savoring the marketplace.

As I was doing Brazilian dance aerobics on a persian rug in my Cairo apartment, looking in on the office of Egypt's most famous novelist from the living room window, I had a sudden appreciation for how unique--and charming--my lifestyle and position in Egypt really is. 

Yesterday I played surrogate mother for my roommate Kirsten, who hasn't been able to knock a cold that's been at her for weeks now. After getting her fruit and vegetable ramen, I made a pan of vegan brownies using smushed kidney beans instead of oil and eggs. Now, I'm not sure kidney bean brownies are really any help in fighting a cold, but we managed to polish off the pan regardless.

In the afternoon, though, I took the metro a few stops to the legendary, anarchical local market of Ataba. Even if the rest of Cairo is peacefully slumbering away the afternoon hours, this sprawl of markets, alleys, courtyards and window-front streets is the place to be if you're searching for any conceivable kind of household good. Picking through items inside shops and displayed on sidewalks, tens of thousands of Egyptians crush against each other to peruse everything from shower curtains to lingerie to 80's old school boomboxes to thermoses. 

Ataba is also at the melting point between the fading grandeur of Cairo's European facades and the sturdy, enduring intricacy of its medieval Islamic district. Dusty windowboxes and gawdy neo-classical statues top buildings still carrying signs from European import companies long out of business, while veiled worshippers jostle with tourists to enter the towering Our Lord Hussein and Al-Azhar mosques. And everything and everyone is covered with a layer of dust. 

I got off at the Ataba metro stop and was immediately thrust into a living current of shoppers funneled through a row of bookshops and Galibaya vendors. Galibayas are the traditional dress for men here, in North Africa, and the Gulf. They look something like men's button down shirts, but they go all the way to the ankles. One of Nod's friends had requested that I bring him one in Ethiopia, so I stopped the bargain with a portly, bearded man with a dark mark on his forehead from his prayer prostrations. We were having difficulty deciding the right size to buy, so the Galibaya vendor maneuvered his large belly past his cart to call his friends over. "Is your friend this tall, like him, or shorter, like that guy?" We picked the closest size we could find, and I went on my way. He didn't bat an eyelash at a white, foreign woman coming to buy a traditional Galibaya at a local market. I appreciated his discretion.

I took my time picking through the crowd toward the more tourist-friendly Khan al-Khalili--site of a small bomb a few weeks ago. While the open-air markets of Cairo make it difficult to shop efficiently when you have something specific in mind, it's beautiful for impulse buys. Whether from a vendor on the metro selling plastic aprons or super glue or stapler keychains, or a woman with a blanket spread out on the sidewalk with baby toys or sandals, you inevitably will pass by someone selling the exact thing you were just telling yourself you needed to get for the house. It's easy to feel suffocated by the crowd and just want to push through, but when I'm not in a rush, I love to let my eyes wander over all the Chinese-imported goods. Hmm, do I need that? I almost bought a pair of white reading glasses for $3, but decided they were too wide for my face.

I finally made it to the Khan al-Khalili, where I spent some time shopping for a few gifts to bring with me to Ethiopia. When I was finished, I sat down at al-Fishawi's, an open-air coffee shop in the heart of the market that's been serving coffee, mint tea and sheesha to customers for more than 200 years. With a gentle breeze coming through the market stalls, I read a history book on Iran and studied Arabic.

It was with sudden sadness that I realized the uniqueness of my stay here. When studying history and Arabic in grad school next year, I won't be able to sit in the heart of one of the region's greatest cities, where history and significance are evident in each dusty stone and in each intonation of the Muezzin's call to prayer. 

And again this morning, spying on Alaa al-Aswanny as he apparently came into the office on his day off to work on some project or another, dancing on a Persian rug, I remember once again that there are many aspects of my life here to be savored and enjoyed. It's a good realization to come to right before my parents come, when I will be able to look through their eyes to get a fresh perspective on Egypt once again. 

Chickpeas and Nerd Cred.

I think I turned another corner in cultural adaptation. Looking for a mid-afternoon snack to get me through some more Arabic homework, I opted for a bowl of hot chickpeas and a glass of mint tea. Although, meaning no insult to the many chickpea-eaters in the Middle East, I think they're a better snack in theory than in practice, though. Mm. Hot, mushy beans. Actually, to be honest, during my vegan fast this lent, hot, mushy beans are about the best I've got! Chickpeas for lunch, fava beans for diner, fava beans again for breakfast...

In any event, happy St. Patrick's day to all of you, my dear readers. Not surprisingly, St. Patrick's day went by nearly unnoticed in Cairo--even my 3/4 Irish roommate neglected to wear green. This time last year I was drinking a black and tan at a bar in Green Lake. This year, I was celebrating my Egyptian host sister's 17th birthday by playing Go Fish and eating stuffed grape leaves. Ah, how times change!

A bit suddenly, another chapter in my Cairene experience has come to a close. In anticipation of the Walter Fam's immanent arrival in Egypt and my travels to Ethiopia after that, my last day of paid work finished on Tuesday. That's it. El fin. Khallas. 

Now, Alissa Past used to be irrationally terrified by unstructured time. Of course, these Type A tendencies aren't surprising once you learn that, during every day of my conscious childhood, I was greeted by "The List," which struck terror into my childlike soul. No playtime, no fun, no anything, until the dreaded List of chores was finished. Even on Saturdays. "Free time" didn't get a whole lot of play in my household growing up.

In any case. My attachment to structure and schedules was so severe by the time I finished high school that I remember once, finding myself faced with a weekend devoid of any plans or even homework assignments, that I cried all the way through my afternoon classes. My professor was so distressed to see me bawling in the back row and he and his wife whisked me into their office afterwards to see what was the matter. Too embarrassed to tell them the problem, I sat there sniffling for a long time until my voice cracked and I offered up, "The problem is...(sniff)...um, I don't have any plans this weekend?" I can still remember the completely bewildered look they exchanged with one another. I ended up crashing their date night to see "El Ultimo Samurai" with them, relieving my soul-crushing weekend anxiety by listening to Tom Cruise's dubbed-over Spanish voice. 

We've come a long way since then.

Still, knowing that I wouldn't have work at all for an entire week before my parents arrive on Saturday had me initially a tiny bit nervous. What would I possibly do with all that time?

That's when my inner nerd arrived just in time to save the day. Armed with pages of Arabic homework, an introductory book on the philosophies of consciousness, and a history of Iran from the Aryans to the present, I've had a delightful time curled up on my bed with my reading glasses on and the call to prayer wafting through my balcony window. 

All sorts of unexpected plans came up, too, which is the lovely thing about not having commitments. Sunday I wound up watching an Egyptian movie (all in Arabic!) called "One-zero," which was excellent. Ok, so I understood a whole of five words, but that turned out to be enough to catch the main gist of the plot.

Last night, my roommate invited me to a lecture on the history of the Umayyad empire (ca. 650-750 AD). "Oo," I blurted out. "I was just reading about the Umayyads!" Busted. My roommate just rolled her eyes. 

In the meantime, my other hobby has been refreshing my inbox every 3 minutes to see if any more grad school notifications had come in. I've heard back from a few now, but am still waiting to hear back from all of them. At this point, I know that I at least have the opportunity to study in either Seattle or DC, which is a good place to be in. We'll see what looks best once I know all my options.

So now, all I have left to do is get ready for the Walter fam's arrival. My sister and I have already begun our campaign to have our parents buy us a fat baby camel for Christmas. Feel free to join the petition.

I'm sure I'll have many harrowing stories as I try to navigate my parents around my adopted home...already my Egyptian host mother has taken to referring to my biological parents as my "foreign" parents. Um Hani, come on! They're actually my real ones! Until then, keep my soon-to-be bewildered family in your prayers...I'll keep you posted!

A brief history of Alissa's collection of bamf park district skills.

Teaching English has put me in touch with an interesting cross section of Middle Eastern society. In addition to dozens of gum chewing, giggly university students (whom I adore), I've had students who were diplomats at the Arab League, translators for the U.S. army in Afghanistan and Iraq, the head of Sony Ericsson in Egypt, the head of AT&T Egypt's marketing department, an Algerian documentary film director and her filmmaker daughter. I've had Italians, Kurds, Djiboutians, Sudanese, Korean, Algerian, and Lebanese students. 

Last night, though, I met a real gem: the female Karate champion of Africa and the Middle East, who also works as a news editor for Nile News on the side. In a country known for its ample helpings of falafel and baklava and plump waistlines, I rarely meet anyone who exercises, much less wins regional championships--or veiled women who could break me with their karate chop. 

Meeting this student unearthed a memory buried deep within my pre-adolescent psyche, and I thought it would be a good time to share it with all of you, my dear readers.

We were a park district family. Like many good, active, suburban families, we signed up for after-school clubs and activities with gusto. Over the course of my elementary school years, I learned to line dance, fold origami, fold napkins (I can still make a mean Bishop's Hat design). I took a course in yoga, played softball, tried volleyball and--for six years--rocked out an advanced beginner's gymnastics class. I never moved past advanced beginners, despite the fact that I was a foot taller and five years older than most the other students, because I wasn't flexible enough to do a proper backbend. Rather, my friend Christine and I would wobble on the balance beam and giggle uproariously. I don't regret a minute of my stagnated gymnastics career, nor do I regret any of my purple/teal spandex gymnastics outfits. It's never a bad time to wear an 80's inspired flower print leotard.

But until I met my Karate diva student, I had nearly forgotten that I had also once taken a self-defense class at our local rec center sometime in junior high. True rec center style, this was some kind of bizarre conglomeration of martial arts styles taught by an overweight, balding man with two bad knees and a bad hip. His hip was so creaky that he actually had to kick backwards, behind him, rather than out to the side, because his leg just didn't move that way anymore. 

In the class? A six year old Indian boy named Mickey, a middle aged couple trying to save their marriage by pummeling each other in a controlled environment with padded floors, and me. This left me trying to flip poor Mickey on to the mat without breaking him. As much as I can recall, we spent three weeks learning how to break our fall (useful for a clumsy person, I suppose) and learning how to break out of a hold. I tried this last maneuver with my guy friends several times, never successfully. 

Needless to say, with this beginning in martial arts, there was no way I was going to become the next Budoaikijutso champion of Africa and the Middle East, much less of Palatine, Illinois. Instead, I'll simply wish the best of luck to my new student. 

Carsick Queen.

I was once the carsick queen. I was that kid--the one turning green in the back of the field trip bus, clutching an empty Burger King bag for dear life. My parents knew to avoid the curvy roads, and my mom relinquished her rights to the front seat (where I had at least a prayer of keeping down my corndogs on family vacations) long ago. My grandma didn't speak to me for an entire afternoon after I threw up on a new Easter dress and the floor of her maroon Buick. "She'll grow out of it," my parents always said. But that tremor of worry in their voice told me that they said this to keep their hopes alive that I would someday blossom in to an ordinary, hygenic, marry-able woman so that they wouldn't have the burden of caring for a queasy spinster throughout their old age. Please God, let her be normal!

Alas, their prayers and supplications were not enough, leaving me to cling to my Dramamine like Sampson to his locks. My queasy stomach has an egalitarian streak to it, too, causing me to double over in environs both at home and abroad, with company both dignified and sympathetic--from bus rides in the Ecuadorian Andes, to airplane rides (twice a veteran of the complimentary vomit bag), to a mountain trek in Morocco and a gondola ride to the Masada fortress in Israel. No, nausea knows no borders.

Needless to say, it's quite an embarrassment to an ordinarily savvy traveler, and at the very least, cramps my style. It added quite the romantic element to my travels with Nod in Morocco when, sheet white and shaking, I turned to warn him with grim prognosis: "I have an 80% chance of vomiting," and then returned to stare into my little plastic bag.

My stomach woes struck again this weekend, showing once again no respect for its environ, be it romantic or sacred or otherwise. This time? Carsick on the top of the holy Mt. Sinai where Moses received the divine law from God himself. And there I was, burping my bean sandwich lunch and reeling from a 9 hour bus ride. With a rumbling stomach, I slowed my pace up the mountain a bit, which landed me precisely behind the Bedouin camel hustlers. Perfect. Now I have camel dung to consider, too! It definitely took something awary from the proverbial mountain top experience.

Now I'm preparing for a three week trip to Ethiopia, where the naitonals are famous for their B.O. and their belief that the wind carries diseases--and subsequently keep the windows on their microbuses shut tight while bumping along unpaved roads. God with us.

The difficulty is that I did have my sights set on edging the honorable Secretary Clinton out of a job someday. I mean, all that's between me and her are 80 countries, 8 years in the White House, and Senate leadership, right? The problem is that I can't even begin to close the passport gap if I enter each new country with my head hanging out the window. And that's not even to speak of the diplomatic embarassment of having a carsick Sec. of State. At this point, I'll never be promoted past a lowly passport stamper in Siberia.

After my stomach ailments subsided on the top of Mt. Sinai (unfortunately not as the result of divine healing--I was still feeling a bit off all the way down the mountain, too), I was able to enjoy myself again on the flat, steady ground at Dahab. Dahab is a chill, beachside backpacker town on the Red Sea--just a quiet strip of blissful relaxation along crystal clear water, looking straight across the gulf to Saudi Arabia. Its main attraction is a row of floor pillows, endless fruit milkshakes, and hookahs. No crowds. No smog. No hassles. There are a few omnivorous cats happy to steal my toast from my plate, for sure, but at least these cats are the fat, happy, quiet kind--as opposed to their mangy, screechy Cairene counterparts. I can take it. And the clean air? Ah, my lungs were nearly singing with happiness. Alhamdulileh.

Now I'm back in Cairo, with only 10 days until the Walter fam arrives in my crowded, beloved city. Now we're just praying that there will be no sandstorms or stomach problems to color their first impression.

I'm roasting eggplants on the stove right now, so I'd better wrap up this blog post... with me in the kitchen, catastrophe is always looming right around the corner. Take care!