Gummy bears and restlessness.

I'm watching my roommate pack up her bags while I sit on the bed and destroy a bag of gummy worms, a gift from their recent trip to Jerusalem for orthodox Easter. Sigh. My year in Egypt is coming to an end all too soon, and not soon enough. I have just one more push to the end: an intensive Arabic class all day, every day, for the month of May. After that, I'm a free girl.

The problem is that two of my roommates are moving out in the next few weeks, bringing our foursome down to a lonely pair. May 31st, we'll pack our bags, too, and say our goodbyes to 6A el-Diwan. 

Gummy bears aren't much of a consolation. Actually, my comfort food of choice lately has been beets, which I've been boiling and combining with every imaginable food group. That is, until my pee started turning pink. I thought I'd better lay off for a while, and turn my attention instead to gelatinous, sugary grub.

I've been back in Cairo for four days now--not very long, but long enough to settle back in to the familiar rhythm of life here, smelling the sweet clouds of sheesha smoke, relaxing to the dull roar of traffic like the sound of a distant seashore, taking in the broad expanse of the Nile as I cross the bridge at sunset. This is where I've staked my life for the past year, for better or for worse. For better, I'd say.

But now that plans have been set for the fall, now that my roommates can start giddily anticipating Mexican food and driving and a good white russian and all the other benefits of an American existence--I find myself increasingly restless to still be here. I'm eager for a humid 4th of July, with bumble bees and lightning bugs and bbq sauce (which, as I found out this morning, my host family decidedly does not like. My host mother forced herself to keep eating a bottle of imported bbq sauce (a gift), though, reminding us that we should be thankful for all food that comes from God. Even if it's icky, strange American sauce that's ruining her perfectly good chicken). 

But no, as my Arabic textbook at the foot of my bed reminds me, there is work still to be done--good work still to be done. But ah, I'd give a lot to be able to pack my suitcases this week, slip away quietly, and hear the British Air flight attendants welcome me to Chicago. Two more months, two more months...

#@%! and phone calls

The first phone call I received back in Egypt was from Farek, my taxi driver friend. I had called him at 6:30am when I touched down at Cairo International, knowing that he sometimes works all-day shifts at the airport. I had actually woken him up, apologized, and told him that we should catch up sometime when he was awake.

He called back a few hours later. With customary enthusiasm, he sang out:

"Halllllo Aleesa! How is everything? How is your treeeb?" at 300 decibels into my ear.

"My treeeb to Assubyia was gooot!" I sang back in Egyptian English...yes, my trip to Ethiopia was good! 

"Aleesa, I have a question for you. My wife wants to know a word in English."

Now, Farek and his wife both come from pretty conservative, lower class backgrounds. His wife is a sweet, veiled woman--but has a bit of checkered background, in that she once worked at Hard Rock cafe, den of vice and alcohol that it is. 

The point, though, is that she has incredible and idiomatic English. I met her just once, at their wedding, where she served us endless places of spicy meat kofta, threw both Nod and I into a dance circle in the street, and let me put henna on the palms of my hands.

I hear a bit of shuffling in the background, and Heba comes onto the line. I was a little nervous that she would reprimand me for calling her husband at 6:30 in the morning--after all, I'm not quite sure what cultural protocol is in this kind of situation.

"Hello!" Rang out a cheerful, bright voice on the other line.

"Um, Hi, Heba! How are you?

"Great! I have a question--it's about a word I saw on the internet." 

I gulped. Deep breath. 

"Um, sure, what word is that?"

"What does 'Fricking' mean?"

Great. Here's a pious, veiled woman, asking me what "Fricking" means after I've been in the country for a whole 2 hours.

"Um..." I faltered. "Well, it's kind of like a swear word." I wasn't even sure if she knew what "swear word" meant.

"Oh, is it like *@!$# ?" she asked innocently.

"Actually, yes! It's exactly like that."

"I saw the sentence 'You have no fricking idea.' So is that like saying 'You have no *@!$-ing idea'?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Thank you!" 

I hung up the phone, a bit baffled. Welcome to Egypt! Land of constant surprises and paradoxes...

Easter in Ethiopia.

Holidays away from home are never the same. Growing up, Easter had taken on several priceless traditions- building a cross of flowers at church. Hunting for the especially hard-to-find $1 egg that my dad hid as a bonus in the annual Easter egg hunt. Savoring the one coveted Cadbury egg in my basket. 

In college, a few hundred miles away from any relatives, I occasionally had to settle for Easter Sunday cafeteria brunch, which hardly does the occasion justice. But I also spent one Easter weekend attending Saturday vigil at Catholic mass, which was one of the more poignant services I've been to in my life. Midnight baptisms and candlelit processions beautifully depicted the meaning of Christ's resurrection.

More than once, however, I've found myself in another country for Easter, which promises to provide a wholly different experience. Twice I was in Ecuador. The first time, spending Holy Week on a sun-drenched beach in Monanita, Ecuador, we went to the local church...only to find that it wasn't holding mass that day. Presumably too many of the parishioners were still passed out on the sand from the night before.

The next year in Ecuador, I spent the holiday in Quito instead. A huge Good Friday procession involved men dressing up in what can only be described as purple KKK costumes, beating themselves and dragging crosses through the streets. Huge floats depicting Jesus or Mary were carried by the faithful. Easter itself that year was spent with my friends, where we celebrated the holiday a bit less piously: by hitting raw eggs with tennis rackets in a game that my cousin invented. Genius. 

This year, I was to spend Easter in Ethiopia, where my boyfriend is working as a Peace Corps volunteer. Most of the country is Orthodox Christian, though it has its own traditions unique within the global Church. It's not too different than the Copts in Egypt, however, so I spent the weeks leading up to Easter preparing myself by following local traditions here. 

Orthodox Christians in Egypt and Ethiopia aren't messing around. Religious vegan fasts account for a full 210 days of the year. I knew that they would spend a solid 6 hours at church on Good Friday, fast totally on Saturday, and spend the night at the church until 3am on Easter Sunday. Clearly, these were no pushovers. 

Good Friday in Ethiopia involved hours of rigorous prayer prostrations, all in the ancient Ethiopian language of Ge'ez, which neither Nod nor I understand. Rather than participate self-consciously in a ceremony we didn't understand, we decided to watch from a distance. The church was filled to capacity, with hundreds of men and women outside, all dressed in gauzy white cotton. On this cloudy, humid afternoon, they stood and bowed for hours, commemorating the crucifixion of Jesus.

On Saturday, though, it was time to go to the market. We held hands with two kids from Nod's compound, who took us through the bustling stalls of onions, tomatoes, live roosters and sugar cane. We emerged with a live rooster under each arm, ready to make into the famous and spicy doro wot sauce that everyone would use to break their 55-day vegan fast. We climbed into a horse cart to carry all of our produce home, bouncing and laughing over the bumpy dirt road all the way home. Easter hadn't been this fun since I found my dad's $1 prize egg perched in the exhaust pipe of his car and won bragging rights for the whole day.

Unfortunately for the roosters, that was the last fun they had on this green earth: that afternoon, we gathered around to watch the slaughter, and then the women set about cooking and cleaning to get ready for the 3am celebration. 

Now, to prepare for Easter, the whole compound set about cooking and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning (the whole compound, that is, except for Yaye, the host dad. He was perfectly content to watch TV and mess with the goat, who was tied up in the yard to be eaten later that weekend): rooms swept, clothes washed, hair braided into all sorts of elaborate designs. 

Not wanting to miss out on this important part of the celebratory ritual, Nod and I went down to the beauty salon Saturday morning, with a big packet of fake hair in tow. I confess, I'm one of those girls who likes to go abroad and play dress up. I'm not ashamed. 

Nod, however, was feeling a little squeamish to be the one male (and foreign male, at that) at the hair parlor that morning--and even more so when he had to go out to buy yet another batch of fake hair for me after the first one had been used up. Minus 3 girlfriend points for that one. 

The women in the shop seemed curiously compassionate towards him, though. When they found out that he did work with HIV/AIDS, all sorts of questions started coming out. I giggled--yup, here we are at a hair salon in tiny Huruta, Ethiopia, fielding questions about HIV transmission! I suppose it's these moments of unlikely connections that I love about traveling abroad.

When I emerged, the results were pretty outrageous: a full head of braids, with big black nylon curls at the bottom. Awesome. My dream come true. They lasted for about a week before they started getting frizzy--when I finally took my braids out in Egypt, the pile of fake hair looked something like a dead animal on my dining room table. My roommates weren't too pleased.

But back to Ethiopia: though the family was fasting and wouldn't eat until 3am, they invited us to get a sneak taste of their freshly made doro wot. Delicious, even if it makes your whole body sweat just to smell it! The family, though very devout, decided that they weren't going to go to church for the Saturday vigil. Why not? They were worried about hyenas on the road. Yet another moment when I realized I wasn't in Egypt any longer.

We hadn't heard any hyenas for a few days, though, so Nod and I decided that we still wanted to go. I took a shower before we got dressed. The shower is out in the "shint beyt," which is a little lean-to outside that also doubles as the toilet. Nod installed a hot water heater, though, which made the whole arrangement really pleasant, actually. There's something about hearing the wind and having chickens wander in during a warm shower that's really endearing.

I borrowed some traditional white clothes from the family, and we set off under a sky full of stars with an 8 year old boy from the compound. Feeling our way over the bumpy dirt road in the darkness, wrapped together in a big blanket, watching other pilgrims make their way toward the brightly lit church, was indeed a holy moment. 

As we approached the church, we could hear the priest reading from the Bible and see the sanctuary filled with warm light. Men, women, and children were wrapped in white scarves and blankets, praying, sitting, some sleeping while they waited for dawn to come. 

I entered the church on the women's side, stepping around ancient women with weathered faces who were sitting along the walls. A priest came around and sprayed us all with perfume as the church filled with the sound of prayer. 

We walked back home together and watched the stars from the porch of Nod's room, thankful for the quiet awe of the moment. 

In the morning, we made the family banana bread, hoping to get out of the raw ox meat that they were eating. Luckily, we were spared two weeks of worms/parasites/bacterial infections and ate more doro wot and banana bread instead. By 11am, they started taking shots of homemade liquor and handing out glasses of wood-tasting local beer. Luckily, we were also able to duck out of most of that! Instead, we had endless cups of macciatos from coffee beans roasted right in front of us. Nescafe? You're dead to me. 

Thus ended Easter celebrations in the horn of Africa. The only thing missing? My family and a chocolate bunny. Here's to next year's Easter--if life has taught me anything, it's that you can never make any predictions. One year ago, I couldn't have imagined rooster slaughters and braid shops. Life is good indeed.

Upon returning from an extended absence more googly-eyed, tanner, and unshowered than when I left.

Dear readers--at least, the few and faithful that are left--let me apologize for my extended absence. The last month has taken me from the Valley of the Kings in Egypt to the peaks of the Simien Mountains in Ethiopia, and I haven't had much of a chance to get online between it all. Now that I'm back in crowded, humid, but endearingly comfy Cairo, munching on a sugar-drenched breakfast of french toast pita bread and sweet tea, I feel that some updates are in order. 

To begin. The Walter family did indeed trek out to the mighty Sahara, braving marriage proposals and aggressive carriage drivers to see the wonders of the orient (and the mess that is my apartment). Now, a week is hardly any time at all to recover from jet lag and begin to experience a brand new country, but they did as well as they could--even attempting roasted pigeon for lunch and spending an evening with my Arabic-only host family. All in all, it's hard to botch a week of lounging by the Nile and Red Sea, camel riding, and exploring the pyramids. Highlight: getting congratulated by a vendor in the central market for bargaining with him so hard and watching my sister and her friend get offered 100,000 camels a piece for their hand in marriage. 

Low point: saying goodbye to my family at 10pm at the Cairo airport as they sat forlorn and waiting for their 4am departure. 

A scarce 72 hours after my family touched down safely in Chicago (just in time for a grueling and jetlagged Monday morning), I was catching my own red eye flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Why pay $500 to travel some thousand miles into the horn of Africa, you ask? That's the price of love, my friends. And, well, because I can. I strongly recommend that all of you find post-college jobs that simultaneously pay the rent and provide unrestricted vacation time. Peace Corps and random English gigs abroad both do the trick nicely. 

Yes, I was fortunate enough to spend the last three weeks traveling with the esteemed Mr. Razi through his adopted homeland--the land of injera, the birthplace of coffee, home to world class runners, hyenas, baboons, avocado juice, grass huts, and my boyfriend. Not a bad combination of things. This morning in Cairo, where the smog is creating a cozy grey cloud over the city and every man over 14 smokes like a chimney, the mountains of Ethiopia feel very far away. But for the past three weeks, they've provided a welcome respite from the urban congestion of Egypt.

My first hours in Ethiopia were completely deer-in-the-headlights; for all my travels, this was my first foray into "real" Africa (Arab North Africa being much more linked into the Middle East than the rest of the continent). It's a uniquely humbling experience to be so completely disoriented. 

"Um, Nod, where the toilet? Oh, there aren't toilets? I'm squatting for the next three weeks? No, that's cool... Oh and, um, how do I eat? How do I shake hands? Could you order a bottle of water for me?" Luckily, Nod was a gracious and accommodating host, and by the end of three weeks, I was ordering my own tea like a pro. Er, not exactly like a pro, but I had at least an ounce of a clue about what was going on around me.

Ethiopia turns out to be an entirely different country from Egypt, though only Sudan is separating the two. Green acacia trees, jagged mountains, hyenas, baboons, tribal dancing, a unique and flourishing orthodox Christianity, and the best coffee you've ever had in your life. Just to breath clean air and step away from the roar of Cairo's traffic was enough to make me feel a world away. Being able to wear short sleeves and do a full handshake/shoulder-bump greeting with Ethiopian men was a welcome break from Islamic modesty and gender roles in Egypt. The only downside: being a healthier country than Egypt, there is a lamentable lack of desserts in the country. I ate rice pudding for breakfast at 5am on Egypt Air, and thanked God for Egyptian waistlines.

While a lot of our trip was simply spent taking in Ethiopian culture and scenery and enjoying each other's company, a few important life decisions were made, too. It all began as my falafel-and-lard-fueled Egyptian body was pushed to the max by a two day hike at 14,000 feet through the simien mountains. Determined not to be the pudgy flatlander of the group, I worked myself into an exhaustive, meditative space by the morning of our third day in the mountains. Stunning cliffs and troops of playful baboons along the way also provided a nice backdrop for contemplation. 

It was in this serene environment that I decided to accept an offer from Georgetown's MA in Arab Studies program, rather than a few other grad school options I had on the table. And then, best of all, Nod decided to join me in DC this fall, hopefully finding some kind of job in health/development kind of work. No matter what, it's a fun fact that Amharic is the #2 language spoken in DC. Ethiopian injera from now 'til 2011! 

Many more stories to come from the horn of Africa...but for now, just an update from a delightful month of travels.

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!

Besboussa and Bad Translations.

Typos are the bane of my existence.

Not because I'm an uptight grammar weasel. As you can tell from these fragments. No, typos in Egypt can range from the humorous to the unintentionally witty to soul-crushing lies that ruin our feeble attempts to bond with our Egyptian friends and co-workers. 

Now, like I said, sometimes typos are a source of amusement for me and my roommates. For instance, I recently saw a sign for a video game "chompionship" in Maasara. Brilliant! No one has ever discovered this lovely little play on words before. PTAs everywhere: next year's pancake eating contest fundraiser must be announced as the "Pancake Eating Chompionship." Perfect. 

Other ones are simply confusing--or, perhaps, a result of poor pronunciation making communication a little tricky. Practicing English with my host sister the other day, she told me that she breefars Doritos. It took about 10 minutes for us to figure out she had switched a "b" for a "p", accented the wrong syllable, and changed a vowel. Ah, yes, she prefers Doritos. 

Sometimes my students write things like "Sameer meat his girlfriend" instead of met, or mispronounce "six" and "beach," causing them to accidentally sound quite a bit more vulgar. My students also mix up posessive pronouns and subjects fairly often. For example, a student recently said to me, "Yesterday I saw your mother."

"Really? You saw my mother?"

"Yes, you saw my mother."

Now, don't even ask me about my Arabic pronunciation and spelling...all this to say that Egyptians are incredibly gracious about our desecration of their language, and the small mistakes they make in English are generally endearing.

Except for when they dash my hopes.

Now, everyone knows that I'm not too handy in the kitchen. But really, honestly, I swear to you that I've been improving by leaps and bounds. For the past month, I've been working in the evenings, providing ample time to dink around in the kitchen and see what edible concoction I can create out of leftovers in our fridge and local produce. My eggplants are still terrible, but everything else has been turning out pretty well.

I was getting so comfortable with the realm of cooking, actually, that I decided that food would be an excellent conversation topic for my classes. 

Enter a new form of soft diplomacy (Obama, I hope you're listening): S'mores. 

I went to the import grocery store, put down half my week's salary on marshmallows, cadbury chocolate, and graham crackers, and we roasted them over candles on my desk. They loved them. + 10 points.

The next time, I would not be so successful.

Several weeks ago, I got into a conversation with my Egyptian coworkers about Egyptian food. Like most Egyptians I encounter, they were incredulous that my roommates and I actually ate local food--we knew all the national dishes, liked them, and actually cooked them at home sometimes. We eat the pita bread bought off the street, drink our tea as sweet as the rest of them, and can eat with our hands like its no one's business. 

[As an aside, in Istanbul, they apparently eat with forks and knives. Nod and I are so accustomed to eating with our hands, however, that we usually opted to go without. Turks are also apparently really big on hand sanitizers, and often leave some packets of Handi-Wipes with your check. At one restaurant, however, the waiter looked so distressed that we were eating with our hands that he actually came around with a bottle of hand sanitizer to clean our hands for us.]

I began bragging to my coworkers that I had once made Besboussa--a sweet Egyptian pastry, somewhat in the family of Baklava and such. They didn't believe me. I swore that I would make some and bring it in.

Two days ago, I decided to make good on my promise. I bought a box of mix from a cheap, Lebanese brand that is famous for its typos and poor English translation.

"Annoint the pan with oil," the box read. "It mixes two cups of yogurt and three spoons to put butter. It agitates until the similar cream."

The really obvious mistakes I was sort of able to check by looking at the Arabic. No problem, I thought. Now, the whole deal about Besboussa is that the whole thing is supposed to be soaked in a sugar syrup. No sugar syrup, no besboussa. The instructions began like this:

Instructions for the Cold Syrup. I then had to boil water and sugar together. No biggie.

Now, it clearly said cold syrup. So I let it sit on the stove for 10 minutes to reach room temperature again before I poured it over the baked besboussa. 

Only, the sugar didn't really soak in. It just kind of formed a sugar lake on top. Hmm. I sprinkled on some coconut and peanuts. There, now that looks prettier, right?

I bit my lip. I mean, it tasted a little strange without the sugar going all the way through it...but this is a hospitality culture, right? Surely my co-workers will recognize the significance of my gesture and accept my gift with graciousness. Surely they'll understand that my little heart is in each piece of besboussa and that all I want to do is be accepted as their friend. Surely.

I carefully packed a dozen pieces of besboussa into a little tupperware box, meticulously placing a layer of tinfoil between the rows so that they wouldn't stick to one another. I cheerfully skipped off to work, excited to bring my dear co-workers a little token of my friendship and appreciation. When I arrived, three of them were sitting outside and sharing a cigarette. I plopped down my box and took of the tupperware cover with a flourishing voila! 

They stared.

"What's wrong with the color?" asked one.

I squinted at it. Ok, so it was pretty white, and the normal besboussa is usually kind of a golden brown.

"Don't worry," I told him. "The taste is still delicious."

"Uh, one moment. Let's get everyone so that we can all eat together."

All three of them got up to go inside. They didn't come back. When I peaked in the door, they were all guiltily sitting in the corner, trying to look suddenly busy with work.

I deflated a bit. They weren't that bad, were they?

My dear friend Sally came out next. I confessed to her that I had a little trouble with the sugar. I offered her one, and she accepted reluctantly.

She took one bite. "Alissa, where is the sugar?"

My face slumped into a disappointed frown. "The box said cold syrup."

"Of course, it must be hot."

Sigh. Obviously, right? I should have realized it. She finished half of her piece.

Another coworker breezed by us, on his way out on an errand. I stopped him and insisted that he eat a piece. He stared at it, and then at Sally.

"I already ate one," Sally told him.

He took one bite and then looked for a place to put it down. 

"You can put it back in the box," I sighed, totally defeated and feeling sorry for myself. I closed up the box and talked to Sally instead.

C'mon, cheap Lebanese brand! Couldn't you have checked that one little detail... Hot is a lot different than Cold! These things are important! 

My roommate Kirsten insists that she likes my Besboussa better than the real stuff, but kind of in that same tone of voice that your parents use to console you when you've failed at an art project but they hang it up on the fridge anyway. 

At the end, I ended up giggling over it--poor Egyptians, being force-fed completely terrible pastries! I like to imagine the equivalent situation happening in America...a poor Japanese exchange student trying to fit in by making her American friends brownies, only forgetting to add eggs or water to the mix. Alright, maybe it's not so bad, and my co-workers actually do like me for who I am, not for my besboussa. and that's a good thing! 

in which life takes a turn for the truly bizarre.

Just when I thought my life was slowing into a tranquil, 40 hours-a-week and homemade cooking lifestyle... well, here's just a sample of how my night has gone.

A crazy fanny-pack wearing American woman wandered into my language center, raving about teaching Mark Twain in China and making racist comments about every nationality she knew of, and is now a new English teacher. Sigh.

A bomb exploded in a crowded, colorful market in Cairo where I often go, targeting the tourists who were drinking coffee and shopping for scarves next to the holiest mosque in Egypt. Still waiting for the full report, but there's at least one confirmed dead.

After reeling from this news, I was followed home by a creepy guy from the metro who was apparently a big fan of my "Made by Um Hani" body (which has gotten a little softer since my host mother has been feeding me lard and fried eggplant for the past 9 months). I was about to yell at him in front of a group of other guys and put the shame/honor culture at work, but these other guys decided they were also quite appreciative and decided to share their comments. Normally I don't get rattled by the come-on's, but maxed out by the news of the bombing, I wasn't really in the mood to suffer testosterone crazed idiots on the street.

Cursing loudly under my breath, I ducked into my favorite grocer's to lose the creepy guy. We had a long and heartfelt conversation about the bombing. He then sold me lots of canned beans to get me ready for my vegan fast and wished me a happy lent. I felt a lot better.

I was worried that my parents wouldn't come to Egypt anymore, but I got a quick call home, and it sounds like the trip is still on.

Now I'm eating couscous and drinking a beer I've been saving for just such an occasion, and life is on the up again. Welcome to Egypt!

Almost humorously, I started a blog post a few days ago talking all about how life here has become so normal; that when I returned from my travels in the Maghreb and Turkey, a subtle transformation had taken place. Perhaps those of you who have spent time abroad in unfamiliar environs can relate to this: for the first 9 months of my stay here, everything I saw in Cairo seemed oddly two-dimensional. And I don't mean that in a poetic, metaphorical sense.

As I went to and fro in this bulging, bustling city, I would look at the buildings and shops and see something like the facade of an old western town. The city itself was a kind of backdrop for my experimental social interactions with an abstract notion called "Egypt." These are Egyptian sandwich shops, I would think as I passed a plate of steaming falafel and beans from a street vendor. These are Egyptian subway stations, I thought, noting how the anarchical crowding of the metro ticket vendors and the crushing collision of bodies squeezing on and off of the metro cars seemed wholly different from my experiences on Chicago El's. (Well, ok, maybe not totally different...) And then, These are Egyptian clothing stores. These are Egyptian mothers. These are Egyptian taxis. And so on. When you are always starkly aware of being in a foreign environment, your vision seems flatter. Everything I see is a representative sample (This is an Egyptian restaurant), not a unique place to see and consider for what it is as an individual entity. No one will accuse me of understanding the physics of optics or anything about the human body, but I'll stand by this: my visual perceptions of Cairo were somehow less robust than they would be in a western environmet.

I also felt myself wobble under the cultural pressure. In America, I consider myself to have a long fuse (or at least be sufficiently passive aggressive not to get angry in the moment). So what if I got woken up every night in my old Seattle apartment by the lesbian DJ couple upstairs? Or if it cost $1500 to replace the wheel bearings on my trusty ol' Kia, knowing that the car was going to become my little sister's after one month anyway? Or so what if our clueless landlord forgot to sign us over to a new account, resulting in the gas company showing up at our door one day to shut off our utilities? Meh! say I. While I'll admit to being prone to a little anxiety from time to time, anger isn't really something in my emotional repertoire. Unless you bring up the subject of gender inequality at SPU or try to convince me how God has ordained men to be the head of the human race; those are fightin' words, my friends!

But for most of my time in Egypt, I've felt a little more unbalanced--flaring up over nothing, getting exasperated at the smallest misunderstanding. Since coming back from my travels three weeks ago, though? I once again feel myself. Sure, I get tense after bombs and irritated still with harassment, but I feel much steadier. What would set me off in America is setting me off here--but no more, no less. I am finally, truly at home.

But just when I was feeling like life was settling into something ordinary and tranquil--almost tediously slow--life once again take a turn for the bizarre.

It began when a friend called me up to see if I would go with her to visit a mutual Egyptian friend of ours.

"Sure, I'd love to go with you to see Nesma."

"Great because, uh, have you heard about her romantic developments?"

"I know she met this 50+ year old Saudi-Canadian on BintHalal.com..."

[This translates into something like, "kosher girl." Online dating at its finest!]

"Well, turns out that this Saudi-Canadian guy is still really interested in marrying her."

"Wow, that's amazing that he's willing to come all the way to Egypt when they met on the internet and all that."

"Well, that's not all--he's already married. Nesma would be the second wife."

Ah yes, Bigamy- That time honored tradition! True, Islam technically allows a man to marry up to 4 wives, provided that he can treat them all the same. I know that Nesma is eager to get married, and this guy apparently has some nice qualities about him (at least, nice qualities posted on his online profile)...but c'mon, who really wants to be #2?

So we went, with a kilo of chocolate cookies in hand to bring as a hostess gift. One of the best parts about Nesma's family is that they have a huge sweet tooth and never overfeed you, like many Egyptians do out of hospitality. Not only did we polish off the cookies, but we were each served a huge tub of homemade rice pudding and some hot chocolate to wash it down. Nice.

Now, my friend and I were hoping to stage something of an intervention, but I hadn't seen Nesma in a long time and wasn't quite sure how to bring it up. So...Nesma, I hear that you're thinking about marrying a Bigamist? She didn't bring it up, so I just let it lie. Instead, we watched an Indian movie in Hindi with Arabic subtitles. It was fantastic; long live bollywood. Maybe we'll get a chance to try to talk some sense into her next time.

Next, I was asked to come into work a little early in order to help a girl with a visa application so that she could study in England. I don't know anything about visa applications, but I know what an important opportunity it is to get abroad. Anything to help, right? It turns out that she had actually applied once and been rejected, and the British embassy sent a long letter explaining all their reasons for rejecting her. No problem, we just need to address their concerns, and then we could hopefully get her off to the UK.
The girl came, accompanied by some kind of male relative. The conversation went something like this.
Me: "So, the application wants to know if you have any relatives in England who might sponsor you or who you might live with."
Girl: (after a long discussion and deliberation with some male relative accompanying her). no, I don't.
man: yes, you do, you have an uncle there.
girl: (more long discussion in Arabic). No, no, forget this. Don't say his name.
Me: okay then... So, why do you want to study English?
Girl: To study. I don't know. No reason.
Me: You're going to have to give me something else.
Girl: I already wrote it all on the first application.
Me: right. and they rejected it. So help me out here.
Girl: I don't know.
Me: Ok, I'm going to put down that you want to be a journalist, since that was your major in college. Now, the letter says that 68,000 LE suddenly appeared in your bank account with explanation, and the embassy would like a little clarification about where these funds came from.
Man: Why do they need to know?
Me: Well, she isn't employed, so they're a little curious how she got it.
Man: Do you think I can't financially support her? (getting a little insulted)
Me: No, I'm just trying to fill out this application for you.
Girl: (sighing loudly). I already wrote this all in the first application.
Me: Right, and they rejected it, so throw me a bone here! I'm trying to help! Now, what do you want to do after you finish your studies?
Man: She will continue to stay in England and work there.
Me: No, she won't.
Man: Why?
Me: It's explicitly prohibited on all the visa materials.
[Man and girl exchange glances.]
Me: You knew that, right? So we need to tell the embassy why you want to study English, and what you'll do with your language skills, and what you'll do when you finish.
Girl: [mumbles]
Me: What?
Girl: I don't know. I wrote it all in my first application.

Goodness knows why she actually wanted to get to England, but I have a feeling that despite my best, the British embassy isn't going to take the bait on this girl!

Next. I have a slightly sociopathic Kurdish Iraqi student at my language center. Understandably anti-social, he worked as a translator for the American army in Iraq until his friend got his head shot off by a sniper. He's been a pain as a student, though--sitting through most of my class with a sort of "So what?" sneer on his face and refusing to give me more than two words answers (this being in a conversation class, too. C'mon! Help a girl out here!). His English level is really high, too, so I have to work hard to actually offer his class anything worth his time. The combination was giving me so much anxiety that I was having trouble sleeping at night.

Finally, one night I decided to screw it and just go with my usual chintzy antics that I use with all my other happy-go-lucky students.
"So," I ask the class, "what causes us stress?" I wrote the words in big bubble letters on the board.
I started to write out some new vocabulary on the white board that we'd use for discussion when Shamel suddenly piped up.
"Homesickness."
"I'm sorry?"
"Homesickness stresses me out."

Ah, the boy speaks. And he's homesick! He suddenly became much more human in my mind. Understandably homesick, too--he has 10 brothers and sisters all from the same town in the Kurdish area of Iraq, and a fiancee back home, too. After this moment, he began to loosen up considerably in class. Whew. I've been able to sleep at night since that moment, too.

Now that he's talking more, though, he turns out to be just as sinister a personality as it first appeared.
"So, tell me something interesting about what you did last weekend, Shamel."
"Everything about my life is interesting."
"ok....why don't you tell me something boring about your life, then?"
"Nothing's boring."
"Right. Well, tell me what you did on Friday, then."
"I slept. I played games."
"Games? like soccer?"
"No, computer games." He then rattles off now less than 20 different games that he has on hand.
"And when I get bored of those games? I make viruses. I send them to people I think deserve it."
"Remind me never to give you my email address."

Enter English conversation lesson on Karma.

But in between episodes of bizarre interactions (more stories from the fanny-packed racist to come in the next few days, i'm sure), however, there have been some truly beautiful and homey moments.

Last night, for example, I went to Maasara to spend the evening with Um Hani and Sara, the sixteen year old. I brought my Arabic homework with. Um and Abu Hani were in the other room, helping to arrange a new marriage for a widower from their church. They came in, very exasperated and rubbing their temples from the hours of haggling over how much gold this guy should buy the bride and such.

Sara and I cuddled up under the blankets as she helped me with my Arabic homework and we both teased Um Hani lovingly. Um Hani finally relaxed from her earlier conversation and joined us. Um Hani is illiterate--she got married at 16, and despite wanting to take English classes at one point from her church, never actually learned how to read. I showed her my little alphabet grid. Alif, bey, tey, they I started reciting the names of the letters to her. Sara grabbed a pencil.

"Here, Mama, let me show you how to write. Every day, you'll learn 4 letters." Um Hani's face sort of grinned and grimaced at the same time. She spent the next hour working on the letter "Alif," which looks like a long stick with a little tiny "s" perched on top like a hat. Little Alifs went off in every each direction on a sheet of scrap paper, with some very bizarre permutations. But after a while, she got the hang of it. On to "bey", which is a flat half circle with one dot beneath is. "Bey is for 'Bint'" she repeated again and again, trying to memorize words in association with the letter.

Teaching a grown woman to write may have been one of the more heart warming experiences of my time here. In the morning, Um Hani cooked me scrambled eggs in about a pound of butter, which kept me full until about 4pm.

Even as I feel more and more comfortable in Egypt--no, life is never dull.

Vegan for Jesus.

Dear readers. 

When I first returned from my wanderings through Morocco and Istanbul, I pledged a new Alissa: one that would take long walks, cook real food and shop at the farmer's market, one that would try to avoid looking at Rodney Yee's awkwardly tight spandex shorts while doing yoga in my living room. In short, I promised Oprah. An embodiment of St. Paul's "all things in moderation." Gandhi and Jesus wrapped up into one. A walking zen garden. 

A friend wrote me one week after I posted my rosy resolutions for the new year: "Uh, Alissa, that's great that you want to start drinking herbal tea and self-actualize on your morning walk to work...but has it occured to you that you have never actually maintained a low-key lifestyle in your entire life?" 

True, I was aiming a little high. But I am proud to say that, aided by regular lapses with McDonald's $1 hot fudge sundaes, I have managed to hold onto my intentions well enough. I'm even drinking herbal ginger tea as we speak. I've been walking to work every day, listening to Radio Lab podcasts and contemplating the Nile. While I've had a few disasters in the kitchen, I am becoming an expert in cooking tomatoes and eggplants. (Ok...the eggplants are still giving me trouble. Let's just keep it at, "an expert in cooking tomatoes.") I won't be reaching nirvana anytime soon, but my success in slowing down and treating my body a bit better bodes well for a reduced heart attack risk if I do end up going to grad school next year. So long as I can lapse out of my healthy lifestyle once a day to buy a McDonald's $1 hot fudge sundae, that is... 

But the true test hasn't even begun. Next Wednesday marks the beginning of Ash Wednesday for the western church. In my last post, I panicked that God was going to take sugar away from me--goodbye to copious cups of sweet tea, daily stops to the ice cream store, kilos of baklava, and coconut juice in the spring. Sigh. 

Luckily, as a cross stitched pillow in my mother's room always reminded me: when God closes a door, he somehow opens a window. 

Ok, so maybe it was me who slammed shut the door on the possibility of giving up sugar for lent (Please God, have mercy on me!)--but he did provide me with a convenient out.

Coming home from work one night this week, I was mulling once again over the problem of lent, and how I could possibly kill my sweet tooth for a whole 40 days. Right as I came in the door, my roommate called out, "So, what do you think about vegan fasting for Lent?" 

Yes! Here was the sign I was looking for! Now, going vegan and giving up all meat, all dairy, and all egg products may hardly seem like a "convenient" out. But so long as I can keep drinking sweet tea and eating bakalava? Oh, I can work with this. 

Vegan fasting isn't an arbitrary decision, either. The orthodox Christians in Egypt (called Copts) observe a whopping 210 vegan fasting days every year. Two hundred ten! Those kids aren't messing around! It's an old, time honored tradition with its roots in the very earliest Christian communities. So my entire apartment will be joining in not only an ancient practice, but a local practice. I'm looking forward to connecting with Egypt in a deeper way like this--it's so rare that we feel like we can genuinely and fully participate in so many different parts of the culture and society here. 

So, starting February 25th? Goodbye to McDonald's ice cream sundaes, but hopefully I will be welcoming in an interesting and challenging new phase to my stay here in the Middle East.

Follow up: notes on a kidnapping.

Below I have posted a mass email that was sent out by Philip Rizk (see posts below). Since I documented other news about his recent kidnapping by security forces in Egypt, I thought it would be appropriate to post here.
---------------------------------------------
Letter from Philip Rizk

Today is the fourth day of freedom after my four day imprisonment. Every once in a while I am hit by the incomprehensible contrast between absolute freedom and absolute confinement. During those four long days I didn't do much else but be interrogated, sleep or try to sleep.

Before I go into any other details I want to say shukran, thank you, really. I am overwhelmed by the response of family, friends and strangers all around the world during my imprisonment. As the stories started bombarding me after my release it was hard to take it all in. I have no words to express how grateful I am to so many. At one point one of my interrogators- they called him "Malek"- ended a session by saying, "the next time you will tell me about all these international relationships of yours," I had no idea what he was referring to. I really believe that the pressure from so many places and people made a big difference and resulted in my quick release.

Diaa Gad, 22 yrs, is an Egyptian blogger who was taken the very same day I was. I had spoken to him for the first time a few days before Egyptian "state" security kidnapped both of us from difference places. Diaa had called to ask about details about our march to Gaza. As we knew our phones would be tapped I told him we could not gave any details over the phone and asked for us to meet the following day in person. He never called again but his name came up during interrogation- again with "Malek"- who asked me what I knew about Diaa and then proceeded to tell me word for word what I had said to him on the phone that day. Diaa does not have many of the luxuries that I have being bi-national and having lived abroad. At this point he is still in custody and his lawyer and family do not know his whereabouts. The campaign that was started for me needs to move to him and others. These sorts of actions are completely illegal and yet a common occurrence in Egypt. Currently there are thousands in Egyptian jails without trial. We need to stand up and reject these actions. This brings us back to the start of those four days...

I was held for four days- blindfolded, barefoot and handcuffed almost at all times. When I arrived they told me to forget my name I was now number 21. The psychological pressure was intense though at no point was I physically harmed. At the time of my arrest I was protesting the siege on Gaza. This is a criticism aimed primarily at Israel but also at other countries that support this siege including Egypt which keeps its borders sealed except for rare exceptions. My four days of imprisonment are nothing compared to the months and years of siege on Gaza, which is nothing else than forced imprisonment. The Gaza Strip is a different form of concentration camp. No Palestinian- whether students, the sick, businessmen and women- can travel beyond its borders and Israel permits only a very very few internationals to enter. These- mainly journalists and NGO workers like I used to be- remind me of zoo visitors that take pictures and talk about the terrible conditions of the animals in their cages but then leave, in the meantime Gaza remains the same. According to the UN 85% of Gazans are reliant on food aid, again like animals in a zoo they are fed and kept alive, but barely. Leaked reports from the Red Cross recently reported high percentages of malnutrition of children especially in the refugee camps- 70% of Gazans are refugees from 1948. The purpose of our protest march was and continues to be to raise awareness of the ongoing siege on Gaza building on the momentum of protest during the Israeli military onslaught on Gaza at the start of this year.

Your outrage about my unjustified imprisonment mirrors my outrage about this ongoing injustice done to the Palestinian people. If our governments and representatives the world over will not change the status quo we- the multitude- must mobilize, on the streets, in the cyber sphere, in government, in schools, anywhere to call for change. Such an outrage changed South Africa not that long ago and it can change the injustice carried out against Palestinians today.

Valentine's by the Nile and Lenten sacrifice.

Ah, the day of love. Romance, deadly amounts of cologne, and pink sequined headscarves all rustled in the breeze. Park benches by the Nile were filled with couples in appropriately festive color coordination, all talking softly just inches from each other's faces. Habi Balentinez Day, came the creepy come-on of the day as we walked down on the street. Ah yes, it was Valentine's Day in Cairo.

Yes, Valentine's Day has made it full circle around the globe--from the Greeks in Alexandria paying homage to Aphrodite some few thousand years ago, to boys selling plastic red roses on Egyptian metro cars today, courtesy of Hallmark and all the rest. Sadly, no one answered my plea to send me some candy conversation hearts--my favorite Valentine tradition of all. According to some ESL prep materials I was searching online, an estimated 2 billion Valentine cards are sent every year...85 percent of them by women. Yup, let's be honest--in a country that struggles to get their young people married by 30, if at all, Valentine's Day in Egypt was mostly an exercise in estrogen and singlehood awareness. 

Even my 16 year old host sister--way too young to be married or (in my opinion) engaged, was lamenting her single status: "I want a boy!" she wailed, as we successfully booted some googly-eyed couple from their Nile-side bench and settled in with a pile of candy to down our sorrows with. Now, it's not that Sara lacks male attention, exactly. Her older brother and his wife have actually been conspiring to get her engaged, and have started to bring some young guys around their apartment to meet Sara. This all needs to be strictly supervised, of course, and kept secret from the overprotective Dad (who recently has taken to telling Sara that, nevermind boys, she's becoming a nun. To which Sara responds, "Don't be silly, baba. Here, let me make you some tea.." which he accepts with a reluctant smile)

So a system has been worked out that these young guys are whisked up to her older brother's apartment upstairs, and then Sara 'just happens' to stop by for a sum total of 3 seconds, and she then tells her brother whether she might want to get engaged to him or not. Bam. Speed dating, Egyptian style. Sara seems to have a pretty good head on her shoulders, though: "If I engage now with a boy? I will remember," she says, miming big gestures to show an engagement ring and pointing to her head, "and nooo study!" She grins. At sixteen, I don't doubt it-- At an age when most of us were passing notes in the hallways, the idea of actually being engaged to a boy? Math homework wouldn't stand a chance.

But on this loveydovey holiday in Egypt, Sara had become my surrogate Valentine anyway--no boys allowed. Sara is the baby of the family and works hard--studies all day, cooks, cleans, and gets tied up emotionally with all the various family problems. It was high time to get the girl out of her house and actually let her be a kid again! My roommate and I swooped into action. Our day went something like this:

10am: Kirsten and I left our apartment, buying up about a dozen pieces of candy before we went.

11am: picked up Sara, and force-fed her several pieces of candy. Sugar starts the day out right, right?

12pm: A 20 cent, half hour boat ride on the Nile. Sara can't swim and is terrified of water, and has never been on a boat before. Coaxed on and seated snugly between us, she finally relaxed as the Arabic pop music blared and the tiny little motor boat did a little lap in the broad river. Success.

1pm: Lunch at a cafe in the nearby opera house, including 3 glasses of melt-your-face fresh strawberry juice, cheese sandwiches, and chocolate filled croissants. Sara called her older sister, who's stuck home with a baby, to taunt her a little bit. All of us decided to cancel our afternoon obligations; Sara cancelled her evening English lesson, and decided that she'll blame it on us when her mom will undoubtedly get pissed. But today feels once-in-a-lifetime; we don't want to rush. We sat in this outdoor cafe inside the opera house complex for two hours, the sun and breeze reminding me of spring breaks spent in southern California. Egypt has apparently skipped winter this year, and we've been clocking in pretty consistently at 75 degrees and sunny most days. Ahh. Perfect.

2pm: We found a park bench by the Nile, and Kirsten and Sara began to commiserate over their manless status. Being separated by 1500 miles and Sudan from Nod, they gave me honorary status in their cranky Valentine's Day club. More candy eased the pain.

3pm: We bought ice cream bars from our local "a little bit of everything" shop.

4pm: I avoid near collision with a horse cart as we cross a really busy, 6 lane road next to my apartment. Unfortunately, the horse itself wasn't so lucky, and fell onto a car, smashing in the entire hood. I've never seen anything quite like it. 

Maybe not the most conventional Valentine's Day, but it did the trick. The evening ended with a table of old American friends and a $10, all-you-can-eat Indian and Chinese food buffet, in which we were obliged to polish off at least two heaping plates a person. Delish. 

In other news, Ash Wednesday is coming up in two weeks. I'm hoping to observe Lent this year in the customary way by giving up something for 40 days. Now, as my account of Valentine's day might suggest, my sugar intake has been something truly epic in Egypt. Yesterday was a bit higher than average (I neglected to mention that I actually ate leftover cake for breakfast and lunch, in addition to all of our candy, fruit juice, and ice cream), but let's say I probably average probably 3 cups of processed sugar a day.

Looking at Ash Wednesday on my calendar, I suddenly had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I decided to squint my eyes and offer up a really quick, "Dear God, what should I give up for Lent? Please don't let it be sugar!" and opened my eyes again before God could say anything. What I think I got in response was something like, "Go check your attitude and come back and ask me again." Sigh. Like those approaching death, I feel I have now entered into the "bargaining" phase--"Ok, God, what if I give up everything but sugar in my tea? I mean, that's reasonable, right? You wouldn't take my tea from me, would you?" 

Wish me luck. 

Top 25.

Something a little lighter: here's my "top 25" note from facebook.

1. In chronological order, a list of my answers to the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?": A washcloth. An old Chinese woman. A Native American. An archeologist who dug up Native American stuff. A Bollywood star. A Subway sandwich artist. Secretary of State. A Seattle barista.

2. My least favorite word: Cusp.

3. When I was 5, my dad took me to Sea World every Monday. My favorite part was the starfish petting pooI. I used to quiz the staff about starfish's ability to regenerate limbs while munching on churros and begging my dad to let me buy a carton of sardines to throw to Shamu.

4. I purchased my first orange two weeks ago. I liked it.

5. Growing up, my favorite "imagination game" was called "The Chocolate Game." My older sister would pretend to be a kidnapper luring me away with the promise of chocolate. It looks like both my sweet tooth and "middle child drama queen" complex developed at an early age.

6. Despite 12 years of practicing, I still cannot successfully say the sentence "I like to ice skate" in Chinese. The best I've ever managed convey is "I like ice."

7. I used to write on summer camp applications that I was allergic to raisins, just so that they wouldn't try to give them to me as a snack.

8. I have the constellation Aquarius on my left forearm in freckles. I'm actually a Capricorn.

9. One of my ears is slightly elf-shaped at the top. I was given the nickname "spock" in 4th grade because of it, but the nickname only stuck for about two days.

10. I once accidentally poisoned my older sister with paint thinner. My friend Kevin and I had spent the afternoon applying a bottle of pink nailpolish to my play kitchen, and my mother had spent the evening dutifully cleaning it off, leaving a pan of paint thinner behind after she was done. Watching TV that night, I very sweetly offered to get Amy a glass of water. I started to walk to the real kitchen- Oh, but look! A pan of water right here on my play kitchen, so conveniently located closeby to the TV. Little did I know. Amy was fine, by the way.

11. In junior high, I used to borrow Bindis from my Indian friends and sometimes wear them to school. This was still in my "I want to be a Bollywood star" phase.

12. I've travelled to 18 countries (though my sister will challenge me on whether Wales and Vatican City should be included in the count). Sadly, I've still yet to go to India.

13. I've never fallen down the stairs, but I'm pretty clumsy. I assume it to be a gospel truth that clumsy people fall down stairs. I'm always really careful going up and down stairs, now, figuring that my time is due.

14. For two years straight, every penny I threw into a fountain to make a wish I used to wish that I would become a half sea otter, half mermaid (I couldn't make up my mind, so I figured I would just mix them). I'm really not quite sure if I envisioned myself as a red headed, singing, amphibious woman with little furry legs, or a fuzzy little otter face with a fish tail. In any case, I just thought it would be cool to live in a big aquarium and have people come to see me.

15. In 7th grade, I won 1st place in the 100 meter hurdles during the district track meet.

16. I have a birthmark on the back of my left leg. When I wear shorts, helpful people often stop me to tell me that I have mud splattered on me. An awkward silence always follows after I have to tell them that it's actually attached.

17. I can eat a whole tub of rice pudding in one go.

18. In first grade, I was talking to a girl during class. The teacher turned around to yell at us, and mistakenly gave the other girl a "yellow card" for bad behavior, and didn't punish me at all. I spent the whole day in a moral crisis. After afternoon snack time, I went up to the punishment board and gave myself a yellow card, too. It was one of the biggest, scariest decisions I made that year.

19. After my brief hurdle career, I became a discus thrower. As a slender little 5'5" seventeen year old, I could squat 360 pounds and bench 130.

20. I once nearly burned down my kitchen while trying to make oatmeal. To be fair, I was 4 years old and couldn't read, nor (as it soon became very clear) could I operate a microwave. Still, I feel it was an early indication that I should stay out of the kitchen.

21. My first pet of my very own was a Japanese fighting fish I named "Butch." The first Butch died because I kept trying to take it out of its bowl and pet it. Once we bought Butch #2, it lived in peace and quiet until a family friend warned me not to overfeed it, or its stomach might explode. Picturing pyrotechnics, Butches #2 - #20 never lasted more than 3 weeks. I still feel a little guilty about it.

22. I had perfect attendence for two years of high school.

23. My first bouquet was from my dad on the day I learned to tie my shoes.

24. I was the last of my friends to learn how to ride a bike. Instead, I used a scooter, which was about 10 years before Razors made the kind of cool again.

25. I get the hiccups every time I walk into a large grocery store or department store.

to ponder a kidnapping.

There are days that cause us to step back and consider the rhythms and elements of our daily life. Fresh eyes are hard to come by, and I suppose I appreciate even the bad news that jolts us from our routines to provide us with new perspective. Considering this morning's news of Philip Rizk (see post below), I am suddenly re-evaluating the previous events of my day, this February 8th, as more than a list of my daily interactions and transactions, but as evidence of a lifestyle, of an ideological position. My life here is a homey, wholesome, and Egyptian one. Phil's life is that of an activist. It has been unsettling to see the comparison.

9:31. I rolled over to turn off my cellphone alarm, which was chirping in my ear. I burrowed my face deeper into the hard mattress and scratchy sheets I was laying on. I didn't open my eyes yet. I was sleeping at my host family's house in Maasara, as my 16 year old host sister was still deep asleep on the couch next to me. My first conscious thought this morning: "I'm home." The bed was familiar. I could find my way through the apartment blindfolded. The noise of the propane tank vendor banging on his damn metal cans in the street was a familiar cadence. I don't like falling asleep with someone else in the room with me, but I really enjoy waking up that way. Knowing Sara was fighting to hold on to the last few minutes of sleep too was a comforting thought. My home. My bed. My sister. 

10:20. I had finally gotten myself out of bed (the unspeakable luxury of working the swing shift), dressed, and was now munching on french fries for breakfast with my host mom, Um Hani. They're in a pinch for money right now, with doctor's bills piling up, so french fries is what we've got to eat. I loved it. Sara and I had to shake Um Hani awake at 10am, and she was looking cranky. I giggled. Here is a true family moment--mom in her pajamas, grouching good naturedly about giving Sara her lunch money, wanting to get more sleep but wanting to fuss over us even more. 

I really had to get going in order to get home to Garden City in order to shower, change, and so forth before I went to prep my English lessons at work, but Um Hani was in a chatty mood and looking for someone to talk to. I curled up and cuddled with her as she told me all about how she had gotten married at 16, but how she would never--under any circumstances--let her 16 year old daughter get married to anyone that young. Apparently Sara, the youngest daughter, had a cousin in upper Egypt who wanted to marry her. 

"No way," grouched Um Hani. "I know about women in Upper Egypt. All they do is sit at home, eat, and make babies." I giggled a little bit, seeing a lot of that same description in Um Hani herself, but glad to know that she still had plenty of spunk left in her. 

11:15. Um Hani stuffs one last french fry into my overly-full belly, and I'm finally out the door. I get a phone call. Phil Rizk has been kidnapped by the security forces. My God. 

Conversations in which you receive bad news are usually terribly inarticulate, simplistic--even glib. This morning's was no better. 

"Phil Rizk has been kidnapped."

"Oh, wow, really? Man. Wow. I can't believe that. Wow."

"Ya, I know."

"Really. Wow. Do we know any details?"

"Not yet."

"Man. Ok. Man, that's awful. Wow, well, thanks for telling me."

"Sure, alright. Talk to you later."

"Ok, see ya."

I remember having a similar conversation when I found out about Patrick. Or when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time. It takes time for these things to sink in, and it seems like our mouths just kind of blabber for a while to stall and give us time. 

Bad news rarely punches me in the stomach--rather, it just sort of shifts everything off kilter. It snaps me into a heightened awareness, a kind of alert unease. After I hung up the phone, I resumed the conversation I was having prior to hearing the news, but the whole time my brain was pulsing, "Phil Rizk is kidnapped. Phil Rizk is kidnapped." 

I should mention here that Phil is an acquaintance, not a close friend. I had a beer with him once, but beyond that, I only ever crossed paths with him as a guest speaker for my study abroad program, and know him more as a "friend of a friend" kind of capacity. Hearing bad news about this level of acquaintance is painfully awkward. 

I feel really upset about this. Wait, why? I don't really know him that well. But come on, do I need to justify feeling upset about someone I know getting kidnapped? I'm upset. But then, think about his close friends and family--I mean, they *really* feel upset. You can't really compare yourself to that.  Are you sure you aren't just trying to get on the "I know Phil Rizk" bandwagon now that he's a little famous? No-that's a ridiculous thought. I know him. This is a terrible thing--I'm allowed to feel upset.

And so on, back and forth. Or maybe no one else is as neurotic about such things? 

I am cautious in wanting to check that I'm not feeling upset for selfish reasons. It's such a simple thing to let upset feelings cover over an underlying feeling of guilty inadequacy. When an acquaintance is struck by tragedy, we are left feeling clumsy. Twiddling our thumbs, a sense of uselessness creeps in: if only I had known him better, been there when it happened, done something sooner. Making a big show of emotion becomes a kind of way to counteract our inadequacy. I really worry about doing that.

4:15. After I arrived at work, my mood became noticeably more agitated. I went into a classroom to do my lesson preps alone, instead of chatting with my coworkers like I usually do. I had brought with me a tomato/cucumber/red pepper salad in a tupperware bowl, and began distractedly eating it with my hands as I stared at my curriculum guide. I wanted chocolate. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to go home now. I noticed that my hands and jaw were clenched. I'm upset. 

Staring out the window, I watched veiled women and men in galibayas and teenage delivery boys on motorcycles passing by the window. A sweet potato vendor wheeled by his portable oven and wrapped hot potatoes in some kid's algebra homework. The breeze was warm. Isn't this the Egypt I know and love? But what about the police state and security forces--isn't that Egypt, too? These too images were difficult to bring together in my mind.

Somewhere in Egypt right now, Philip Rizk is in prison. Two school boys walked by, snacking on Doritos and talking loudly. How many Egyptians never have to interact with the security forces. And how many Egyptians have been abused and harassed by them. Which Egypt should I see when I look at the street? Which Egypt should I interact with?

I sigh and admit to myself: there is something selfish about feeling upset about this kidnapping. I am upset not only for the safety and well being of an acquaintance, but because this kidnapping points a finger back at me: He's an activist. Why aren't you?

I sit back and consider my life in Egypt: my host family, my internship, my friendships and relationships at my English center. All of these things are satisfying, all of them worthwhile. 

What about Gaza? What about the Sudanese refugees you said you were going to volunteer with? What about human rights, women's rights, voters' rights? 

I listen to the string of accusations circling in my mind, and then consider the costs of activism. Do I believe in a cause so strongly that I would be imprisoned for it? Tortured for it? Kidnapped for it? 

I drank a strong cup of black tea in the sweet afternoon sun, letting these unsettling questions wash over me. 

Kidnapping.

There are unfortunate moments when we remember that we are living in a security state. While my roommates and I remain safe, and have no reason to anticipate that we will ever be in harm's way during our stay in Egypt, a friend and colleague of ours was recently kidnapped by the Egyptian security forces.

Awareness and humiliation are some of the best tools to combat injustice--particularly injustice in which a government is complicit--so I wanted to use this space to post information about our friend Phil Rizk. 

Phil is a German-Egyptian dual citizen who is a masters student at the American University in Cairo, a filmmaker, and an activist for Palestinian rights, particularly related to Gaza. Background information on his documentaries can be viewed here.

He was kidnapped while participating in a non-violent march related to the treatment of Gazans in the recent conflict with Israel.

An eyewitness account of his kidnapping can be viewed here. Reuters has also issued a news release about it.

The AUC, the German embassy, his parents, and others with influence have been working to locate him and secure his release. Egyptian prisons and security forces have a documented history of torture and abuse, which gives us all ample cause for concern. Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have worked to bring the issue of torture to the forefront of the American-Egyptian diplomatic agenda, but the U.S. has failed to pressure its ally into any serious reforms. 

There is both a facebook group and website to show solidarity with Phil Rizk and attempt to secure his release. Please spread the word and pray for his safety.