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.

Dr One:  “What you have is a bit of inflammation, don’t worry. You should go and see Dr A when he comes back.”

Me: “When is that?”

Dr One: “He’s overseas on holiday, he’ll be back on 7 October (two weeks).”

Two days later, symtoms are even worse. Another Dr is chosen.

Dr Two: “What you have is an infection. Here’s a prescription for antibiotics. You’ll start to feel better in two days. If you don’t, call me.”

Me: “Ok, thanks. I’m allergic to penicillin.”

Dr Two: “No problem.”

Twenty minutes later, I open the box of antibiotics and read the insert: contradindicated for sensitivities to penicillin. I call Dr Two and get the name of an alternative antibiotic.

Two days later: I feel on top of the world.

Day after that: I feel like Hades would be heaven.

A few days later: I call Dr A on the off chance that he’s back in Egypt and I can see him at a different clinic before his clinic day at my clinic in 6 days’ time. A lady answers. Dr A is male. I ask to speak to him, she says he’s in surgery, and asks what it’s about, so I explain. “What do you expect him to do about that?” is the response. “Um, nothing,” I say, “I just want to talk to him about it.” I’m told to call back in an hour. In the end I send an sms and arrange an appointment with him in two days’ time.

A week and a half since Dr One:

Me: “Did you have a good holiday?

Dr A: “Yes, but never long enough.”

Me: “That’s true. Were you somewhere nice?”

Dr A: “I just stayed in Egypt.”

Me: “Oh, Dr One told me you were abroad.”

Dr A: “Abroad? No, I was most definitely here!”

Then we get down to business.

Dr A: “Firstly, it’s not an infection. Secondly, why didn’t you just come to my clinic in Dr One’s office last week? You could have saved yourself all this trouble.”

Me: “Um, because you were on holiday.”

Dr A: “No I wasn’t, I had a big clinic in Dr One’s office last week.”

Me: “Um, well, a week and a half ago Dr One told me you weren’t back until 7 October.”

Dr One is supposed to be our trusted Dr.

I think I’m going to start eating apples by the kilo….

Apple from http://dnn.mandeeps.com

A few months ago I mentioned that Mr S had proposed. All terribly exciting. I also said I would try to not turn this blog into a wedding blog.

Perhaps I should have. I may have bored you all stupid with tedious details*, but purging it on the (virtual) page may have helped with my stress levels and all those ruffled feathers.

The majority of the stress came from the British Embassy. Since my first visit to Cairo in 2000, I have heard rumours as well as stories in the first person of how unhelpful the UK embassy is. Other than registering with them online, I’ve managed to avoid it completely. Having now had my ‘experience’ with it and in my despair, spoken to other Brits here, it seems that our embassy is officially one of the least helpful and most frustrating around. One Brit told me, “My husband and I have figured out our own evacuation plan for an emergency [talking about a coup or major political instability], we just don’t trust them to help us.” For my part, I have almost always entered Egypt on my Canadian passport..in part just in case the rumours were true.

On the French front (the wedding is in France) Maman and Papa (Mr S’s mother and father) have been running around the French countryside doing a hundred million things that we can’t do because we’re not there. “The patience of a saint” was coined for these people. We’re trying to think of a gift for them as a specific thank you for the months of errands they’ve done, but just haven’t yet been able to think of anything that is big enough, without being over the top and making them uncomfortable, to represent how thankful we really are. Thinking caps are firmly glued to our heads.

But now, six weeks away from W-Day, still with a million things to do, we have decided to have a pre-honeymoon. It’s a long weekend at the beach in a nice hotel with no talk of the dreaded Ws (wedding or work).

Can’t wait.

*In fact, now I think about it, they were so long and tedious, that it would have tired me just to try to explain them as they happened!

It was a seemingly innocuous event: we parked the car.

We went to have dinner with some friends recently. The street was crammed full of cars, nothing unusual there, and we were happy to spot one parking space. Mr S carefully reversed into it.

We left the car, went to our friends entrance. As we got there, a bowab* from across the street said, “Someone’s coming.” I asked what he meant, and he repeated it. Then we were buzzed in and went to enjoy our evening.

About two hours later, the bowab from our friends’ building rang the doorbell and informed us that the man whose parking space we took had now come back and blocked us in.

We were a bit surprised – we hadn’t seen anything saying there was private parking. Mr S went to sort it out before dessert. We expected him to be a good 10 mins as he drove around looking for a new space. He was back in no time, with a piece of paper and looking shocked. ‘The man’ had apparently arrived home, found us in his unmarked ‘private’ parking space, parked his car in front of ours blocking not only us in, but the whole street. He’d left his handbrake on (not normal in Egypt where in exactly this situation cars are gently pushed aside), gone inside, printed off a poster, come back outside and put it on our windscreen.

The shock Mr S was in transferred around the table as we read the paper. Unprintable here, it had a giant fist with the middle finger sticking up and enough text to call us jack*ss and worse, for stealing his spot.

Thinking I could speak to the bowab of his building, or him, and soothe things over I went out. ‘The man’ had somehow made clear to the men on the street that he was going to bed and would not get out of bed to move the car. It was about 9.30 – 10pm.  I buzzed his apartment, but to no avail.

In the end Mr S, together with our host and another dinner companion, managed to get the car out (by a million-point turn and even lifting it at one point). Bravo I say.

I’ve been living in Cairo for seven years now, and it’s nine years since I first came here to study. I have never, ever experienced this before, nor heard of it happening. Cairo is starved of parking spaces, and in upmarket areas of Egypt where people claim pavements or special corners for parking there are either bollards or ‘private parking’ signs. Utterly devoid of either of these, or anything else for that matter, it’s not unreasonable for non-residents of the street not to know a space is ‘private’.

I have told some Egyptian friends about what happened and they were more shocked than we were at the time. Egyptians just don’t behave like this. It’s a parking space. It’s a small issue.

We could argue that ‘the man’ had a hard day at work. Perhaps a hard week. Perhaps a hard month. Fair enough, that’s not nice. But you know what, he’s driving a large 4×4, paid for by his company, his kids are at expensive private school, paid for by his company, he’s living in one of Egypt’s most expensive neighbourhoods, again, paid for by his company, he gets trips back to the States, yep, paid for by his company. How do I know this? I don’t for sure, but it’s a standard package for oil workers and the type of 4×4 together with the number plate are 99% of the time driven by American oil workers here.

It reminded me of why I used to cringe telling people that I’d moved to The Hood: it’s associated with the sort of person who has so much given to them (yes they’re working, but so are heart surgeons both here and back home, and they don’t get everything given to them) and doesn’t have the good grace to put it into some sort of context in which they feel lucky. Instead of taking on board some of the suffering around them, they concentrate on their own ’suffering’.

To think that someone ’stealing’ your unmarked parking space is such a big deal, when people just down the road are struggling to feed their children, where they eat meat once or twice a year – and that’s because someone is generous enough to give it to them – where labourers sit on the roadside every day, hoping someone will come along and hire them for a day’s back breaking work for meagre pay, where the majority of the population lives on less than $2 per day… To think a parking space is such a big deal when all this is just down the road, is utterly abhorrent.

It reminded me of the people I do not generally meet here. They tend to be American. They live in The Hood, their children attend a very privileged school (lucky them, really, it’s a great school), they spend the weekends at an expat social club only for Americans working in certain companies, they don’t even need to interact with Egyptians when shopping because they buy everything, even milk, and, I’ve been told, fruit and vegetables at the commissary, a special, high security US government run supermarket that flies everything in for the ’suffering’ American expats who are eligible to shop there. And last but not least, they complain about how hard life is in Egypt and in general about Egyptians.

Not all American expats are like that, not at all, but they do exist – and not just American, although the commissary is something no other government seems to find necessary for its nationals living in Egypt.

Anyway, I was so furious about the incident I thought about keying his car or letting the air out of his tyres. Until it hit me: the sort of life ‘the man’ must think he has in order to react so venomously to such a triviality is payback enough.

* Bowab literally means doorman. In reality he deals with taking care of the building and cars.

Admittedly I’m in a grumpy mood today: I always am after a bad night’s sleep.

But, but BUT, I wasn’t last week when I went shopping and I was superbly pissed off then too.

I walked into La Senza at our local hypermarket/shopping centre. It was about 9.30am and there were seven guys in their twenties, two of whom were clearly behind the tills, the rest were just hanging out, chatting with the two female floor assistants. Of the guys there, four were clearly watching me as I perused the lingerie. One of the girls came to follow me around and smooth out anything I even breathed on.

I hate that. I don’t care if they do it when I’ve left the shop, but following me and straightening every, single hanger while I’m there, like I’m ruining their display of hanging garments, which is there so that people like me come and look and then, presumably, buy, drives me nuts. Team it with some sexually repressed spectators and, La Senza, there’s not a hope in hell of me getting out my credit card.

So, I left the shop last week without buying. Not before quick glance at the two guys who were still watching me, then the two cashiers, then the guys sitting around the changing rooms with the other floor assistant and saying, in Arabic, loud enough for them to hear, “So, this is where all the guys come to hang out?” and walking out.

Today I went in just to see if it was different. Instead of seven, there were five guys.

I just don’t get it. It’s lingerie. It’s a conservative society. Women are covered up to protect their modesty, and so as not to titillate men, but lingerie stores have men working the tills? I know that there are bra stalls in markets and women pick their bras in full view of everybody, not just the male stall holder, but this is (for Egypt) an upmarket, expensive store.

It’s not just La Senza. A few shops away is Women’s Secret. They have a female floor assistant with a man on the till. The same with Nike Woman. Is it that Egyptian women cannot count and so cannot be trusted with tills? Nope. Perhaps it’s the patriarchial society. I don’t know. I don’t CARE! I don’t want some guy folding my bras, checking out if I might need another size (what the hell does he know about how bras fit?!) by asking and taking a quick ‘glance’.

Egyptian women are smart. They are also really nice and friendly. I would have probably bought something in all three stores today had there not been men checking out what I was going to be wearing for Mr S (and him alone). Egyptian men are also smart, but there are plenty of other retail ‘experiences’ that talented men can work at, there is no reason for them to be pawing my panties!

Cairo finally has a boutique hotel. In a city with such wonderful architecture that is, for the most part, under performing it’s potential through lack of investment, I’m surprised that it’s taken quite so long for someone with a bit of dosh to establish a well-run, well decorated boutique hotel.

It’s called Villa Belle Epoque. It’s stunning. There is a great article in the Times comparing it to Cairo’s ‘monumental bed farms’ – which, of course, are left in its shadows.

I am excited by this hotel because Cairo has so much to offer tourists, but nowhere ‘tasteful’ to stay on a small scale. It’s what I look for when I go on holiday and want to stay somewhere nice. It’s the sort of place I look for before deciding if I want to visit a particular town. And in the earlier days, when finances were a bit tighter, it’s the sort of place I would leave as a treat for the last couple of nights of an otherwise more modest holiday.

I can’t think of anything better, after arriving in Cairo’s busy airport, to being whisked to this calm hotel. Or, being enveloped by its garden after a hectic day sightseeing. Dinner tête-a-tête, with no queues for a buffet or any other such unappetising activities, divine.

Yes I’m raving. No I’m not getting paid for it – I don’t even know the owners. Yes I’d like to stay there. No, I can’t think of a reason..ooh..perhaps an upcoming birthday!

Wouldn’t this also be the perfect place for a honeymoon in Cairo before going on a cruise or going to Adrere Amellal in Siwa or the Al Moudira in Luxor?

“Jean-Paul asked me whether he should call me madame or mademoiselle.”

“What did you say?”

“Mademoiselle, of course, I haven’t been fully claimed* yet.”

“No-o-o.” (with nervous laughter)

“Ye-e-e-s.” (smiling sweetly)

“But, uh, no, uh, you can be called madame once you reach a certain age.”

“Well, perhaps, but whatever that certain age is, it’s certainly not 28. I’m a mademoiselle.”

It doesn’t matter where we go, the fact that Mr S has not made this Grouse into his spouse always comes up. “Is your husband here?” or “Are you over here with your husband?” are frequently asked. There are two avenues. First just answer ‘yes’ and forget about it. This inevitably happens during drinks/aperitif only to be followed by an awkward moment during dinner when someone else asks, “So, Mr S, when are you going to make an honest woman of Grouse?”.** The second option is responding, “My partner? Yes, he’s here.” Raised eyebrows and a quizzical look follow as thoughts sweep behind the eyes, “Here on holiday? No, I’m sure she lives here. Gay? No, surely not. Engaged? No, she would have said fiance. Why is she here in Egypt with someone when they won’t commit to each other? Strange.”

I don’t mind at all that the issue is raised by friends and strangers..it means I don’t have to do it!

I have this picture in my head: a cute bob with the edge a little higher at the back and a little longer at the front and lots and lots of layers at the back. I have been to the hair dresser three times in the past year, pointed to the picture of this in his book and each time come out with something different. The first time it was just rescued from being a mullet. Absolutely not what I’ve been dreaming of.

A friend of mine has short hair and it always looks nice. “Aha!” I cunningly thought after I saw her last sporting yet another fab do, “I’ll go to her hairdresser.”

I turned up armed and ready: print outs of exactly what I wanted from the front, side and back. No room for confusion this time. No siree!

Chop, chop, brush, brush, snip, snip. It was going swimmingly. Best still, after asking where I was from and my name, he didn’t try to talk too much to me.

Sitting next to me was a platinum blonde getting something done with her colour. About two thirds of the way through my cut, she started getting antsy: she wasn’t happy.

The simmering turned into a boiling, “My husband only has one day off a week..”

“Oh bloody hell,” I realised, “She’s British.”

“..and I’m wasting it in here!”

Heads remained still, eyes around the room picked out other eyes.

“I wanted a rinse! I’ve been here three hours and you’ve done nothing!”

“Yes, madam,” my hairdresser said, “we gave you a rinsage.”

My hairdresser, Sam, was Lebanese. Lebanese generally speak Arabic first, French second and English third. His English wasn’t fluent, but was comprehensible (and come on, his third language!).

“But I wanted a rinse!” At this point we are now rising up the decibel scale.

“But madam, yes, we gave you a rinsage!”

The other client and I had stopped breathing.

“I just want someone who speaks ENGLISH!” Now topping the decibel range.

Other client and I shifted uncomfortably.

“Nobody’s fucking listening to what I’m saying!” she said under her breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I JUST WANT SOMEONE WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH!”

Absolutely dumbfounded, probably with my mouth gaping, eyes certainly popping out of my head, I thought about saying something in her beloved English along the lines of, “We’re in Egypt, nobody has to speak English!” but was in too much shock to say anything.

The Egyptian lady on the other side of her volunteered to translate in a tone, lost on the British woman, that saw stern and utterly disapprovingly.

In the end, Blondie flounced out of the salon without paying.

My hairdresser was by now just as furious as Blondie had been, but he couldn’t flounce out. I, still mortified, sat stock still and didn’t say a word.

This was rather unfortunate.

Hairdresser Sam was taking his pent up frustration out on my hair.

I breathed deeply decided that I would sit back and think of the UK. Not wanting to give everyone in the salon, who was now watching Sam, further reason to think that British women are cows I resolved to keep my mouth firmly shut.

Perhaps too firmly. When the receptionist looked at me, then up at my hair and asked perplexedly if I liked the cut, I should have broken down and started wailing there and then. With valiant stiff upper lip, I smiled politely instead and said, “Yes. Thank you.”

So, great my country men, in the name of your honour and all that is good about our great nation, I now sport a haircut that looks like a short, curly Worzel Gummidge with an uneven pudding bowl.

And to my one particular fellow country woman: if you wake up and find your hair dyed green, or wake up to find it has all been shaved off, you’ll know I’ve foregone my right to pistols at dawn.

I mentioned in my last post that the enjoyment of getting clean increases incrementally the dirtier you are. Well, yesterday I was indeed dirty. I had been hiking here:

and shopping here:

and it was 36C (according to the thermometre in the car when I got back). The water had been off when I got in the shower in the morning, so I showered in a mere dribble. My Amy hairstyle was witnessed by Lynda from Lulu’s Bay and I was more than ready to get a scrub-a-dubbing in the evening.

Having not had proper water for two days, and hearing the pressure from Mr S’s shower, I decided a bath was in order. Once again, I assembled my creams, scrubs, and any fun paraphernalia I could possibly use in the bath to get clean and come out smelling rosey. Definitely time, therefore, for the precious (in the irreplacability stakes here) bubble bath to be emptied.

Bubbles mounted, fluffy and white and the water flowed.

I reached my hand in to test the temperature of the half full bathtub and recoiled in shock as my scalded hand jerked out of the water. Moving the handle on the tap to be fully cold the gushing slowed to an absolutely totally nothing. I tried again. Nothing.

The water coming out had been from the hot water tank, which was now nearly empty, given the amount of steaming water in the bath. It had not been mixed with the cold because, yes, the water was off.

After a good few minutes of huffing and puffing and hoping and praying for someone somewhere to flick the switch that would give me water to cool my bath down I returned to use an improvised paddle to ’stir’ the water, thus introducing more of it to the unfortunately rather warm evening air and hopefully cool it down.

I stirred and I stirred and I tried to play tricks with the flow of the water so more of it could reach the air, but after a good twenty minutes, I hadn’t had much success.

My next tactic was to ‘acclimatise’ my body with the bath water. Perhaps if I just went in really, really slowly, I would be able to stand it and at least get my hair wet.

A few scalded toes later and that plan was down the drain.

Next came my brainwave (no doubt brought on by the throbbing in my feet): ice cubes. I brought through three litres of bottled water (the people talking about carbon footprints don’t have to deal with problems like this) and five trays of ice cubes and emptied them all in the water.

Now I was pretty certain that this would work and was even slightly worried that I might make the bath too cool. When I saw the ice cubes floating around in their pretty star and heart shapes I began to wonder if I’d made a big mistake.

I put my foot back in and it still seemed pretty hot, however, having just seen the ice cubes take a good few minutes to melt, I decided I must just be being a wimp about it and forged ahead.

I did get myself in and indeed my hair wet. It was about five minutes after that that I started to feel seriously light-headed. I got out, head swimming, leaning against the wall lest I faint and waited until I was composed, then went to get the food thermometre to test the water.

It was, by then, ten minutes after I’d got in.

The reading: 45C!