I'm still doing that other thing.

500andcounting.blogspot.com

Go there!

Um. In other news, I forgot why I opened this site to post. Shit.

I think I'll call them Sparky, Motsy, Philip, Professor Wikipedia, Rex....

I think we all know, I am not the classiest of girls. On any given day you'll find me wearing whatever I fell asleep in, which is usually what I was wearing the day before. (I'm kidding! I only fall asleep in my clothes 4 times a week, and I typically change in mornings. Though its getting cold and even that's starting to seem less important.)

So when I moved onto the boat of luxuriant hedonism, I expected it to be, well, a luxuriously hedonistic lifestyle. I assumed I would have to invest in a fur bathrobe and Paris Hilton-esque sunglasses, and spend my nights sipping Italian wine while coyly flirting with Arabian princes on the balcony. No luck, sadly no sheiks have made their way to the Imbaba slum district, surprising I know!

However, I quickly learned that houseboats on the Nile are buggy. Looking like I was raised in Canada by lumberjacks means that it didn't take long for me to not be bothered by the bugs. But this weekend I realized that comfortableness that has developed might be too extreme. I woke up and went out to the balcony to have my morning tea, only to see my roommate had dropped a tablespoon of peanut butter on the ground, my immediate thought was "I should clean that up." Then, I thought "Nah, the ants will get it."

Couple hours later, the peanut butter was just a slight oil stain.

That's right. I treat the bugs like they are the house dog. Well, I've always wanted a pet in Cairo, I suppose.

Coming up with names for all of them is going to be a hassle though.

School-yard rules

A little behind the rest of the world, I've been reading Thomas Friedman's "From Beirut to Jerusalem," beyond being a wonderfully well-written insightful though obviously sided account of the 70s and 80s in the Middle East its gotten my wheels turning again about this region.

Friedman's Op-Ed for the New York Times this week makes an interesting argument- that democracy may not be as important diversity. Respecting others rights, after all, is a keystone of democracy.

The very essence of democracy is peaceful rotations of power, no matter whose party or tribe is in or out. But that ethic does not apply in most of the Arab-Muslim world today, where the political ethos remains “Rule or Die.” Either my group is in power or I’m dead, in prison, in exile or lying very low. But democracy is not about majority rule; it is about minority rights. If there is no culture of not simply tolerating minorities, but actually treating them with equal rights, real democracy can’t take root.

But respect for diversity is something that has to emerge from within a culture. We can hold a free and fair election in Iraq, but we can’t inject a culture of diversity. America and Europe had to go through the most awful civil wars to give birth to their cultures of diversity. The Arab-Muslim world will have to go through the same internal war of ideas.

Maybe instead of state-building we should worry a little more about "creating an environment of tolerance" as my high-school guidance counselor used to call it.

Better Thongs and Tassles

Nothing has been happening in Cairo lately, well for me anyway. So I'm going to tell you a story about my mom.

A few years ago my mother's best friend, K, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. As she got ill, my mom took it really hard. I've learned it isn't easy to make close friends when you're middle-aged, and having lived in the city for only a few years, I was glad my mom had a friend she felt she could talk to. Near the end, when this friend was in the hospital permanently, my mom decided to bring K some of her favorite magazines to help keep her busy. This friend loved home decor magazines, Country Homes-esque glossies profiling beautiful living rooms and well-lit kitchens.

My mom on the other hand, finds these magazines to be, well, dull. Her approach- Who cares about looking at furniture? Let's give K something worth staring at.

So she bought a stack of interior design magazines, a stack of Playgirls and set to work. I came home for the weekend to find my mother, at the age of 53 with scissors and a glue-stick at the dining room table cutting out photos of naked men and meticulously gluing them onto the pages -- positioning the man wearing nothing but cowboy boots delicately on the expensive sofa, and perching a man in a silver g-string on the white granite kitchen counter.

She filled the pages of one of the Better Gardens & Whatever with naked, leering men, shoved it in the middle of the stack of magazines and headed to the hospital.

I should be so lucky to someday be the kind of adult she is.

The Great American (unwritten) Novel

Whenever anything bad happened in my life, my mother always would tell me "someday you can use it as material for your novel." Until she had expressed it, I had never even considered being an author. The first time I had my heart broken by a musician, the first time I broke someone else's heart (an mechanical engineer), the medical scares (cancer, unknown), all the short-comings and failed auditions (Shakespeare), it was always the same reaction-- "your novel."

I thought she was insane. She probably is. The thing is, I don't feel a novel coming, and bad things are happening to me less and less often. Its been almost a year since the last bad thing found its way in and out of my life (XXXX). So that book that will never be written is getting thinner and thinner with each passing year of happiness, which I think would be a good thing. But my mom, so full of faith in my writing ability, might disagree.

Bowling as passion

This weekend I finally had a chance to utilize my Midwestern up-bringing in some way that's more useful than not being squeamish about dead animals or eating off the floor.
Hold tight, we're getting there.
On Sunday night, I went bowling. On the Nile (why do I feel like every since I moved onto the houseboat, everything I do has a Nile-centric theme. Maybe I should walk around with a martini and fur wrap and respond to every party invitation with "well, I'm sure thats a very diverting idea, but I think I would prefer to attend if it was held on the Nile.")
It was actually someone else's genius idea to go bowling, but I was the one who set up the phone tree of invites. Let's be fair, the phone tree is a huge responsibility, Someone should be giving me some kind of medal. This was special bowling for many reasons-
1. Harrison, the silky Nigerian had never been bowling before. As I was about to leave for the bowling lanes, Harrison asked if he could come, I told him I was in a hurry, so he immediately decided to shower for 20 minutes. Now, I was understanding a non-American's first-time bowling must be what my christening was like, Harrison was getting a step closer to god (or at least a step away from burning in afro-heathen hell) and he wanted to look good. I don't know if Harrison was confused or what and somehow thought bowling was a real sport but he dressed up in the shiniest white sneakers I had ever seen, basketball shorts and matching t-shirt. Sure, I had been wearing the same skirt everyday for the past 3 weeks, but it was my Action Skirt, good for impromptu street soccer and climbing over things, so I guess I can relate to Mr. NBA over there.

2. I dominated. (by dominate I mean I bowled 104, while everyone else barely broke 95) Finally all those years feeling embarrassed because I was lame enough to join a summer bowling league at the age of 14, (age requirement 12-14) paid off. In Wisconsin I was the worst bowler in the league, but in Cairo, there weren't any 12-year-old farm kids to outdo me, and I was a powerhouse. The fact that I used a eight pound ball doesn't detract from the completely unstoppable force that is me at all, in any way. I swear. (That's right, being up-staged by 12-year-old girls is not a new thing that has only been occurring since I've hit my twenties, but pre-teen girls have been humiliating me for a decade.)
I learned an important lesson: All I need to do to be good at sports is find someone from the third world who has never seen said sport played before. I challenge them to the sport, then refuse to tell them the rules. Finally, I secretly use children sized sports gear to win... because I am weak.


Next up, I think I'll take on Harrison at speed sledding, I bet Nigeria doesn't see a lot of snow.

Love at the Big Top

Remember when I left Egypt in June, telling everyone that when I returned I would be a different, better Megan (read: wash my hair more than twice a week, wear mascara). I had met Injustice Megan in the week before I left and it terrified me. I saw what my life would be if I somehow veered horribly off my righteous path of awesomeness. Injustice Megan has all those unfortunate tendencies that I know I possess but try to avoid: loud, unfunny, unkempt hair, dresses only in t-shirts and jeans, talks too long about things no one wants to be listening to, and on the job front, over-dedicating oneself to something completely lame, not realizing its lame. And so, to prevent this horrible future I made a declaration: I, Megan E. Detrie, am going to get classy.

I went back to the USA for a month, got a haircut, bought a couple new shirts and my first set of decent heels. I was ready for Classy Megan to start making its way into my lifestyle more often.

Sadly, it’s been over a month back in Egypt and twice this week I went to work wearing the same clothes from the day before, I slept on a floor Tuesday, and I ate some spilled oatmeal off a coffee table. Today, I’m not even wearing my clothes, I’m wearing my co-workers, whose couch I passed out on after a party. I started out strong, but I’ve slipped. I’ll say it now, washing my hair is a lot of hassle, I know its chin-length and everything, but man, shampoo, who needs it? You have to lather and er.. condition. Hassle! I still haven’t mastered eye make-up or anything, but I didn’t think I looked so bad. Sure, I’m a little scruffy (read: homeless looking) but I own a skirt from the Banana Republic outlet, that should count for something.

But the continued un-classiness was made painfully clear to me last night. I went to a party in a dress and heels. Did the whole eye makeup thing, styled my hair (it takes three minutes, but somehow I still can’t bother) put the bottle of whiskey in the purse (just in case, you know) showed up and people started crying. Yes, I was that beautiful.

I knew about 70% of the partygoers, and I couldn’t pass a person without getting spun, complimented, or flat out told I asked by I always look so bad if I can look like this. I think I’ve backed myself into a corner. Now the nice-looking thing is no longer a fantasy, but an expectation. Sadly, while I proved I can look good, I’m still a loud, obnoxious drunk. So, I guess unless you define classy as “challenging an Ethiopian to a wrestling contest” or “opening beer bottles with my teeth” or “being really, really sweaty” I still have a ways to go before I make good on my declaration.

I figured I’d try out some of that old Megan charm, but now with heels!, and sidled up to one of the more attractive men at the party, a British guy. It immediately became clear that I had made a mistake when he told me “Well, you know the Egyptian circus? I’ve been living with them for the past four months.” The circus. Not just any circus, but the Egyptian circus. Judging from what the rest of the country’s entertainment in that price bracket looks like (unenthusiastic belly-dancing, the pyramid rides on horses with open sores, bribing the guard at the zoo to let you hold a tiger or vulture) I can only imagine living at the circus would involve a lot of accidental deaths, and spending time with bearded, but hijab’d, women.

To be fair, I bet it’s pretty awesome. Imagine inviting a girl back to your place: you make her some coffee, while your roommate brushes the lions. It sounds sexy. Ultimately the guy was more interested in me for my job contacts than my, ahem, other assets.

Leave it to me to go out, try to pick up a carnie ... and fail.

I’m wearing makeup today, so I’m awarding myself +6 classy points for wearing makeup to work, but I’m taking away 4 classy points from my overall classy score for the makeup being makeup I slept in and then left without washing it off.

World Press Photo

The World Press Photo exhibit is in town. If you're in Cairo, go and see it. It runs until August 29 at the Sawy Culture Wheel.

Never in my life have I felt so insignificant just looking at pictures. There are a lot more stories in this world that are barely being told. Sometimes I think we all get caught up in our immediate reality, and forget about just how fascinating, horrific, and amazing the world really is.

The exhibit was a sharp reminder of why I'm in Cairo, working where I work. There are stories I want to be a part in telling, the present is just step one.

If you're not in Cairo go look at the gallery. Even on a computer screen, it's powerful.

Injustice Day

I've always said, Egypt has a gift of kicking you while you're down. Somehow, on a bad day, Egypt just knows... The cab drivers will scream at you, the kids will grope, the shops are out of everything and everyone is miserable to you.

Last night I went to bed early in hopes of getting a full 6.5 hours sleep (the most I would have had in weeks). Sadly, Egypt figured out my plan and proceeded to send a swarm of hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-mosquito-scorned army to my bedroom. I woke up in the middle of the night because I itched so badly, my arms, shoulders, legs and back covered in bites. I showered, hoping it would reduce the itching, and then in 32 degree celsius (90 degrees fahrenheit) I dressed in a t-shirt, long pants, socks and crawled back into bed. I changed the bug device, lit a outdoor de-bug flare in the corner of my room and tried to get some sleep.

All of my efforts were met with limited success, somehow, the bugs, impervious to my intense chemical cloud, and 5 layers of clothing still managed to attack.

I woke up at 7:30 am covered in welts, exhausted and moody.

Then, the day began. I went out to catch the bus downtown only to find, overnight, for no apparent reason, the bowaab (doorman) changed the padlock on the front gate. I tried all four of my gate keys and none of them fit, I walked up to the bowaab's shed and shouted, knocked on his door, and generally acted annoyed.

Obviously, because this is Egypt, and I was having a bad day, he didn't answer.

I went and woke up my roommate to ask if he had given her a new key for the lock, she said no, but told me the second gate can be forced open with a lot of pulling. I went to the side gate, and sat there jabbing at for ten minutes, nothing happened. I looked at my options, I could not go to work, call in sick, go back to bed and wait for it to be tomorrow (this would've been the right choice) or I could scale the wall in my already slightly too short for the neighborhood skirt, get covered with Nile dust and jump the gate.

So, I did what any foreign girl dressed a little bit too trampy for the extremely poor and conservative neighborhood across the road would've done- I jumped the fence, got covered in grime, and flashed Imbaba.

That's right Imaba, the underwear is red today. I know you all were wondering, well, now you know.

I figured a latte would fix all of this, and while I don't normally indulge in the more expensive prospect of proper coffee, I thought it was my only shot at salvaging the day. I got off a metro stop early, walked to the American-style coffee shop Cilantro and ordered what turned out to be the weakest latte ever.

Warm milk, and more warm milk.

Sigh.

It's only 9:30 am.

Some kind of Egypt justice and then complete injustice America-style

Let's give Egypt a hand: despite the unbelievably frequent use of torture in police stations, the invincibility that has led officers to video tape tortures and sodomize prisoners, and share the tapes with friends (and unintentionally youtube), it seems the cronies are finally getting something right.

Look! The justice system at work! Police enter a home, throw a man from the balcony, man dies, police investigated. It's beautiful.

"Gadallah's family alleges that police broke into the apartment and demanded he withdraw a complaint 39-year-old plumber had filed against one of their colleagues for stealing money from him about week before. When he refused, they threw him off the balcony, the family said Wednesday."

Functioning on the side of the righteous, just this once, the official response was to detain and investigate the officers.

"It's rare you get all the information right after the incident takes place," said Gasser Abdel Razeq, the director of regional relations for Middle East and North Africa of the New York-based Human Rights Watch. "Usually people are tortured and die in police custody and it takes a long time for people to find out what happened."

"Prosecutors are under increasing pressure to act quickly after several reports of police brutality were published on blogs and in local media over the past year, Abdel Razeq said."

Considering the severe oppression of political and religious reformers, its nice to see the common Joe Egyptian having a chance at due process, though sadly post mortim.

You can't help but hope, while being detained the officers get a little of what they are dishing out.




AND BACK IN THE LAND OF DEMOCRACY

...things are barely any better.

God, I really can't pick a winner, can I? A solid reminder of everything that is wrong with Milwaukee:

"Milwaukee police said a 3-year-old girl found a gun inside a home near Teutonia Avenue and Chambers Street and pulled the trigger. Investigators said the bullet hit the 6-year-old in the stomach.A 32-year-old man who lives in the house told police he stores a loaded gun behind the stove and that the girl got a hold of it somehow and walked into a room where two 6-year-old boys were playing.

The gun accidentally fired, striking one of the 6-year-olds in the abdomen and bicep, police said.

According to police, the adults in the house fled with the exception of the 32-year-old man, who was arrested on charges of being a felon in possession of a firearm and leaving a loaded firearm within the reach of a child.

Police recovered the weapon -- a .32 caliber semiautomatic."

Where do I even begin on this one? A loaded semiautomatic behind the stove. Adults fleeing the scene. What the hell is wrong with you Milwaukee?

There is something fundamentally messed up with the freedom to bear arms translating into keeping a semiautomatic in the kitchen.