda jumped out of her chair. The little blue chair to be exact. If she didn't get that chair, class would not move forward until she had it.

“Ana aeeza dee! Ana aeeza dee!” She pointed furiously at the red apple I was holding.

“Okay, Fareda, sit down. Sit down. Audee.” When she sat down, I turned to Moustafa who was at the edge of our circle. “Moustafa, do you want apple?” He nodded his head down once, his eyes wide open. He was my ball of energy. “Say, I want apple.” Nothing. “Ool, I want apple.”

“I want apple,” he repeated, putting his hand out. I cut him off a piece and handed it to him. I repeated this process down the line, Hala even graced us with her presence as she realized there was food involved. I was getting relative success with the phrase “I want apple,” other than Renad who said “B” and Mohammad who just managed to get out “apple.” I would keep working on this.

Every time they asked for more, I made them say “I want” instead of “Ana aeez.” Maybe we didn't have much focus time in this nursery class in the middle of Giza, but I was proud of myself for at least introducing a new phrase. Bribing always helps. Welcome to Egypt.