I like dreams and I love to dream. I reached a point in studying Arabic when the hard confines and strict rules of its grammar gave way to some truly beautiful poetry (thank you Dr. Yaseen Noorani), which could never be as beautiful in translation. In my dreams, I open books of classical Arabic poetry and read them. And fully understand them – each and every nuance and epithet – without reaching for a classical Arabic dictionary and tearing my hair out over which of the twenty English meanings is being used.

In my dreams, I read with the voice of Mohamed Al Mohalhal Al Yassin.

It’s a beautiful advert which shows an often unrecognised modern creativity from this region. As glorious as the screen images are though, it’s the voice that stops me dead every time it comes on TV.

We arrive at a wedding party. The couple have not yet arrived. Some of the other guests are also on time (the couple are not supposed to be on time). People are taking photos. I can’t quite hear the guys next to Mr S and I, but it seems that they want their photo taken with us. I am not really in the mood for this, grumpy me, so I play dumb.

They ask Mr S for a photo with him. Phew, grumpy me doesn’t have to smile. Something’s a bit strange though, the photographer is not at quite the right angle for the group to be in the centre of the shot..it’s just a bit off centre so that I’m going to be caught in the side. I turn and look away.

This goes on all night. People gravitate towards me, pretending they’re not (probably because I’m giving ever so subtle f-off vibes in to people with cameras). Sometimes people come and ask for a photo directly. A photo sitting next to me. Now a photo standing next to me. Now a photo with their mate on the other side of the two of us. I oblige, can’t really be bothered to say no and anyway, when I do, it means I have to talk to them and I’m feeling a bit, but less than before, grumpy, so can’t be bothered.

It’s mainly guys. This is strange. There are some of the most stunning girls I’ve ever seen at this party and trailing bird feathers here certainly couldn’t be considered part of that visually sparkling group.

Later on I’m sitting on a chair, taking a break from dancing, and I spot two girls coming towards me with a camera. I ignore them. If the camera steals spirits, I no longer have one. One girl sits on a chair a metre away from me (3 feet all you non-metrics) and swivels it to face me. I stare into the distance. The photo is taken. Sitting-down-girl gets up to check the photo with photographer-girl. I glance over their shoulders at the little screen. Yep. I’m in it too.

Now, while somewhat-grumpy-me is not totally in the photo-taking mood, somewhat-grumpy-me is also hugely embarrassed: I am not at this wedding to distract people from the bride and groom because of my milk-bottle skin and albino hair. “Go take pictures of the bride!” I want to say. They are doing that too though, so I can’t. It’s just when they’re not, I seem to be frozen in various view-finders.

Later on and you will be relieved to hear, not grumpy any more, a girl sits down next to me. I glance around. No cameras in sight, great, f-off vibes turn into a warm smile. She stares at me with what can only be described as awe in her eyes, pauses and then says, “You are beautiful. You look just like Meg Ryan”.

It was the sort of moment where had I been drinking something, I would have rudely laughed and with that momentary lack of control, sprayed my drink out all over myself and perhaps her. Actually, I wouldn’t, I’m slightly better mannered than that.

Only slightly mind you.

Needless to say, that was flattering, but entirely untrue. It’s a benefit/result of being blonde in this cultures: your physical imperfections and even characteristics are completely masked/forgiven by having lightly pigmented hair. If you don’t believe me on this one, just ask Meg. I bet she doesn’t have people saying to her, “Wow, you’re beautiful, you look just like Trailing Grouse.”

A wee note: obviously I didn’t take any of these photos of Meg Ryan. Thanks to the photographers who took them, to Meg for posing and if you want them you’ll find them easily on Google.

Another wee note: I’ve been wondering which of those photos I wouldn’t mind looking like (definitely not the bottom left) and just realised how little they look like the same person. Isn’t that a little bit freaky?

Yet another wee note: Meg honey, in the lips department, sometimes less is more.

“Grouse doesn’t suffer fools gladly.” This was one of the most thought-provoking sentences from my life at school. Perhaps because it was about me and my ego enjoyed that. It was a sentence in my school report when I was about 14. I was perplexed for a good while afterwards. Big Mama read it out to me like I should be ashamed of myself, “But what’s the problem with that,” I thought (and maybe, being 14, said), “WHO would want to suffer anything, especially stupid people and why would they do so gladly?” The sentence seemed flawed to me. After a few months of pondering, I thought perhaps it was a backhanded compliment, in that I wasn’t a fool.

Basically, I just didn’t get it.

Now I get it. I still don’t really like fools, I don’t suffer them gladly, but, I do make an effort to not show my suffering for too long. Sometimes I’m good at it.

Not so today.

Mr S wanted me to check out the biggest, prettiest, most expensive compound in Cairo to see about joining their sports club so that I could (finally) get to swim. It’s a nice place, if you like a cross between Hollywood and Marbella with some good old MacMansions thrown in between – and all that in Cairo. My protestations about joining in with this lifestyle when so many on our doorstep have so little have lasted three years, but finally I relented. The only thing I had to confirm was that the main pool which is outdoors is heated in winter.

“Is the main pool heated in winter?” I dutifully (well, I am married now) asked.

“Yes.” was the answer. It seemed too easy. Cairo isn’t that easy. Even in super-lux compounds. Or was it?

“When does that start?”

“Oh, Winter? Well you see here in Cairo we have a hot summer…”

“Yes, I know, I’ve lived here for 8 years. Which month does the heating come on in the pool?” (you can get an idea of what my teacher was meaning,  right?).

“Ok, the winter months are October, November..”

I was smiling, this was sounding good.

“..April and May.”

“Pardon? What about December, January, February and March?”

“Oh, then the pool isn’t heated.”

“But that’s winter.”

“Not really. Anyway, nobody goes swimming in those months.”

“Yes,” I said almost snorting, “because the water’s not heated!” (I was rather good and skimmed over the fact that December, January, February, the three coldest months of the year were “not really” winter.).  Then the Sco’ish blood started to boil. “So you mean, we should pay $1750* a year to go swimming, plus $250* introduction fee  and over December, January, February and March, we can’t go swimming?”

“Oh, you can go swimming.”

“Sorry? I thought the pool’s closed.”

“No, not closed, just not heated.”

My mind was boggling. Four four months of the year the pool is open, but not heated, so nobody goes in, but they don’t close it, just so they can say it’s open, even though they know nobody will go in because it’s not heated…

“So then I pay for a year’s membership because I want to go swimming, but for a third of the year I can’t because it’s too cold?”

Yep.

Never mind. I found somewhere else that heats the pool over the winter. Why? Well, according to the sales people, “So people can go swimming over the winter.” Right. That seems rather sensible to me.

*Yes, these fees are steep for a swim. They do also cover fees for golf and tennis membership and as for swimming there are VERY few options nowadays for women where the pool is also clean.

Nope, this is not a post about how you have to be nice when you drive in Egypt (just for the record: you don’t, if you are, you’re probably not alive to read this now).

It’s a post about green car licence plates. Here in Egypt personnel from embassies, the UN and the high ranking Arab League staff have a green licence plate on their cars. As if that didn’t single them out quite enough, there is also a number denoting which embassy/organisation the car comes from, which proves useful for the concierge – it lets him know how deep to bow, before the car stops. Kidding – well, sort of. Devised in Nasser’s time, numero uno goes, of course, to Russia. Take that US and UK. You’re not number one. Egypt can have other friends too. Ha!

Right.

The benefit of a green plate is that you can do what you want on the roads. Yes, if you’ve seen Cairo traffic, you probably thought you could do that anyway. The difference is that you can talk on your phone without worry that you might get spotted and possibly thereafter get a fine. You can park wherever you want, without worry of getting clam-bed (clamped). You can drive the wrong way around a roundabout and nobody will bat an eyelid. Oh wait, that’s just normal. There’s not a chance that you’ll ever get your car damaged as it’s being towed off by authorities. Best of all, and this is truly useful, you can bypass the automobile pushing, shoving and shunting that happens at checkpoints at busy times and just whizz through (or mount the pavement and whizz around), without having to show a driving licence or passport.

Wait, does that mean you don’t actually have to be able to drive if you have green plates? Hmmm. That hadn’t occurred to me until now.

Despite all these liberties diplomatic immunity heralds, driving around in a metal box that says, “Hello everybody! Yes I’m foreign, yes I’m (comparatively) wealthy, yes I’m here officially and yes, I’m from country X.” isn’t necessarily all that great. Not that it makes them a target. No, no, no. It just means that they’ve got barely anything to discuss when it comes to making small talk with strangers.

It seems that when all this happens on our own turf, we get a little antsy. BLOGitse has an article about unpaid car fines from London embassy staff. Now, we all know that Egypt has a bureaucracy large enough to stuff governmental buses full of workers from Cairo to Mars, and it’s fairly obvious to anybody who has been to the mogama’a when it opens (8am in case you’re wondering) that not everybody at work is actually, umm, working. But let us not scoff. Is it not better to have an army of officiates who take a bit of time to have their ful sandwich and shay before they get down to an hour’s productivity, than an overstretched bevy of bureaucrats chasing fines on cars with diplomatic immunity?

Image from stock.xchng

It’s difficult to get married these days in Egypt. It’s not that Egypt has Australia’s ‘man drought’. Nope. It’s hard cash that’s the problem.

Just as in the West the bride’s family traditionally pays for the wedding, in Egypt and elsewhere in the Middle East, there are traditions about who pays what. As couples don’t leave home until they get married, buying a place to live is key to tying the knot. Tradition dictates that the groom buys the home and white goods (picked by the bride) and the bride furnishes it – completely.

The problem is that house prices are so high that the majority of people cannot afford to buy. For those that would never be able to buy anyway, rents are also on the rise. This often results in children living at home until well into their mid-thirties when enough money has been saved to buy a small apartment.

There are a multitude of problems arising from this, not least, that with sex before marriage severely frowned upon/forbidden amongst both main religions here, unmarried twenty and thirty somethings’ lives just aren’t what adults would define as ‘normal’ in the West. It is even worse for the women, as they are often living with curfews right up until their marriage. I am not joking on this either: a friend of mine, unmarried and in her forties, who had previously lived and worked in Dubai, sans parents, had a 10pm/midnight (depending on circumstance) curfew imposed and upheld upon her return to Egypt.

There are so many ways in which our cultures are different that it can be hard to understand why on earth a 40 year old woman would accept a curfew. Parents are held in such high esteem in this part of the world, that openly disobeying them is an almighty disrespect.

Anyway, back to marriage. The issue about lack of affordable housing has been cashed in on over Ramadan with a TV show offering unmarried couples the opportunity to battle it out and win a two bedroom apartment. It’s been essential watching. Luckily for you, I’m not going to attach a youtube clip in Arabic, the good old BBC has helped me out and made a short report that you can watch here.

Misssy M has been writing of the trials and tribulations of being a superstar (one that shines on the air waves) film reviewer. It sent me catapulting down memory lane.

Way back when, in my student days in Cairo, going to the cinema was a bit of a treat. A dodgy television that only seemed to receive BBC World was our window on the world outside of the internet cafe. Entertainment was limited to charades, G&T, dancing, G&T, eating, G&T, card games, G&T and G&T. Occasionally there would be a movie playing at the Ramsis (Ramzeeez) Hilton Mall, which is really not as grand as it sounds. Up endless escalators to the top of the mall we’d go, riding sideways, bums against the railings, torsos twisted forever up, denying the band of merry men and teenagers following us our glutei maximi to gawp at.

There were always plenty of banners advertising the films. “Oooh, look, that should be good!” we’d cry trying not to convey the mourning of Edinburgh’s Filmhouse or Cameo we knew we all felt. Off we went to get tickets. Next we’d find that despite having twenty different movie banners advertising twenty different Hollywood ‘greats’ the cinema with two screens was playing two Arabic-language movies.

Back to bums against elevator railings.

On the odd occasion where our bums ended up on seats rather than against railings, we would get our popcorn, relax and sink into chairs and get ready for 90 mins of ‘The West’.

For about a minute. Not longer.

Eyes would start watering, the tickle in the back of the throat would induce coughing and we’d realise that the reason we cou’ldn’t see anything wasn’t because the lights were off, it was that we were in an insufficiently ventilated room with 200 faces sucking cigarettes.

Made of strong stuff, and deep-pockets-short-arms student syndrome, we would stay and tough it out.

It would take roughly thirty seconds after the music stopped, the screen lit up and the curtains opened: dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH (Nokia ringtone). Nobody answers. Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“ALLO! ALLO! IZZAYEK INTA? ANA FI SINEMA. FFFIIII SSIIIINNNEEEMMMAA!” (in case you haven’t worked it out: Hello! Hello! How are you? I’m in the cinema. I’m in the cinema!). Dom Jolie and his over sized brick phone and parodied shouting would have been outclassed. “YES, YES, GOOD IDEA. I’LL COME OVER AFTER THE MOVIE AND THEN WE CAN GO FOR DINNER/JUICE/HAVE A CHAT/MEET X. THE MOVIE? OH I CAN’T REMEMBER THE NAME, OH YES, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WHAT’S THAT? OH YES, IT’S JUST STARTING. TOM CRUISE IS SO GOOD THOUGH. OK THEN, I’LL SEE YOU LATER.”

The ever-so-British “tut’s” and exaggerated sighs were but a mere mouse breathing in a hurricane. The storm being about 15% of the other cinema-goers who were by this time smoking their way through a loud mobile phone conversation and the other 15% with ringing phones that they were looking at and thinking about answering (you can’t answer too quickly, it means you’re not busy…).

Yes, my dear astute readers, that left 70% who were not phone engaged at this time.

Like a well conducted choir, the canon continued all the way to intermission, making sure that most of the 70% got their turn. For some reason, it’s no fun to have a phone call at intermission. Well, I mean, come on, that’s the time to get more popcorn, more drinks and nip to the loo.

Lights down, curtains open and the next 45 mins of second hand smoking commences. This was the part where excersice was brought in. Squats: jumping up and down every two minutes as people meandered back in after getting a second jumbo popcorn, part of which would inevitably end up on whoever they squeezed past. Neck stretches: craning to see past the jack-in-the-boxes/mexian wave in front of you as other late comers squeezed back to their seats.

Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“HELLO AHMAD. YEAH, I’M IN THE MOVIE. YEAH, YEAH, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WELL SO FAR….[full story]…YOU WANT TO COME AND SEEI IT? YES YOU SHOULD IT’S REALLY GOOD. YOUR MUM’S OK NOW AFTER THE OPERATION? OH GOOD. THAT’S GOOD. YES, WE’LL BE OUT IN AN HOUR. OK MEET YOU THERE.”

The few from the 70% who hadn’t received a call or finished a packet of cigarettes before the intermission, made up for lost time afterwards. Complete with rustling sweet packets, opening cans of coke and searching for lighters.

“Not bad, not bad.” We’d force out of our gritted teeth as our bums were back against the railings on the way out and strands of smoky hair fell in our faces, “Think I want to wash my hair though.”

No, this isn’t some cheap attempt at temporarily upping my viewer stats.

Summer is whacking Cairo now. Usually we wait until mid June, early July for days in the 40C range, but this year the onslaught began early May. One Summer ritual which remains constant though is the influx of Gulfies (Saudis and Emeraties) from their baking countries. Imagine, coming to Cairo mid Summer to escape the heat!

To satisfy the invasion of walking Dinars and Riyals, advertising and entertainment lucratively turns due East. Tastes are a little different to what Egyptian’s deem attractive and are immediately identifiable. Even belly dancing has its own style in the Gulf (lots of Heavy- Metal-type-long-hair circular-head-banging — sans greasy hair!).

I’ll keep sharing as long as I can. (Ooooh, don’t say I don’t spoil you!).

PS Cherry Tart – cos I’m making another as I type.

It took me a couple of days of watching Noor to figure out what was going on, not only in plot but with the actors’ mouths.

Noor is a new TV show in Arabic on one of the free satellite stations originating from Dubai. This particular station, MBC4, usually shows English language programs: Rachel Ray, Oprah and Dr Phil are staples – we’re not exactly talking high brow entertainment!

Nevertheless, and perhaps because of this, I like this show. Of course, it could also be because it is extremely odd to watch Arabic being spoken by so many people with blue, green and light eyes. The Arabic is Lebanese, the people beautiful and the landscapes stunning. After a few days of assuming it was filmed in Lebanon by actors mouthing strange words, I have just figured out it is a Turkish TV series dubbed!

The real reason for my new addiction though? The leading man has one of my favourite, and seldom heard names: Mohanad (yes, that’s an N in the middle) and I’m not sure I could ever get bored of hearing it.

And they speak slowly enough, with enough pauses, for me to actually understand!

NB I have stopped comments to this post. I have absolutely no contact with MBC nor the makers of Noor in Turkish or Arabic. I merely wrote a personal account. Please pass any comments you my have about the programme onto the channel directly.

If you correctly guess what this is I might make you some. If you finish reading this post, you might not want to guess.

Mr S and I have fallen into a bit of a routine when it comes to meals. Generally speaking, I will prepare starters and desserts and he makes French culinary masterpieces for the main. It works well.

Or it worked well. A distinct flaw became evident last night as we (Les Parents et moi) arrived home from our little exploration of the neighbourhood. We had passed a TBK motorcycle delivery man, who, upon seeing me pointing out the bike to Les Parents, did a U-turn and stopped to give us menus. I told him that I had one already and I really liked the burger. He carried on handing us the menus. It wasn’t until he drove off that I realised I’d not been speaking Arabic. Or English. Nope, FRENCH. Why on earth could that not have happened in my French GCSE?!

So, as we took off our shoes and put our bags down, Les Parents looked at the menus we’d been handed. I suddenly heard a voice inside me screaming, “Say you want burgers! Say you want burgers!” as I realised Mr S definitely wouldn’t be here for dinner and the sad truth hit that my starter-and-dessert-making has rendered me incapable of cooking main courses.

They didn’t appear to want burgers (Mr S later told me they are not very keen on them) and seeing as it was their first night here, I felt like I should at least make an effort. Les Parents are extremely kind and polite, and even said they liked the meal. In all honesty, with no false modesty, it was a horrible meal. The pesto tasted more of garlic than pesto, the presentation was, no other word for it, sorry, crap and the bread..well, the oven is Egyptian made. Some Egyptian things are well made, some are not, and our oven falls into the second category. On this occasion, the heat of it melted the timer causing it to fail..and the bread to burn. Gordon, Delia, Nigella, Nigel, Ainslie, or anybody else who can wear a tall white hat (and command respect), I am not.

So, if you get invited to dinner chez insteadi, you might want to gently inquire about who the chef is that evening before accepting.

Last night Mr S and I went to see a jazz concert by The Smithsonian Jazz Masterworks Orchestra. It was pretty superb and a real treat.

The orchestra was truly brilliant. The unfortunate lack of enthusiasm in the audience reflected more the fact that this was the first time a jazz band has played here (at least for the past six years) and a lot of the audience didn’t know the music, than an actual dissatisfaction. When the band played Quincy Jones’ Soul Bossa Nova (Austin Powers theme tune) the applause ratcheted up.

It was quite amazing hearing Ellington’s Caravan while sitting in the Cairo Opera House. It was probably more incredible the previous evening when the concert had been held at the pyramids. Sometimes I find that Western interpretations of Middle Eastern culture, particularly the romanticism of camels and Bedouin, doesn’t sit well in the Middle Eastern context because it is almost stereotyped, but having just been to the desert on Friday, in my opinion Caravan is pretty fantastic.

It was interesting, however, to see the juxtaposition of American and Egyptian culture. In fact, it was more of a mingling, as the event was opened by the US Ambassador..in Arabic, which surprised more than a few audience members.

The band was accompanied at different times by a singer and two dancers. The male dancer was excellent and it turned out the female was too, but only in contemporary/jazz. There was a real discord however, between the female dancer and the audience. It didn’t help that her performance wasn’t up to scratch on most of her numbers, but the root of the problem was her hair: she didn’t have any. Pop her into a culture where women take great pride in their coiffure, whether it’s covered in public or not, spend hours at the salon whenever possible, where it is probably the symbol of womanhood and she lost her femininity. The audience didn’t warm to her at all and the applause for the dancers was rather muted when both of them were together.

The real jewel for me was leader David Baker. Twice during the performance when the singer was out, he wandered back stage right and hung at the side of the orchestra. For all his genius, he walks with a slight awkwardness. He must have been aware that he was on stage, but he seemed lost in the music at these two points and swayed gently from side to side as though he was both enveloped by and oozing the music. One of the best feelings in the world is dancing with someone who the music flows through and I would have given almost anything to get on stage and sway with him.

If you get a chance to see these guys play, jump at it. Their bios give a hint at their greatness.

Image from program cover i.e. it’s not my artwork – obviously!