Tag Archives: humor

Jul 15 2011
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Best blog posts, Humorous, Open Letters, Three minute read

Open letter to the pile of mush I ate today

The innards looked kind of like this but redder. It did taste good.

Dear substance I consumed,

The path leading to you, a “shekshooka” sandwich, was filled with guilt, yellow-bellied behavior, and poor decision making in general. Though the time we had together was short, I would like to thank you for showing me the depths to which my dignity can plummet through the mere act of food consumption, depths I never knew existed. I am now more acutely aware of the pathetic human condition.

My thinking capacity weakened by the mid-day heat, I wander in a daze most closely related to that of tranquilized animals before they are slaughtered. Friend suggests getting something to eat, and I agree with the docility of a lamb, embarking on a journey soon to end with me shoveling goop into my mouth out of a plastic bag.

At the inevitable sandwich place, I crave something on the “lighter side” of Egyptian street fare. I have forgotten this is a side that does not exist. Regardless of other contents, the main ingredient by weight of every dish is oil and/or mayonnaise. In my woefully doomed attempt to avoid eating mostly oil, soybean or otherwise, I order you, a shekshooka sandwich, which I imagine to be a spiced omelet shoved into bread. “What could be healthier or lighter than an omelet?” I asked myself as blissfully uninformed as someone wondering why her mother is making such strange snuffling and grubbing sounds outside the tent. I soon find out the actual shekshooka is remarkably unlike an omelet.

Things go sour from the start, as my order is promptly lost and I have to wait a solid ten minutes (as opposed to the usual one minute) to begin what would ultimately be one of the most dehumanizing activities I’ve ever engaged in. Wasted by heat and restaurant crowd exhaustion, I am no longer hungry and desire only to consume you and finish with this business once and for all. Finally, I see you being prepared: a cup of oil and a few eggs thrown into a pan, a fork mashing it all together with disdain.  Mr. Man scrapes your pulpy substance out onto a plate before slopping you into a round of Egyptian bread that is then thrown into a small plastic bag. Here you take your final form and instantly begin to deteriorate, the thin exoskeleton of bread doing nothing to prevent the hot egg mixture from infiltrating its every pore and beginning to escape. As I cup the plastic sandwich casing, I feel your liquid innards struggling to break free. My heart fills with dread. There will be consequences but no looking back.

With both hands I lift you, dear sandwich, to my jaws and begin to devour you, the sensation closely related to what a bear must feel when it digs into the intestines of a freshly slain deer. The preliminary bites are mostly bread, but I then reach the heart of the mess, my hands supporting you in your plastic cocoon that prevents your complete disintegration. Were I to pump you in my fist a few times, you would instantly become the consistency of baby food. Knowing this, I proceed with caution, as I hope to retain some form of dignity when I polish off your last morsels. I have hopes of removing you from the plastic bag while savoring the final bites…

Alas it is not to be. Though your flavor itself is delicious, I only continue the grotesque task of eating you through sheer determination. As I near your end, there is no longer any distinction between the outer bread and your greasy innards.  You have become a homogeneous mush filling up the right corner of my sandwich bag, its tip a pocket of red oil for contrast that reminds me of my pre-sandwich naivety.  The sight turns my stomach, to be frank.

Unwilling to concede defeat, and despite being disgusted at what I have become in the heat of competition, I proceed to consume you in your entirety. You, since you are a sandwich, cannot appreciate how shameful it is to eat mush out of a bag. Indeed, it is impossible eat in such a manner and retain the same level of self-respect, knowing full well I am one step away from eating out of feed bag strapped to my face. As I use my fingers to invert the corner of the bag and thrust your last remaining particles-a veritable oil slick- into my gaping mouth, I swear to myself I will never stoop this low again.

A new day dawns tomorrow, one in which I will eat with a fork, or a spoon, or even with my hands, but never again will I feed as a common pack animal or wild beast. The obvious exception is if I am, in fact, tucking into an animal I have just chased down and slaughtered. So thank you, shekshooka sandwich, for inspiring me onto new heights after showing me the very nadir of human existence.

Eternally yours,

Emily

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Jul 11 2011
3 Comments
Anecdotes, Best blog posts, Humorous, One minute read

There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother

It is a mosquito.

An entire day passes in my apartment and I see no Cairo wildlife, i.e. insects of various sorts, dogs, cats,

This is the enemy

weasels, or small badgers, but as soon as the hour approaches when I consider beginning the long nap I take at night, my old enemy confronts me once again. Indeed, as soon as the very thought ekes its way through the fabric of my mind, I hear the familiar high pitched whine that signals the presence of a creature desiring to partake of my flesh.

Nothing could be more dangerous than this foe. Left unattended, I am faced with the frightening reality of awaking in the morning to as many as five or six bites upon my feet, face, and claws. That is a reality I do not wish to experience.

And yet, night after night, the dastardly devil proves nearly impossible to kill. I have only successfully killed one mosquito in my time here. In that case, the little lady had feasted too heartily on the blood of yours truly. Slowed down by the weight, she could not avoid my slowly approaching, slightly moist palm which after the fact was graced with a bright smear of body fluid complemented by mosquito appendages. Of course I ingested it, making my revenge complete.

The war continues, however, another thirsty female eagerly filling the last one’s place. How does it hover so slowly and closely to my ear and spring away with the precision of a gazelle when I go to slap it? What mad science is this that the mosquito is perfectly adapted to inflict both physical and mental pain in its victims? Why do I leave my windows open and breed mosquitoes under my bed?

The only solution is continual wakefulness until every mosquito is gone. A disguise must be sequestered. I have work to do.

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Jul 10 2011
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Two minute read

Sit-in or sit down?

Politically minded people/ people who are mildly aware of their surroundings would note that there has been some

The Arabic actually read's "Emily's Jam"

activity going on in Tahrir square. The protests that began yesterday in earnest continue in the form of a sit-in, thus all traffic through the square is completely blocked off and identity cards are required to get through. The political future of Egypt is still very much in flux and it would do well for stakeholders as well as those concerned to pay close attention.

While a sit-in does have its benefits, there is also another option, a nobler option one might say: the sit down, as in sitting down at a café and drinking coffee/sheesha for hours on end (the verb in Arabic is the same). I choose this option, and undertook both activities this very night to the great surprise of no one. I and “the gang” headed to “our” favorite spot, a spot I would even call my “jam,” also known as Boursa since it is an outspreading of open air cafes in the closed off streets of the financial market and the word Boursa means stock exchange in Arabic (I think).

At Boursa, over games of backgammon and dominoes, we discussed topics ranging from American politics to American movies, with varying degrees of success. When discussing the election of 2004, we hit a stumbling block when trying to explain the Electoral College, which remains somewhat of a mystery even in America. American films were a bit easier, though I and friend were proven to be ignorant of many films our country has birthed.

On the way home in a taxi, the driver explained to me that he had to go around Tahrir square and take a different bridge to Doqqi. Not understanding what he said except for the word “bridge” and “Tahrir” and thinking he was asking me which way I wanted to go I said “Whatever you like…whichever is easier,” and then he said, “No, Tahrir Square is closed off. No one can get through.” And again I replied, “I don’t care which way you go…at your ease.” By then we were passing a street that enters Tahrir and I could see it was completely blocked off by cars and there was a big white tent in the middle. As he turned away from the square towards the different bridge I finally realized what was going on as he said, “There is a sit in…the square is completely closed.” And I replied, “Oh….well I guess you can go this way.” And we both chuckled.

Though I told him to take me to the Ambassadors’ Hotel which is very close to where I live, we ended up making the entire trip to the door of my apartment building after a lot of “You can let me out here…well I guess a little further…here’s good…well maybe up ahead a little bit…yeah just turn here…” And we both chuckled again. He tried to refuse payment, but I showed him, and I gave him a 25 cent tip (of borrowed money). I meant it to be more but my skills in mathematics are very limited. This driver more than made up for the loser we had last night. There are good taxi drivers…may the entire world know!

Also, Che Guevara was at Boursa tonight, topping off a long day of post-death revolution making with smooth sheesha smoke.

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Jul 09 2011
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Two minute read

Do they have T.V. in the mornings?

This was the meter going too fast

As has been my Friday custom since I’ve been in Cairo, I did not leave my apartment until the ripe hour of 8:30 pm, at which point the sun was safely beyond the rim of the earth, scorching another people somewhere. I don’t know if I’m just complainy and/or high maintenance, but it sure does get hot here. I have no problem with the weather per say; I just have no desire to be out scampering around in a cauldron-like atmosphere–hence the clever avoidance strategies i.e. sleep. Since I realize the weather will get hotter and is already hotter some places in America, I will save my strongest complaints for later.

Apparently, however, I’ve been missing out on a different world. The streets, they say, are calm on Friday mornings and one might actually use the word “pleasant” to describe walking outdoors. They might as well say that unicorns pull the buggies and the nile is filled with iced tea, but so help me I will witness for myself the miracle of Friday morning next week. I might stay up all night just to wander the empty streets and eat the candy leaves of the acacia trees in the soft light of dawn, but I will do it.

On a different note, tonight we took a taxi back from our favorite hang out spot, Boursa, which is in Midtown and probably about 10-20 minutes in taxi from Doqqi, depending on the traffic. After we got into the taxi we commented, in English, that the meter was running faster than usual, much faster. It reminded me of cartoon characters’ eyes when they turn into slot machines out of extreme desire for something, the image flipping faster than you can say “hold on there one hot second, pal.” Mr. Taxi Driver noticed we were staring at the meter and talking about something in our foreign tongue, gestured to the meter and said “Expensive?” Great guess, bucko. To be fair, you had the advantage of remembering the time you took the meter to your cousin and asked him to rig it for you, so I’m not going to say you’re a genius. But we were grateful for what was, in essence, an admission of guilt, and got out as soon as we knew where the heck we were. On the bright side, we got to walk a little bit, which we hadn’t done all day. On the dark side, we had to walk in the presence of Cairo night dwellers, which aren’t always the most savory of folk. Except for us, of course.

There were protests today in Tahrir, but they were peaceful, so that’s good. I heard the number tens of thousands thrown out there, also the words “carnival atmosphere.” Tomorrow I plan on sitting at home, promptly followed by feasting on camel meat.

Also, the title to this blog post is a vague reference to 30 rock…let credit be given where credit is due.

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Jul 08 2011
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Anecdotes, Three minute read

Have you seen a tall building in Cairo?

Walking in Cairo

I do not carry a purse, so whenever I go somewhere (i.e. a cafe),  with the plan to sit for a while, I immediately empty  my pockets and place the contents on the table to make sure nothing falls out and is lost forever. This system of keeping things in sight and mind had not backfired until yesterday, when I went somewhere new, a rooftop bar in Zamalek, and met a friend of a friend of a friend and enjoyed the company and the view. An hour later while reclining at home, my roommate got a phone call from me, and by from me I mean from my phone which was now in the possession of the friend 3 times removed since I had kept it out of mind though in sight. In other words, I left it on the table.

Obviously I was bummed that I would have to hunt down the phone, but I considered myself lucky since this friend worked close to where I live so I wouldn’t have to trek over to her neck of the woods in Maadi, an hour away by cab. She emailed me the name of the building, the street on which it was located, and the floor that she was on. It was a tall building–over 15 floors—and in an area I thought I was familiar with so I figured it would be easy to find. Once I got into the cab, however, it turned out that “Companies Building” on Shooting Club street (a long street) just ahead of the Department of Agriculture (in which direction?) before the end of the street (which end/how long before the end?) was not, in fact, a real address.

To make matters worse, prior to boarding the taxi I thought it would be a good idea to break my 20 pound note by spending most of it on hazelnuts. Thus, I wasted 15 of my only 24 pounds on hazelnuts so I only had 9 pounds on me when entering the taxi and was nervous the entire time that I would have disembark far from my destination due to lack of funds. As I sweated in the taxi cab and the driver asked me about my marital status, I stared like a hawk at the meter until it proved necessary to call my friend from his cellphone to get better directions. In her noble attempts at clarification, she told me that there was a gate, a big green sign that said “Companies Building” and that the building was brown-ish. Most of the right side of the street was gated and shaded by big trees which might cover up and/or camouflage a green sign, and everything in Cairo is brown-ish from the daily bastings of dust and pollution.

Cut to me getting out of the cab right as the meter turns to 9 pounds in front of a building the driver insists is correct, since it is tall and has a big green sign that says “Arab Development Bank,” which is not as close as it could be to “Companies Building.” I know he’s not necessarily tracking with what I’m looking for, but I get out anyways since I figure I could just walk until I find it.

Cut to me 30 minutes later, the saliva in my throat turned to pollution-mud, my face a mask of sweat, grease, and dust, and my heart heavy with despair as I trek back along the other side of a busy street under the merciless sun looking for “Companies Building.” Philosophical thoughts fill my brain: What if I don’t find the building and have to walk home without my cellphone? What if I die of heat/pollution stroke on the spot? What if my teeth start falling out because of stress?

I finally spot a sign that says, not “Companies Building” but something about USAID, the organization my friend works for, and enter into a gated compound down a dusty road/parking lost. I have found the promised land. The building is just as non-descript as was described but to me it looked like heaven. I climb a short flight of stairs, greet the men at the front desk and then head to the fifteenth floor. There is a man inside the elevator that pushes the buttons for me and asks what extent I am doing well…”good? very good? very very very good?” I answer “so-so.” and when I return the question he says he’s at 100%. Show off.

Two minutes later I’m sitting in the office of my friend with her colleagues shooting the breeze and drinking Nescafe in air conditioning. My soul is healed. Finally, after being in transit to this place for an hour and a half, I am able to leave in possession of my cell phone and renewed hope for society.

After exiting the building, I try to find a cab to take home. To my surprise, no cab driver wants to take me….I put two and two together and realize home must be closer than I thought. It was a mere twenty minute walk away. Things may take longer to get done here in Cairo, but they take especially long when you have no idea what you’re doing.

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