The International Language
Its end of the month, and while for some it means dreams of how that monthly stipend will be spent, for me it translates into Croc Print Week. I become chained to my office, frantically editing, organizing and fielding questions about things that fell through the cracks. Then after the clusterfuck that is the last call for the Croc, I sit around the office for hours because our layout guy has an overwhelming fear that the second I leave, things will go missing, the building will burn to the ground, he might injure his hand and be unable to cut and paste, and My God, We'll Miss Deadlines!
While being trapped in the office tonight, I received my first true Ramadan moment. I was street Iftar'd. Right at 5:50 pm, I gave in and accepted I wouldn’t be leaving the office in time for dinner and ventured out in search of takeaway.
The hours before Iftar are probably the most beautiful time in Cairo. The sun slowly descends, casting a reddish glow through the smog, dropping behind skyscrapers. From the vantage point of my twelfth story office, this city is beautiful, and for the first time since I arrived four months ago, serene. The usually frantic traffic lulls into near silence. The streets unclog as everyone settles in to break their fast. Taxi's don't honk at the presence of every pedestrian, the street vendors stare sedately instead of screaming out their wares. It becomes a different city.
I usually use my ipod to drown out the cacophony of hassling that faces me every time I step onto pavement. Music allows me to keep my distance from the parts of living in this city that drag me down- the sexual harassment, the begging and the physical bull-rush attacks Egyptian males are prone to. But today the music was more of a soundtrack than sound proofing.
I walked down what is usually a busy road in the shopping district that surrounds work, my head phones wrapped tightly around my ears. I planned to stop at the grocery store to pick up sodas before heading to GAD, the Egyptian equivalent of McDonalds. As I walk I pass a long table set up on the sidewalk, there is room for about twenty people at this table, and most of the chairs are already taken. An old woman in black veil gestures for me to stop and sit down, but with my headphones blaring, I simply smile and keep walking.
At the end of the table, a young man in stylish clothes is pouring drinks. He starts talking the usual street harassment "Hey, you, where are you going? Wait, wait, wait." Only his tone is different, it's not that of a merchant, a sleaze or even someone who is overtly nosey. His tone is welcoming. He follows me a few steps to grab my attention, juice pitcher still in hand.
"Where are you going?" "I have to get dinner for myself and a co-worker." "Come, sit. Eat." "I really have to get…" "Eat. Eat."
I take my place at the end of the table. Besides the old woman, a security guard sat, across from him a dirty little street child. To my left, men in fashionable clothes were digging into soup as my host explained that he and those around me worked at the men's clothing store next door. I had been told that during Ramadan people just settle in anywhere during Iftar, and eat without paying, restaurants included.
Styrofoam cartons full of rice and salad appeared from a van parked in the street and everyone, myself included, quietly dug into their meals. Every time I tried to open one of the plastic containers at least two of the fashion boys would grab it out of my hand and take the cover off for me. At one point, unsatisfied with my slow eating progress, a young fashion boy took my soup container, picked out the chunks of meat and placed them on my rice. They literally shoved the desert, a rice and yogurt mixture in my lap, repeating 'sugar,' and gesturing emphatically at me with spoons.
Whenever someone finished they would simply stand up and leave. I was probably the slowest eater at the table, the first time I have ever been the restrained one, by any standards. As the meal wound down I chatted a little and started to get ready to leave. Eventually the man who originally flagged me down told me he was looking to get married. All he wanted was a nice wife who was a 'moza.' He then subtly mentioned that he's here every day during Ramadan, if I ever want to stop back.
Being a pretty big 'moza' on the streets here in Egypt, I felt it was my duty to teach him the English equivalent of the word, you know, in case he wants to let another white girl know he's looking to get hitched.
"In the states, we call a 'moza' is a babe." "Baby? Okay." "Er. Babe." "I would like to marry a baby, then. A nice baby." Oh, don't we all, Ismael. Don't we all.
While being trapped in the office tonight, I received my first true Ramadan moment. I was street Iftar'd. Right at 5:50 pm, I gave in and accepted I wouldn’t be leaving the office in time for dinner and ventured out in search of takeaway.
The hours before Iftar are probably the most beautiful time in Cairo. The sun slowly descends, casting a reddish glow through the smog, dropping behind skyscrapers. From the vantage point of my twelfth story office, this city is beautiful, and for the first time since I arrived four months ago, serene. The usually frantic traffic lulls into near silence. The streets unclog as everyone settles in to break their fast. Taxi's don't honk at the presence of every pedestrian, the street vendors stare sedately instead of screaming out their wares. It becomes a different city.
I usually use my ipod to drown out the cacophony of hassling that faces me every time I step onto pavement. Music allows me to keep my distance from the parts of living in this city that drag me down- the sexual harassment, the begging and the physical bull-rush attacks Egyptian males are prone to. But today the music was more of a soundtrack than sound proofing.
I walked down what is usually a busy road in the shopping district that surrounds work, my head phones wrapped tightly around my ears. I planned to stop at the grocery store to pick up sodas before heading to GAD, the Egyptian equivalent of McDonalds. As I walk I pass a long table set up on the sidewalk, there is room for about twenty people at this table, and most of the chairs are already taken. An old woman in black veil gestures for me to stop and sit down, but with my headphones blaring, I simply smile and keep walking.
At the end of the table, a young man in stylish clothes is pouring drinks. He starts talking the usual street harassment "Hey, you, where are you going? Wait, wait, wait." Only his tone is different, it's not that of a merchant, a sleaze or even someone who is overtly nosey. His tone is welcoming. He follows me a few steps to grab my attention, juice pitcher still in hand.
"Where are you going?" "I have to get dinner for myself and a co-worker." "Come, sit. Eat." "I really have to get…" "Eat. Eat."
I take my place at the end of the table. Besides the old woman, a security guard sat, across from him a dirty little street child. To my left, men in fashionable clothes were digging into soup as my host explained that he and those around me worked at the men's clothing store next door. I had been told that during Ramadan people just settle in anywhere during Iftar, and eat without paying, restaurants included.
Styrofoam cartons full of rice and salad appeared from a van parked in the street and everyone, myself included, quietly dug into their meals. Every time I tried to open one of the plastic containers at least two of the fashion boys would grab it out of my hand and take the cover off for me. At one point, unsatisfied with my slow eating progress, a young fashion boy took my soup container, picked out the chunks of meat and placed them on my rice. They literally shoved the desert, a rice and yogurt mixture in my lap, repeating 'sugar,' and gesturing emphatically at me with spoons.
Whenever someone finished they would simply stand up and leave. I was probably the slowest eater at the table, the first time I have ever been the restrained one, by any standards. As the meal wound down I chatted a little and started to get ready to leave. Eventually the man who originally flagged me down told me he was looking to get married. All he wanted was a nice wife who was a 'moza.' He then subtly mentioned that he's here every day during Ramadan, if I ever want to stop back.
Being a pretty big 'moza' on the streets here in Egypt, I felt it was my duty to teach him the English equivalent of the word, you know, in case he wants to let another white girl know he's looking to get hitched.
"In the states, we call a 'moza' is a babe." "Baby? Okay." "Er. Babe." "I would like to marry a baby, then. A nice baby." Oh, don't we all, Ismael. Don't we all.
