From my Balcony

Places, a visual approach

2011-06-17T21:43:00.000-07:00

People & Places

2010-11-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

it's been 3 years on the balcony, and I yet have to write about my first visit to my beloved Mexico, I still have to tell you about my love-hate rumba with New York, about England land of the Beatles, Vienna untouched by world wars, San Francisco where I should have been born in the 70s, tales of the deep america, memories of enchanted Prague, a Geneva summer weekend, my first February summer birthday in Australia and re-encounters with my second home, Spain.

As I'm spending too much time in front of my computer screen for work and for study, I'm currently expressing myself through pictures instead of words (no i'm not taking photos, give up already!).

After 3 years of writing about People and Places, I'll use a different form of expression, Collage.

So stay tuned ;)

Berlin again

2010-08-13T02:54:00.000-07:00

Berlin skyline, Nikolai neighborhood

Amman, do not judge a book by its cover

2010-03-21T13:54:00.001-07:00

Hearing that I would go to Amman, many warned that it would be uber-boring, and that there is nothing to see there. Seeing buildings with perfect limestone façades, no higher than four floors, and hearing no noise, I freaked out, I was going to be stuck in this city for ten whole days ...

I was lucky to meet and reconnect with people who took me around the city, Amman is now on my list of my favorite cities.

The soundtrack to the trip was the voice of Makadi Nahas whom I was lucky to catch in concert at Courtyard a lounge hidden in the lovely Shmeisani district where my friend lives.

In the horizon the mountain neighbourhoods have little two storey limestone houses with gardens, and you could see their lights twinkling from the terrace of Books@cafe or simply Books as Ammanis call it, a bookstore, lounge, bar, cafe mix, 70s wall art, a relaxed artsy crowd, lots of scarves and curls, chairs with different but matching colors, a jazzist and her microphone on the lounge wall, just my kind of place!

Books is off Rainbow street where all the hip-spots are and that may be the only street where cool spots are concentrated, and I didn't mind that. The beauty of Amman is in its mystery, the coolest hangouts are hidden away in residential neighbourhoods, and fancy restaurants look like houses from the outside and are as welcoming when you go in (Levant, Romero, Fakhr El Din).

Even art centers are hidden in the mountains and one feels as if intruding on someone's private art collection in their home, that's exactly how I felt when I knocked on the doors of Darat Al Funun.

I have to admit that I freaked out on the first day when I couldn't find an arts and culture guide, and now I can say I am happy I worked for it, I am happy I only knew when I asked around, only then I knew that 7iber (Ink) is the reference.

I loved the views from the benches at Rainbow streets which reminded me of miradores in Spain, designated points in the city to get a bird's eye view. I even enjoyed the down town kitsch cafe-bars, which had only male customers and are now attracting the intellectual hippie crowd, I know they will very soon become Amman's equivalent of Horreya in down town Cairo. I also found Jazz, so I cannot complain, Cafe de Paris had unique gigs, night after night.

As for old Amman, my friends have transmitted their nostalgia to me, I can tell stories of Jabal Natheef and Jabal Luweibdeh, of the neighbours in the harras, and of the old jasmine tree.

When I remember Amman, I remember fresh pine scented air, rain on my coat, trying to find my way to Wild Jordan, and the lady at the fruit shop who gave me a banana and wished me a lovely day.

Photo: Church in beautiful Luweibdeh, near Luzmilla hospital (the first picture I take in 2 years)

Urban Tribes

2010-01-27T02:30:00.000-08:00

Previously I had blogged about Identity, quoting Amin Maalouf, one of the authors I really admire.
A couple of days ago, I realized more than ever that even those of us who broke the traditional molds (as we say in Arabic) need to belong, maybe to a group of different people each "freaky" in their own way, all wandering away from the herd but in different directions.

I was always questioning if Urban Tribes were born from this need to belong.
Here is a documentary produced by my alma mater, UC3M about Urban Tribe, you can watch it on YouTube (part1, part2).

Let me know what you think of all this.

Life on the move

2010-01-22T00:43:00.000-08:00

Something I've been obsessed with, the reason I constantly thinking of the freedom in freelancing.

The idea that's always in the back of my mind when I'm buying stuff for my house (my to-do list has "framing posters" striked out 3 times at least)
The reason my green backpack is my favourite bag (and that I collect bookmarks when I travel)
Something I've been so fixated on that some of my friends testify I've had a past life the 60s

Yesterday I met the woman who made this dream come true, Erin you're my hero!
Read about her and the mini-philosophy that made this possible.

Coincidently, I came across a discussion on Lonely Planet about "portable careers" two days ago.

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

my shortest trip ever

2010-01-19T15:40:00.000-08:00

More often than not, we'd like to travel to more places than our time and dime would allow, today I found that one can take a 2 hour 30$ trip to Portugal.

Tonight Mariza the great took us from the Cairo Opera House to Lisboa and back, through the taverns of Mouraria where the Fado was born, and on-board a yellow furnicular up the hill to Alfama where it met Jazz and Coladeras. Luring us with a white rose and her graceful moves to sit and listen to the sad tales of sailors long gone and of lovers waiting in vain. Songs filled with Saudade, nostalgia to the homeland. Telling stories of her childhood and of other artists who sang for Portugal, Mariza made every note matter.
Every tune a candy along the trail leading to the mournful Fado trap, o meu fado meu...My foot slipped, I who have escaped the sad tunes in Lisboa, saw the city again, in its blue hand painted tiles, and its rain-washed streets, I didn't run from Fado this time, I sat quietly and listened by the Tejo river with my wine glass full of teardrops* waiting for the boat to cross to the other side.

Here's to Mariza, for no one I know can turn a concert hall with 1200 people into a sitting room with a fireplace, and no one I know can keep the power of their voice intact when they kneel down on the floor at the end of a sad song.

Photo:
Off to the Sea, Monument to the Discoveries in Lisbon.
Notes:
*Yes, Port Wine is called lágrimas, literally teardrops
More about Portugal:
You can read about my trips to Portugal here
More about the concert:
Chitra Kalyani's article, Daily News Egypt
Mohamed Radwan's article, Al Masry Al Youm

3 days after the concert:

I'm listening to Rosa Branca, over and over, after reading the above article I realize that I was right about its strong flamenco influence, this is how I felt like dancing when I listened to it (saudade for Spain (sigh))
So, still ain't a Fado person, but now a Mariza fan, any vocalist in their right mind should watch her to learn about perfection, passion and projection (speaking of that after seeing her down on her knees, I thought I should never dare to sing out loud again, but I will seek perfection, I promise)

2 years in the balcony

2009-12-30T05:19:00.000-08:00

Looking through my Bookmark collection* I realized there are still many more travels that I have not written about, I promise to refresh my memory and do that. Also, 2010, the first half, brings trips in my region, Arab World, which I barely know, soooo I will keep you posted :)

*I collect bookmarks as they're light, non-breakable, practical and cheap when one's backpacking
photo: bookmark from Gandhi, the funniest set of bookmarks I ever got were from this library in Mexico (a place I have yet to see).

Happy new year to all!

Now we're cooking

2009-11-09T14:25:00.000-08:00

A rerun of one of my fav posts, as I´m watching the movie Julie and Julia, a culinary delight.
"Chocolate cream pie! You know what I love about cooking? I love that after a day when nothing is sure and when I say nothing, I mean nothing. You can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. That's such a comfort."
Tomorrow I will cook.
-----------------------------------------

I brought back from Panaji a beautiful hand carved wooden box decorated with flowers and smelling of spices. Inside the box lay perfect bay leaves, cardamom seeds, cloves, cinnamon sticks and a couple more Indian spices of which I cannot recall the name. Examining the ingredients I decide: perfect for chicken Curry and saffron rice.

As I dissolve saffron in boiling water (hot tap water won't do, attention to detail makes all the difference when you cook) I remember my friend in Alicante who gave me this jar so I could cook Fideuà, a Valencian specialty which imitated Paella only to beat it. I also remember how we got the recipe from a notebook decorated with the most beautiful retro cut outs and filled with recipes in swirly handwriting. "Recetas de la mama mía" was my friend's wedding gift from her mom. That day we didn't cook Fideuà, we cooked vegetarian pasta with herbs, to celebrate my favorite couple's moving to the country side and growing cilantro in their own garden.

As I savor the curry marinade after adding a bit of garam masala (literally hot spice) I can't help but feel sorry for those with low tolerance for spicy food. It is amazing how different cultures mix similar spices to create completely different feelings, I find myself remembering Mexican spices, for no good reason at all. I just wish I could stock up on Salsa Valentina, the local brand of hot sauce and then add it to pizza like we used to do at my Mexican friends' kitchens.

Once you've tasted a nation's food you immediately feel a sort of kinship (that's if you get to like it), and when you go there you're less of a khawaga or guiri* (it also helps get a bit of a conversation going round the dinner table). Having cooked Patacones in Madrid with a dear friend from Colombia, mashing the plantains and then frying and refrying them, I find myself feeling a sort of familiarity with Bogotá while still on the plane (mind you, none of Patacones I ate in Bogotá would compare to the ones we used to cook. Tasting Okra a l'Indienne and asking a dinner companion for the recipe I find myself familiar with the spices she lists, having seen them in action in the kitchen I shared with a friend from Trinidad and Tobago of Indian origins (only the best ingredients shipped from the homeland for us, none of the supermarket stuff). I also know that I don't need to set foot in a restaurant when I go to Mexico, as I have helped cook tamales and dined in a zillion Mexican restaurants with my favorite pal in Madrid (the one in Chueca has a green volkswagen zooming in from the ceiling replicating a taxi in the streets of Mexico city). I also recall two colleagues bonding over lobsters in India, oh Goan seafood prepared Portuguese style is just undescribable1

As recipes are passed from generation to generation, people preserve a sense of belonging to a distant land of origin where they have never set foot. Till this day, my grandmas cook Harira and Sharkaseya, reminiscent of Moroccan and Turkish roots and my friend's grandmother has Matzah always ready for Passover.

It is a fact that food unites. Friends would tell tales of meeting fellow expats mainly to share festivities, I can relate. The first Ramadan I spent away from home, I had just landed in town and had no kitchen of my own, luckily I was adopted by a bunch of Egyptian friends and fed Mulukhiya (if only airport authorities knew the amount of the serious smuggling that takes place everywhere around the globe). Smuggling indeed makes you take a bit of home with you, that's what my Tunisian friend did when he brought a good stock of harisa for the weeks we spent studying in Toledo.

I tend to think of cooking as a hobby**, creative cooking is not something I can do often, and cooking for hungry individuals on a daily basis even less. Cooking is supposed to be fun that's what I always say.

Cooking with friends entails laughing over fiascoes and sharing the sweet content of a well prepared meal, then dodging the task of preparing coffee or tea (depending on where you are) after the meal.

One of my clearest memories is going to the premiere of Ratatouille with my roomies and bringing back a poster of the Little Chef -which is still on the kitchen door till this day (the kitchen that is no longer mine in a house I still call my own). The next weekend we invited friends over for an elaborate dinner. There was some dude to impress and he was impressed - I hope I don't get killed over disclosing this one my friend!

I guess I'll never forget the endless international cooking days with my dearest friends in Madrid; ill equipped kitchens would not stop us, it just took challenging one of the guys to whisk the batter to give an electric mixer effect with only a manual whip (throwing in a couple of lines on not exercising enough helped too).

I also smile when I remember Wednesday evenings in Cairo at my friend's place and her baby daughter; while we chopped veggies she played drums with a wooden spoon and a cooking pot.

I add to my cooking memories, all the times my friend and I sang Luis Miguel in a kitchen; first in our dorm's kitchen in Toledo, then at her place when I went to visit in Morocco, the Cairo edition is due this summer inshaa'Allah (Luis Miguel would better be proud of us).

When I travel I always take a look beyond the buildings, the contemporary culture and the socio-economics of the country are usually more interesting for me. The way dishes are served and the table is cleared tells you a lot about the culture.

Mediterraneans tend to share mezzah or tappas and would also share salads, while others don't share dishes at all. At one end of the continuum, some cultures serve individual plates in the kitchen and send them out to the dinning room (sort of too bland for my taste) , and others eat from the same serving dish or fuente (memories of Morocco and the delicious Tagines come to mind), in the middle would be serving the main dish on the dinning table and having seconds and asking people to try this and that and that.

You can also find an indicator if you observe who clears the table and does the dishes. In some culture it's the host or just the women, in others it's the ones who didn't cook, in some plastic plates and cutlery are just thrown away (we love mother earth), and in many the dishwasher deprives those who would have washed the dishes from the greatest post-meal gossip.

Needless to say, in most societies suffering of large income gaps, affordable catering and delivery services (I'll never forget the expression at my friend's face when she saw the Mc Donald's motorcycles in Cairo, I totally related when I saw all the "a domicilio" signs in Latin America) and and other people relieve you of it all: cooking, setting the table and clearing the table.

Keep cooking and smile while you do, for it makes all the difference.

----------------
*Egyptian and Spanish slang for "foreigner"
** Apologies to those who think cooking is a chore

Photo:
Changed this time to Carrot Cake by my friend Sweets Ninja

For recipes and more cooking flicks and and lit check the original post.

tips on Barcelona

2009-10-22T09:05:00.000-07:00

this comes with no story, just some recommendations:

· If you have time to see only one Gaudi then you should go to Casa Batllo, address: Passeig de Gràcia 43, L'Eixample - Metro "Passeig de Gràcia" (L3), Parque Guell is also worth a try
· The Palau de la Musica Catalana, a nationalistic Palais de la Musique, carved flowers everywhere and excellent sound distribution , an homage to operas (maybe the Opera is there?) Metro Urquinaona (L1)
· Dinner at the port, you'll see a wooden bridge and then a mall, in front of the mall, by the sea is the most exquisite restaurant called "Elx" they have a great dish called Fideua, that's a dish traditional of Alicante and the whole Valencia region, all fish and sea food at this place is great anyways (address: Maremagnum, Local 9. Moll d'Espanya 5, if you want to reserve but I don't think you'll need to 93 225 81 17)
· wander at night and go into any bar at Barri Gòtic , it's full of tiny bistros all with different colors and hidden behind big doors and curtains (yes curtains), you get there from Las Ramblas (that's where all the buskers and kiosks are) passing through Plaza Real (you get to see a typical Spanish main square)
· Shopping, up Avenida Diagonal till Plaça de Catalunya, which basically going up the Ramblas, if you go the big Corte Ingles store (don't buy there) you'll love the square it's chic with lights at night. Up there is FNAC the absolute place for music and books.
· artistic cinema at Gracia the Boho district
· whatever you do, don't watch flamenco in Barcelona

Cracking the egg

2009-10-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

“With their tinted windows up, the cars of the rich go like dark eggs down the roads of Delhi. Every now and then, an egg will crack open - a woman's hand, dazzling with gold bangles, stretches out of an open window, flings an empty mineral water bottle onto the road - and then the window goes up, and the egg is resealed.” Balram the driver, a.k.a the White Tiger.

Many of us live in Cairo in eggs, car windows rolled up, AC on, music muting the sounds coming from outside. It's a polluted city? Didn't even notice. No one inhaled the fumes nor got eye allergies, why should they care?

and those outside the egg suffer from its fumes...

Volunteer vacations

2009-10-06T09:42:00.000-07:00

Photo above: Médcins Sans Frontieres Ad, as published in my fav Lonely Planet magazinde.

My friend Veronica went to Togo and made an orphanage work, the girl can move mountains. You can read all about it at her blog and you can contribute too, Vero is spending every penny in the best way possible, none of the Aid money squandering.

I am fascinated by stories of grassroot projects that have worked, and I have stories to tell about initiatives that have failed because people went with all the good intentions but also with their own limited frame of reference, don't get me started . Aid is a most controversial topics, I could ramble on forever, so to spare you I encourage you to read The White Man's Burden instead.

Let me know if you want to volunteer somewhere and I'll try to link you to a decent NGO there if I know one (think there are a couple of helpful links on the right too).

Mannequin

2009-09-20T05:08:00.000-07:00

A blogpost caught my eye, it linked to an article by Egyptian author Ahdaf Soueif, evoking the view from Café Riche in down town Cairo in its past and present. It reminded me of a play I watched on the American University in Cairo's stage a few years ago, Mannequin (أو مانيكان بالعامية المصرية). The story takes us back in time and then forward again, through Noussa, a vitriniste in Wist El Balad (downtown Cairo), and her boss, the shop owner. Noussa makes a living by dressing wooden (now platic) models in shopwindows. The garments change and so do our society's values, as we can hear in Noussa's monologues at night when she talks to the dummies, who are one minute donning hipster pants and floral shirts a l'Européenne and the next fully covered in Gulfy garments after returning from the oil-rich nations.
Oh we are a chameleon nation...

Photo, Café Riche by Al Ahram Weekly

Staycation

2009-09-17T03:18:00.000-07:00

staying home on a vacation people feel stuck, frustrated and left-out
whether it's because you're stuck at work and can't leave for too long, or because you're broke, or there's no one to go with, or you were too late in planning and all the good slots are taken, or you're simply not a fan of overcrowded and hence overpriced vacation spots, or maybe you can't be bothered to plan or are too fidgetty to handle waiting at airports or train stations, you need a staycation.
Explore your city with new eyes and do things you wouldn't normally do because of traffic or because you have to book too early on. They're all gone, it's all yours now.

It seems like 2009 is the year of the staycation in many places because of the recession!
share your staycation ideas

It's my way or the highway

2009-09-11T00:06:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago, my friend and I were talking about ranting on blogs, I said I mostly stay away from it (except for a couple or more bitchy posts which you can find if you scroll down), he said: "just wait till you start writing about politics and you'll write in an angry tone just like us." There are still no political discussions under my roof , but a recent "law" of sorts was imposed by the Egyptian Ministry of Interior condemning and punishing food consumption in broad daylight during the holy month of Ramadan. It made me cringe :s

For starters, it made me question one more time the logic of those offended religious people out there who can't handle someone eating in their vicinity . Fasting is by definition an act of abstinence, of discipline, compassion and sacrifice, but "fasting in a bubble" I'm not sure about that... not eating nor smoking can't be that difficult if no one else around you is doing it, it should be fairly easy if you are not constantly reminded of it. One of the dev. pals wrote from Senegal to our NGO's mailing list, updating the group on his Ramadan in Dakkar, marvelling at how everyone respected the holy month and still carried on with life as usual, bars serving alcohol included, he wrote "The reason why I appreciated this is that faith for most Senegalese is a CHOICE and not imposed nor by the state or a marabout." If I speak for myself, I'd say fasting in Spain made more sense somehow and was completly ok. Mmm so based on this logic, really, eating chocolate while our orthodox friends are fasting should be illegal, right? and eating savoury food while someone's dieting is an unrefined attitude?

While we're at it, let's discuss the logic of turning Ramadan into a feast of mass consumption from dusk till dawn, getting an adrenaline rush from the thought of a myriad of delicacies after hunger and thirst. And while we're still at that, let's discuss my Coptic Christian friend sacrificing meat while indulging in the finest saumon fumé & gruyère, with a pious look on her face. And maybe we should all take a moment to look back and consider how it is probably more useful to mankind if you have your bloody cigarette or cup of coffee and stop having this self-righteous anger because you're fasting, and perhaps focus on the task at hand, because yes, work is an act of workship too. While do we constantly feel this need to "exteriorize" that we're "on the right track" (assuming there's only one of course)

At Iftar feasts I keep on reminding myself that human beings need the notion of discipline and reward to be engraved in their minds (that much I can affirm after hiking the Road to Santiago), but then again, really, why is it all about rituals now without questionning the logic, aren't rituals after all just symbolic acts of faith...any faith?

As for the question of respect for other cultures, don't get me started, there are people out there who think they should kill the "infidels", yeah go ahead, God couldn't kill them so he definitely needs a hand in this.

And really, all this talk just gets me more confused, chasing the elusive thread between respect for other cultures, tolerance, diversity on the one hand and maintaining one's values and culture on the other hand. Whether in the home country or abroad, what to wear, what to do, how to greet people, how to adapt, the debate is long and it would take us hours to decide: if it is ok for an American woman to wear shorts in midan el tahrir in Cairo on the premise that men shouldn't look at her because they are averting their gaze or that she should dress conservatively and do as the Cairennes do (3/4 sleeves and pants ok? that's middleground), and whether the law should or should not punish a Moroccan family living in Spain because they circumcised their daughter, as female genital mutilation is simply illegal in the country but also just necessary from the family's viewpoint. And don't get me started on the French headscarf dilemma in the land of so called Liberté. Now even mono-cultural Spaniards who, thirthy years ago, would've been spanked by Franco if they were non-Catholic, communist or gay, now want to be "progressive", celebrating Europe's biggest gay pride walks and still criticizing a harmless dress code (the Hijab) just like their sophisticated neighbors. Logic people, LOGIC!

Instead of the current ban, can we work out a formula of respect for differences and tolerance? Really, can't we be more grown up about this, does Mother Government always have to decide for us because we're too bloody immature?

In the end people would still need their differences to feel that their way is the right way and that they are more "enlightened" (whether that means irrational consumption of alcohol or not talking to a member of the opposite sex).

Let's not dwell on it and let's learn to live together. There you go, a cliché picture for you (my fav UNICEF card since I was 5) & a few lines I never forget:
“We should consider each group, racial, or cultural as a fruit: an apple, a pear, a mango. We want to make Mauritius not a marmalade, where we mix up everything and grind everything and end up with one marmalade with one taste. But we would like to have a fruit salad, where in a fruit salad each one retains its individual flavour and taste.” Monsignor Bargeau of Mauritius as quoted by Franklin Covey in the 7 habits of highly effective people.

Following yellow arrows

2009-08-04T13:07:00.000-07:00

I am following little yellow arrows down the road, wishing that life had more arrows leading the way and sparing me difficult decisions at crossroads.

The arrows mark a road, El Camino de Santiago, an old pilgrimage road, now equally visited by some complying with a sacred rite, others seeking a journey of self discovery, many taking a challenging hike in the pine scented air of northern Spain, some wanting to make new friends, and others seeking the healing power of mother earth in the villages that are still uncontaminated by the modern consumption culture. I was each and everyone of them.

In this journey, I came to understand the logic of pilgrims, fasting and religious rites. Exhausting one's body to purify the soul, carrying one's cross in a procession (in my case a green backpack) or going to the holy city on camel back under a blazing sun. Enjoying the enlightement that comes gradually on the road and what the holy site symbolizes.

The Road left me wondering if all journeys to the self start with penance and if we are meant to suffer before we can rejoice. Can we really look inside for all the answers if we're constantly deciding what to wear, what to eat and what to buy? Constantly rushing to make money and then trying to buy time; building new cities everyday and then trying to escape them to hear ourselves think, it's somehow... absurd if I may say. I had to carry what I would need for the week for over a 100 km, there was no feeling more liberating than throwing away objects I previously thought I needed -my friend realized that the weight of the backpack always equals our attachment, couldn't be more right. I hope the time before Ramadan doesn't steal away this energy, as I look forward to more self discipline and reward, a clearer mind and more sharing and solidarity.

The Road is a maquette of life. With strangers and friends you share the agony of a knee-bending slope, seeking distraction from the pain in your feet and back in random conversations and laughing the pain away. You also share the relief of getting to a refuge and hug people you met only a few days ago when you get to the final destination. Sharing the little food and first-aid we possessed created a bond with friends as well as strangers, reminded me of our desert trips somehow. Sharing reflections on what The Road taught us over a cook-together or near the washing machine was more than enlightening.

I realized that any journey has moments of solitude to savour, bonds that last beyond the journey, and sometimes just fun company or moral support for only a few kilometers, and it's ok to part at resting spots, we can't all have the same pace all the way. The Camino showed me that everyone has a good side which the constant fight over a job or parking space kills, everyone has a nurturing healing power, everyone has something to give. It is also true that the collective environment builds it, you want to be good when everyone around you is good, if it's just you, people mistake your giving -and the strength it requires- for weakness and try to take advantage.

To have the stamina that the road requires we need frequent stops to regain our strength, it is really absurd to get to the milestones or the ultimate destinations exhausted (speaking of stops, I send all my love to María, one of our hosts, owner of a rural house and farm, who makes the best flan I ever tasted).

After all, it's the journey not the destination. As beautiful as the Santiago de Compostela cathedral was, it was like any other big cathedral in Europe, it's real value was what it symbolizes, that persistence pays off. I met a girl wearing a T-shirt featuring the drawing of feet with plasters and blisters, it read "sin dolor no hay gloria", as in "no pain no gain".

When you read this send me good vibes, anything that would reinforce the walls of light I am trying to build around me to conserve the mountain spirit from all the traffic, city lights, billboards and most of all the nervewrecking noise that the neighbours in Madrid are making as they're tearing down the walls, and soon fmore traffic in Cairo and people who don't want to do their share of work.

Compassion, patience, breathe in, breathe out, imagine a protective purple light around you, send out love... sigh ...just reminiscing over our meditation sessions in the woods... I hope that the little yellow arrow pin I got will remind me of the journey's peace at times when i feel like cracking someone's neck :)

About the Road:

My route was on foot, part of the Camino Francés, an orange line on the map. I heard stories about the other routes and I highly recommend biking the road if you can, you'll cover more ground and have fun if you get a high from crazy slopes. Here are the links and you can always drop me a line to know more or to get packing tips (the lighter your backpack, the easier your life will be)

http://caminodesantiago.consumer.es/

http://www.caminodesantiago.me.uk/

Have a good journey wherever you're heading, as they say around here, buen camino!

next stop...?

2009-07-01T03:28:00.001-07:00

Plans form and plans evaporate, some more tempting than others. On more than an occasion I booked a trip when I found matching luggage, or planned one when I read a book, these days I get too many mixed signals.
I check flights and wish I could just go to the airport and pick my next destination on the spur of the moment, like I did in my inter-rail trip. But I can't, thank you Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. (note: just found a great link on countries that do not require visas for holders of the unlucky green passport).
I'm checking flights now and I have three rules:
1.non touristic, 2.not a capital city, 3.not europe

your suggestions are welcome!

soundtrack: we're roamming...

Take me back to Cairo

2009-06-27T16:04:00.000-07:00

Cairo is a beautiful woman who has aged with anything but grace. She has known a glamorous past...

A past when it was Paris of the Middle East and the Oriental Hollywood. A time for intellectuals and activists in Café Riche, for shopping for the best European fashion at Cicurel, for Beer in the snooker club, for the best dinners at After 8 (which by the way is now murky beyond repair), for dressing up to savour Um Kulthum's voice with no rush, for horse races at the Gezira Club. A truly cosmopolitan city where people came to bask in culture and look for everything new in wist el balad, down town Cairo, my favourite part of the city.

Tonight, a Spanish man's love for Cairo woke up this beauty and told her to get ready to take the stage one last time before he leaves. So she got up, shook off the sadness, the bitterness over people forgetting that She was the Diva, the one and only, and wore her best red gown and smoothed her long black gloves and seduced us all.

The stage was a forgotten night club, a cabaret revived especially for the Night. Once a place where stars shone, on Emad El Din Street, Cairo's Broadway, at a time where Cinema Femina required evening dresses and pressed suits. Now just one more local Cabareih, those tacky drug and prostitution holes flashing cheap menus in horrid colors. The place was brought to its former glory, Taheya Karioka and Samia Gamal, the prima belly dancers of all time smiled again, and Stella beer, digged out its old ads; with maps of Wist El Balad covering the peeling orange plaster; with tables clad in burgundy and arranged in a proper Cabaret setting. Girls walking around with cigarette trays added to the retro mood.

An Egyptian Jazz band and then a Spanish Swing band took the stage. And I felt at home between both my homes, greeting an old friend, the Pianiste of The Riff Band of Cairo before he went on stage, and screaming otra! otra! with the Spanish crowd, asking the Divinas to give us one more song before they call it a night. And the girls obliged, coming back on stage with their 50s dresses, hats, sunglasses and scarves and those round travel bags, before they board the train.
It was a perfect night, tap dancing, pink martinis and a crowd that just fit in. The lead vocalist of Riff, and Cairo's Frankie, Ahmed Harfoush, told us all beforehand to wear our best 50s wear. I was there hairdo, swinging skirt, red lipstick and all (and you know me I never wear red lipstick). The audience made one feel part of a black and white movie (and wonder when will Ahmed Ramzy come through the door?), they danced the Swing so well on the piste in the middle of the Cabaret that it was hard to focus on the stage alone.

I asked Ramón Blecua, the Cultural Counselor of the Spanish Embassy (the man who loves Cairo, remember?) if this project would give us more nights like this, he says it is just those 3 nights, just an affair not a marriage (pointing to the tickets that read "a musical affair"). This was his last cultural activity, his finale, a rare tour de force, and I was lucky to witness it.

I thank all those who took us back in time and let my Cairo shine one more time before the August tourists hit the city to escape their stifling societies. I also thank the brave owner of Cabaret Scheherazade for letting them, who knows what his current customers would think of such an act of cultural debauchery!

About:
-For non Egyptians, the title comes from an old song, maybe a little cheesy but it just grew on us.
-Picture1: balconies down town, Mohamed Azab's lens
-Picture2: 50s advertising "prepare your lips for kisses, with Baiser lipstick" (I know for a fact that the same people who banned Cabarets on the basis that music is immoral ,banned ads like this too)
-Accompanying song Copa Cabana
-Article worth reading about the show and the downtown revival project from the daily news

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes." Marcel Proust.

simply Alex.

2009-06-24T08:35:00.000-07:00

You may see them on the train from Cairo to Alexandria, thinking they are in a tea party. Dinning at the Greek Club and promising that they would come to Alexandria more often. Having coffee at Délice and imagining another era. In all those moments and whenever life throws one of them among very alien -a little too practical- souls, each of the ladies would be thanking God for sending the others her way.
They call themselves, Ladies of the Order of the Bubble.

It is at times like this that I am certain that people make the place.

Photo: Alexandria, Mohamed Azab's lens
For some Alexandria breeze read Out of Egypt: a memoir

Cardamomo

2009-06-20T15:18:00.000-07:00

From time to time, nostalgia hits like a baseball bat on your head, and you realize there are things you miss.

Like drinking Lemonade with Cardamom in the sunny living room while counting the blue cable cars flying from Rosales to the zoo, and always loosing count when one of us shares his views on love
Dancing to the gypsies' beat at the bar Cardamomo and impersonating famous Flamenco dancers, Olé! We were a crazy bunch
Taking coffee breaks which end up in full breakfasts, with pan con tomate and all, taking time to pour olive oil on perfectly toasted bread without a care in the world - as if this wasn't just a class intermittance, but a morning we decided to spend in the sun.
Spending a Sunday wandering barefoot in the park or reading by the pool, then going home to prepare a decent merienda for friends.
Staring at the perfect column in Café Juan Valdéz in a restored old building overlooking La Almudena and then get back to the typical Mediterranean gossip.
Solitary walks near the Palacio or deep conversations in the Plaza de Oriente
Remembering the way to Casa de Campo and wondering, have they fixed the Manzanares yet? Will my adopted home have a proper river now, and when I'm there I'll miss the Nile less?
Comparing fiestas in my friends' houses in Cairo to Wednesday nights of Madrid Babel chattering away in a zillion foreign tongues and hybrid phrases.
Indy movies at the Cines Golem, and watching that slightly odd Chinese movie with my most cultured couple.
Going for drinks at Malu's, at the foot of the bridge, and remembering the year before with the most loved ones, and then wondering if it's all about people or places?
It ain't painful, it's just Saudade...

Photo: counting blue cable cars, view from apartment in Principe Pío Madrid.

What Lonely Planet says about my adopted city:
No city on earth is more alive than Madrid, a beguiling place whose sheer energy carries a simple message: this is one city which really knows how to live.

Cairo Kitsch

2009-06-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

The Cairo Tower with tiny glowing pink lights, against a navy blue sky (for it never gets darker in the city that never sleeps).
Crystal chandeliers in ever single floor of Abu Tarek's Koshari place
The endearing slow service in Wist El Balad's restaurants by fancily dressed waiters who have known a better era
Walking through a supermarket to reach a once-elegant now-faded and dusty bar
Styrofoam coffee cups at the Gezira Club, a place that once served tea in the finest china to a postcolonial society
Red and yellow plastic chairs on El Gam'a bridge enjoying the same view of the Nile as the Four Seasons Hotel
A hand warding off the evil eye on the back of a truck
This is the city I love and I would die if our tower were to imitate the mono-colour Tour Effeil lights one day (and I love the Tour, don't get me wrong)

Photo: reflections of Cairo lights on the Nile, view from Kasr El Nil Bridge (the Lions Bridge), Francisco Fuentes' lens

Retiring in Asilah

2009-05-24T06:04:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking about my own retirement those days (maybe related to my slow productivity with summertime).
I think I'll be going off to a town on a hill somewhere, maybe Asilah in Morocco.
Now, when I swing from euphoria to stupor to just plain pain, cling on to things and then never get to keep them, my consolation is that one day I'll be an old lady. An old lady with a full life and stories to tell in a house on the hill where I would cook for those who escape the city for the weekend and tell them not to take life too seriously. To reassure them that nothing matters but the small moments, like this moment when we are sipping coffee on my balcony and truly bonding.
I'll tell them that at times where I risked breaking my neck or at times when gold dust slipped through my fingers, I cried, but that I know only remember the thrill of the chase and how I didn't crack under all the pressure. I'll tell them that at times when I worked my ass off and sprained my ankle running, I got there, but the euphoria lasted about 15 minutes after crossing the finish line.
That all throughout, what mattered was a mars chocolate bar from his backpack, a day at the beach with the girls, a hand in the small of my back while we're dancing the night away, the making-up after the fights, friends' consolation after loss, the no-number on my phone's screen and then time after time the familiar voice, communicating without words, analyzing drawings, singing at the top of our lungs, conversations on the train that last all the way from Cairo to Alexandria, guessing that someone will like a song or a movie and finding they already do, a call from a friend sharing updates on their new crush, starry nights on my friend's rooftop smoking mint slims, cooking a good meal for the family, surprise birthday parties, cards we make for tearfull farewells, 2 page emails, epiphanies, planning a new trip and above all, a good cup of coffee on this Balcony on a Saturday morning.

I think that more than retirement itself, I long for the wisdom that comes with retirement. This is the place where I will tell my story (Asilah, Morocco).

Note1: the story of the old lady is inspired by a real old lady who lives in the hills near Alicante, I never met her, C&M did.

Note2: the moments are best described by my friend K.R. in a new year email he sent to all of us, wishing us more similar moments.
Also my friend J.D. describes herself as "a collector of moments".

Note3: After writing this, I watched the movie Waking Life:
-"I keep thinking about something you said.
-- Something I said?
- Yeah.
-About how you often feel like you're observing your life...from the perspective of an old woman about to die.
-- You remember that?
- Yeah. I still feel that way sometimes.Like I'm looking back on my life. Like my waking life is her memories."

Note 4: few weeks after writing this, I came upon a blogpost where a girl is telling her stories long before retirement, made me smile :)

Snapshots from Rome

2009-05-22T14:52:00.000-07:00

Remembering Rome I pass two red lights on my way back home. Charming, sensual and elegant like its citizens, grandiose like their ancestors. The city of seven hills.

Feet pounding the cobble stone I roamed the city looking for a poster of the Godfather for my beau who was in a mafioso phase at the time. Explaining in broken Italian "foto ... Il Padrino". After flipping through Sophia Lauren's black and white pictures and posters of old Italian movies I can't recognize, at dinner time I finally find It. I go home with the unique father and son scene, only to find that a friend has gotten him the same picture in a glossy postcard format conveniently purchased from the United States (and that's when I scream "damn the supermarket culture").

The kiosks display postcards from Roman Holiday, Audery Hepburn and Gregory Peck at the Fontana di Trevi, La Bocca de la Verita, at the Coliseum, at the Piazza di Spagna, sipping coffee, eating gelato, speeding away on a motorino. Simply romantic in black and white... as the movie ends, Audrey Hepburn, when asked what city she liked most in her tour around Europe, casts all political correctness expected of a young princess like her, and says "Rome...by all means Rome"

ALL this build-up to find a piazza di spagna that is filled with tourists clad with shapeless shorts, armed with cameras and sipping fizzy drinks, people selling cheap imitation designer bags, flowers with colors too bright, and a huge Bvlgari ad behind the Obelisk. I simply hate the pictures I took that day.

Yet all this, plus the queues for the hop-on hop-off tourist bus (which by the way I don't recommend, go on foot), and the plastic neon miniature monuments, Pakistani carts selling fruits and juice, plus all the pick-poketing, and the commercialization of elegance (see photo above) do not devoid Rome of its charm.

I can still recall my first breakfast, delicious bread, zucchini, eggplant and goat cheese, at a bistro two blocks down from my hotel. Years after, while reading The Food of Love, I imagined the place as its setting and its owners as the people who run the restaurant in my book.

I remember fewer times when I have enjoyed walking by myself like I did when in Rome. Feeling the Roman Empire in the stones of the Aqueduct, and in the carved marble of the street sign of Via del Corso. Treadding narrow streets, following the sound of water at night, to find a vast piazza and a sight that takes my breath away, the Fontana di Trevi (not recommended by day). Wandering around to find I've come to the same exact spot (the plateau up Piazza di Spagna) but from the top of the hill, and looking at exquisite little balconies transformed into little family owned restaurants.
Feeling like a celebretiy while sipping a coffee that costs 5 euros at the renown Café Greco (that's in 2004, when coffee elsewhere cost 90 cents).
Doing the leche-vitrines*, to find that everyone -but myself and other tourists- is out of Vogue. (* French for window shopping, yes I'm being pretentious here)
There are few cities which I fail to describe in words, Rome is one of them.
Wait for my next trip, maybe that will let me depict it better.

Clinging on...

2009-05-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

To perfect moments that will never come back again
To places where we've found happiness and had a collection of perfect moments (which by the way require the presence of the same set of people, the same mood, conversations, songs and perhaps the same weather and food)
To people that fit us like old pears of jeans or comfy worn out shoes yet that are soo out of fashion (or to those jeans we've outgrown since the last time we tried them on)
Going in circles, trying to smell old breezes instead of breathing fresh air
Struggling to recreate memories instead of making new ones
It's just so pointless to cling on, I wish I could let go...

Song:
You've got to get yourself together
You've got stuck in a moment and now you can't get out of it
(U2)

Photo: house in Larache, Morocco - when God closes a door, he opens a window

The Taste of Homes

2009-05-18T00:06:00.000-07:00

Mounir's song (طعم البيوت)

The taste of objects lasts a few hours and then it withers and fades
In our hearts and memory the only taste that lives is that of our homes

Walls that embrace many hearts
Doors that engulf the lives of a king or a guard
Windows that hide young beautiful girls peeking through

In our street each house holds a secret, well guarded secrets

At dusk people would gather with loved ones
And the house would watch and remember
Each stone has a heart

You step in …
The house awaits you with open arms
And its tells you the tales of those who lived, the tales of a thousand years before

* translated with a bit of imagination

Houses with a taste

Beit El-Suhaymi, Cairo (photo above, bathroom ceiling which witnessed a unique moment -photo by Francisco Fuentes)
Casa Batlló, Barcelona

On Identity

2009-05-04T02:19:00.000-07:00

When asked about my identity, whether I feel this or that, whether I totally belong here or there, I try to explain as best as I can that I cannot give a simple one-word answer. People ask and ask again, trying to corner me to get one answer or the other, trying to guess or judge based on their own frameworks, to weigh characteristics in favour of each classification, to observe until they can trace a pattern.

I simply cannot give my answer in one word, why is that so hard to understand?

I am not a fan of labels, classifications, bagging, herds, flocks or boxes. I simply do not see myself fitting into one or under one no matter how hard I try. People still try to form an opinion, throw value judgements, point out things they perceive as contradictory and fail to understand. For some odd reason, they feel entitled to an explanation.

I quote Maalouf "The identity cannot be compartmentalized; it cannot be split in halves or thirds, nor have any clearly defined set of boundaries. I do not have several identities, I only have one, made of all the elements that have shaped its unique proportions."

I try to describe identity as something more complex than solid colors or neat stripes that never mix. I ramble on, how I see it as a mishmash of crazy colors on a palette, oil paint defying the borders, oil paint on a decent classic wooden palette (not those plastic modern ones where colors are scqueezed and confined into little square spaces, when I see this ugly plastic object one word forms into my mind: ghettos ).

yellow with a streak of green as it befriended blue, white sprinkled with pink as it fell in love with red, a blue that dared to jump around the palette and could never go back, to light blue or even navy blue, it simply came back as purple.

Hard to explain, Maalouf does it best, nothing I write will compare to his book.

On identity, Amin Maalouf

Since I left Lebanon in 1976 to establish myself in France, I have been asked many times, with the best intentions in the world, if I felt more French or more Lebanese. I always give the same answer: "Both." Not in an attempt to be fair or balanced but because if I gave another answer I would be lying. This is why I am myself and not another, at the edge of two countries, two or three languages and several cultural traditions. This is precisely what determines my identity. Would I be more authentic if I cut off a part of myself?

To those who ask, I explain with patience that I was born in Lebanon, lived there until the age of 27, that Arabic is my first language and I discovered Dickens, Dumas and "Gulliver's Travels" in the Arabic translation, and I felt happy for the first time as a child in my village in the mountains, the village of my ancestors where I heard some of the stories that would help me later write my novels. How could I forget all of this? How could I untie myself from it? But on another side, I have lived on the French soil for 22 years, I drink its water and wine, my hands caress its old stones everyday, I write my books in French and France could never again be a foreign country.

Half French and half Lebanese, then? Not at all! The identity cannot be compartmentalized; it cannot be split in halves or thirds, nor have any clearly defined set of boundaries. I do not have several identities, I only have one, made of all the elements that have shaped its unique proportions.

Sometimes, when I have finished explaining in detail why I fully claim all of my elements, someone comes up to me and whispers in a friendly way: "You were right to say all this, but deep inside of yourself, what do you really feel you are?"

This question made me smile for a long time. Today, it no longer does. It reveals to me a dangerous and common attitude men have. When I am asked who I am "deep inside of myself," it means there is, deep inside each one of us, one "belonging" that matters, our profound truth, in a way, our "essence" that is determined once and for all at our birth and never changes. As for the rest, all of the rest -- the path of a free man, the beliefs he acquires, his preferences, his own sensitivity, his affinities, his life -- all these things do not count. And when we push our contemporaries to state their identity, which we do very often these days, we are asking them to search deep inside of themselves for this so-called fundamental belonging, that is often religious, nationalistic, racial or ethnic and to boast it, even to a point of provocation.

Whoever claims a more complex identity becomes marginalized. A young man born in France of Algerian parents is obviously part of two cultures and should be able to assume both. I said both to be clear, but the components of his personality are numerous. The language, the beliefs, the lifestyle, the relation with the family, the artistic and culinary taste, the influences -- French, European, Occidental -- blend in him with other influences -- Arabic, Berber, African, Muslim. This could be an enriching and fertile experience if the young man feels free to live it fully, if he is encouraged to take upon himself his diversity; on the other side, his route can be traumatic if each time he claims he is French, some look at him as a traitor or a renegade, and also if each time he emphasizes his links with Algeria, its history, its culture, he feels a lack of understanding, mistrust or hostility.

The situation is even more delicate on the other side of the Rhine. Thinking about a Turk born almost 30 years ago near Frankfurt, and who has always lived in Germany, and who speaks and writes the German language better than the language of his Fathers. To his adopted society, he is not German, to his society of birth, he is no longer really Turkish. Common sense dictates that he could claim to belong to both cultures. But nothing in the law or in the mentality of either allows him to assume in harmony his combined identity.

I mentioned the two first examples that come to my mind. I could have mentioned many others. The case of a person born in Belgrade from a Serb mother and a Croatian father. Or a Hutu woman married to a Tutsi. Or an American that has a black father and a Jewish mother.

Some people could think these examples unique. To be honest, I don't think so. These few cases are not the only ones to have a complex identity. Multiple opposed "belongings" meet in each man and push him to deal with heartbreaking choices. For some, this is simply obvious at first sight; for others, one must look more closely.

Who does not perceive a personal friction in Europe today that will certainly increase between being part of an old European nation -- France , Spain , Denmark , Great Britain -- and at the same time being part of an emerging continental identity? And how many Europeans from the Basque Country to Scotland still feel a profound and powerful attachment to a region, its people, its history, and its language? Who in America today can consider his place in society without any reference to his old ties: African, Hispanic, Irish, Jewish, Italian, Polish or other?

That being said, I must admit that my first examples do possess something distinctive. All of them are about people who belong to different components of society that are violently opposing one another today; people at the border in a way, crossed by lines of ethnic, religious or other fractures. Because of this situation, that I do not dare call "privileged," these people have a special role to play: building bonds, resolving misunderstandings, reasoning with some, moderating others, smoothing and mending conflicts. Their inherent vocation is to be links, bridges, mediators between different communities and different cultures. This is why their dilemma is full of significance. If these people cannot live their multiple belongings, if they constantly have to choose between one side or the other, if they are ordered to get back to their tribe, we have the right to be worried about the basic way the world functions.

"Have to choose," "ordered to get back," I was saying. By whom? Not only by fanatics and xenophobes of all sides, but by you and me, each one of us. Precisely, because these habits of thinking are deeply rooted in all of us, because of this narrow, exclusive, bigoted, simplified conception that reduces the whole identity to a single belonging declared with rage.
I feel like screaming aloud: This is how you "manufacture" slaughterers! I admit it is an abrupt affirmation but I will be explaining it in this book.

This article is excerpted from Amin Maalouf’s "Les Identités meurtrières" (Grasset, 1998), Translated for Al Jadid from the French by Brigitte Caland.

Photo: my foot+bell-bottom jeans, foot of an ancestor - Saqqara (photo by F.F.)

Istanbul OR the deminishing marginal utility of travel

2009-04-21T03:20:00.000-07:00

Remembering the Orient Express Train, Paris to Constantinople

Istanbul reminded me of a class in my first undergrad microeconomics course explaining the law of deminishing marginal utility.It is that simple: when you eat your first Big Mac ever you are willing to sell your soul, when you do eat it you'd pay the real price for the second, and you go on eating but you wouldn't pay a penny for the fifth, and the sixth has to come with a happy meal gift for you to eat it (assuming you have the appetite for all that of course).

I recall that Freakonomics has applied the law or diminishing marginal utility to travel, I cannot recall if it was on the grounds that we can all sip the same coffee, buy the same shirt and watch the same movie anywhere in the world or its because the more you go places the less new things you see. The law cannot apply to some places, for I am still sure that Saint Basil's in Moscow and the Taj Mahal in Agra will take my breath away, and that the vibe of New York city will get to my head. Istanbul was a classical case for me.

Having seen parts of it before in:
Lisbon's Funiculars, its seven hills and the Rio Tejo...
Porto's sea side restaurants...
Portugal's ex-empire nostalgia (with flags everywhere)...
Granada's Alhambra, THAT is breathtaking beauty...
Cairo's Beit El Suheimi...
Andalucia and the houses of God which have accomodated many a faith, minarets on churches' domes or plaster splattered on saints' icons, it's all the same...
Cairo's Khan El Khalili and its sticky bazaar owners...
Tetouan's beggars...
The castles and palaces' outline at dusk in Prague from the Karlov bridge or from a boat in the Vtlava river...
Dinner in Studio Misr, delicious Egyptian cuisine, with a view of Saladin's Citadel an Ottoman jewel (add to this that my country was under the Ottoman Empire)...
Sabeel Mohamed Aly near Khayameya, Cairo...
Mohamed Aly Pasha's palace in shubra el khima...
Spice bazaars in Tangier...
Sleazy men who think that "oriental charm" is irresistible and that you'll faint from one look they throw in your direction (and those can be found anywhere in the region but Turks are truly worse than Arabs)...
Middle Eastern food and Mediterranean food traditions (food carts on the street and terrace cafes and restaurants)...
A main street that wants to resemble European cities' with all the shops and brands...

However, I have to give the city its true credit, for it is like a collage of all the above, even if it does not feel as authentic as any of the above. I also have to pay to Istanbul due respect, for it once was more than once the seat of great empires

It either clicks or it doesn't
It is quite confusing, I feel that Istanbul has got little authenticity which can be felt in a Middle Eastern or European city, yet the fact that all this could be brought together in one city is amusing. Also I confirm that it is this diversity and every corner a surprise which made Cairo and Madrid my favourite cities, even when I see more beautiful places. However I can say that I like authentic cities, I felt Istanbul was a very nice mix, a bit of the Middle East and Europe, a call to prayer and the clinking of wineglasses, but for some reasons I couldn't feel it. It is true that at first it seemed like a tempting place to live, the comfort of a quasi-European city filled with colorful Ramadans with people out till dawn (something I truly missed when I was not spending the holy month in Cairo).

I do believe that cities are like people, it either clicks or it doesn't, you cannot force the good vibes. With Istanbul it was like meeting a handsome guy and then realizing there's not much depth to him. I know some will hate me for this blog post and say: oh but the Turks are nice, it's just the language barrier, oh but it has got so much history. Just like you cannot fall in love with someone because they're nice, you cannot like a city because you have to be impressed like everyone else is.

However, I can say that it was a truly pleasant stay, a welcome change. For it is a truly picturesque city, the view from a boat in the Bosphorous at dusk, the view from a hill when night falls, the view from Galata tower, the outlines of mosques and palaces against a clear blue sky and their lights reflected on the surface of the water.

Sightseeing was ok, in a tick-it-off-your-list sort of way (just like the city was a cross-it-on-your-map visit). The one place which I truly bonded with was the Blue Mosque when we prayed Jum'a, it is just perfect in a way I cannot describe.

What made our stay enjoyable is the beautiful weather we have been blessed with, breeze and sunshine, just the right mix and an exquisite boutique hotel that felt like home, where we rested whenever Istanbul's traffic, its people or the long queues for historical sights wore us out.

My déformation professionelle:

-noticing that the European dream had made the city change its colors to appear more secular and modern, while tourism made the Turks over-exoticize their oriental side, and realizing that in both cases they somehow lost their identity in the process
-noticing that all Ex-Empires have flags everywhere and are a bit condescending and frustrated
-realizing that the tolerance of Istanbul that people were talking of was a tad over-rated, ok you see hijab clad girls and western clad girls, but do you see them walking or having lunch together? Go to down-town Cairo and you'll see those girls shopping together (ok we may need a few more bars and spots for music gigs in Cairo to equal that, I give you that)
-mapping the society, all the way from Bebek to Fatih and Mustafa Pasha, passing Taksim, I've seen everything from yachts and designer bags to developing nation kitsch on the car of the bride and groom, through middle class fashion and restaurants
-knowing that we should market Cairo better and wrecking my brain on how to do so

A few tips :

Guides:

-don't buy lonely planet if it's written by Virginia Maxwell, it's outdated and raises your expectations and has a western reader in mind (Middle Easterns will know what I mean)
-ask the locals (those who can speak English or Arabic or who are nice enough, we were lucky to meet some but you won't find them at every corner)
Sights:
-Blue Mosque
-Basilica Cistern, catch a concert there
-Train station museum, orient express memorabilia
-Galata tower
-Take a ferry in the Bosphorous
Sleep:
-stay at Lush Hotel, check the website and you'll know why

Eat:
-don't eat at Sultan Ahmet
-fruits on the street in Taksim, amazing
Move around:
-traffic is suffocating, so again be patient
-use the ferries, you'll appreciate the city's beauty, and get tea from the wandering vendor to feel more like a local, that was one of the high points of my trip
Evening and night:
-Nero in Bebek, get a coffee in the 4th floor terrace
-Four Seasons in Ortakoy
-Mado's ice cream corner in Ortakoy, if you choose your ice cream and add-ons in less than half an hour, you win
-Ulus 29 lovely club where you get a bird's eye view of the whole city, dress up please!
-if you need to feel something Turkish, go to a Meyhane, those are nice and have live music (which you can overdose on), but whoever compared it to a Tappas Bar (my guidebook lady) is offending all Spaniards

Buy:

-when you go to the Bazaars bargain and look at stuff from the corner of your eye, the shopkeepers are truly annoying
-walk the Spice Market (Egyptian Bazar) and taste all the Turkish Delights you can (then buy in Taksim)
When:
-don't go in the tourists' season (we went a few weeks before that and had to face the queues)
Piece of advice:
-be patient with the Turks, those who are overfriendly because they want to sell you something and those who are frowning because they can't understand any language but their own (they will yell at you in Turkish expecting you to understand their widely spoken language)
-If you haven't been to the Middle East, come to Cairo first, and to all Cairennes: Masr Om El Donia.

PS: this may seem overly nationalistic, but I considering I have Turkish blood I'm not anti-Ottoman or anything, I just didn't think Istanbul was "all that".

on details

2009-02-11T20:31:00.000-08:00

I was recently reminded of a book that is very dear to me. I had sent to friends an email about a joint awareness building project we should work on together. My friends had never met, so I introduced them, the first round of introductions was done as usual, what they do for a living, the degrees they earned and all that, the second was done the Saint Exupery way, their favorite things and the story of how we met.

Here it is, Le Petit Prince, Chapter IV p.6:

"If I have told you these details about the asteroid [where The Little Prince lived], and made a note of its number for you, it is on account of the grown-ups and their ways. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?" Instead, they demand: "How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him.

If you were to say to the grown-ups: "I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof," they would not be able to get any idea of that house at all. You would have to say to them: "I saw a house that cost $20,000." Then they would exclaim: "Oh, what a pretty house that is!"

Just so, you might say to them: "The proof that the little prince existed is that he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that he exists." And what good would it do to tell them that? They would shrug their shoulders, and treat you like a child. But if you said to them: "The planet he came from is Asteroid B-612," then they would be convinced, and leave you in peace from their questions.

They are like that. One must not hold it against them. Children should always show great forbearance toward grown-up people.

But certainly, for us who understand life, figures are a matter of indifference. I should have liked to begin this story in the fashion of the fairy-tales. I should have like to say: "Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a sheep . . ."

To those who understand life, that would have given a much greater air of truth to my story.

For I do not want any one to read my book carelessly. I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories. Six years have already passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep. If I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not every one has had a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in anything but figures . . ."

It's 7am on a weekday, time for me to go talk numbers with the grownups...

The Book:
Français
English
Español

Photo: a drawing from deviant-art

Ports of Call

2009-01-18T10:30:00.000-08:00

In my mind I can see a ship sailing in the endless blue to no destination in particular, after roaming the sea it stops at a port to rest, it is confused, it does not know whether this is the final destination or whether it will soon be pushed to the oceans. In a way we are all ships stopping at ports for provisions, for a short break, only to take off again and face the seastorms. And though we know that we will soon have to sail off we cling to the safety of the harbor as if it were our home.

I have been meaning to write about Ports for a while...questioning what makes us yearn to rest at a port and cling to it if we know we will soon be off again. We'd indulge in moments and places as if they would be ours forever only to realize it won't be long before we abandon them. We would cling to a loved one's embrace like it would last forever, we would fill our self with the natural high of a new found achivement or right, we would be filled with joie de vivre in a gathering on a terrace with cherished friends, we would sing on a starry night celebrating that we are young and free...only to realize that nothing lasts for long and that life is composed of disconnected moments, highs and lows...

I have been listening time after time to my friend Haddock's tales of ports, for he was a seafaring captain with many adventures before he settled down on land to share an office with me. His stories made my days in the steel and glass office lying in the immaculate high tech compound much brighter. Here is what H. used to say:

"Ports have a too-good-to-be-true feel to them. Arriving to a port after a sailing leg that would last around 5 days is totally different than arriving at a part after a sailing leg of 45 days. Sailing seas or oceans is very different, oceans are nothing but complete blackness because of the depths that you can't comprehend but seas are just blue and soothing. You sail your through typhoons, waves, swells and currents, sometimes you manage to escape but by then the crew is nothing but fish shit -thats how we call it in sea life, it means you're drowned, eaten and bitten to pieces and then excreted like shit. Before reaching a port you keep on smelling that breeze of cities and lands. You see seagulls and birds roaming around giving you that hint of a place to rest and settle. Once you reach the port you set your crew on "mooring duty" that's where you set your mooring lines and anchors to be ready. Mooring lines are to be fastened to the pier in case you will get directly to port otherwise you drop your anchor in the anchorage area waiting for your turn to get into the port. And then you're on Land and you can walk on solid ground, you feel like someone who has been gasping for air, you need that feeling to feel secured at last, though you know it won't last long, but it's just something you hang on to, something that will boost you again to set your sails. When we arrive at at the port city we hunt for bars, pubs, malls, and even people, we just want to talk to people we don't know, you just want to start a conversation of any sort with anyone, as you end up sick of the pirate like faces of the 32 crew members (though deep inside u know quite well that the ugly face next to you onboard is the same man who will give u a hand for a rescue, but that's the nature of mankind). Port people have this ideology of ripping sailors off, sailors are stuffed with their salaries for sometime onboard so they are a good prey to rip this money off them. [Some ports would smell of spices ... in some old women in black greet you...every port has a different flavour ...]"

Photo: Alicante, port city of my heart

A year in my balcony

2008-12-30T12:35:00.000-08:00

So it's been a year, that I've been rambling on and on, about Places and People and how I connect to those. I started this as a new year resolution last January, now that two years have hit me in the same week, 1430 and 2009, I find the whole notion of new year resolutions kind of you know... cheesy.
So last year I decided to write (so guess what resolutions do work someitmes). I think the hardest thing was to decide what to write, how to write it, in what language, how anonymous it should be kept, how much fussing I'd do about how it comes out and whether readers like it. Today I can honestly say, it was one of the best decisions I took, so I'll keep rambling on as long as I have tales to tell.

Many kind neighbors have stopped for coffee, some who tell their own stories too, and some who prefer to listen, some I have met in real life and some I haven't. All the rambling that took place while leaning on the railing was worthile.

I take this occasion to wish a splendid year to the friends who have encouraged me to start this Blog, some said I ought to tell my stories, some said I ought to record my travels, and one said I needed to clear that crazy mess in my head. And though I had registered this blog in January, it could've suffered the same fate of many pages that I registered and left abandoned if it weren't for a Birthday gift I received in February; two dear friends gave me a lovely book to record my travels in writing and photos.

I wish all those friends and all my neighbors in other balconies a lovely year; may your year be filled with journeys of discovery, self-discovery above all ...

Photo:
Me dropping a line for The Beatles at Abbey Road studios, London. It reads "There are places I'll remember...this is one of them"

Breakfast on the Morning Tram

2008-12-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

It is the seventh time I listen to Breakfast on the Morning Tram this week.

May be it is time to pack my bags and go; just me and myself on a train staring out the window enjoying the journey and not caring whether the destination turns out to be worth it or not.

Countless are the train journeys which I have taken with the excuse of getting somewhere, while all I really cared about was spending some time with myself. Pensive in a window seat enjoying a hearty breakfast and a decent café au lait just contemplating life and the view.

For someone like me, restless, claustrophobic, curious, yet yearning for recollection, contemplation and reflection, the train is the perfect place to be

One of my fondest memories is a trip across Central Europe, 2.323 KMs onboard of different trains, bonding with perfect strangers, watching the green, blue and white twist into the props for a fairytale, toying with my InterRail ticket to decide what my next stop would be.

Upon coming back I found that my route was somehow influenced by a movie I watched. In Before Sunrise and its sequel Before Sunset, two perfect strangers reflect on life, love and who they grew up to be, with Paris and Vienna as backdrops and the Journeys starting in Madrid and Eastern Europe. Here are a couple of lines from the movie:

Jesse: I've just been. I'm just traveling around, I've been riding the trains the past two, three weeks. [...] Yeah, I got one of those Eurail passes, is what I did.
Céline: That's great. So, has this trip, around Europe, been good for you?
Jesse: Yeah, sure, yeah, it's been, umm... it sucked. You know...
Céline: What?
Jesse: No, uh, it's had its, umm. Well, I'll tell ya, you know, sitting, you know, for weeks on end, looking out the window has actually been kind of great.
Céline: What do you mean?
Jesse: Well, you know, for instance, you have ideas that you ordinarily wouldn't have.

I also realized after that trip that I would've never made it without the encouragement, the backpack, lonely planet guide book and Buddhism book of a dear friend who said: yes you can do it, no you won't lose your sanity talking to yourself for 8 days, perhaps you might even find the way. In that particular trip I found peace to let go of a perfect year and welcome an unknown journey.

Photo, Renfe my favourite railways, it reads in Spanish: the train and you

The place where I belong

2008-11-30T05:45:00.000-08:00

I stop at the pharmacy for insect repellant, sunblock, wet wipes and hydrating salts, the shop attendant asks: where are you traveling exactly? It is the night of Eid and many have already stopped for provisions to go on a week long vacation. I loved Eid festivities this year, the colored lights which would look tacky in any other time and place give Cairo a special feel, and Ramadan was just perfect, roaming old Cairo, decorating the house, having friends over for Iftar & Sohour, running to a thousand places to catch up with long lost friends. I beam at the colored lights and at the Earth's Eid gift to us, a lovely breeze which makes me forget all the heat I had to endure since God knows when; the lights bring back the memories of the winter before last and the same goofy expression on my face upon seeing the Christmas tree in the University yard and later on jumping up and down at the sight of gigantic snowflake-lights in the city's main square. Don't you just love festivities :) ? (ok that was too corny but I won't take it back).

"I'm heading to the desert" I say, I smile at the shop attendant's astonishment just like I do at my family's jokes at how me and my cousin -who was also bitten by the Sinai bug- are a pair of wackos.

I choose to leave civilization as we know it, Cairo with its super markets and neon lights, its streets where honking and screaming are the only languages spoken, to go back to life as it should be away from all the manipulating political talk, advertisements and societal pressure. I usually come back from Sinai with a sense of persepective that keeps me sane until the next visit.

Once again it's me and Sinai. One of my favourite spots is a camp near Nuweiba' previously known as Escape Land (nope I'm not disclosing the current name don't try to bribe me) with a décor as kitsch as it's name and a soul of its own. My friend sits with her tarot cards, reading into the future as the sun sets on another day. Our hosts are gracious, we feel like long-lost family members as we talk of love, existential questions and tahini.

As usual, the camp is where my journeys end, where my heart heals, and where I recharge my batteries. This time it'll be where I rest from an off-roading trip where I cross Sinai with the greatest bunch of pure hearted desert addicts.

I want to go hiking in the mountains soon, to tie a scarf around my head bedouin style and just take off while listening to Fairouz...I need to remember what life is all about and who I really am...

Photo: my hut in wadi-mahash

Travelling like an Economist

2008-11-30T05:25:00.001-08:00

The lens through which each of us perceives the world around him is different, we see beauty in a different way and notice different things. More often than not, when our traveling companion is jumping up and down pointing at some object in the distance it takes us time to see what they're pointing at.

The French have coined the term déformation professionelle to indicate how people's jobs reshape the way they perceive things. I guess we all are living proofs of that. I have lived with a journalist for over a year and lost her more than once as she slipped among a group to ask what they are demonstrating for. I would be biking with my friend in the country side and he'd point at some garbage burning in the distance, or would ask me when I tell him at the Red Sea if I have seen the oil rigs, needless to say he's an environmentalist. The list is endless.

Interested in development since God knows when, I have come to constantly over analyze things from an equity and sustainability perspective in my home cities and in my travels, this got me associated with Mafalda in the minds of my friends (an alternative title for this post was "the world through Mafalda's eyes").

So if you're ever considering me as a travel partner, beware. I will be overanalyzing advertising, street signs, services as an indicator of income distribution, popping into a McDonald's to analyze prices differences, checking newspapers for signs of democracy, comparing neighborhoods to find the middle class... you don't wanna know the rest of it, just thought I'd warn ;)

Photo: Mafalda, who else.

L'Auberge Espagnole

2008-11-28T01:09:00.000-08:00

I think it was love at first sight, the minute I stepped out of the Callao metro to see calle preciados shaded by what looked like green and white kites, I felt it was my kind of town. Five years later I was getting out of that same metro station to stop for groceries on my way home.

Home was a lovely building in the old town with perfect balconies (you know how much those count for me) and a wood and wrought iron gate. In the house lived many crazy girls from all over the world, and in the kitchen you could see colored sheets of paper where in they have scribbled down the essential conversational lines in their native tongues -which by the time I put my Egyptian Dialect sheet had a couple of dozen sheets, and I would bet it doubled by now as more people come to live in. Those of you who have seen the movie will be instantly reminded of L'Auberge Espagnole (in French an Auberge Espagnole is a place where you should bring what you would need)

I quote Xavier, the main character of the movie, remembering how he arrived in Barcelona lost and unable to pronounce the name of the street where his house would be, that is exactly how I felt when tourists asked me for directions after Madrid started "belonging to me".

"Quand on arrive dans une ville, on voit des rues en perspective, des suites de bâtiments vides de sens. Tout est inconnu, vierge. Plus tard, on aura habité cette ville; on aura marché dans ses rues; on aurait été au bout des perspectives; on aura connu ses bâtiments; on aura vécu des histoires avec des gens. Quand on aura vécu dans cette ville, cette rue on l'aura prise dix, vingt, mille fois... Au bout d’un moment, tout ça vous appartient parce qu’on y a vécu. C’est ce qui allait m’arriver, et je le savais pas encore."

"When you first arrive in a new city, nothing makes sense. everything's unknown, virgin... after you've lived here, walked these streets, you'll know them inside out. you'll know these people. once you've lived here, crossed this street 10, 20, 1000 times... it'll belong to you because you've lived there. that was about to happen to me, but I didn't know it yet." (source of the translation: someone who lived in Vienna for a year had it on their blog)

I don't know if I can do the touristic description of a city I have lived in, but all I can say that the Spaniards are not exagerating when they say "de Madrid al cielo" (from Madrid to Heaven). The vibe of the city can be felt in my previous post Mare Nostrum. I'll just post here the list I gave to a friend who was stopping by last week.

And please check the blog of this girl who's equally obsessed by Madrid

Photo: the feet of 3 friends from 3 different continents who spent a unique summer in Madrid, location: Sol, or the Km0, Spain's navel.

The Madrid essentials:

Nightlife:
Flamenco show, Café Chinitas
Flamenco bar a flamenco discotheque strangely enough (on Wednesdays gypsies dance there sometimes but double check), Cardamomo
Jazz gigs: Berlin Jazz Café
Rock concerts /Irish pub: Fontana de Oro

Sightseeing:
Cycling tour, It covers all the essential sights –even the Egyptian temple!- and goes at a lovely pace not like bus and walking (avoid others that are more expensive)
The Palacio Real and Opera path walk are nice by night, you can take ice cream from the Haagen Daaz around the corner for the walk.
Preciados and Plaza Mayor have nice street artists and buskers.
La Latina is quite picturesque and you can do the Spanish "Ir de Tapas" getting small portions of Tapas/Mezzah with drinks in the different bars and bistros.

Coffee, coffee:
After you contemplate Plaza de España cross to calle Princesa on the right there are the oldest most beautiful stairs that lead you up to a very nice village like neighborhood, there you'll find right in front of you what looks like a blue house, Jardin Secreto, the most enchanted coffee house on the planet
Juan Valdez, the best Colombian coffee is now open in front of the Almudena Cathedral by the Palacio real
Anywhere in Plaza dos de Mayo, it's just the ambience

For drinks:

Check out the Café Madrid on a Wednesday night, especially if you're travelling on your own, you'll meet a lots of people speaking in a zillion tongues.

Museums:
La Caixa Forum always has good free exhibits from around the world
Reina Sofia has good modern art
Prado renaissance painters (I find kind of boring)

Parks:
Retiro but only interesting on a Sunday, but the metro station is worth a stop, has drawings by Spanish cartoonist Mingote

Shopping:
Preciados has most shops (except Promod which is in Calle Princesa)
Cooler brands are in Chueca and Fuencarral (Chueca metro station by the same name, you take the lime green line from Callao-2 steps away from the hotel – Fuencarral hopp off Gran Via metro station on the same line and look up the street on the left side of the road)
More upscale brands are in Serrano (posh neighborhood and metro by same name, too bland neighborhood in my opinion)

Dinning (non touristic):
Chueca is the most young hip neighborhood -also the gay neighborhood- it has good restaus and less touristy places than downtown: Bazaar (international cuisine) and Barriga Llena (Mexican). From the metro station and Chueca square ask for Calle Libertad (taking two lefts after a Fruteria and De Bop Cafe) they're both there.
Lavapies is the alternative/hippie/emigrant neighborhood, by day it's beautiful and has ethnic food and shops, Indian, Moroccan, Senegalese, you name it.
Downtown there's a Cuban with good live music called La Negra Tomasa
If in Sol check out Los 100 Montaditos and Creperie Mimi for a light snack
There's a super market open all the time called Open 25 Horas near Opera metro station, you can just grab a bite and walk down the old city

Books, music, movies:
Fnac, Avoid the rest, more expensive, too Spanish not int'l enough.

Cinemas:
Yelmo Cineplex has new international movies that are not subtitled (beware of the dubbed cinemas)
Classics can be found at the Filomteca
International artsy at the Golem behind Plaza de España

Always keep a Guia del Ocio close by, it tells you what's happening everywhere. Costs 1 euro and can be found at any kiosk. It probably has the addresses and entry fees for most of the places mentioned above.

Off to other cities:

Trains: www.renfe.es

Buses: www.alsa.es

Why some opt for a Big Mac and miss out on local cuisine

2008-11-11T23:55:00.000-08:00

An article in my beloved Economist: "The Charm of the Chain" tells us how people find familiarity in standardized food while they are away from home. This makes me question, what's the fun? Isn't traveling all about experimenting?

PS:
I go into a Mc Donald's to get a feel of the city's prices using the Big Mac Index which the Economist deveoped.

PS2: I have to confess that a recent trip made me seek the comfort of Mc Donald's and Nero's, bad food can really mess up your mood!

On Beauty Appreciation

2008-11-09T01:16:00.000-08:00

Is it something we're born with or something we develop? Why do I get weird stares when I point out an Islamic architecture gem in the distance while cycling down Abdeen? All that they can see is the taxi in the distance, a shop or just the usual trash. Why do I seem to be one of the few who can spot beauty in a city like Cairo? Check this out:

"Rana Nemr Began taking pictures of striking [Balconies] in the city of Cairo in 2003. She was interested in the colours & the decorations of balconies in the poorer areas of the city, where the brightly coloured balconies stand out, in the midst of grey blocks of concrete. The aim of this photographic series was to celebrate colours and what they can bring to poor neighbourhoods and to impoverished citizens: colour as symbol of individualism, self expression and possibilities."
CICC 2008.

A friend aware of my love for balconies got me a stack of postcards featuring those balconies :)

La Boca, working class neighborhood in Buenos Aires-Argentina, tin houses are coated with left-over paint from the nearby port.

Why I love Balconies

2008-11-09T00:50:00.001-08:00

According to Wikipedia, Calustrophobia is the fear of enclosed spaces.

I have noticed upon coming back from the desert or the country side that a giant dementor* sucks the happiness and recharged batteries out of me as soon as I step into the city and face a road block at any of they city's numerous entry points. Sundays become impossible when I have to sit at my desk and stare at a computer screen.

What saves me from committing suicide is our office balcony overlooking the Nile and many landmarks of down-town Cairo.

I wish you this "in the concrete jungle of life, may you find the perfect balcony"

Mare Nostrum

2008-09-27T05:32:00.000-07:00

Warning: this is by far the least politically correct post on this blog so far, so enter at your own risk. Mare Nostrum is Latin for "our sea", a term used when Roman domination extended from Spain to Egypt; an alternative title for this post was "Ramblings of an Angry Mediterranean Woman" just so you'd get an idea.

Relaxing on a green and beige bean bag inside a livingroom overlooking a tiny garden, I take in the view and admire the colorful items I have thrown here and there to make the place resemble me, there's noise coming from the street and I apply my tested Cairenne method: focus on the birdsong and filter out the honking. I realize as I sip my decaf café con leche (yep decaf I'm clean now) that I am again enjoying the "bel fare niente" (Italian for "the beauty of doing nothing" but I just like the sound of it).

Where did I get this? From the Mediterranean culture I suppose. Where did I get that? From the North of the Mediterranean, not from the South definitely. Being natives of a land that's in the corner between two continents overlooking a river and two seas, part of ethnic groups that spreads across two continents and more, Egyptians sometimes define themselves as Arab (I personally am very adamant about writing classical Arabic properly) African (I had Afro braids and share African values) Muslim (Ramadan will soon have Christmas' fate but anyways) Middle Eastern (that's where our roots are) and Mediterranean (even though we share a sea, I don't share this view).

It is true that people of the Mediterranean basin express themselves with loud voices and hand gestures and hang out in streets, markets, balconies and on sidewalks, but that's typical of any warm weathered developing nation - I do not mean this pejoratively for I was never nor will I ever be a fan of super organized cold efficiency.

However, this laid-back nonchalant elegant lingering on sidewalk cafés with a café latté in one hand and a newspaper in the other hand only exists in Southern Europe never in North Africa, especially if you were unfortunate enough to be born a woman in a men's land. No lèche-vitrines for you and stopping at the local bookstore or market while holding your shopping bags or just sitting cross legged on a bench enjoying the sunshine warming your shoulders while you devour a pecan and caramel ice cream. You should just try to stay covered and safe in any gringo style mall in Cairo so you could suffer less from dusty sidewalks and get less harassment from those assholes (people would still stare at you though), you should park very close to your destination and learn not to linger on in the streets, oh and don't think you're safe in your car either, some hijo de puta will try to keep following you for a few kilometers just to spite you. One more word of caution, if you're unfortunate enough to look like you don't belong there and people start addressing you in English, prepare your most colloquial line instructing them to zip it.

I don't know what got me into this mood, probably because I was reading another travel diary describing how people live con gusto in Italy and feeling that I can completely relate because I have been getting the occasional breath of fresh air by spending time in my adopted home. Grabbing a snack anywhere in calle Arenales or calle Mayor to eat in the moonlight near the Palacio Real...Going for a picnic with friends in any park or mountain and just laying on the grass with not a care in the world...Not minding that the guy who sells me a veggie piadini in Bologna calls me bella because he does it in a civilized way unlike many on the other side of the sea who can manage to throw a sabah elkheir at you with a quite distasteful way. Wandering aimlessly in la Latina, stopping for pastries in Le Marrais, browsing posters at kiosks in the heart of Rome to find the best Godfather poster to bring back to a loved one, all while breathing in the shabby elegance of the city without a care in world, commenting the current political situation at the local delicatessen, sitting at the barra for your espresso or coke while you share the bartender's outrage at foreign summer tourists who think they own the coast in Alicante.

You can enjoy the simple pleasures of life without feeling bad for others who work to serve you, you can go buy stuff where everybody buys them, you don't hear your own conscience calculating how what some spend in one evening can feed others less fortunate probably for an entire week.

Can you find all the simple pleasures in stratified classicist tribal societies? Can you help feeling self conscious in male chauvinist supposedly-religious countries? Would you be able to ignore the unkempt streets until you set foot inside the spotless shiny restaurant or shop? Can you deny that yes you can have great coffee, but not anywhere, you need to go to a semi-exclusive place that charges you the triple of what it should but what you're actually paying for is your well deserved peace of mind ? (which there's no guarantee of you getting)

And they wonder, why are women in this part of the world more prone to osteoporosis, simply because the street is not theirs! And why do young people grow up with consumerist quasi-gringo values? Because they have to buy the partial exclusiveness, all of them at each level of the society, they consume to identify with something.

People who have worked here always accuse us of not working enough or doing nothing, but I beg to differ, for wherever I go I see people overly consumed in something, not exactly pretending to do something of use, but probably convinced they are actually doing something, saving the world or something. I feel that soon a certain sector of the society will follow the Japanese model of beggars carrying a briefcase and walking the walk just so no one would accuse them of doing nothing -I'm talking here about "busy, tied-up, swamped" young executives just generating more profit and consumerism for the society and digging their heads into work ostrich style. Also on the other front government employees are actually doing nothing (those computers? oh...they're for Solitaire). In spite of all that you don't find many who just enjoy doing nothing and feeling good about it, not guilty, because they know they have worked and paid their dues and they couldn't care less how society weighs them.

You may or may not like this post, you may find it offensive, self-indulgent or downright negative. All that I can say is that this is post is anything but hypocrite and that my anger is directed at a clear target: those who deny others their right to the street and to unpretentious fun. Rest assured that I still love my city and am quite aware of how privileged I am; in spite of all the above I am proud to reclaim the streets when I can -dude I cycle in Cairo I can't ask God for more!- and enjoy the simple pleasures of life with a few cherished friends who know how to enjoy life and make great moments out of nothing at all- I love you all (fancy sushi fans please stay away, downtown cafés' regulars ahlan-wasahlan).

I thank God for having sent me all the special people in my life, I am also thankful for finding comfort zones and ending inner struggles, for finding circles of light within my groups of friends, for having found the courage not to conform, simply I'm thankful for who I am today, 10 years later*

Notes:
* conversations with school and university friends revolved around whehter we were satisfied with what we have achieved in the past 10 years -calculated since we graduated or since we started.

Photo: door overlooing the Mediterranean - Morocco (taken by me, finally a decent photo!)

City glorious city victorious

2008-08-27T04:06:00.000-07:00

"You love this town even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over and it's been all over you"

U2- Beautiful Day

Finally, I'm writing about Cairo. What do I like about it you may ask? Many are complaining, they want to flee to places where life's easier even if that means it'd have a rather bland taste. I can't deny I was one of those at a point in time. A summer night in July made all the difference. Sitting at a side walk café in Shari' Al-Borsa (one of the scarce pedestrian areas preserved downtown) watching for the first time in Cairo a street busker swallowing fire -a woman may I add- my mind zooms back to a breezy summer evening, same exact weather, in another sidewalk cafe in Plaza 2 de Mayo in Madrid, watching another busker dancing with fire sticks moving in complete harmony with Yann Tiersen's La Dispute. The feeling connected me to a time when I truly in sync with the universe. Though I have for long stopped believing in signs, I still took the whole setting as my cue that I should head back to my adoptive city, on second thoughts, I took it as my cue to start enjoying my home city as much as before and even with a fresher perspective. I have gone back to Madrid and come back here, I love both cities and will live in a constant state of saudade knowing that wherever I am, not a year should pass before I'm reunited with both even if for a few days.

Where do I start, every time I'm driving down the streets of Cairo I'm inspired to shed light on one of its million faces. Like that night on my way back from the movies when I thought I should write ...

I find myself in Midan El Tahrir, the main square where all protests take place, whose buildings are crowned by ads of Coca Cola and Mc Donald's, a bit shabbier perhaps but not so different from any main square in a capital city in an era where the marginal utility of travel is seriously declining...I take a longer way home as I always do, for I would get stuck in this crazy traffic for hours on end just for a glimpse of the Nile -and the Lions- from Kasr El Nil Bridge. Everyday Cairo's faces take me by surprise, and everyday I look at each of them as overwhelmed as a child or a tourist. The beauty, the disgrace, the majesty, the mediocrity, a kind smile, an insolent harassing line, this is what makes my city unique the sharp contrasts. Nothing can replace the feeling that you are in several cities, liberal, conservative, posh, abandoned, simple, complex, oriental, westernized, this is how people will describe Cairo; as in the Hindu tale of the blind men and the elephant, each touches a different side a unique part and refuses to acknowledge the other parts that others see.

Like a chameleon I take the colors of Cairo's neighborhoods. On days I bask in the faded glory of Fatimid Cairo, taking my time admiring the carvings in a mosque, imagining I'm living in Beit El Suheimi, walking down Khayameya to the patchwork shop where I find my friend the calligrapher. On others I sit at a coffee house in Zamalek, try to focus on a document I'm working on before meeting friends in the nearby pizzeria Thomas, after buying books at the place where half my fortune goes; on breezy evenings I call a friend who calls the island his home to walk the streets which by night have very little traffic as the embassy employees pack and go. On weekend nights I'm tapping my foot to a great jazz gig at the Cairo Jazz Club refusing to leave my friends early enough to get enough sleep before the next morning, as in the next morning I meet my cycling pals on the other side of the road. Cycling on Fridays I inhale the air that has not been polluted yet by the noise and fumes of the sleepyheads, I try to store every little detail, the plants in the balconies, the boats near Zamalek, the smell of fresh bread, the sight of smiling citizens, I take snapshots to be able to keep on loving the city when on a working day I'm stuck in an agonizing traffic jam in the scorching heat.

Would I do Cairo justice, would I be able to give you a list of must sees like in cities which I have visited but where I have never lived? I guess not...

I guess Cairo has given me a beautiful gift, the ability to seek beauty in little corners, to mentally crop an image and dust off all undesired details, to block any unwanted noise out and install filters on your ears to only feel serenity. I have become quite the eclectic master.

This crazy collage has made me too accustomed to big cities, I fear shops closing, I don't feel secure when the night's too still, I frown upon homogeneous places. I maintain a love hate relationship with my city where I get extremely claustrophobic every 8th week and need to flee the buildings towering over me to the plains of Sinai; and that is a story I have yet to tell.

Photo: Cairo by night - photo by Karim

What's happening, what's in:

www.cairo360.com

and also for any addresses I missed or for descriptions

Sightseeing:

Al-Moe'z street near the market (Khan Al Khalili), go at sunset time and wait for the lights, here’s a list of the monuments there, you may want to stop for tea at Le Riad.

Beit El Suheimi
Kheyamya tent makers' district (ask for Ashraf Hashem and tell him you're my friend)
Fustat Market / Souq Al Fustat
Coptic Cairo
Zeinab Khatun house

Ibn Toulon mosque

Beit El Keretleya

(most guides and taxi drivers know how to get there)

Views of the city:
Cairo Tower
Azhar Park
Cairo by bike, Friday mornings with the Cairo Cycler's Club

Escaping the city:

Sakkara pyramid and nearby country club

Fagnoun

Andrea Maryouteya

(you need a car and driver to get there)

Coffee:

Cafe Greco (outside Sequoia restaurant), Address: 53 Abou El Feda St., Zamalek

Azhar Park

Tea & Juice:

Essam’s, near Beit Zeinab Khatoun & Beit El Harrawy (Oud music school)

Drinks:

Cairo Marriott Gardens

Fairmont Nile City

Rooftop, Nile Hotel Zamalek, Address: 21 El Maahad El Swiesri , Zamalek (the entrance to the hotel is dodgy, the rooftop view is worth it)

Music
Cairo Jazz Club, Address: 197 26th Of July St. , Mohandiseen

Art Galleries:
Cairo Atellier
Town House Gallery

Food
Koshari Abu Tarek, Address:16 Champollion Street , Downtown

Abu El Sid, Address: 157, 26th Of July St., Zamalek

Tabouleh, Address: 1 Latin America St. , Garden City

Café Riche (a taste of downtown Cairo in the good old days), Address: 17 Talaat Harb street, Downtown

Dinner with a view:

Oberoi's Mogul Room

Souvenirs:

Oum El Donia, 3 Talaat Harb, 1st Floor , Downtown

Gallery Zeinab Khatoun

More on Cairo:

Lonely Planet Introducing Cairo
A city where you can't hear yourself scream - New York Times
Travel Blog

Switching SIM cards

2008-08-10T00:38:00.000-07:00

"Cambiar de chip" is a Spanish expression that has found its way into everyday language during the last few years, it literally means "changing the computer chip in your mind". It means changing your way of looking at things, of analyzing things, of doing things and of understanding things.

I feel this happens to me every time I go back and forth between the two balconies overlooking the Mediterranean, the moment I set foot in the destination airport and switch the chips of my mobile phone a parallel card in my mind connects, with a whole different program: language, welcome message, phone book, menus, agendas... I feel almost schizophrenic!

As I go back and forth, the card installation gets smoother every time, the line between both menus get blurred yet the contrast between the operators gets sharper... and each time the card feels more foreign in the phone than the time before yet more comfy in its compartment.

On returning to places

2008-07-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."
Heraclitus

"En Macondo comprendí que Al lugar donde has sido feliz, no debieras tratar de volver" - "In Macondo I knew that one ought not return to places where he has found happiness".
Joaquín Sabina - Peces de Ciudad

"Hello Madrid, allow me to introduce myself, for you and I are going to make new memories now" word of advice from my dearest friend (originally in Spanish, replying to yet another histerical email) who has lived in a few places around the globe himself and has sometimes gone back.

"I don't care how many times we've gone there together [...] I now intend to make fresh footsteps which will erase our old footsteps. I can finally walk again" a post by Rehab which did me lots of good going back to Cairo and starting over (took a bit of liberty translating that, for this is what the sentences look like in my quite subjective memory, so listen to the hadouta).

"Por eso aún estoy en el lugar de siempre, en la misma ciudad y con la misma gente, para que tú al volver no encuentres nada extraño, y sea como ayer y nunca más dejarnos."
"So here I am still in the same place, in the same city and with the same people, so when you come back you don't find anything different, so it could be like the old days and we'd never part"
Se me olvidó otra vez (I have forgotten again)

In my favourite terraza** in Plaza 2 de mayo, sharing my thoughts with a great friend, I finally felt at peace with our changes, both mine and the city's, and I felt that once more I could affirm that what they say is true "de Madrid al cielo"***

Paulo Coelho's words and the Latin American concept of "closing circles" come to mind again and again "It is always important to know when something has reached its end.Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over..."

------
* story in Egyptian dialect
** that's what we call street cafés and restaurants in Madrid
*** literally, from Madrid to heaven

Photo:
Tajo river in Toledo - photo by Andrea

Read my friend's post "on the significance of being away"

The road to Macondo

2008-05-30T10:42:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine is off again shooting documentaries all over the world, and I am always glad to get the customary email updates which he sends out. This time he is telling tales of Colombia, amazed at the similarities between Latin America and Africa (my Latin American pals and I can totally relate). He raves about the Caribbean coast, the scenery and the villages; and in one line dismisses talking about Bogotá saying he found it "to possess very little soul and character". I owe it to Bogotá and to the pot of Colombian coffee living in my kitchen to set the records straight.

My visit to Colombia was a quite pleasant surprise. In Madrid I had made friends with many Latin Americans, before that I was an avid reader of Marquez and other masters of magic realism from the continent. Naturally, I was dying to get to know many countries in Latin America and my friends the Middle East, so we made plans of visits to each other's homelands in a couple of years. When I came back to Cairo looking for a job, I fell upon one which sent me to attend a conference Colombia in my first week on the job (the memory has served as an anesthetic during many working weeks). My travel buddy and I have photos of this business trip labeled "what we went to do" (2 photos) and "what we ended up doing" (close to 40 photos); she still vows that this is the best business trip she ever went on.

From the minute we landed and took a cab to our hotel everything screamed Welcome to Colombia, the colorful buses and the lively music, the courteous people, the military presence and the chaotic traffic.

The view from my hotel room in the 14th floor was different from anything I had seen before; even though I had been warned about what I was about to see, the minute I pushed the curtains back I was speechless. My Colombian pal had reminisced about the view from downtown Bogotá on many occasions, but I had reverted that extraordinary portrait to extreme nostalgia; I shouldn't have... for nothing I have seen in my entire life looked as surreal as the view of Bogotá, skyscrapers and adobe buildings against really green mountains! Our conference was held in the Universidad de los Andes, therefore its logo was a graph depicting a curve on top of which symbols of a house and a cross were perched; that's the view you get from the university, the mountains, the Monserrat sanctuary and a statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe with arms wide spread.

The surreal mood was complimented bit by bit ...
meals of fried bananas,
people living in an eternal spring and going for summer holidays on weekends (a veranear they say),
colorful markets full of crafts which could be made by the Inca gods themselves,
a private tour of the Museo del oro where you enter a dark room and suddenly the floor lights up to reveal sunken golden treasures which have been rescued from the sea,
waiting for a bus to take you to the ceremony and finding a wooden chiva party bus instead (Egyptians can try to picture the bus equivalent of a felouka with all the electric lights and blasting music),
finding whistles on tables in a club,
asking the taxi driver to just go straight ahead and finding he's not surprised (seemed like a 40s movies saying: طوالي يا أسطى
drinking fresh berry-juice (that's surreal to me, I'm from the desert),
finding a Barrio Egipto in a city a zillion miles away,
seeing emeralds of all shapes sold in La Candelaria as if they were blue stone scarabs sold by the dozen in Khan El Khalili bazzars,
a Cali Carnival ensemble entering the room as red, yellow and blue balloons fall from the ceiling (how cool is it to have a flag with the three basic colors! you can get any other color by mixing those on a palette),
seeing a Lama and remembering how it spat on Captain Haddock in Tintin's adventures in South America (Prisoners of the Sun),
thinking you're in Bogota whenever you listen to El Negro Zumbon and dancing wherever you are.

It is in Montserrat where that I was tempted to take my only photo of the trip (the rest are stolen as you know), that of a whitewashed gate with a bell on top (see above) which in my mind's eye was the gate to Macondo. Macondo, a fragment of Gabo's imagination*, exemplifies for me any remote place which lives as if the world around it does not exist, it comes as no surprise that this town belongs in a land where people are cultured, happy, courteous and embracing life in the midst of meager safety, drug cartels and fierce inequality.

Colombia's people are as generous as its land, a land that bestows magical fruits, unique coffee, emeralds and narco. Colombia's music makes you forget how complicated life can be in other spots on planet earth (Salto del Ángel by Parque de la 93 is the ultimate Salsa club, highly recommended).Even the art in Bogotá goes in bolder brush strokes that do not fear to stand out (Botero fans can testify).

Weekends in Bogotá are also unique, whether you hit the student barrio of La Candelaria filled with cheap eats and music blasting from all cantinas from as early as 5pm on Friday evenings, or you rush of to the plains of the mountains to eat Ajiaco elaborately prepared from five different breeds of potato, or go visit uncle Andrés Carne de Res and dance the night away while noticing a new weird trinket hanging from the ceiling every 2 minutes, you are guaranteed to get a treat for your senses.

In all honesty, while in Bogota and even before going there safety was a major concern; it started before getting there, when my Colombian friend's idea of a joke was snatching my bag while I was getting cash from the ATM machine, and then grew with the sight of the military presence in the streets as we arrived to the hotel, for such a sight instead of reassuring me made me question the need for it. The feeling grew with everybody advising me to stay very alert after 9am and preferably not go anywhere on foot nor hail a cab from the street.

However, my curiosity and the contagious love of life that the city transmitted made me roam its different neighborhoods day and night, thinking I was safe as long as I can fake a Colombian accent (that much I thought was possible since the lady at the embassy back in Cairo insisted I was coming to issue a new passport not to get an entry visa).

I thank my friend who transmitted to me love for Colombia and familiarity with it before I got there. Before I got to Bogota, I had helped cook patacones, I had learned all the formules de politesse which exist only in Bogotano Spanish , I knew how to ask for a tinto instead of a café, got my verbal conjugation messed up, I knew better than to be surprised or offended when people shouted marica, was giving one kiss on the cheek instead of two, and felt almost like a local when I recognized the guava candy wrapped in leaves and packed in wooden boxes at the supermarket.

Bring back some coffee for me if you go, will you?

Notes:
*Gabriel Garcia Marquez's classic "A 100 years of solitude is set in the imaginary town of Macondo"
' recipe for patacones

Photos:
Menu at 80 sillas a Cevishes restaurant at Usaquen (trust Latin Americans to come up with unique names such as 80 chairs).
Gate and Bell tower at Monserrat, the sloppy photo is the one I took of course, and the neat one with blue skies in the background is from Travelog

On destinations

2008-05-27T02:36:00.000-07:00

فلا نزال في سفر أبداً من وقت نشأتنا ونشأة أصولنا إلى ما لا نهاية له، وإذا لاح لك منزل نقول فيه هذا هو الغاية انفتح عليك منه طرائق أخر تزودت منه وانصرفت فما من منزل تشرف عليه إلا ويمكن أن تقول هو غايتي ثم إنك إذا وصلت إليه لم تلبث أن تخرج عنه راحلاًً

ابن عربي - كتاب الإسفار عن نتائج الأسفار

And so we remain constantly travelling from the day we are born till the end of time... On the road we see a house and think it is our final destination, when we get there we find that there are still more roads ahead, so we take provisions from the house only to set off again. For rest assured that you will not stay for long in any place which you might perceive as your destination, for soon enough it will be time for another journey.

Ibn Arabi -Unveiling from the Effects of the Voyages

Note:

-A very good article on the different notions of voyaging as perceived by Ibn Arabi's and a good introduction to the book (and interesting podcasts on some of his works) can be found at the page of the Ibn Arabi society
-I took some liberty in translating the quote, a more faithful translation is available on the page specified above
-Email me to get a copy of the e-book (in Arabic)

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“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” - Lao Tzu

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"and all the roads we have to walk along are winding, and all the lights that lead us there are blinding" Wonderwall by Oasis:

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A partner for the journey:
"You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we're going
Lodged in life
Like branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I carry you
You'll carry me..."
Delusion Angel by David Jewel (Before Sunrise the movie)

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Photo: door in Goa, India

Paris has two faces

2008-05-12T04:16:00.000-07:00

"whether blue or gray be her skies, whether loud be her cheers or whether soft be her tears [...] I love Paris" Ella Fitzgerald, I love Paris

"I walked down your streets, alone and cold like a lost child, and then you took me in your arms" Enrico Macias, Paris tu m'as pris dans tes bras
"I walk down your streets which step on my feet" Souad Massi & Marc Lavoine, Paris Paris

"Oh but the sky of Paris cannot remain too cruel, it quickly seeks forgiveness by offering the island a rainbow" Edith Piaf, Sous le ciel de Paris

They all sang for Paris, a city that serenades visiting love birds while crushing resident vagabonds.

On my first visit I could not bring myself to like Paris! I could only feel the harshness of life in this place, the rush in the metro where people would give you the cold shoulder. Paris to me was like a person with perfect features but no warmth, plastic surgery beauty. I was impressed, that I cannot deny, I had a great time and the greatest host, I felt like I finally saw Paris which everyone was raving about. I concluded that maybe I preferred more imperfect yet lively beauties, same as I liked attractive guys with imperfect features. And so I went, telling my friends and my mom who adores Paris: yes beautiful city...but I'd never live there; insisting all the while that I definitely preferred the more chaotic cities of Spain (at the time I was spending winter in Alicante for work), I quote a dear friend saying "si, Madrid es más cutre pero nos gusta más" cutre is slang for low quality.

The second time I went to Paris I had to board a plane there after a long journey on the road, I thought I'd spend a day there, encouraged by a friend who absolutely loved the city -and by the colorful Paris in Ratatouille- to seek reconciliation with the city of lights.

Once again, I discover that our own mood and expectations as well as the weather set the scene for how we enjoy a place and how we remember it later on. In contrast to the cold wind scratching my skin in February, sunny mornings and breezy nights welcomed me in August (sorry Ella I tend to disagree, I love Paris only in the summer). Having been on the verge of a breakup in my first visit (luckily things worked out after that) and then simply enjoying my single student life in the second visit also made a difference.

After a week of hopping on and off trains in Central Europe with my backpack as sole companion, traveling on a tight budget to cover the maximum ground, I arrive in Paris to enjoy French delicacies on sidewalk cafes with a good café au lait in the company of a unique character. My friend whom I met in Paris had a big gossip's tongue and an artist's eye, a combination guaranteed to make you laugh your heart out while appreciating the details of fashion and life in the beautiful city. A companion so filled with positive energy that you'd say yes to crepes in the morning before your flight and end up expectedly missing the flight (most expensive crepes I ate, 90 euros).

I had covered the Paris essentials in my previous trip (I owe that to my great host and his friend, who planned all the sightseeing to fit into my weekend away from work even better than the lonely planet folks). This trip I just strolled along the Seine warmed by the familiarity that one feels when he remembers a place. As I watch the movie Paris je t'aime later on that summer, I feel this is a city I remember vividly, even if it's still one I wouldn't live in.

One place I'll always miss and would really want to go back to just sitting to read the papers, have a quiche and then strawberry macarons, I'd sit there and smile back at passersby in the only cheerful district of town: Le Marais. The quartier is characterized by shops that look like wooden doll houses, extravagant fashion and the general air of creativity that gay neighborhoods sometimes have.

Another favorite is the Ile Saint Louis for whom Edith Piaf has sang, and which will always have in my mind the color of caramel and the flavor of crunchy pecan (the ice cream place there has a dark green facade you won't miss it, it's where the bridge ends, it'd be a sin not to make a stop there).

Another spot which I would love to go back to but only with a loved one is the Pont des Arts, a wooden bridge where young Parisiens and adoptive Parisiens picnic. It'd be a waste to go to such a romantic spot on my own again.

Watching the sun setting on Notre Dame from across the bridge is very picturesque, and even though I did not feel the church's warmth on my first visit (specially as I compared it with Sacré Coeur's peace and hushed lights), in my second visit I weaved endless tales around it. It occurs to me now that perhaps I particularly like Sacré Coeur perched up Montmartre, the highest point of the city, because I have come to feel more sanctity in places that isolate themselves from the vicious world below in order to reach out to the sky, maybe I like it for no other reason but my love for heights and the view they provide? Or, maybe as much as I deny it, it is somehow connected to the fact that I studied in one of the schools founded under the Sacred Heart Society. Who knows, all I know is that I would've liked to light a candle on my second visit and had no time to.

Even though I felt somehow morose when I first visited the Louvre and got lost in the vast ancient Egyptian pavilions (that day I discovered a sense of patriotism I didn't know I had), my second visit, which was merely a visit to the grounds of the Louvre was just magical. I felt like an 8 year old on the rented red bike, forming part of a giant snake of bicycles which twisted and turned around the lights on the ground, with the glass pyramid in the background and a still starry night enveloping us, I felt like part of a movie -perhaps E.T.- and expect the front wheel of my bike to point to the sky any minute.

I have admit, as cheesy as it sounds, that I do like it when the Tour Eiffel starts twinkling. Having bought fruits and cheese in a grocery store in the posh neighborhood behind the Tower, I sit on the grass contemplating it, and marvel at this heap of iron bars which managed to symbolize everything chic in our consumerist societies. I notice that I do not have the obligatory Paris photo with Eiffel in the background and dismiss the thought, as I remember I have a cooler photo, with a dear friend and I standing at the very top of the tower pointing to the flag of Egypt, according to which Cairo stood 3217 km away in that direction. Back then those miles brought sadness and perhaps guilt, as I had left behind at home a partner and had to spend the winter working in Spain. I now silently thank God for not worrying about anyone as I rush off to the Southern Hemisphere twice in alternate months; detachment is too appealing...

I leave without paying a second visit to the Quartier Latin, I prefer to keep the memory of going there with one of my best friends intact -I still burst out laughing when I remember how the waiter at the pizzeria -who was clearly not Italian- spoke French with an Italian accent.

I go back to Madrid with black and white postcards in my backpack, a Tour de France T-shirt, an inexplicable craving for macarons, and reconciliation in my heart, humming Paroles et Paroles on the way back (I sang this at the Dalida tribute museum Karaoke, and was happy to know that my R roulé was absolutely charming and not unrefined as commonly thought).

Photo: Gargoyle at Notre Dame watching the city change over the years - according to Disney his name is Hugo (Photo by Jason Vic)

Note:
Songs: Sous le ciel de Paris - Edith Piaf; Paris tu m'a pris dans tes bras - Enrico Macias; Paris Paris - Souad Massi and Marc Lavoine; I love Paris - Ella Fitzgerald
Movie: Paris je t'aime, a movie that starts with the Parisian snail map (basically the different sections or arrondissements), and then zooms in on each of them to give a short movie, touching stories weaved by great masters of European cinema

Read: the smell of the métro posted my friend on his blog

objects, people and places

2008-05-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

I find that I am in a constant state nostalgia, not bad nor sad nostalgia, but just a longing which casts an idealistic hallow on the object of affection whatever it is, while realizing one can't possess it again. Today* I look up Saudade in a dictionary, I had come across the term in listening to Portuguese Fado, Cape Verdean Coladeras and Brazilian Jazz, I find that it describes my state of mind perfectly "The famous Saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness"

As I read a friend's reflections on friends coming and going, I remembered a day distant in my memory, almost 7 months ago, when I had to pack one of the most colorful years of my existence into a couple of suitcases and a cardboard box...

A Mexican sombrero found in the street after a great reggae concert
Trinkets bought at the Sunday market
A fridge magnet holding a note reminding us to pay our share in grocery shopping
Movies we stayed in to watch
Books bought with gift coupons from my favorite bookshop
A collage that took forever to make, with pictures from different cities, done to match its pair a poster with a zillion shawls, and both harmoniously forming a rainbow volcano-earth-grass-trees-sun-sky-clouds rainbow
Study notes with in-class gossip scribbled in the margins
Rugs and cushions brought in to make my room more living-roomish
A tea-ball attached to a miniature midnight blue kettle sprinkled with golden stars and crescents
A scrabble board which had to keep us company until dawn
My lucky bike which remained tied to a tree for weeks on end in a city where anything can be stolen
An old jar of Nuttela that caused disappointment time after time to a chocoholic friend as he found it was just my sugar bowl

All witnesses to endless stories and smiles. Deciding what to keep, what to sell, what to give away, what to leave with friends in hope of returning someday, was sheer agony.

As much as packing all my belongings at the end of the journey caused confusion, it wasn't as great as the confusion that packing before the journey stirred. What object would contain memories that would keep me company the most? What would remind me of places and people at home without causing too much nostalgia? I decide on a few cherished objects and farewell gifts from my friends

Verses of Salah Jahin poems scribbled on coasters
My favorite black and white movie, esha3et 7ob
A Bedouin mirror
A puppet wearing a t-shirt that says "always on my mind"
(my bookmarks collection I had to leave behind)
Throws with Arab designs in blue and white from Khayameya, a place I always miss
A Bedouin outfit complete with burqa
An earring (a kirdaan) in silver and tourmaline from my favorite designer, a gift from once soulmate

The thought of moving again confuses me, the objects I'd like to take would struggle to contain all the perfect moments I am blessed with now. For how can one capture (especially if one never takes photos) days with just the right energy, weather, lighting, company, conversation, laughs, surprises or just times of recollection in the comfort of one's home. It'd start at silly gifts we exchanged on new year's (maybe pegs) and would end at my beloved bean bag... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Fear of moving on from a setting in which we found happiness, fear of going back to a place of which we have created an ideal memory or quite the contrary, fear of letting go of short-lived perfection, refusing to close circles and living in denial ... I recall my friend's insistence on closing circles, and Paulo Coelho's words come to mind (I am not a fan but these words made sense) "It is always important to know when something has reached its end.Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over..."

Though not irreplaceable, each person or spot we walk away from (because of distance or of our own will) takes a bit of us away and leaves in us clear traces... so we keep on changing like splashes of oil paint on a palette, mixing and metamorphosing, the blue turns green and the red orange and if they both cross again they may not give the shade of purple which they once gave...but they'll live

Still, on evenings like this, when reminders like this post hit you, you are very prone to suffer pangs of nostalgia. You are filled with a longing which causes you to cast a hallow of perfection on your past, bit by bit you create a space you can run when your imperfect present starts baring its teeth.

I feel that the soundtrack to my life in the past couple of years is Chambao's album Caminando of which the general theme is wandering, leaving to search for the unknown, getting lost, getting to know one's self during the journey, realizing the futility of wandering without direction, going back more enlightened to find reconciliation and joy, and then share tales of the journey.

PS: forgive me if this post is a bit schizophrenic, it was updated on different days (and accordingly under different mood swings)
* this paragraph updated 2 weeks after the blog entry was made

More Songs:
-Fairouz and a song about simple longing of which the object is unknown; a nostalgia so overwhelming that it makes her realize she has not forgotten people she thought long forgotten أنا عندي حنين
-Volver, a classic re-invented by Estrella Morente, going back to places and reencounters with the past
- Que reste-'t'il de nos amours, Dalida sings: what remains of our love? a photo, a memory, a wilting happiness perhaps?

Photos:
-A few of my favorite things (photos by Andrea, Pancho and Myself)
-Lions at Kasr El Nil Bridge, Cairo and Lions at estanco del Retiro, Madrid (I took those)

Cairo here I come (on my bike)

2008-04-19T06:24:00.000-07:00

It's been 6 months since Madrid, 6 months without getting on a bike except for the odd trip outside Cairo, 6 months of missing my favorite exercise and means of exploring the world, 6 months of envying anyone who can ride a bike anywhere.

This weekend, I finally found great riding buddies, the members of the C.C.C. Cairo Cycler Club. Funny enough, in Madrid, my biking buddy and I were part of another (exclusive) cycling community which we referred to as C.C. For some reason, I felt the similar accronyms were a good omen.

Even though I have roamed the streets of most European countries I visited (check my previous post), I had never been on a bike in the streets of my own city. As a kid, my bike was my greatest companion in summers spent outside the chaotic city; a liberating means of transport it was... Come September, school and Cairo it was goodbye to bikes, except for short drives in the limited space at the Gezira club. Older friends who have known in their childhoods a quieter cleaner city have explored the streets of their neighborhoods by bike though, especially the guys; I envy them.

So, back to my biking in Cairo account. I found out about the group on wednesday, thanks to Facebook, one more Web2.0 tool which helps birds of a feather to flock together. I can't imagine my life in Cairo without the communities and circles which have formed thanks to such tools. Anyways, back to the subject, I kept checking facebook every two minutes to make sure it isn't an illusion, and spent the whole working day with a goofy smile on my face (my office mate is by now used to all sorts of facial expressions, humming and talking aloud).

In all truth, my week at the office had been plain boring, now after the weekend rides, it feels light years away. Those bike rides transported me to a parallel universe...

On Thursday night I called up a couple of friends known to welcome new activities and we went to meet the group. On Friday morning, I was so worried that I wouldn't find the bike rental open or any bikes left, yet I was somehow wishing for it. The thought of a bunch of girls and guys wandering in the monster of a city that earned the world's best drivers' award was kind of scary. Nevertheless, the minute I was on the blue milkman's bike storming out of Am Salah's shop heading towards the meeting point I was FLOATING (word's going around that I fancy Am Salah but that's just a rumor).

The ride from Agouza to Abbasseya was a bit surreal, with each of us going in a different direction and at a rather slow pace on prehistoric bikes. It was particularly eerie when we passed my old school, it felt like drifting through both time and space at once. It was also amusing to ride along with my friend sharing the latest gossip in Shari' Ramses without a care in the world, as if we were simply going down Gran Via (on the flanks of which we had both lived once), completely oblivious to the surroundings. We were women riding bikes in downtown Cairo, a rather conservative part of town where men outnumber women 4 to 1 (while the real population ration is 1 to 1)

To make it more movie-like, we met another group riding from Masr El Gedida to Abbasseya and gave passersby a scene of 20 young people cheering the achievement and taking photos with their bikes lined up against the walls of Ain Shams University. It was a good day, full of adrenaline (particularly on the 6th of October bridge which I don't recommend even to my worst ennemy). We went back home safe and sound (there's lots of Barakah in this country) and energized in spite of having inhaled significant amounts of polluted air.

The Saturday ride was quite pleasant and with great team spirit (the group kept switching bikes and taking turns walking a sick bike). Around the beautiful island of Zamalek, the ride was quieter, less polluted and we were less of a traveling circus (accustomed to foreigners living there, passersby must've assumed we're khawagat and gave us more subtle comments and more discreet stares).

Throughought the weekend, one could almost touch the perfect yet worn out architectural jewels of downtown Cairo, feel the same wind moving the boats in the Nile wondering how ugly Cairo would be without its magical river, smell ta'meya (felafel) and freshly baked bread and simply thank God for weekends and for the fresh juice shops scattered around the mighty capital.

We got to rent bikes for 2 pounds an hour from kind people who live day by day (el yom b-yomoh as we say) thanking a gracious God even when they have just enough to get them through the week. We met on the bridge a mother of two who smiled at us earnestly for a whole minute and then said "just take care and don't get hurt". Such kindness is seldom found in big cities, but this is a city with a million faces (and that is a story I have yet to tell).

Feeling the authentic spirit of Cairo I curse the suburb where I work with its manicured lawns and giant malls which takes me away from all this magical chaos. It is true that mine is not the cleanest nor the quietest city (you get to realise this much more when you ditch the car) but I love it. It could sometimes be overwhelming and exhausting because of all honking and pollution, but it somehow grows on you. Even the human noise which used to drive me up the wall, I have come to appreciate the Urban noise ...'attaba 'attaba 'attaba, kolo b-etnein gneih, ya 'assal, mesh tefatah ya homar!*

Countless people have come to this city, struggling to adjust at first and homesick when back home. I'll tell you why soon. Now I have to go meet a friend before it's another working week.

I am thankful to my grandma who taught me how to ride a bike (though she'd probably regret it if she knew I'm riding in those crazy streets), my friend who got me biking again (ya sabes cuánto te echo de menos), and needless to say the gang who encouraged me to bike in my chaotic city (you guys rock!).

Photo:
Bread delivery bike, king of the road! (photo from the web)

A song I was humming in one of the rides: الفرصة بنت جميلة راكبه عجلة ببدال
Mounir's El Forsa comparing the chances we miss or the opportunities we seize to a beautiful girl speeding away on her bike. Listen to it here

Notes
*a micro-bus komsari (the local equivalent of a train inspector) yelling the destination for people wanting to hop on (amazingly enough there are no formal maps nor line numbers in the informal transport system and it works better than the formal one) - a shop attendant in a market advertising that all items are for two pounds - another young man throwing a sticky compliment (telling the woman she's like honey)- one more driver rolling down the window throwing away a well deserved insult to this guy who suddenly decides to switch lanes (and who probably got his driver's license without taking the test thanks to our corrupt system).
*Inspired by El Warsha theater troupe's sketch أصوات القاهرة

Will you join us?

Enough about Cairo, back to business. The club is undertaking an initiative which may -with a bit of luck- change the face of Cairo. You'll find details of our regular Friday morning rides and our occasional themed rides at this page and more on the facebook group that it links to.

An account of our early rides can also be found on this blog and coverage of our first event can be found in this article (both written by my riding pals).

Now, this is a crazy city you might as well stay safe. Safety tips fit for "normal cities" won't work for Cairo, so check this guide out (written by a co-member of club).

photo: number plate (!) of the first bike I rented before getting my bike (while we're at it let me share with you that my originally French bike is now very Egyptian, it has tied to its saddle a miniature green flipflop like those hanging from many trucks in my city to ward off the evil eye).

On the other side of the fence

2008-04-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

Ever wondered why the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence?

A new shiny bag in a window shop -or any object for that matter- can always make our day (and for some make them complete if it's an expensive designer bag).

A job which pays well and makes people feel busy and thus important will have them running after the carrot dangling from the stick till the end of their working days, even if corporate life sucks the soul and happiness out of them like fierce dementors*.

In midst of our distress -and sometimes sheer boredom- we picture a gallant who will come to snatch us from our existing reality to the land where troubles melt like lemon drops**.

From a very early age, we see happiness contained in ideal situations. From fairy tales with lovely castles and classist societies where people can be happy only if they get to the throne, to history books portraying the rise to power and the fall from grace, and ultimately to movies that portray people like getting "dream" objects.

As we grow older, we cling more and more to ideal situations, we wait, we hold our breath, we remain anxious, we work like crazy to get there. We cling to a thread in midst of our madness, we wait for the soothing light at the end of the tunnel -which by the way may simply be a fright train coming our way**. We see salvation in the form of a place, a person, a job, an object, an achievement and hold our breathes for the longest time ever expecting to be on cloud 9 when we get it.

In midst of our rush and waiting we forget to enjoy the true pleasures, the small things, the perfect moments, the good cup of coffee and chocolate bar, the kiss, the dew drop, sunrise, humming along a favorite tune, we don't stop to notice all this in our frenzy in search for perfection.

Life goes on, and we walk on, still under the illusion that we know better than ever before, oblivious to the fact that we remain the children who grow tired of the new toy after a few playing sessions, the same toy we have screamed and stomped our feet to get.

Life will remain a bitch of a swing, bringing us up to the seventh heaven and then crashing back to earth*** , we ought to know better by now and simply relax and enjoy the journey without waiting to be up nor fearing to go down.

"What you don't have you don't need it now"
Beautiful day - U2

Photo:
Tangier, Morocco view from a local tea house in Cape Spartel where people smoke up to cross to the other side

Notes:
* dementors are ghosts in Harry Potter who do just that, suck the happiness and soul out of you
** lines from the song "over the rainbow" from the Wizard of Oz

** Metallica's "no leaf clover"
***for a lovely description of the swing of life, read Rehab Bassam's blog post El-morgi7a

Today's book: Buddhism for Busy People: finding happiness in an uncertain world
Today's movie: definitely Disney's Toy Story
An inspirational note that says it The Awakening by Sonny Carroll

On my bike

2008-04-05T02:28:00.000-07:00

All the illuminating thoughts solving my existential crises would fill my mind while I'm pedaling away against the wind...

There's no feeling that compares to beating one's own record of perseverance or finding the perfect pal for your route.

I long for my bike, for leading a healthier lifestyle, commuting without contaminating the environment nor contributing to the crazy traffic and noise.

I envy the inhabitants of cities with bike lanes and alert drivers, and women who can wander around on a bike without getting the attention of passersby, and anyone who can be in a street without the risk of damaging their lungs.

On a brighter note, I have a few traveling tips. Exploring a city by bike with a group or on your own, with a guide or without one, is enchanting. I have tried a few tours and guarantee they would be very enjoyable, especially if traveling on your own.

Paris somehow seems more magical on a bike, especially when you speed on bridges, just take the night tour (I apologize if the guide seems to be giving a biking for dummies course "when this guy turns green we cross, ok?"). In Berlin you get to cover more territory and see the contrast between East and West better. In Amsterdam you'll feel more like a local if you're riding, and your fear of the road will disappear in 5 minutes as you see people hositing shopping bags and toddlers on their bikes, riding with one hand on the handlebar and the other clasping the phone (drivers are quite respectful too). Madrid has a good tour on weekends, and also you can rent from my friends at by-bike. Barcelona's metro is synchronized with a great bike rental scheme, just make sure you get the card in advance -cause I didn't- and bike tours are also available . In pricey Geneva, you can rent a bike for free. The Vienna tour is great, the guides tell you a lot about the city, and in addition to gates and buildings you pass through beautiful parks. I didn't dare to wander in the streets of countries driving on the "wrong" side of the road (quite an open minded statement that is), but I remember London had guided tours and Brisbane bike rentals providing maps of the three main cycling routes. Bogota does its best by giving bicycles and skates car-free streets on Sundays in some areas downtown, in addition to a 120 km of bicycle paths, you may want to give it a try in the land of eternal spring.

I'll update this post if I remember more tours or embark on new ones.

New York times compiles vacations on wheels

NEWS! some brave gang is hitting the streets of my crazy city, Cairooo here I come

Photo:
An old bike in Fatima - Portugal, photo taken with my favorite biking pal.

Now we're cooking

2008-04-02T04:15:00.000-07:00

As I dissolve saffron in boiling water (hot tap water won't do, attention to detail makes all the difference when you cook) I remember my friend in Alicante who gave me this jar so I could cook Fideuà, a Valencian specialty which imitated Paella only to beat it. I also remember how we got the recipe from a notebook decorated with the most beautiful retro cut outs and filled with recipes in swirly handwriting. "Recetas de la mama mía" was my friend's wedding gift from her mom. That day we didn't cook Fideuà, we cooked vegetarian pasta with herbs, to celebrate my favorite couple's moving to the country side and growing cilantro in their own garden.

As I savor the curry marinade after adding a bit of garam masala (literally hot spice) I can't help but feel sorry for those with low tolerance for spicy food. It is amazing how different cultures mix similar spices to create completely different feelings, I find myself remembering Mexican spices, for no good reason at all. I just wish I could stock up on Salsa Valentina, the local brand of hot sauce and then add it to pizza like we used to do at my Mexican friends' kitchens.

Once you've tasted a nation's food you immediately feel a sort of kinship (that's if you get to like it), and when you go there you're less of a khawaga or guiri* (it also helps get a bit of a conversation going round the dinner table). Having cooked Patacones in Madrid with a dear friend from Colombia, mashing the plantains and then frying and refrying them, I find myself feeling a sort of familiarity with Bogotá while still on the plane (mind you, none of Patacones I ate in Bogotá would compare to the ones we used to cook. Tasting Okra a l'Indienne and asking a dinner companion for the recipe I find myself familiar with the spices she lists, having seen them in action in the kitchen I shared with a friend from Trinidad and Tobago of Indian origins (only the best ingredients shipped from the homeland for us, none of the supermarket stuff). I also know that I don't need to set foot in a restaurant when I go to Mexico, as I have helped cook tamales and dined in a zillion Mexican restaurants with my favorite pal in Madrid (the one in Chueca has a green volkswagen zooming in from the ceiling replicating a taxi in the streets of Mexico city). I also recall two colleagues bonding over lobsters in India, oh Goan seafood prepared Portuguese style is just undescribable1

As recipes are passed from generation to generation, people preserve a sense of belonging to a distant land of origin where they have never set foot. Till this day, my grandmas cook Harira and Sharkaseya, reminiscent of Moroccan and Turkish roots and my friend's grandmother has Matzah always ready for Passover.

It is a fact that food unites. Friends would tell tales of meeting fellow expats mainly to share festivities, I can relate. The first Ramadan I spent away from home, I had just landed in town and had no kitchen of my own, luckily I was adopted by a bunch of Egyptian friends and fed Mulukhiya (if only airport authorities knew the amount of the serious smuggling that takes place everywhere around the globe). Smuggling indeed makes you take a bit of home with you, that's what my Tunisian friend did when he brought a good stock of harisa for the weeks we spent studying in Toledo.

I tend to think of cooking as a hobby**, creative cooking is not something I can do often, and cooking for hungry individuals on a daily basis even less. Cooking is supposed to be fun that's what I always say.

Cooking with friends entails laughing over fiascoes and sharing the sweet content of a well prepared meal, then dodging the task of preparing coffee or tea (depending on where you are) after the meal.

One of my clearest memories is going to the premiere of Ratatouille with my roomies and bringing back a poster of the Little Chef -which is still on the kitchen door till this day (the kitchen that is no longer mine in a house I still call my own). The next weekend we invited friends over for an elaborate dinner. There was some dude to impress and he was impressed - I hope I don't get killed over disclosing this one my friend!

I guess I'll never forget the endless international cooking days with my dearest friends in Madrid; ill equipped kitchens would not stop us, it just took challenging one of the guys to whisk the batter to give an electric mixer effect with only a manual whip (throwing in a couple of lines on not exercising enough helped too).

I also smile when I remember Wednesday evenings in Cairo at my friend's place and her baby daughter; while we chopped veggies she played drums with a wooden spoon and a cooking pot.

I add to my cooking memories, all the times my friend and I sang Luis Miguel in a kitchen; first in our dorm's kitchen in Toledo, then at her place when I went to visit in Morocco, the Cairo edition is due this summer inshaa'Allah (Luis Miguel would better be proud of us).

When I travel I always take a look beyond the buildings, the contemporary culture and the socio-economics of the country are usually more interesting for me. The way dishes are served and the table is cleared tells you a lot about the culture.

Mediterraneans tend to share mezzah or tappas and would also share salads, while others don't share dishes at all. At one end of the continuum, some cultures serve individual plates in the kitchen and send them out to the dinning room (sort of too bland for my taste) , and others eat from the same serving dish or fuente (memories of Morocco and the delicious Tagines come to mind), in the middle would be serving the main dish on the dinning table and having seconds and asking people to try this and that and that.

You can also find an indicator if you observe who clears the table and does the dishes. In some culture it's the host or just the women, in others it's the ones who didn't cook, in some plastic plates and cutlery are just thrown away (we love mother earth), and in many the dishwasher deprives those who would have washed the dishes from the greatest post-meal gossip.

Needless to say, in most societies suffering of large income gaps, affordable catering and delivery services (I'll never forget the expression at my friend's face when she saw the Mc Donald's motorcycles in Cairo, I totally related when I saw all the "a domicilio" signs in Latin America) and and other people relieve you of it all: cooking, setting the table and clearing the table.

Keep cooking and smile while you do, for it makes all the difference.

----------------
*Egyptian and Spanish slang for "foreigner"
** Apologies to those who think cooking is a chore

Photo:
Paella in a balcony overlooking Barcelona, made especially for me :)

Recipes:
The official Cinnamon Cake("when in doubt add cinnamon" one of my fav cooking pals)
Basmati Rice recipe (add saffron instead of cumin)
Chicken curry recipe (add more yogurt, substituting yogurt for the coco milk, leave chicken in marinade for a while in the fridge before cooking; be patient and leave it on the stove till the sauce thickens. Needless to say add more curry)
I don't have a written recipe for Paella or Fideua but I can tell you how to cook them

Books:
Like Water for Chocolate and Serving Crazy with Curry, two books on how cooking can be a more effective means of expressing oneself than any other (Mexican and Indian recipes included)

Movies:
Ratatouille, a long awaited Disney story after a too many story-less animations

Goa, dancing queen

2008-03-16T08:25:00.000-07:00

Where do I start? Let me say that on the whole India fitted everyone's description, a city of colors and scents so impacting, even for someone from Cairo, a place so exotic yet still vaguely familiar...

My first impression upon landing in Goa was: are you sure we're in India? The scenery and the villagers could've belonged anywhere. Except for a couple of statues of Shiva, the towns have pos-colonial houses painted in bright colors (for Goa was a Portuguese colony for 450 years) and are sprinkled with those tin shacks which characterize any former colony blessed by the curse of natural resources. For all I know, we could've been in Brazil. The greenery and the diversity of it is breathtaking, the effect magnified by the twists and turns of the road which alternate plains and hills continuously (in addition to the weird effect which driving on the left side of the road always has on me). Down the road locals on vespas speed past us and shops have elephants -and sometimes Lord Ganesh- painted on the facades. Ok, this feels more like India.

Arriving at the resort I feel that the seventies have passed here and stopped, literally stopped. The chalets are loyal to the era's upholstery and tiles, the neighbors wear dreads, and you hear the Abba everywhere you go. So far I don't really feel like I'm in India. The markets with shopkeepers chasing tourists could be in any country with a bit of poverty and a weak currency -so that's what tourists feel in Egypt? poor them. At night we head to the beach, watch fireworks, scream life is life, try to do the impossible twist on the sand and just go to sleep.

I go through the first day, happy to be back to the seventies, wishing I could just ditch everyone and summon my friends by means of apparition. Maybe I can wear those pink striped bell-bottoms which I saw in the old bazaar, get my hair braided once again, and then we all gather around the fire with one of us playing soft rock tunes; if someone wishes to smoke a joint they're welcome (just passive smoking for me, thank you very much).

I stay quite anxious though (as is always the case when I travel) and fear not seeing any sign of Hinduism in this Catholic town. Luckily I get to see the cows wandering knowing they own the road by and head to a Hindu temple and an indigenous Catholic Church (Jesus Christ and Angels look Indian and the decor very much so). I witness the Indian tolerance which I have for long read about, as the whole group lights incense and candles at both temple and church, you wouldn't distinguish worshipers from one another. I light a candle and wish for a year of serenity.

Whenever I travel I try to get a local feel of places, sometimes I manage, sometimes I don't. In 70s Goa I wore my most Hippie shawls and tops and sang Dancing Queen at the top of my lungs. I learned the basic hindi dance moves to Bhool Bhulaiyaa a hit in India then -inspired by an earlier hit titled Hare Rama Hare Krishna- from a colleague who will be the ultimate Bollywood star if he makes this wise move. I ate spicy food till I could feel curry in my toe and almost cried eating a chili (a friend's idea of a joke or dare), accepted friends offering of fruit salad sprinkled with chili sold on street carts outside the temple.

I still keep the fondest memories of this beautiful haven where time has stopped. I email my best friend when I go home (as Goa remained faithful to the 70s means of communication) and we both envision a meditation retreat in Goa before the end of the year.

Photo: mural in Goa resort

Links:
Holy Cow, a book which gave me great insight to the Indian culture and spirituality
Hare Krishna Hare Ram, the oldie version reminiscent of the hippie era
Sachs and Warner's article on the curse of natural resources
On Hindu gods, more on Shiva and Ganesh
The God of small things a story which describes the caste system
On keeping Indian traditions and transmitting them to your kids after migrating to new lands, watch The Namesake and read The Hindi Bindi club.

Berlin, a journey through a time machine

2008-03-03T01:37:00.000-08:00

I got to know Berlin last spring break. Before my visit I had watched three good movies which set the mood for it; Goodbye Lenin, depicting the contrast between East Germany and West Germany, Downfall telling the story of der Führer's suicide, the Good German an homage to Casablanca filmed in post WWII Berlin. Also Das Leben der Anderen/The Lives of Others -which I watched later on- depicting the Stasi era. Also I went to Berlin via Amsterdam where I did my best to avoid visiting Anne Frank's house as her Diary is the most morose book I read as a child (which reminds me I ought to advise the school library to take it off the shelves, and that has nothing to do with my opinion of the whole Holocaust issue).

My days in Berlin felt like days aboard a time machine. Passing from Checkpoint Charlie and marveling at the means people devised to escape from Eastern Germany; wandering along the lines of the former Wall and feeling the energy of those who brought down the wall; trying not to notice the Holocaust memorial, attending Palm Sunday mass at the Berlin Cathedral that still carries traces of the Allies' bombing; collecting socialist memorabilia from a street market in Mitte (got a bargain for a Karl Marx medallion), I truly felt transported in time.

The contrast between Soviet “wedding cake” buildings and more modern buildings on the other side of the wall made me wonder how crossing the wall made people feel. I imagined East Berlin's supermarkets filled with the most basic products and run down apartments adorned with faded wallpaper, feeling like it's lightyears away from West Berlin with its modern cafés and shops filled with brightly packaged consumer goods (check out the devout socialist's reaction in Goodbye Lenin when a Coca Cola ad materializes on the building opposite hers in her East Berlin neighborhood. No more spoilers I promise!)

History aside, Berlin is very modern friendly city, full of gigs and street markets, offering good food (amazing variety of creative veggies), its lively atmosphere and cultural scene are quite remarkable . There's beauty everywhere in the city and some of the museums are good - I still can't understand why I had to pay 4 euros to see Nefertiti, well I've got only the Egyptian government to blame.

Berlin is a perfect city from all attributes. However, I don't think I can live there, aside from my my poor German which Goethe Institute couldn't' fix, I cannot live with such quiet people, I would drive them nuts. Chatting away in this coffee house in Alexanderplatz, my friend and I saw heads turning and disapproving looks shot, we were two Egyptian gals as Mediterranean as can be (my friend and I were living in Italy and Spain at the time) and were just expressing ourselves!

Carrying a bit of the wall in a bookmark -and nothing makes me happy like a new bookmark and nothing upsets me like loosing a bookmark- I head back to Madrid. I still smile when I see my photo resting from a long walk in Museumsinsle in the relaxed sunshine in a barist outside Hackescher Markt station.

Photo: part of the Berlin wall at the entrance to Checkpoint Charlie museum

Links:
Checkpoint Charlie museum
Museumsinsle
Check out Berlin Wall graffiti art and chronology
Walk down Unter den Linden
Stay at A&O hostels
Go to Quasimodo jazz bar, the neighborhood itself is very nice

Buenos Aires, a portrait in sepia

2008-02-29T10:12:00.000-08:00

Before going to Argentina, I expected to see a rather homogeneous culture and too much Tango. The impression I left Argentina with was very different from what I expected.

Buenos Aires felt somehow familiar, after a first glimpse one realizes it is a collage of all European architectural gems. Buildings of Madrid and Barcelona along wide avenues of Paris sprinkled with some Italian piazzas and a couple of Dutch houses, with a tower from London. The city is quite elegant and speaks of a prosperous past, but halas, when crises hit, nothing can be done.

Not only do the city's buildings feel imported, but so are its inhabitants. Porteños, I was told, feel they still belong to their lands of origin. As most immigrants had fled the first world war and could never return, they fed homesickness to their offspring. If you walk down calle Florida and stop at one of the kiosks there, you'll find in addition to newspapers and postcards a zillion pins on the stands; in addition to icons like El Che and the rival football teams, the pins feature flags of Argentina coupled each with a different flag, Italian, Portuguese, Lebanese, marking a sense of belonging to the land of origin.

As for the people, they are quite sociable people who wine and dine on weekdays, sometimes at 10 pm. Elegantly decorated with admirable attention to detail, most restaurants inhabit the Palermo neighborhood, a typical Spanish colonial town, and the various Sohos that have a more alternative flavor.

Pleasant and good humored, most Argentineans can share a joke about their own kind. This is probably the reason why, from Quino's sarcastic idealism to Maitena's burlesque feminism one thing is evident, Argentine comics are the best.

The only neighborhood that fitted my colorful Latin America cliché, is Boca. Even though the streets have nothing but communal tin houses, the inhabitants have painted their tin houses with paint leftovers from the neighboring port on the Río de la Plata, the result is magnificent. Red, blue, green and yellow houses adorned with papier maché statues of the local idols, Maradona, Evita and Gardel. In spite of being the working class neighborhood in one of the world's most elegant cities, Boca was the only neighborhood that tempted me to take out my camera.

To contribute to the joyful air, Coca Cola ads in Buenos Aires are also unique, joyful and somehow frivolous (observing ads to get a feel of the country´s socioeconomics and culture is by now a hobby of mine).

The soundtrack to my visit was exactly what I expected it to be, Carlos Gardel's eternal Mi Buenos Aires Querido which I was humming as if Buenos Aires were my own town which I longed to go back to.

Photo: Coca Cola Ad, bar at Caminito-Boca

Links:
About the City's architecture: Buenos Aires: City of Faded Elegance
Palermo restaurants:
Quino's page
Maitena's page
Recommended restaurants in Palermo, I vote for La Cabrera (you may want to split the giant steak with a friend)
Gardel's Mi Buenos Aires Querido with photos of the city by night

Lisbon's nostalgia

2008-02-29T02:08:00.001-08:00

In my mind's eye Portugal is crafted tiles, exquisite street lamps, and an architectural style that speaks of nostalgia for the sea.

The aura of most Portuguese cities is one of a former empire. Walking the streets of Lisbon, you feel the city is looking out to the sea with this nostalgia to conquered land (although the city itself overlooks a river). Upon seeing the Monument to the Discoveries built in honor of the nation's explorers, one feels that one day the people of Lisbon have knelt and prayed while anxiously awaiting the explorers' return home.

In spite of the melancholy, the city has a sort of nonchalant air going at the pace of its trams and funiculars. Sometimes the mood is even festive instead of rain washed and lonely, but that's only on occasions. In Christmas, Europe's tallest Christmas tree fills Praça do Comércio - the city's main square- with people singing along to jingle bells and and savouring roasted chestnuts. On sunny days, you can enjoy eating delicious fresh fish in any of the restaurants flanking the Tejo river.

I remember a friend saying that if you want to know a city like a local you have to feel its subway, I'd add that some of them are indeed works of art. One thing I'll always remember about Lisbon is its metro, whose lines are labeled with a seagull, a boat and a compass. One particular station, Parque, makes passersby think that they are passing through an empire, portraying on its navy blue tiles a white globe where Portugal is connected to its former colonies through dotted lines. As for the people who travel the subway they seemed warm without being as sociable as their Mediterranean neighbors. The dog-obsessed should be warned that they might end up broke in a matter of stations, as the Lisbon equivalent to street artists are young boys playing the accordion with sad puppies perched on their shoulders while holding small buckets where commuters should drop a few coins.

To really be touched by the beauty of the city, go up the Elevador de Santa Justa which is by itself a work of art. This neo-gothic creation twists iron into lace, providing very inspiring shadows and patterns for talented photographers (it's a shame I'm not one of those*). Once up the elevator, if not too dizzy from the altitude you can absorb the scenery and see from above the city on seven hills. Inspired by the view, I recall running out to the Baixa Chiado shopping area to buy pastel crayons, I bought only 4 crayons, silver to paint Santa Justa, blue gray to paint the river, adobe to paint the rooftops and yellow to fill my painting with trams.

Come night hit Alfama's bars, where jazzy music replaces the mournful Fado that haunts you downtown throughout the morning. Onda Jazz is where I listened to Cape Verde's barefoot diva Cesária Évora for the first time. It's strange how contagious Portugal's nostalgia is, for the former colony's blues are still filled with nostalgia in spite of their African beat .

If you're in the mood for a day trip, head to Sintra, it's the closest thing to a fairy tale, with enchanted forests and castles, its beauty is beyond what I can describe. In Sintra buy hand crafted ceramics to remind you of this magical city and eat queijadas to munch on the way back into town.

Photo: Elevador de Santa justa (*I'm thankful I have friends who are good photograhers, this one is borrowed from Francisco Fuentes)
Links:
Lisbon metro and its parque station homage to the discoverers
Monument to the discoveries
Onda Jazz Bar
More on Cesária Évora and a song of hers
Sintra UNESCO World Heritage Site
Recipe for Queijadas

Another January …

2008-01-15T15:21:00.001-08:00

The classical resolutions one more time, so apart from starting this Blog to record my journeys, I'll spare you the rest cause you undoubtedly have a few of them yourself.

Why the name? Perhaps because in my culture the Balcony was the first means of exchange of information ... long before internet. Also, because this word reads almost the same in Egyptian dialect (the word is not of Arabic origin) as in Spanish, the language I identify myself with. However, I write in English because most of my friends who are scattered around the globe would understand it, and that's the whole point of a balcony, sharing over a good cup of coffee.

Needless to say, C&C are welcome.

Oh and you can email me for tips on any of the places marked on my travel map.