It has been a week now since I started my new job, my new life. I'm in Atlanta -- househunting, driving to Whole Foods, and laying out my business casual attire. My job at The Carter Center was the one I wanted, and keeps me connected to Egypt. I didn't want to let go completely, but even though I sit at my desk writing memos about political protests in Tahrir and Rabaa El Adaweya and wiring money to consultants in our field office in Zamalek, in some ways I couldn't feel farther away. I put up one of my favorite posters on my desk, the pink one that reads: "Without the 'teh marbouta' [the feminine ending], the country is not whole." Beside it is the piece of white computer paper with my name written in calligraphy as a flower, a slightly crumpled memento from my day in Tripoli, Lebanon last summer. I vacillate between relief at the clean break I made with Egypt, leaving the emotions behind in my apartment on Medan El Mesaha and quickly slipping into a 9-5 routine -- and flashes of regret or anxiety that my life is suddenly so much more mundane.
The weeks before I left Egypt, I sometimes cried at night because I was worried about losing my sense of adventure. I felt the late nights in slightly seedy cafes with wisps of shisha smoke and little glass cups of tea already slipping into the past; the anticipation just before dusk as I waited for the azan to sound and the fasters tear open their plastic bags of juice; the walks across Qasr El Nil or 15 May Bridge, the Nile's grime hidden below a glistening surface. I remembered my first few months in Cairo, how I had struggled to form close friendships with other people. Now I wonder how I will ever find people again who understand me so well.
I had thought it would be more jarring, the sudden transition to America. Of course, I did marvel at the broad, sterile sidewalks (no feral kitties here), the cars gliding along in straight lines and pedestrians paused obediently at crosswalks. I was also (and still am, 10 days later) giddy about the food -- quesadillas, mac 'n cheese, apricot beer, veggie burgers -- everything seemed to take on new significance. At lunch with a friend in Washington, I gleefully photographed my dessert pizza covered in raspberries and mascarpone cheese.
The first night was fitful. I heard a plane and immediately made a sarcastic note to myself that the military was once again on an inane power trip. I dreamt of demonstrations and tanks barreling down the streets -- more dramatically, in fact, than anything I actually experienced in Cairo. Two days later, I was sitting in the shampoo chair at a hip salon in Washington. MSNBC was on, and though I could hardly hear the pundits' voices, "Cairo Clashes" was scrawled at the bottom of the screen. The day after I had returned, El-Sisi had called on Egyptians to go to the streets again to give the army a special mandate to "fight terrorism". Now those rallies, a massive celebration of the military, were underway. I remembered the party I attended before the coup, before he became a national hero, where I'd met an archaeologist who claimed to be El-Sisi's nephew, and cracked a half-smile. I dipped my head back. As the hairdresser shampooed me, I was brought back to my last couple of nights in Cairo. I had sat with Ada on the roof of El Tonsy hotel, surrounded by high-rises and a moonlit Nile, a cantaloupe shisha between us. El Tonsy and King Hotel, a few blocks away, were crappy hotels with beautiful rooftops where expats sought refuge and Stellas. We had walked afterward to City Drink, where I'd taken a drastic step and ordered kiwi juice with Snickers, rather than the usual strawberry with Snickers. My favorite juice man Noss, in his orange and blue uniform, had insisted we take a photo together. The other City Drink employees gathered around: I'd been a regular.
I'd met up with Seeko sometime toward midnight and driven to Khan El Khalili. It had the air of a circus, rippling with energy -- bright lights and fat ladies and mustachioed men thrusting their wares out into the alleys of the bazaar. I thought of my first trip, in 2006, when I'd proudly carried home a bag of dried hibiscus leaves so I could brew karkadei at home (I never did). As Seeko and I drove back through Cairo, toward Mohandiseen where I could enjoy one last order of cheese sambousek at Abu Ramez, the late-night classics were on the radio. The deep voice of Mohamed Abdel Wahab crooned into the darkness... Patience and faith are the paradise of the oppressed.
The next day, my last, I wondered what to do. I hadn't planned out a last day, and certainly not one with most of my friends evacuated and a country hanging very barely onto stability. I went to Zamalek to see Dr. Iman, the head of CASA, and my teacher Nermeen. There were no students, because they'd all been sent home. Nermeen told me about a US scheme to set up a shadow government with Morsi, warned me not to marry a Muslim man, and made me promise to watch plenty of Ramadan mosalsalat so I wouldn't forget my Arabic. I had invited my friends that evening to break their fast on a felucca. The place we usually went, Dok Dok, was in Garden City in front of the Four Seasons. But an hour or so before eftar, my friend Farag called to warn me that cars were halted on the Corniche: Morsi supporters were marching to a sit-in at the American Embassy nearby and gunshots had been heard in Tahrir not far off.
So we met in Zamalek, where things were quiet as usual. I stopped first at Zooba, purveyor of "nouveau Egyptian" fare, to pick up some pita sandwiches. When I got to the Corniche, a dozen friends were already there -- some my oldest friends (Yehya and Ryme) and others friends I'd made just in the last few weeks. There was an unusual cool breeze on the Nile as our boat puttered out from the island. I stood on the bow of the boat, dancing with my friends to Cheb Khaled and Amr Diab. I felt a sense of contentment I hadn't expected: it felt like the right time to leave, but surrounded by good friends.
Back at my apartment, Ryme and a few of her friends sat with me as I added the last few things. The memories of my dinner parties, laughs, romances flitted through my mind. They seemed far off. The life of the place was long gone -- it had seemed cavernous and empty for a while. Downstairs, Nasser was on duty, the soft-spoken, moon-faced doorman in his pressed blue uniform shirt. He had been my favorite. He stood outside as we packed my suitcases into Yehya's trunk. In his fashion, he told me quietly to travel safely, and goodbye.
From the backseat of Yehya's car, I watched the giant billboards advertising Ramadan mosalsalat fly by. This year's slogan was Ramadan kareem -- el sanadi, Ramadan dream: "Happy Ramadan -- This year, Ramadan dream." It didn't make sense, but it rhymed. As we crossed the 6 October Bridge, a crowd of young men came running in the opposite direction. A few were waving banners. What would my last night in Egypt be without driving past demonstrations? I thought. We drove on, the traffic undeterred.
My last few hours, a bit poetically, were at Yehya and Nada's. This is where I'd begun my year, and where I was ending it. We ate nuts and drank juice on the roof, and Yehya told me I had grown into a balady accent -- I spoke like a peasant, in other words.
I sailed through the airport, my overweight bags and expired visa both overlooked. The immigration officer had scowled at my residency permit, which had clearly ended on June 30 (what a day to go the Mogamma!) -- or maybe it was my Israeli stamp on the next page -- then looked up and expressionlessly told me to have a good day. At the gate, Adel Imam's series was playing. I wasn't following it, but it seemed an appropriate send-off: the ageless Egyptian megastar, impeccably toupeed, acting his way through the wee hours of the morning. Just before boarding was announced, my last dawn call to prayer sounded over the airport PA system -- Allahu akbar allaaaahu akbar! I stood up and walked onto the plane.
The weeks before I left Egypt, I sometimes cried at night because I was worried about losing my sense of adventure. I felt the late nights in slightly seedy cafes with wisps of shisha smoke and little glass cups of tea already slipping into the past; the anticipation just before dusk as I waited for the azan to sound and the fasters tear open their plastic bags of juice; the walks across Qasr El Nil or 15 May Bridge, the Nile's grime hidden below a glistening surface. I remembered my first few months in Cairo, how I had struggled to form close friendships with other people. Now I wonder how I will ever find people again who understand me so well.
I had thought it would be more jarring, the sudden transition to America. Of course, I did marvel at the broad, sterile sidewalks (no feral kitties here), the cars gliding along in straight lines and pedestrians paused obediently at crosswalks. I was also (and still am, 10 days later) giddy about the food -- quesadillas, mac 'n cheese, apricot beer, veggie burgers -- everything seemed to take on new significance. At lunch with a friend in Washington, I gleefully photographed my dessert pizza covered in raspberries and mascarpone cheese.
The first night was fitful. I heard a plane and immediately made a sarcastic note to myself that the military was once again on an inane power trip. I dreamt of demonstrations and tanks barreling down the streets -- more dramatically, in fact, than anything I actually experienced in Cairo. Two days later, I was sitting in the shampoo chair at a hip salon in Washington. MSNBC was on, and though I could hardly hear the pundits' voices, "Cairo Clashes" was scrawled at the bottom of the screen. The day after I had returned, El-Sisi had called on Egyptians to go to the streets again to give the army a special mandate to "fight terrorism". Now those rallies, a massive celebration of the military, were underway. I remembered the party I attended before the coup, before he became a national hero, where I'd met an archaeologist who claimed to be El-Sisi's nephew, and cracked a half-smile. I dipped my head back. As the hairdresser shampooed me, I was brought back to my last couple of nights in Cairo. I had sat with Ada on the roof of El Tonsy hotel, surrounded by high-rises and a moonlit Nile, a cantaloupe shisha between us. El Tonsy and King Hotel, a few blocks away, were crappy hotels with beautiful rooftops where expats sought refuge and Stellas. We had walked afterward to City Drink, where I'd taken a drastic step and ordered kiwi juice with Snickers, rather than the usual strawberry with Snickers. My favorite juice man Noss, in his orange and blue uniform, had insisted we take a photo together. The other City Drink employees gathered around: I'd been a regular.
I'd met up with Seeko sometime toward midnight and driven to Khan El Khalili. It had the air of a circus, rippling with energy -- bright lights and fat ladies and mustachioed men thrusting their wares out into the alleys of the bazaar. I thought of my first trip, in 2006, when I'd proudly carried home a bag of dried hibiscus leaves so I could brew karkadei at home (I never did). As Seeko and I drove back through Cairo, toward Mohandiseen where I could enjoy one last order of cheese sambousek at Abu Ramez, the late-night classics were on the radio. The deep voice of Mohamed Abdel Wahab crooned into the darkness... Patience and faith are the paradise of the oppressed.
The next day, my last, I wondered what to do. I hadn't planned out a last day, and certainly not one with most of my friends evacuated and a country hanging very barely onto stability. I went to Zamalek to see Dr. Iman, the head of CASA, and my teacher Nermeen. There were no students, because they'd all been sent home. Nermeen told me about a US scheme to set up a shadow government with Morsi, warned me not to marry a Muslim man, and made me promise to watch plenty of Ramadan mosalsalat so I wouldn't forget my Arabic. I had invited my friends that evening to break their fast on a felucca. The place we usually went, Dok Dok, was in Garden City in front of the Four Seasons. But an hour or so before eftar, my friend Farag called to warn me that cars were halted on the Corniche: Morsi supporters were marching to a sit-in at the American Embassy nearby and gunshots had been heard in Tahrir not far off.
So we met in Zamalek, where things were quiet as usual. I stopped first at Zooba, purveyor of "nouveau Egyptian" fare, to pick up some pita sandwiches. When I got to the Corniche, a dozen friends were already there -- some my oldest friends (Yehya and Ryme) and others friends I'd made just in the last few weeks. There was an unusual cool breeze on the Nile as our boat puttered out from the island. I stood on the bow of the boat, dancing with my friends to Cheb Khaled and Amr Diab. I felt a sense of contentment I hadn't expected: it felt like the right time to leave, but surrounded by good friends.
Back at my apartment, Ryme and a few of her friends sat with me as I added the last few things. The memories of my dinner parties, laughs, romances flitted through my mind. They seemed far off. The life of the place was long gone -- it had seemed cavernous and empty for a while. Downstairs, Nasser was on duty, the soft-spoken, moon-faced doorman in his pressed blue uniform shirt. He had been my favorite. He stood outside as we packed my suitcases into Yehya's trunk. In his fashion, he told me quietly to travel safely, and goodbye.
From the backseat of Yehya's car, I watched the giant billboards advertising Ramadan mosalsalat fly by. This year's slogan was Ramadan kareem -- el sanadi, Ramadan dream: "Happy Ramadan -- This year, Ramadan dream." It didn't make sense, but it rhymed. As we crossed the 6 October Bridge, a crowd of young men came running in the opposite direction. A few were waving banners. What would my last night in Egypt be without driving past demonstrations? I thought. We drove on, the traffic undeterred.
My last few hours, a bit poetically, were at Yehya and Nada's. This is where I'd begun my year, and where I was ending it. We ate nuts and drank juice on the roof, and Yehya told me I had grown into a balady accent -- I spoke like a peasant, in other words.
I sailed through the airport, my overweight bags and expired visa both overlooked. The immigration officer had scowled at my residency permit, which had clearly ended on June 30 (what a day to go the Mogamma!) -- or maybe it was my Israeli stamp on the next page -- then looked up and expressionlessly told me to have a good day. At the gate, Adel Imam's series was playing. I wasn't following it, but it seemed an appropriate send-off: the ageless Egyptian megastar, impeccably toupeed, acting his way through the wee hours of the morning. Just before boarding was announced, my last dawn call to prayer sounded over the airport PA system -- Allahu akbar allaaaahu akbar! I stood up and walked onto the plane.
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