We were in France. Bastille Day. My first. All I could dredge from my school day memories was “Let them eat cake!” and some rioting. Oh, and the end of the kingdom. Until Sarko that is. Bread prices or availability of the yeasty staple seemed to be the cause. Kind of similar to these days, I recall thinking. It’s not that I’m not interested in history, quite the opposite, it’s just that the date Nasr took over or the Ottoman Empire ended are more in my line of life. And perhaps, having just reached one year closer to and 355 days away from the big three-zero the clouds of time were becoming gloopy and schooldays seemed ever so far away.

So there we were. France. Deep in the countryside. Or whatever that can mean in France where little village lies a euro-km away from little village. Not real deep countryside where miles away from anywhere, an isolated little cottage nestles a nigh unreachable corner of a valley. Celebrations were unfolding in our particular little village and we bundled up and set off to watch the feu d’artifice (fireworks).

The appointed hour struck and 800 onlookers bore witness to a fizz and a spark. Not looking good. Bets had been laid on how much the village had spent on the evening. Mr S’s sister bet 3000 Euros, Mr S, after pausing and evidently calculating certainties, probabilities of the types of fireworks to be displayed, the transportation costs bearing in mind higher fuel prices and generally things that people who studied physics and maths think about, opted for 20,000 Euros. La Soeur was looking to be the hot favourite.

As for me in amongst 800 merry Frenchfolk, I was preparing to test my sparkly new beast of a camera - there have to be some good things about turning nearly three-zero - in the dark. What we hadn’t counted on upon purchasing the sort of snapper that you have to carry in its own rucksack was that the instructions would be in French. Only. As I twiddled and fiddled the fizzing and whizzing continued. In a before unheard of stroke of luck, both the feu d’artifice and beast camera managed to sort themselves out simultaneously.

Whizzing and exploding and sparkling colours abounded as Grouse here trigger happily snapped away. Bets were now on that La Soeur was going to loose her bet. Les Parents were a little concerned about exactly how much of their tax money was disappearing into thin air. And I was getting some pics.

That is, until I couldn’t see. I wasn’t sure why. It all happened so fast. And all of a sudden I realised my eye was burning. “Aaaaaah! Aaaaaah! Something’s in my eye! Aaaah! It’s burning. It’s BURNING!” Not one to give into bouts of hysteria in public Mr S quickly reaslied something serious was happening: a spark from a feu d’artifice had landed in my eye. To the family members around him who didn’t speak English, suddenly I had switched out of my faltering French, was clutching my eye and unable to stand up.

A quick search for a doctor or first aid point turned out fruitless so La Soeur and Maman rushed home to get the car to take me back. An hour of offers to take me to the hospital were turned down as I rinsed and rinsed my eye and tried, rather unsuccessfully to open it. “Umm,” said Mr S at one point, “Umm, your eyeball is swollen.”

“Yes, I can feel something like that.” I said, again trying to rinse the eye and again declining the hospital.

Finally, the fact that in twelve hours we were supposed to be out of deep rural France and sitting on a Cairo-bound plane coinciding with the fact that I still couldn’t open my eye without searing pain invited my acceptance of the hospital. Les Parents, Mr S and I put on our cold weather clothes again (Summer? I don’t think so) and headed out for a midnight trip through deep countryside to reach the institution that I care not mention again.

Yes, you see, my refusal to visit this care facility was born not out of the fact that I grew up eating porridge and am extremely tough. Unfortunately. I mean, I am tough too, but this building does not secure in me a feeling of serenity. Quite the opposite. So much so, that as Mr S checked me in, Maman exclaimed to Mr S, “She’s cold, she’s shivering violently”. In between sobs, I squeaked out, “I’m not cold. Je déteste les hôpitals” (yes, not grammatically correct, but I did say faltering French!).

Luckily, my eyeball was still in the socket, I wasn’t going to go blind, the eyeball swelling would disappear, the pain would cease, I would be able to open my eye and I will go back to being my severely myopic self.

And the price of the fireworks? Well, we don’t know, but given that they ended up being like the ones from the Castle (Edinburgh’s that is) at the end of the Festival (Edinburgh’s that is), Mr S won.

Ok, so not fishing exactly, more eating of lots of fish. Am halfway through my two week sojourn in France and will be back shortly.

On the birthday front, there was one ‘flash’, no sparkles, and no gentle ear-bashing from Maman. Full update coming soon.

There,

Slouching through the streets,
Dirty sandals scuffing the sidewalk,
Week old stubble, perhaps two,
Stale shorts, skimming the knees,
Yesterday’s sweaty t-shirt, uncrumpled from the floor,
Screams to be washed.

Going ‘local’

Adventurous.
Perhaps.
Unique, different, unrivaled.
You may think.
Fitting in.
Definitely not.

Clones:
‘Going local’.

Darting eyes,
Meandering footsteps:
They give you away.

Bargaining over nothing:
It gives you away.

Costly camera
Clipped round your neck:
It gives you away.

White skin, red skin,
They give you away.

Clones:
Have you not noticed?
Do you think ‘they’ have not noticed?
The patronising.

Pssssst! Clones!
The ‘locals’ look better than you -
And smell sweeter too.

It’s no laughing matter. The weather is well and truly into the ’stinking hot’ phase and ACs are on all the time. Yes, yes, not environmentally friendly, but if you don’t know what it’s like, turn your central heating up to full blast for a week, keep your windows and doors closed then check the thermometre: if it says 28C or there abouts, just add on another 10C and then say ACs are unnecessary!

The problem with air conditioners is that they create water and it has to go somewhere. It is usually channeled away by a short pipe that drips onto whatever is below. The higher you are in this case, the better. Lower apartments can have balconies flooded or an alternative to chinese water torture by way of an  incessant drip, drip, drip as the water trickles on to shutters or railings. Key to maintaining a cordial relationship with fellow building dwellers is to keep them water free.

This neighbour seems to have taken things to an extreme. If you’re in any doubt about how long this pipe really is, confer with the gentleman below.

It’s hot, there’s an oven-like breeze rippling over your glowing body, the sky is cloudless, the sun relentless and turquoise waves are lapping the soft white sand as you contemplate taking a dip.

It’s hot, there’s an oven-like breeze rippling through layers of fabric, the sky is cloudless, the sun relentless and turquoise waves are lapping the soft white sand as you watch people taking a dip.

Alright, I’ll be straight up about this: I am not a photographer, and I do not possess a camera with a pap style lens. I can be kind, however, so with my less that brilliant skills coupled with Mr S’s camera I captured the moment and will share.

We were sitting on the beach on Wednesday evening just around sunset, when suddenly Mr S pointed out, “Look, there are dolphins!”. Mrs Magoo here, couldn’t see them. Thinking it was going to go along the shooting star lines (that’s where someone points to a shooting star, the everybody else in the group, together with their babies, cats, dogs, hamsters and the man with the white stick looks up and says ‘WOOOooooow’! and I’m left dividing the vast desert sky into sections to search, utterly unable to see anything), when I spotted the fins gently arching in and out of the water.

Mesmorising.

See? I said I’m not that good! Click on image for larger and more view(s).

My overindulgence from Noonie’s party seems to have been lingering somewhat and I’ve been feeling just a tad under the weather ever since.

I have also been craving, not, for once, chocolate, but..drum roll..sparkling water! Utterly unlike me.

Luckily it is available here, however, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to buy it. For some reason, the only available sparkling water is Perrier (Berriay as it’s called here). It is located after the checkout in the supermarket which means that you have to go and pick it up with the staff and queue behind you watching.

I am not so self-conscious normally that I mind people watching me pick up a bottle of water. I mean, come on, it’s only a bottle of water, right?

Wrong.

This is a bottle of water that costs about 15 times the price of a local bottle of water. FIFTEEN TIMES!

It is similar to a bottle of water in the UK costing about 3UKP and a bottle of sparkling water costing UKP35. Then think about buying it in front of people who can’t afford a 75p loaf of bread easily.

I caved in, and after six weeks of wanting, did the walk of shame yesterday trying to slip it in with the rest of my shopping unnoticed so as not to become the stupid-foreigner-who-has-more-money-than-sense. Sadly I failed.

But boy, it tasted good!

As befits expat life, talk has come up of our next posting. It is unlikely to be before Summer 2009, but the decision has to be made sometime soonish.

Mr S wants to be near France, not necessarily in it, but within easy reach. I have no idea where I want to be. It doesn’t matter what the suggestion is (other than mine of Thailand - great food, nice people, fantastic diving - which is not going to happen) my heart starts racing and my mind moves into sheer panic.

I know some people who are leaving Egypt in a few weeks after one year here because life has been too difficult. Harassment of a teenage daughter is one reason, as is growing unease about the future and the millions of little things that go wrong every day and wear you out.

I understand. I really do.

But that’s not me.

Although I look forward to living somewhere else, I absolutely cannot imagine living anywhere but here. On top of that, I wonder if life in Europe would be so easy that I get bored. I mean after seven years here I simply cannot imagine what on earth would it be like to have my mind freed up from the trivialities that occupy it here. Thinking about what to wear when I go out so as not to offend people, not needing to remember to tug my t-shirt down as I get in or out of the car so I don’t expose my ‘indecent’ lower back for mere seconds, being able to find exactly the ingredients I need to make the dish I plan to make and not having poverty staring me so hard in the face every day.

The bottom line is, that for the first time in my life, I am actually scared about where we’ll go. I know I’ll be fine, logic dictates that if I can make myself happy in Egypt (which certainly wasn’t easy) I can make myself happy in most places.

But my goodness, for some reason, I’m petrified.

What do you do when the delivery man is too young to be working during the day, and you know that your tip will both keep him away from school and provide his family an income?

What do you do when the man collecting the money for your electricity bill spent four years at university studying accountancy and has better English than you?

What do you do when your friend spent 13 years training and practicing as a surgeon and is looking to move abroad away from his family and friends because he can’t see a future in his own country where he earns 20UKP for an operation?

What do you do when you go to sleep at night knowing that a mere 10 metres from your your cosey feet there is a family of five sleeping in the single room they live in?

What do you do when your monthly shopping bill is more than a teacher earns in the same period?

What do you do when day after day you see young men mixing concrete on the ground of a building site in bare feet?

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.