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.

(Image from gigwise.com)

The metaphorical blizzard has hit and there’s no turning back. I think I’ve done fairly well this year in fact, but a little browsing on iTunes today brought me over the threshold: they have a ‘Christmas’ genre. Perhaps they always have had it, but today I spotted it. Don’t get me wrong, nobody in my house, whether living permanently or just popping in to read the gas metre is starved of Christmas music in December. It’s too catchy, too evocative, too cheery and calming. There’s Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ alongside Harry Connick Jr. singing ‘Let it snow’ (I know, I know, it’s Cairo, but still…), next to the Pogues ‘Fairytale in New York’ and ‘Silent Night’ from Kings College, the Ronnette’s ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa’, Bing Crosby & Judy Garland’s version of ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’, Chuck Berry’s ‘Run Rudolph, Run’, Burl Ive’s ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas’ – plus another 4.5 hours more of music (it was more, but I decided to delete dupilcate songs last year). I don’t even like Mariah Carey. I really don’t, but give me a Christmas song and well, I can’t really help myself.

About a week ago my cousin’s cousin (what does that make her to me) asked the question to her Facebook friends: is it too early to play Christmas music? I couldn’t decide. Now I say, “You go girl!”

I’m still containing my desire to hoist up the decorations. No Poinsettia can be purchase before 1 December. That’s my rule. But come 9am on that day, I shall be getting my Christmas Roses and (what will make do as a) Christmas tree. Then I will start the painstakingly delightful process of individually stringing stars up from a beam on the ceiling.

This year I started buying decorations in August. It’s not that I don’t have any, it’s just that I didn’t have those decorations (wooden angels that hang on the door). Yesterday I cheekily added a simple, white clay angel that holds a little candle to my stash. I guess this is the year of the angels. I’m itching to take her out of the wrapping, but no, no, I’ve been telling myself, wait a few more days, December will be here soon.

Mr S, coming from France, doesn’t share my UK/North American/German festive cravings. Candles, marzipan, chocolate, mince pies, Christmas cake, stollen (because of the marzipan), pfeffernusse, homemade truffles, cinnamon, spices and cloves. He just doesn’t understand. He didn’t even know what Christmas cake was until last year! Utterly unimaginable to me.

But I’ve started working on it. Bereft of advent calendars when he grew up, this year, aged 36 in a few weeks, will get his very first painted card with doors (not one of those chocolate ones, but one with different pictures behind every door – because what’s the point in knowing there’s the same thing behind every door?) at breakfast on 1 December. This year too, we will add mince pies (homemade by yours truly) to our December menu, and the arrival of Big Mama and Lil’ Bro should see stollen, pfeffernusse and Christmas pud pausing on his virgin taste buds.

“..There’s a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy,
When they pass around the coffee and the pumpkin pie
It’ll nearly be like a picture print by Currier and Ives
These wonderful things are the things
We remember all through our lives.” (Sleigh Ride)

And a little PS for all you bah-humbug types: sssshhh!

A little while ago Mr S’s Maman and Papa visited. Maman asked me if I liked jewellry. I hesitated, but couldn’t exactly say no! She was curious because I don’t wear much. It also turned out that she was a little unhappy with the gifts her son bought me for Christmas and my birthday. My darling Mr S is extremely practical and some concern was growing that he wasn’t being romantic enough. I was perfectly happy with my walking boots, but my protestations I’d rather clumpy boots to jewellry rang a little hollow.

“I spoke to Maman today.” Mr S told me last night as we snuggled up on the sofa. “She thinks I should get you jewellry for your birthday.”

“Oh yes?” I managed to squeeze out while working quickly on my “surprised” smile.

Quite honestly, there are some people who I might be upset with if they gave me walking boots for a gift (I’m not a walker), but from Mr S, well, I’m perfectly happy. I can’t explain it, but there it is, I really don’t mind what he gets me – or not. I cannot pretend that I wouldn’t love a good, small piece of jewellry though.

What I’m dying to find out, is what he plumps for in the end. Will the super practical side prevail, or will the threat of a gentle ear bashing from his mother, who we’ll be visiting two days after my birthday, win the day?

Bets are on.

Click for a larger view.

These little dolls appear once a year for the Prophet’s birthday. Apparently the tradition started in the more populous areas of town where sweet makers would make dolls out of sweets for girls and horses for boys. China’s cheap imports have changed that, but it is still nice to see the colours on display. Sweets are still involved – apparently they go under the skirts!

I’m off again tonight for a few days break over Christmas. It’s been wonderful in Cairo over the past couple of days as it is completely empty. Journeys that can take 1.5 hours take 15-20 minutes with no traffic. I was even feeling a little nostalgic about my former life living in the centre.

All good things must come to and end and it seems this is even more the case just before I depart. True to form just after finishing my superbly delicious, juicy orange tonight, I realised that I’d eaten at least one maggot.

Take me away!

There is one cow left in the whole of Cairo and it is in my neighbourhood mooing its lonely heart out.

It’s vocal cords won’t be straining for too long.

I can hear the frame being erected to drain its body of blood after its sacrificial slaughter.

Atayef bil ishta

It started off with atayef. Little folded pancakes stuffed with nuts or a nuts and raisin mix, soaked in honey and deep fried. Crispy, crunchy sweet little pancakes that only appear during Ramadan. For a brief moment after the bite, before teeth hit the honey soaked nuts, sweet honey oozes from the pancake. Heaven.

Last night came atayef bil ishta.

Sweet, sweet seventh heaven.

A little folded pancake of Egyptian-style Turkish delight stuffed with cream and liberally doused in icing sugar. Soft, creamy, gooey and ever so sweet…

Thank goodness they only appear once a year.

The month of Ramadan is coming to an end for another Hijri year – Saturday is expected to be the first day for Eid.

The month is the busiest time of the year for the marketing man. Not only is there the daily feast, but the tradition of buying new clothes for Eid. As if that wasn’t enough, weddings do not happen during the month, so caterers’ pockets can expect to get that bit heavier afterwards. Then there are the white goods to buy as couples move into their first home post-nuptials… a busy time. And most definitely, an expensive time.

For some reason Pepsi did not see the need to change packaging for the month, so no more offerings from the soft drinks department. Coca Cola’s touch is some fine gold scrolls and the starry, halal (crescent) moon, the symbol of the month (and the religion).

I met a taxi driver today who was already worrying about what will happen next year. Ramadan in 2008 is due to start in early September, when the weather is still in the 40s…

I guess the AC marketing man will be busy.

This is the normal mid-sized lantern that people hang up during Ramadan. The top of each panel has a crescent moon, a symbol of the religion, with the bottom of the panel showing the Ka’aba. Each vertical side of each panel has a minaret. The colours can be different, as can the panel designs, but the theme is the same. (click photo to enlarge)

This is a more unusual design, but pretty nonetheless. The silhouette is of a mosque. (click photo to enlarge)

This beauty is one of the largest options standing at about 2m (approx 7ft – well, we are allowed to have both now, aren’t we..?). It may be a month of goodwill, but it was chained to a railing, just in case…

This is a close up of the top panel in the large lantern. The pink writing inside the yellow on blue says God. In the lower red panel, there are two minarets, the Ka’aba and the word God written above (in different script than on the upper panel).

I’m not sure what the top bright light is exactly – it may be a fault, who knows – but the two upturned hands are the equivalent to the Christian palms pressed together in prayer. Directly above the hands, inside the crescent moon is the word God again and beside it another minaret.

Culture or religion, or a mixture of the two, the fanoos are a beautiful touch to the festive nights.