Grandfather

My Grandfather passed away this week.

He was almost 90 years old and has been sick for a very long time.  He hasn’t really been aware of anyone for a number of years and has been in intensive car for a while, so elhamdulela hopefully he’s at peace now.

Death is always a shock, though. It’s always a reminder that our time here on this world is finite, and that one day, you’ll leave everything behind. Your family, your money, your status, everything. A man’s father once died and he asked a sheikh for advice. The sheikh answered him: If death is not enough advice to you, then there is nothing I can say.

Like a wedding day, for one day you are the most important person there is. People come to see you, and to bid you goodbye as you start another stage of your life. But then they disperse. For one day, we all stayed by my grandfather’s side. Then we buried him, and left him.

It’s sobering.

And then came the part I hate most: elaza, the equivalent of a wake. It’s usually held in a mosque, and people come to give you their condolences and sit for a while listening to Qur’an. Sounds simple right?

First, you have to put the announcement in Al-Ahram newspaper at least. The size of the announcement is relative to the importance of your family, so even when in death you have to think of your social status. The mosque you choose also speaks about your family. And so does the qare’who recites the Qur’an.

It makes me sick sometimes, how you have to keep up appearances all the fricking time.

And then I hate how the event turns into a social event, with all the MLFs and desperate housewives preening with their botoxed faces and catching up with their fellow social butterflies. And checking my sister and I out as potential wives for their sons! One woman even came up to me to berate me for not starting things up with the boy (this being Egypt, news gets around fast), telling me about how many mothers wanted him for their daughters (including her, no doubt) but how picky he was. But he chose you! she said. Uh-huh.

Retch.

New Wheels

My dad just bought me a new car.

I usually chastise him for his impetuous buys, but I can’t find the heart to do so this time. I love it.

And it’s not just any new car, but a ridiculous seven-figure car which is owned by less than half a dozen people in Egypt.

A car that is so intensely masculine, I can almost feel the testosterone waves hitting me when I get close to it.

A drool-worthy car.

I love it.

But at the same time, it kind of repulses me.

I feel so confused sometimes. Part of me is in love with the car, what it represents, how badass I look driving it–a veiled Egyptian woman hell yeah!

But part of me thinks it’s the height of craziness to spend so much money on a car when 40% of Egyptians live on less than $2 a day. Part of me hates the ostentatiousness that goes with the lifestyle I live. Hates that material things are so important. Is scared that the more and more I spend, the more lavishly I live, the less happy I will be.

I remember my happiness when I was first learning how to drive. The pure joy I felt the first time I took the car out alone. And it was a broken down, 10 year old Daewoo. And then my joy when I finally got my car. The shrieking and the happiness. But when I saw the new car my dad had bought me and registered in my name parked outside my house, I was happy, but not as happy.

The thing is, there’s only so happy you can be. And the more lavish the gift, the harder it is to match. If I accept this car, then what will I drive when I’m 30? 40? What else is there to drive? A McLaren?

I love my dad, I really do. But to him, material objects are so completely worthless, he doesn’t understand their allure. He buys his ties off street vendors. He’s breakfasted on fuul and ta’meya since he was a kid. He’s one of the most powerful men in Egypt and to him that doesn’t mean squat . The world to him is definitely like the Prophet Mohammad advised: in his hand but not his heart.

Unfortunately, I’m not quite there yet. I’m nowhere even near there. So when my father insists on buying me the most expensive stuff, he’s not doing me a favor. He doesn’t understand how corruptible things are. He doesn’t understand that when you get everything you want and things you didn’t even think of wanting, they kind of cease to have much value.

He doesn’t understand that when I drive this car, crusing with my aviator sunglasses on, inside I’m preening. I’m soaking in the admiring glances. When policemen fall all over themselves to let me pass when I come to an intersection, stopping traffic in the hopes I’ll be kind and give them something, I start to think I’m somehow better than anyone else.

He doesn’t understand that even if I marry the richest guy in the world, no one is like him with money. No one treats it like it’s Monopoly money.

And he doesn’t understand that the more and more stuff he insists on giving me, the further away we get from normal people. I got my Centurion Amex card, the infamous ‘black’ card, the day I turned 21. I got a bank account opened with my name and millions deposited in it. How on earth can I sustain this lifestyle? I can’t. And no guy my age can. And the more I live like this, the harder it’ll be to give it up.

I would be intimidated by a guy I saw driving my new car. What will a guy think if he sees me driving it?

But I want it.

The Boy is Gone

The Boy is Gone
The Boy is Gone
The Boy is Gone

(To the tune of ‘The Boy is Mine’).

It didn’t work out. On one hand, I’m kind of disappointed, but on the other: phew!

He was a really good guy. On my ‘potential husband’ checklist, he’d had more ticks than any other guy I’ve met.  He was great, and very, very eligible. His family name is instantly recognizzable, and as one of Cairo’s most eligible bachelors, he’d had his pick of women. And he liked me, a lot. I could tell. Unfortunately:

He was 12 years older than I was.
He couldn’t speak English.
He couldn’t use a computer.
He hated traveling (!)
He hated fast food.
He hated restaurants.
He disliked the movies.
He disliked married couples going out together.
He went to sleep at 9pm and woke up at fajr time.
He wanted lots of kids right away.

There’s more, but honestly, that’s more than enough. Before I even learnt all the above, the fact that he hated traveling spoke volumes to me. Hating traveling means you hate anything new or different. Hate new experiences. Do not like to be challenged or in any way discomfited. I’m an Ibn Battuta wannabe. Each reason on its own seems trivial: I mean, can you really dislike someone because they like to eat healthy? But taken altogether showed that we had very different interests.

But he was nice. He sent me a big bunch of flowers…

Oh well. I hope he finds someone that’s a better match for him. We would never have worked out. I am not a woman who would be content sitting at home with a nursery full of kids.

Other than that, this week has been interesting. The Sound and Light show at the pyramids hosted the amazing Turkish Anatolia ballet group, and then Egypt had it’s first comedy rumble. Easter came and with it came a lot of fish and feseekh. Colored eggs are so passe!

Henna Party

Sexy henna

Yay!

Went to a henna party yesterday and had so much fun. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve gotten all dressed up. As I’ve mentioned before, I seem to be visiting more hospital rooms than I am ballrooms, so a henna party is a lot of fun.

I finally got to wear the GF Ferre dress I’ve been hoarding for ages for a ‘chique’ henna. I bought it on a whim because it’s not really a dress you can make hijab friendly and it’s been languishing in my closet ever since.

So what’s a henna party? Basically a hen party, though the similarity of the terms is a coincidence.

Henna is a dye that is used to paint designs on your skin, which disappears after a week or so. Before they get married, brides get henna done at these henna parties, though unlike Indians, it’s usually a simple design. Personally, I prefer a design somewhere on my body rather than hands or feet.

Anyway, so it’s a woman only party held a few days before a woman gets married. We don’t just dress up, we go all out. Think dresses, heels, makeup, hair, hired ballroom just for women, and female dj and caterers.

Depending on the family, in addition to hiring a (usually) Nubian woman to paint henna designs on all the women, they may also hire a troupe of women entertainers who will dress up the bride-to-be in a variety of outfits (oriental woman, bellydancer, etc) and get the guests to dance. The bride’s friends will dance all night, and their mothers will gossip and check out the girls to matchmake with potential husbands. For veiled women in particular, this is a great opportunity since they get the opportunity to show potential mothers-in-law how pretty they can be. The henna parties usually start around 8ish and last to the wee hours of the morning.

My feet are killing me though. Not really used to dancing in five-inch stilletto heels. But I had fun. I love dancing and don’t often get a chance to do so. And dancing in front of the mirror at home is no fun. It was especially fun shocking the older women with some very un-traditional dance moves. Think gyrating hips slowly till you end up almost squatting on the floor before snapping back up

Sometimes, I love being a girl.

I heart Egypt

I heart Egypt

I lurve my country sometimes. I really really do. I was driving through the city today with the windows rolled down listening to Dalida’s Helwa Ya Balady (Egypt my beautiful country), and I felt this sudden rush of love for my country. Yes, it’s crowded and poor and polluted and corrupt. But it’s my country. Dalida was one of Egypt’s Jews, who were all kicked out during President Gamal Abdelnasser’s time. She sang this song after she left, singing about how much she wanted to come back.

Things I love about my country:

• How friendly people are. You’ll always get directions (even if they have no idea where the place is), you’ll have someone stop for you if your car tire goes flat, and your neighbors will help you out if you’re in trouble.
• Family. How important it is. How they’re always there for you.
• Our humor. Even if things are dismal, Egyptians still find something to joke about.
• Insh’Allah, Elhamdulela, Mash’Allah. Our faith.
• Our toorath, heritage, and our culture. We have pharonic, Islamic, and Arab history here. Our streets are filled with beautiful mosques and churches and even synagogues. Our museums are unbelievable. Khan El-Khalili is always a laugh. Sitting in el-Fishawy cafe and doing absolutely nothing are some of my fondest memories.
• A country that gave us the music of Abd Al-Haleem Hafiz and Um Kalthoum. Music that will lift you up no matter what.
• If you have no money whatsoever, you can still find beautiful things to do here.
• The Nile. Seriously. Until you’ve walked alongside the Corniche or taken a fuluka ride, you don’t know what you’re missing out on.
• Koshari, a uniquely Egyptian dish of pasta, rice, lentils, onions and chickpeas.
• The chaos. Yes, things are messy and bureaucratic but sometimes it’s wonderful.
• How you can get everything delivered. Aspirin. McDonalds. Sellotape.
• The bawab. An Egyptian institution. A man who supposedly guards your building with his wife and dozen kids, and knows everything about everything.
• How some of the best food and drink and outings and clothes are some of the cheapest.
• Taxi drivers. Some of the most philosophical conversations of my life were held in taxi cabs. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you check out the English translation of Taxi.
• Traveling out into the countryside with my grandma and visiting farmers and their families. Seeing how simple their lives are and how easy it is to make them happy.
• Egyptian bellydancing.
• Our TV series. The melodrama, the tragedy, the ecstasy. The spiritual twin of Bollywood.
• How we bargain.
• Our pride in announcing that “ana masri,” I’m Egyptian, to non-Egyptians.

Today is a day for lurve

Susan Boyle

How incredible is she?!

Red Bull X-Fighters

I was invited to the Red Bull X-fighters motocross-freestyle event at the pyramids yesterday, and I couldn’t go, dammit! Just look how cool it was:

Ze motorcycling

Tears

I was sitting in my room today, and suddenly I found myself crying when I thought of the guy–for no reason whatsoever. Admittedly, that’s not a good sign.

So let me try and diagnose the reasons why.

I cried because marriage scares me. Not because of the responsibility, but because I know of so few couple that are genuinely happy together once the bloom has left the rose, so to speak.

I cried because I’ve been single so long, and—as strange as this sounds—I’ve put marriage and love so completely to one side that whenever a semi-real possibility at a relationship appears, I freeze up. I’m so 100% ok with being single and enjoying it, that instead of thinking of the good aspects of marriage, I immediately think of all the things that now I’m not going to be able to do. Of the places I won’t be able to travel. Of how kids will be an anchor that’ll weigh me down. Of how much a man will limit what I do. Of being trapped. And that’s a horrible way to think. A relationship is supposed to add to your life, not take away.

But, like I read in a Cracked article once, “time spent single is a lot like time spent in the bathroom. It’s the most natural thing in the world, until you’re there just a moment too long. But once you hit that point, there’s no turning back. People start to wonder what’s wrong with you.”

Marriage is inevitable. Not only because my society expects in of me, but because I want to get married. I want to leave my father’s house, set up house on my own, be in a relationship, make lurve, and have babies.

I cried because by seriously considering this guy as my future hubby, I have to give up the dream honed by years of reading historical fiction: brooding, gorgeous, etc. I’m mature enough and old enough to know how ridiculous that sounds, but that’s there.

And, on a more realistic level, it means I have to give up my idea of a perfect man, because I know he doesn’t exist. He can’t. This is the dunya, the world, not paradise.

I cried because I’m considering a man who is a decade my senior and that means I have to give up a lot of things with no guarantee that he’s worth it.

Sorry for getting all heavy on you there. I’m not usually at all emo, but today was a thinking day. And hey, it’s not like I’m getting married today. I’ll get to know the guy. I like, we marry. I dislike, I dump him and next!

The Guy

I met a guy yesterday.

A really good, interesting guy. Not handsome, but not ugly. Religious but not overly so, smart, hardworking, very successful, loves his family, loves his country, helps out in the community, masculine, and didn’t seem intimidated by me. And as gold-diggery as this sounds, he’s also of a really good family–both social class and financial wise.

But here’s the deal: He’s 12 years older than I am. More than a decade.

That means he’s mature, which is good because I find most guys my age child-like. He’s actually one of the very few guys I’ve met (who aren’t my father’s generation) who I actually felt impressed by. Being in his 30’s means he’s serious about settling down, and isn’t just looking for a relationship.

But even though he keeps reiterating that age is nothing but a number, that he feels young at heart, it’s still scary. When I’m 28, he’ll be 40. That’s crazy.

A decade older means he knows exactly what he wants from his life. He already has everything planned out and I’m going to be slotted into his life. He won’t be up for trying new things, because he knows by now what he likes. I’m still in an exploring phase of life. He wants to settle down and have a bushel of kids. I want to travel, roam the world, try new things, be spontaneous. I’m extremely active in my life, and he seems to be the kind that likes to stay home with ‘the family.’ Will he have the energy to keep up with me?

Plus, his age isn’t as big a deal as the fact that I’m afraid he might come from a different generation. There are some people who are old, but act quite young. And vice versa. But even though he says he feels he’s’ young, I got the feeling that he was someone who is set in his ways and doesn’t like to try new things. How?

With the scariest facts of all: He can’t use a computer, and he barely speaks English.

Now, I know that makes me sound like the biggest snob in the world. But I’m afraid that those two facts are indicative of greater things. People in their 30’s are born in a time before a lot of major changes that happened in Egypt (ex internet, English, women working, etc) They had two options: either to stick with their parent’s generation or adapt and go with the flow. But he decided not to.

And if you’re not willing to learn new things, then are you really set in the past? How can you not know how to use a computer? My mother knows how to use one. How can you not read news online, read blogs, facebook, digg, anything? How can you not speak English? It’s almost a necessity in the world today. My education is one of the things that make me so different from other Egyptian women my age. And it’s something he didn’t get. He graduated from a so-so college.

So I’m afraid his age and lack of English skills will put us on different levels, and not only won’t he get cultural references, but depending on his personality it might really piss him off when I speak English. And I speak a lot of English–my English is, sadly, better than my Arabic. There’s already going to be a disconnect in our tastes because of the age difference, and it’s going to be made worse by the English barrier. He comes from a different background, went to completely different schools. I’m afraid that his upbringing is the one I hate: that makes boys into men, but into oriental, ‘share’y‘ (eastern) men who are da’a adeema (old fashioned). The kind who doesn’t think his ‘woman’ should be driving alone late, staying out past 10. But all this is pure speculation, of course. I don’t even know him yet. All this I got from a two hour conversation.

But let me admit something: he intimidates me somewhat.

Which is something not a lot of men can do. He’s just so sure of himself. The phrase in Arabic is ‘maly markazo,’ fulfilling his position. Something in me tells me that this is not a man I can control. This is a man who is used to being in control, getting his own way, and doing what he likes. And he’s never been married so I’m guessing he’s never had to compromise. Rather than worrying about whether he’ll keep up with me, I’m actually asking myself the question: will he ‘allow’ me do the stuff I do? I casually mentioned that I’ve traveled quite often on my own and he said my dad must be amazing to let me travel ‘alone.’ Plus, the sad thing is, even if he does ‘allow’ me to work, have my own life, etc, he doesn’t seem like the kind who would support and appreciate a woman working. He seems like he’d prefer a woman to stay at home, and would tolerate her working.

But the question is: can you have someone who knows exactly what he wants in this life, who’s mature and confident and successful, who doesn‘t have a very strong character? I think success and passivity are mutually exclusive characteristics.

I’m scared because I have a very strong character. I don’t submit and I would rather stay single for ever than marry someone who is interested in ‘controlling me,’ jealous, possessive, old-fashioned, and dictator-like. But I also hate wishy-washy guys. Guys who are content to take the back seat and let the woman do everything. I was in a relationship like that before and I thought I loved it in the beginning but then a couple of months later I couldn’t stand his indecisiveness and lack of forward-thinking.

I’ve decided that this guy has enough potential to see again. Besm Allah.

Abracadabra

Went to a ‘magic show’ today titled oh-so-originally, ‘Abracadabra‘

It was ok. Not great, but okay.

Four performances–The Pendragons from the USA, Quick Change artists Keelan & Charlotte, aerialist Kristi Toguchi from Hong Kong, and magician Jay Mottjoli from the USA.

My favorite performance was definitely the quick change artists. Saw a couple on Britain’s Got Talent a year ago, and I’ve wanted to see a performance in action since then.

A couple of the Pendragons’ tricks were cool but omg the rest took for ever. That trick with the interlocking rings? Purlease we’ve seen that since we were kids. The magician guy thought he was a stand up comedian with his jokes–I felt like I was in an 8 year old boy’s birthday party. The aerialist was cool when she was in the air, but I hated all her tricks, which revolved around her turning a ribbon into three, and vice versa.

All in all, an okay show. But it made me think that walahy Egyptian magic isn’t bad. I fondly recall ‘El-saher Sherif!‘ (Sherif the Magician) who was a guy who would show up at all the birthday parties when I was a kid and pour milk into newspapers, and turn it into a pigeon.

Oh, funniest thing about the show: The uniquely Egyptian promotional technique of giving out cheese spread sandwiches in Rich Bake bread to promote Accord, a new type of cheese spread (that was me plugging them because it’s actually pretty ingenious). And the unique Egyptians who seize any opportunity at free goodies by taking 10 sandwiches.

Ah, I love Egypt.