Bos, shof:

Kids play in the back streets here every afternoon after their school let’s out. They shed uniforms and schoolbooks, and gather into groups of 15 or more, yelling, running, almost always with a soccer ball.

I can’t see them from my window, but every afternoon I hear their shouts of triumph, screams when the ref. calls a foul, and cheers when there is a goal.

There is something contagious about their frantic energy- it’s like their simple game encompasses everything good about this society and culture: they are enthusiastic, loud, busy, ecstatic, fierce, carefree- just Egyptian.

It’s one of my favorite times of day- sorta reminds me of summer childhood.

3la fikra: I am headed to Sinai tomorrow, and Jordan on Monday. Will let you know how it goes.

I am turning into an Egyptian:

I walk in the street, not on the sidewalk.

I haggle prices for everything: taxis, clothes, and souvenirs.

I eat fol and falafel like I was raised on it.

I say “ye-3ni” more than any other word in a conversation.

I am in love with Amr Diab, Wust el-Baled, and Ahmed Sultan.

Two words: Nescafe masbot.

I use “ma-sha-Allah,” “in sha’ Allah,” “wu-la-hee,” “ma3lish,” and “be-ged” as if they had English counter-parts.

20 guinea is way to much to spend on anything.

I yell at foreigners for wearing short-shorts and tank-tops.

I know nearly every word to “Shams el-Nahar.”

I kiss cheeks in greeting.

I ask anyone I see how they are- three different ways.

I think soccer is the best sport in the world.

Cars will stop when I cross the street.

I don’t understand Fusha anymore.

I drink 3ser like a crazy person.

I eat rice, bread and potatoes- all in the same meal.

I know the time of day by the Call to Prayer.

Honey and 3esh beladi make an amazing breakfast.

I refuse to answer when people speak English to me.

I named this blog very appropriately....

Every day here is “a big adventure.”

I wanted to mail a package to the Tedders yesterday, which, in the States (or any place other than Egypt) is really simple and straightforward.

But I’m in Egypt. I should’ve known better.

I went to Mahtat el-Tram (end of the tram) where, Khalid the all-knowing, told me there was a post office. (Please note that I only partially blame him for the following adventure)….

So I have all the correct information, etc, and I go with Clara to the post-office. My Ammiya (colloquial) is getting pretty good at this point, and I easily communicated that I wanted to send a package to the United States.

Answer (always in English, of course, after I have spoken lovely and clear Arabic): No, you have to go to the post office down the street, 3la tol, 3la tol.

----->Let me interrupt myself and say that “3la tol” means, to Egyptians, “go straight” (as in directions). But Egyptians do not tell you how far 3la tol, ebiden (ever). They simple say go straight. <------

So Clara and I went 3la tol. After about 15 minutes, we found a post office. [Note “a” not “the.”] The man was very nice and very impressed with my Arabic, but he told to me to go to the big building 3la tol, and that the post office was on the first floor.

Clara and I thanked him and continued walking through the city. Let me throw in that Alexandria has some super sketchy parts of town, but who would think that the train station would be one of them? We were offered carriage rides, walked through a heap of trash in the middle of the street, and dodged cars and would-be harassers.

After about another 20 minutes, we reached the big building. I repeated in Arabic that I wanted to mail a package to my brother in the US, and that I was told to come here.

Man, in attempted English: Ah, no, uh….

Me (in Arabic): Sir, I speak Arabic….

Man: Ah! Arabic!! (insert really fast dialogue)…

Basically, we finally had the building, but needed a different section of it. So we found the second door, al-hum da Allah.

I repeated my request.

Man at desk (aka should know all): Second floor.

We go to the second floor.

Man on 2nd floor: Oh, you want the 3rd floor.

3rd Floor: No, no, 4th….

Get the picture?

We finally arrive at the 6th or 7th floor…fill out the necessary paperwork, pay lots of money (30 guinea- wa-la-hee! Although that’s really like $6…)

Four post-offices and two hours later, I treat Clara to 3ser portikal (orange juice) from a street vendor. Hey, we deserved it, and that package better get to America pretty darn quick and without anymore trouble.

The first breath after a coma…..

Today, I took a nap in the sunshine. It was in a garden, next to the TAFL Center where I study. There is a wall of trees and bushes surrounding it, and to be honest, it is rather pitiful. The once red Canna-lilies are pretty much dead.

For those of you who know me, you know that I am obsessed with taking naps in the sunshine, and that my day is not complete without this little ritual.

This was the first such nap I have had since coming to Egypt over a month ago.

It may not seem like a big deal, but to me, this was a huge revelation. This is a part of my person, my life, that had disappeared.

This is similar to realizing the other day that I was genuinely sad. My immediate reaction, as per usual, was to chafe myself for pessimism and negative energy, but instead I cried.

I had a bad experience and it was the first time in my entire life that I couldn’t brush it off afterwards. No pity, please, this is part of the process.

But what is this process? Why am I, a person so obscenely positive, extremely sad? Why haven’t I taken a nap in the sunshine? Why haven’t I laughed the same way I used to laugh?

It all has something to do with repression, I think, particularly of women, here in Egypt. Now, I am not going to go on a feminist rant as I tend to do, but I am gonna give some honest to God details of what life is like here sometimes. I am honestly hesitant to do so, though, because there is certainly a balance to how each person who reads this will process my point of view. Some, those who have been here, will understand, I think, without question. Others who have studied abroad may “get it,” and still others will nod their wise heads and think “ah- life experience.”

These aren’t the opinions I fear though.

No. I fear those that will take this one negative aspect of life here and twist it every kind of wrong. This is why I tend to find and focus on the positive- to contradict those who can’t find the balance to the niceties and the problems.

But ma3lsish. I am going to try to educate instead….mom always insisted that her children would be teachers.

My friends, I have a lesson for you:

The life of a foreign woman in Alexandria, Egypt is hard.
Hard does not quite encompass the difficulty of this situation.

The life of a foreign woman is set.

I do not walk alone here. As in nowhere. As in, the same distance from Stewart Hall to Mead Chapel, I do not walk alone, at 3:30 in the afternoon.

Because a woman walking all of one block from the front door of her dormitory to MacDonald’s is subjected to verbal, physical and, yes, physically threatening harassment.

Why?

Simply because I am a woman, and men here do what they want. There is no other answer.

That’s why I choose the word “set.” My life is set, according to the culture here.

[Please note that that is “culture” and not “religion.” BIG difference people, big difference.]

I questioned my Egyptian elders on my complete inability to be alone for all of two minutes here in a public place. Their answer?

“You are a woman, you just don’t.”

I questioned my Egyptian friends, girls my age, on their opinion of the harassment that I and the other American girls have received. Their answer?

“I wish I got attention like that.”

An Egyptians reaction to my criticism of their answers would roughly be something like, “but that’s how our culture is.”

I would like to pause and say that I truly love my Egyptian friends and colleagues- this is not against them, but it is against the culture that they support, tolerate, and let dominate their lives.

That’s especially to the women here- what are you thinking? Why do you accept this extremely negative aspect of your culture as normal?

Maybe it’s time to offer their side- the women here are mostly muhagabat, aka wear the hijab.

[Again- take my information slowly. I have studied the hijab extensively here, and I am not against it. What I am against is any forced wearing of the hijab or birka. But that’s for a later blog.]

The main idea here is that I do not wear a hijab, and my lovely, curly, light brown hair attracts attention like no other. My green eyes don’t help, but let’s focus on my hair for a moment.

What is it about my uncovered hair that provides such “excitement” in the Egyptian male population? It is an interesting phenomenon, but I seriously think it is simply because there are so few un-muhagabat here that this one little difference is actually quite huge.

Think about it. Vermont: it’s freezing all the time, snow covering the ground, etc. The first time we see a vibrant blue sky or a flower pop up in the gray darkness of winter, we are overjoyed and tend to go a little nuts.

Two things- I am not comparing myself to the sky or a flower (although the Egyptians have), and I am not providing an excuse for the verbal and emotional abuse I have received here. Something quite different, I think.

I think a solution is presenting itself…that is, if the problem were to be acknowledged by the Egyptians. No, no, no- I am not saying unveil the women and life is great, wohoo. But think about this- a repressed shabab (young people) are venting their frustrations on those of us who have a culture that does not force people in one direction or the other. They see Americans as liberal and free-thinking because our culture is such. I am not one to flaunt an American flag, and I haven’t really been proud of my Americaness until Obama came along, but I think this is worth noting:

Egypt is repressed and depressed. What depression and negativity I am experiencing here is a tiny, tiny piece of what the Egyptians my age have experienced throughout their lives. I think our issues obviously manifest themselves in different ways (I mean, Egyptian men don’t suffer from sexual harassment, but inflict it), but I think that part of my experience here is experiencing their side of things….

Not sure if that’s w3dh (clear) or not, but that’s one idea any way.

I want to get one other thing off my chest, then I promise I am done…that is, unless you’ve stopped reading because you have decided I have completely lost it…not quite the Galen most of y’all know, eh?

My complaint is about the American guys in the program with me.

No, seriously. I didn’t realize how very envious I am of them until the other day.

I was exploring a market with a couple of American guy friends, an Egyptian guy, and another girl. The guys talked to anyone and everyone they saw on the street. I, in contrast, was so focused on avoiding eye-contact and potential harassment that I didn’t take in the sights and sounds surrounding me.

I was in a market, in freaking Egypt, and I didn’t take in the aroma, the tastes, the sounds, the colors, the life and vibrancy.

I would like to say that I truly enjoyed exploring the back-streets of Egypt with my friends, but it was not the experience I had been expecting to have.

Never has my gender inhibited me from enjoying life to its fullest, until here. And that’s not acceptable. Not one little bit.

As to the title for this entry:

I needed some music without words, and Clara gave me a bunch of songs from her itunes. The name of one is “first breath after the coma.”

As I was lying in the garden today, taking my first nap in the glorious sunshine of Egypt, I was listening to my ipod so as to drown out the world (sort of emo, but you guys get that, I’m sure). This song began to play right as I began to fall asleep, and I let out a very contented sigh.

You take it from there.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0o8JCxjjpM

Dear Egypt, I love you, but….

Why is there no dating here, and girls get married to the first guy they go out with after a period of two years engagement?

Why can’t I just approach people and talk to them?

Why is there trash covering the streets, when there are trashcans on every corner?

Why can’t I walk down the street without catcalls, stares, and stalkers?

Why do McDonald’s employees insist upon speaking English?

Why do people cross the Kornish?

Why are postcards next to impossible to find here?

Why do we eat falafel at breakfast?

Why am I addicted to Nescafe, and what the heck is it?

Why do random people ask for my picture?

Why have I seen a million cats, but no dogs?

Why is the Tram so very cheap?

Why does a smile from a girl suggest romantic interest?

Why do men think they own the world?

Why are the Egyptian women jealous of the harassment foreign women receive?

Why does my bed sag in the middle?

Why do taxi drivers ask if I’m married?

Why am I allowed to take pictures in museums?

Why don’t Egyptians sleep?

Why is the Call to Prayer really loud some times, and others, I don’t even hear it?

Why do I think 65 degrees Fahrenheit is cold?

Why is soccer so big here, and why do I watch it obsessively?

Why am I addicted to dominoes?

Why are there no squirrels in Egypt?

Words are not enough:

Edward Said and Sam Liebhaber would be disappointed….

SIWA:

There aren’t really words to describe the vast majesty that is the Sahara. Nor are there words for the silence.

The eerie and totally exotic music thrumming in the back-ground as the safari jeep plunges nose-first, straight down, into a mountain of sand. Wind whips by the open windows, sand filtering in everywhere despite attempts to keep it out.

There are no words for the sensation of watching a pink sunset spread out as far as the eye can see. The perfect clouds that I’ve only dreamed of, the layers of pink, orange and purple piled on top of each other.

The laughter from a temporary camp as the drivers- Siwians- drink Siwa tea and sheesha.

The chaos that is the sound of echoing drums in frozen air in a fire-lit camp, their rhythm pounding across the open land. It is heard by all and none- that’s how mysterious this place is….

The silence of a star-filled sky, crooning to a guitar

All watched from the top of a sandy peak, nothing in sight, but the flames of a setting sun.