Tag Archives: travel

Aug 12 2011
4 Comments
Lists, Travelling, Two minute read

Pasta, Pizza, Espaghetti

Has anyone else noticed Italy looks like a boot? Weird.

So I’m heading to Italy today. In 25 minutes I will be leaving my house to bake in the noon heat for 10 minutes before getting into a cab taking us to the airport and then getting into a big ol’ airplane and flying away for a short 9 day trip where I will sample the wonders of Rome, San Benedetto del Tronto,  and Bologna.

Goals for the trip:

1. Eat Italian food. This one could prove to be difficult. I hear Italian food is hard to find and usually expensive when you do. Luckily, there are some great websites that have miraculously located places with passable fare.

2. Drink fermented Italian beverages. I’m no alkie but sometimes the fact you  can only choose between expensive crap and cheap crap here in Egypt gets annoying. Besides, I hear there are more than 4 beer choices in Italy. Rumor only? We shall see.

3. Sit in a meadow and breathe.

4. Nap on the beach in a one piece bathing suit.

5. Find something with little blue flowers on it to purchase and call my own. Place in someone else’s bag and claim they stole it.

6. Find cool gifts for the family to replace what I originally planned to bring back for them: pyramid keychains and little piles of sand.

7. Get in as many people’s photos as possible while at touristy sites like the Colosseum and the Pope’s wax museum.

8. Go to a hair salon and get my bangs cut. Refuse to pay and see what happens.

9. Speak with an Italian accent the whole time and see how many best friends I make.

10. Verify my hypothesis that Spanish and Italian are actually the same language.

11. Take a nap at least once.

12. Claim I am the direct descendant of the last emperor and declare my rule over Italy via public service announcement.

13. Pretend to be German and wear socks with my sandals.

14. Coat myself in glue and then roll in macaroni. Run through the streets screaming like the famous Italian macaroni monster.

15. Say “Mamma mia!” as many times as possible.

16. Stare at my travel companion on the train when he’s not looking at me and then look away quickly when he suspects something. Repeat continually.

17. Politely ask flight attendants to not make eye contact with me and explain I usually sit in the first class but there was a misunderstanding with my company and they booked the wrong ticket.

18. Blend in with the locals by covering my face in pizza sauce.

19. Pick and eat my own wild mushrooms.

20. Make a new facebook friend.

21. Fight a wild boar to the death. Eat its flesh.

22. Purchase a new spear and go truffle hunting.

That about covers it. Wish me luck on my adventures that will likely center around deciding which restaurant to eat at next; nothing too scary. I probably won’t be blogging while in Italy, but as soon as I get back I will go into a blogging frenzy that won’t stop until I’ve communicated all of the awesome thoughts I had while abroad, which are bound to be many.

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Aug 03 2011
5 Comments
Anecdotes, Humorous, Three minute read

My Feet, the Moth Kings

They don’t always look this bad. Sometimes they look worse.

In Boston, my feet lived like caterpillar kings, cocooned away from the outside world. I took care to shelter them from the elements, always dressing them in semi-clean, hole-free socks. Each day, I firmly laced them into closed toed shoes that were either waterproof or water-resistant, and each night I tucked them into bed along with the rest of my body. Only my head remained above the covers in order to keep an eye on my teddy bear, who I do not trust.

In Cairo, my caterpillar king feet have undergone a great metamorphosis. They have emerged from their sock cocoons transformed from soft, wussy flesh colored appendages to hardened, grey, creatures of the street.  I continue to watch the change with grim fascination as the days pass and Cairo grime continues to take its toll, as they become moth kings.

First, let us discuss the street environment as it relates to my feet. Since Cairo is essentially the last frontier of the desert, its streets are quite dusty. Some might even call them boulevards of dust, dust avenues, or lanes o’dust. In addition, the city’s continual decay and repair necessitates bags and piles of construction elements, which are set loose by the wind and join their long time companion, dust. To top it all off, garbage particles of various stripes also do their part in making a magical mixture of filth that is whipped up by the car, bus, pedestrian, and equine traffic.

Were the climate here similar to that of winter in Boston, my feet would have no need to concern themselves with these outside conditions. However, the climate being slightly hotter and drier, I was forced to cut the apron strings. I currently wear sandals daily, exposing most of my foot to the oven-like conditions of Cairo. Naturally, this has crisped my skin like a fine Christmas goose, and caused the formation of something akin to an exoskeleton over the majority of my foot’s surface area. This shell is comprised both of Cairo dust and dead skin cells that have baked onto my foot and now refuse to slough off.

As a cute furry creature snuggling against its mate in winter to stave off the cold, so the Cairo dust snuggles into every crease of my foot. At all times I have part of Cairo with me. Is there anything more poetic than seeing the greyish tinge of my heel and knowing that I am a carrier of the ancient history of the Pharoahs themselves? That as I walk down the street, I am absorbing the very heritage of great civilizations and various cuisines? Were I not afraid of contracting one of the more deadly diseases, I would surely stride barefoot down every thoroughfare in Cairo attempting to aggregate in the heel of my foot the very essence of this indescribable city, which I would then try to sell on ebay.

However, as much as I enjoy history immersing itself between my dead epidermal cells, my skin’s increasingly rough texture is slightly alarming, and I am almost certain my feet are going to start clacking on the ground like wooden clogs if I am not careful. After this year in Cairo, a pedicurist will only look at my feet and weep, which is why I’m going straight to a deck specialist to have her power wash my feet and then sand them down as soon as I get back to the states.

And no, I will not start wearing close toed shoes.

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Aug 02 2011
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Anecdotes, Best blog posts, Three minute read

Postal museums: people are stamp-eding to get in

View from the couch. Also, the only picture I took before my camera died. The only man who knew what this is has gone insane.

Today, just as the Egyptian army began activist clean up and put away time in Tahrir square, three happy go lucky American students arrived safely though thirstily at their apartments after a riveting day of museum hopping and fame snatching. If all goes well, I will be leaving my program shortly to begin my career as a full-time documentary interviewee specializing in Egyptian museums. Allow me to explain through the medium of story telling:

After the spiritual revelation that was the Egyptian Agricultural Museum, our group formed an unspoken consensus that we must taste the dust of every museum in Cairo that lies off the beaten path. Little did we know that our destinies and the destiny of one founder of pastpreservers.com would soon collide.

The next stop on our list was the promising Egyptian Postal Museum, a mecca for mail enthusiasts from all over Egypt and the world that attracts up to ten visitors a year. Incredibly, we almost missed the museum itself even though it was unlabeled and tucked away on the second floor of the national post office. When we arrived, the museum/postal worker found the key and opened the door for us to a one-room world of postal wonders. Dusty glass cases contained everything from international postal uniforms, stamps, miniatures of famous postal offices in Egypt, and figurines of postal workers from different time periods. It was more than I had ever wanted to know about Egyptian and worldwide mail delivery. Luckily, I avoided learning too much.

Personally, my favorite part of the museum was the couch and nearby fan whose blade was left unguarded, an element that added a thrilling level of excitement to what could have been a boring place. My heart raced as I gingerly stepped by the fan when I reluctantly got off the couch, nervous it would catch my chinos and begin boring into my flesh. I made it by safely, though I never made it back there after my short rest at the start of our visit, my one regret. I also regretted the fact the museum did not have air conditioning, a complaint I plan to tweet at the Supreme Commander of Armed Forces.

The museum was mustical, but the real magic happened as we were leaving. Turning to go down the stairs, I was shocked when I spotted another white guy on the ground floor peering up at us with equal puzzlement. We both thought to ourselves, “No way these people came all the way out here like us freaks to see the postal museum.”  It turns out we were both wrong. Our groups gave each other the up and down as we descended the spiral staircase and as we were about to walk by him and out the door forever, he confronts us.

Tension reached its peak for a brief moment but then he tells us that he works for an Egyptian television station and that he and his television crew are doing a piece on lesser known museums in Egypt.  He is surprised anyone else knows about this place and asks if we would like to be interviewed. Obviously, fame grubbers and blabber mouths that we are, we eagerly agree. The film crew sets up and the host of the show asks us hard hitting questions in passable English like “Is this your first time in Egypt” and “What was your favorite part of the museum?” Unfortunately for my friend, right before we began filming, I had  jokingly said “So will we be singing? We know a song in Arabic!”

So he had a surprise question as well, “Do you know any songs?” It was a cheap shot, to be sure, but I can’t say we (I) didn’t ask for it. If all goes well, you will see a short interview and song by us on Egyptian television (channel 25) after Ramadan.

SNEAK PREVIEW: Emily loves the couch!  Lack of English labels might be a problem for some tourists!

It’s pretty riveting stuff so I can understand why the people of Egypt are anxious to see it before the end of Ramadan. There will probably be another Tahrir sit in because of this…so much for life back to normal. #revolutionmyway

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Aug 01 2011
2 Comments
Fiction, Three minute read

Twas the night before Ramadan

Some Ramadan decorations…not the most impressive, just the closest

Twas the night before Ramadan and all through the flat,

No one was stirring, not even the mat

In front of the bathtub in spite of its mold,

Not to mention the pile of laundry to fold.

Emily was curled next to her laptop with care,

Playing too much with her freshly washed hair,

As she wondered what sights the morrow would bring,

The possibilities all in her head turning.

She had seen sprucing up for the past several weeks,

Lights and lanterns appeared and people clogged up their leaks.

She saw tapestries hung all full of colours bright

Pleasant figures in Alpha Market’s window one did spy,

The buzz in the air causing life to blur,

Evidenced by families buying twenty kilos of sugar.

“But,” she wondered, “how will this affect me,

I who have not yet embraced muslimery?

When will stores be open and how should I eat

if I cannot slaughter pigs on the street?

And what about alcohol, if I may be so bold?

Where will my 8th rate beer be sold?”

Oh life without urine-like drink did sound foul,

And just when she thought of giving a howl

She remembered the wonder of Ramadan here.

The streets, they say, be they far or near

Fill up with people as the sun departs

From sidewalk to sidewalk citizens satifsying their hearts

And their stomachs with delicious iftar vittles,

Not being shy, or taking too little,

Dates being thrown into the car windows of those

rushing home from their shops after they’ve just closed.

“Oh I wish,” she thinks,  “to eat with these folk

and though I’m not fasting I will hardly croak

at being invited to such a magnificent feast

where I will chow down on all kinds of roast beast.

“Until then,” she informs, “I still do not know

at what hours for my peanut butter I may go

to Alpha Market and for that matter

I remain clueless as to types of Ramadan clatters.

So please stay tuned as I absorb more culture

and I will pass it on to all of you for sure;

less facts than feelings as is my wont

But at least you’ll know all my favorite haunts.”

No complaining.

A few notes: I’ve noticed people buying food in ridiculous quantities at all the supermarkets, which have set up special Ramadan sections with all the necessities for having a proper iftar (break fast, occurs after sundown). One of the most important foods are dates, which are traditionally the first food one eats after fasting all day. Apparently people hand out dates to those struggling to get home in traffic or on the metro before the iftars. Water is also distributed since people fast from both food and drink.

I have been told about big tents that are set up all over town where rich people will prepare huge feasts for the less fortunate, and entire streets are full of those breaking the fast together. If this is real, I will take a picture of it. I will then post the picture onto this blog.

No alcohol may be sold to Egyptians during Ramadan (I think. This might just apply to bars.) and so you have to show your passport in order to get a beer. The hours for liquor stores are especially weird, though other places of commerce also have reduced hours during the day. At night, however, things get crazy. People stay up really late and feast and then sleep during the day. Unless, of course, you’re employed, and then life is a little harder.

More Ramadan madness to come!

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Jul 15 2011
4 Comments
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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