“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.

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.

There are times when living in Egypt can just get too much. Everything becomes a headache, far more stressful than it usually is and expletives become common vocabulary.

The longer I’ve been here the less it happens. That, however, just leaves me with further to fall when it does.

Since Summer 2005 I have been visiting the pool of Cairo’s Grand Hyatt. There are not many places to go swimming in Cairo and even less once you remove the pools where an inch of skin will attract a gaggle of ogling male eyes. A dip didn’t come cheap, but it was worth every penny, particularly because this price also included access to the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna.

With temperatures of 38C right now, Mr S and I recently made our first appearance at the pool this year. All was going well until I asked if the steam room was working and then told, in front of another guest and in a tone that suggested I was trying to sneak in for free, that I could not use these facilities if I had only paid for the pool.

Off to get showered and leave, the same attendant managed to walk in on my shower. Apparently accidentally (it was the only one that was occupied..).

I made a complaint and tried to explain that if someone was thought to be using the spa area without paying, either talking to them ALONE or informing them at reception as they left that they would not be able to do so again without paying would probably be a better way to go. The response? Apparently it was my fault for misunderstanding four years ago what the deal was. Yep. Absolutely, totally, perfect sense.

And not very 5 star. So, most definitely the last time we go there. Which means, I have lost my escape in Cairo, my bastion of serenity. This was a devastating blow. There are so few places where you can get everything you want under one roof here, and for them not to be overcrowded too.

Next came some more water cuts.

Then, the following day when I forgot I’d left the tap on in the bathroom sink (and we actually had water). I rushed back to turn it off (from an ecological point of view) only to find that the sink had overflowed.

This was not because the sink has no overflow pipe. Oh no. It is there, or rather the hole in the sink is there, however there isn’t actually a pipe. There isn’t a pipe, because someone had the bright idea of blocking up the overflow hole instead. Unfortunately for my things in the cupboard below, they didn’t even manage to do a good job of it and from having no water mere hours before, I then had a flood in the cupboard and the bathroom floor.

Flipping fantastic.

The strange thing is, that when one of these periods starts, it doesn’t give up until it is well and truly tired (note: that has nothing to do with whether you are tired of it or not).

And despite living here for all this time, the bottom line still is (only when I have water you understand), “At least it is sunny.” I mean, come on, it could be far worse: sleet.

Poor old Beejo has been feeling pretty neglected. Stuck in the corner, tyres beginning to deflate and big soft handle bars looking expectantly at me with puppy dog eyes every time I enter the room. Unfortunately, due to a strange, persistent and painful knee problem (that only occurs when I’m cycling uphill), Beejo’s sorry state is somewhat justified.

Today, while chatting with friends, I got a call from my physio.
“Hello.” he said.
“Hello.” I replied.
“You have an appointment now.”
“No, my appointment is not for another hour.” I said confidently. Unfortunately too confidently, as I was wrong.
“If you can come over immediately, there will be enough time because my next client is always late.”
“I’m on my way.”

Cue a major rush, not least because if I didn’t find my shorts, I would have been treated in my underwear – not something I relished. Shorts located I rushed out, got in the elevator and headed down. All this in about 30 secs. It was at exactly that moment that I realised Beejo could be a saviour at this point, so I headed back up.

Purring along the streets, Beejo was happy to be out, enjoying one of the nicest days of the year so far.

It wasn’t until we passed the first policeman (of about twenty on the route) that I remembered that I wasn’t wearing the best ensemble for cycling. A female cycling is an uncommon-enough sight in Egypt, even the Hood, but blonde hair blowing in the wind kind of helps attract a little more attention. Then there was the matter of footwear: flip flops. The only people who wear them out in Egypt are people who can’t afford proper shoes: strange on a foreigner. Coincidentally the only people who cycle anywhere are delivery boys, and it was a pretty odd picture. Add to that a striking green t-shirt with a massive V-neck and I suddenly found myself sitting pretty erect, fingertips barely touching the handle bars and pedaling as fast as possible.

“Oo’a! Oo’a! Oo’a! El agnabeya!” (Watch out, watch out, there’s a foreigner coming behind you!) yelled one man walking down the street to another in front of me.

As luck would have it, part of the road en route is being dug up, so in addition to the policemen, there were about ten workmen, never mind the 15 bowabs sitting relaxing mid-afternoon.

Cries of “Ya mozza!” (hey chick) and “Eh el halewa di!” (what is this beauty – rather literal, can’t remember what people say in countries where workmen have been banned from making comments) were accompanied by a cacophony of wolf-whistles.

Had I not been in such a rush, I would have minded, however, it was kind of my fault anyway (well, I was ‘teasing’ them..*). Anyway, on the flip side, at least I brightened up some people’s day, even if it was only to give them something to laugh at!

*That cliched argument of ’she was dressed like a tart so she deserved it’ hasn’t been disputed here yet.

I used to play the oboe. I spent my entire playing career believing that I wasn’t very good only to get Grade 8 distinction when all the people I believed were far better than me just scraped a pass. A nice shock and a good lesson.

After I finished my exam I played only a few times and then I lost interest. I hadn’t been driven by the exam, but finishing school and a wide world waiting for me to explore was too delicious to stay at home and practice.

Ten years on and I have just picked it up again for the first time. More than a little rusty, but managing a decent sound and at about Grade 4 in sight reading tests, I was having fun..

..Until I started worrying about disturbing the neighbours. And it was then that I realised: ‘madame’ the downstairs hatefully unfriendly neighbour was being disturbed. A little chuckle and I carried on puffing away merrily on double octave scales over and over and over and over again.

The only thing worse than listening to her scream and yell abuse at anybody who has rung her bell over the past 18 months, has to be repetitive scales that are nearly right!

My friend was walking down a road in the Hood yesterday with her 1 year old daughter strapped onto her front. She is not Egyptian. She was wearing a V-neck loose-fitting T-shirt (so, not tight or too revealing). Her daughter was holding the hem of the V. A group of teenage boys was walking towards her. She knows something is going to happen: it always does.

Sure enough, the group approach her to touch the baby. One of them ‘accidentally’ touches her breast as he touches the baby’s hand.

They walk off giggling.

Now, perhaps, he really did touch her breast by mistake.

Perhaps.

Chances are slim though, given that a) he would have probably noticed her breast before the baby (if her husband was carrying the baby, would they have stopped?) and b) had the girl been his friend’s sister, you can bet your life he would have managed to NOT touch her breast.

What’s the difference between my friend and a hypothetical sister of his friend? Nothing, other than he wouldn’t want to disrespect his friend.

Nice, huh?

*Hoda Shaarawi was an Egyptian feminist who lived from 1879-1947.

“Ooh, do you smell smoke?” I ask Mr S most mornings.
“No.” he says for the nth morning in a row.
“Hmm. That’s strange,” say I, “I’m sure I can smell smoke.”
“Hmm,” says Mr S, “What do you want for breakfast?”

The day progresses in this Hood residence, people come, people go, and the neighbours (still) have their sprinkler on far too often.

The same neighbours have a plaque with a flag at their entrance indicating they are of x nationality (I really can’t say what it is – read on, you’ll see why). After a year of moderate surveillance work, I have discovered that those who occasionally use their well watered garden for noisy Christian youth meetings and the odd run around the perimeter are not from the nationality indicated on the plaque. Of course, there is only one nationality that they could possibly be, the only one that is so paranoid as to ‘deter’ would-be assailants and attackers from their under utilised des-res by sticking up an obscure flag on their wall. The SUV parked outside might provide a clue.

Outside their house, as with many others, are some scrawny policemen for security. They are very nice in that they are not too obvious and they get on with their job of sitting and watching the street all day pretty well.

On the lookout for other less noticeable security (all in the interests of avoiding Big Brother, not being nosy, no no…), I noticed a red light in the bushes outside the neighbours’ wall. From the road this light is totally hidden. From my balcony, however, it is not. And, adding an extra sense of intrigue, it is only on at night and not every night.

I hatched a little plan to surreptitiously climb into the bushes tomorrow night to investigate. I figured I could be quite quick, getting in and out of the target area before being detected.

That was until tonight, when I saw a policeman walk over to the red light and heard a distinct metallic clank. My ‘security light’ was then obscured by a tin kettle that had been placed on what is in fact a small, diligently put out every morning, smoldering fire.

For the last hour or so I’ve been hearing some loud pop/rock blaring away. I assumed that a swimming gala or the such was happening at the sporting club along the road, so didn’t pay much attention. A few moments ago it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard any Arabic music, so headed outside to investigate. Balcony doors pulled back, the lyrics “He shall save you, He shall save you, Jesus loves you” boomed out from the garden across the road.

So, the neighbours who water their garden profusely 365 days a year, for the sole purpose of circumnavigating it about 10 times in the same period, appear to have found a use for it: teenage evangelical bible study groups.

I’m sure the music helps set the mood for those preparing the chairs and horsing around, but I’m a little puzzled as to why it’s ok for a teenagers’ bible study class to disturb an entire neighbourhood.

As it happened a couple of times before the annual expat summer exodus, I’m wondering if this means that our neighbours are going to be hosting the event regularly….

On the vertical front, our downstairs neighbour has been relatively quiet since my return a few days ago. Nothing short of a miracle this, as she is utterly unable to speak to any of the ’staff’ i.e. doorman, cleaner, delivery boys/men. The minute she opens her mouth a tirade of insults gets hurled at the unfortunate minion opposite her, at decibel levels high enough that Mr S’s HSE department would render our apartment unlivable, due to a live environmental hazard. The situation, and undoubtedly, the unfortunate minion’s humiliation, is worsened by her inability to carry out this communication in any location other than the stairwell, which acts as a wide boy’s boom box on her gnarly bellows.

I spent a good few months trying to imagine what she looked like with a friend of mine, based on this voice. We came to the conclusion that she was an old, tremendously fat woman, with grey hair, who probably dressed in black galabeyas (long shapeless tunics) and had bad health problems that gave her trouble walking. All this would help explain why she was more than a little short tempered.

I never saw her.

Not, that is, until I realised that she was the short, slender, impeccably made up, immaculately dressed, sweet-as-roses, butter-wouldn’t-melt, friendly, BMW-driving woman I pass in the stairwell.

Back in the oven. I’m not kidding. Two weeks of sun shining on our extensive stone floor has left it emitting heat. If it was snowy outside, I’d be happy to arrive to underfloor heating, but when it’s 37C outside, it’s really not such a welcome feature.

I’ve been a bit shocked to see just how green the grass in the gardens around here is. It is exactly the same green as the grass in an area of France that had rain every day for about two months with not much sun outside the rainy spells. This is one of Egypt’s hottest summers for years. Someone come and make desert gardens fashionable. Please.

The Hood is under construction. Gardens are not essential to modern living, so apartment blocks fill what once was lush grass and flower beds. Money is money and land in The Hood is at a premium, so it’s hardly surprising. Unfortunately, it is at the cost of some architectural delights of the area. Families inheriting their parents’ house and spacious garden often opt to sell the property and split the proceeds. Developers salivate.

It is illegal to knock down an old building in The Hood. This means that the old villas stay but suddenly have walls up around them as a new apartment building fills the garden.

This is a villa that apparently once had ponies in the garden. The villa is now inhabited by (from what I can make out) security men. The apartment block is going to be five or seven stories high and surrounds the house on two sides. The back is only a few metres from the villa.

There is apparently a loophole: a building that is unstable can be torn down. Apparently,* it would be possible to build an underground car park that extends under the old building and by sheer coincidence destabalises its foundations. No longer structurally safe, the villa needs to be torn down and in its place goes another apartment building.

*I, of course, am only speculating on hearsay. I am not suggesting that this is the case with the pictured building.