Just for the Aladeen of It

About a week ago, to celebrate the start of Eid al-Fitr, a holiday that comes at the conclusion of Ramadan, Azza and I drove to Bandar Cinema, a multi-screen complex located in Maadi, and bought tickets to see Sacha Baron Cohen’s latest, an over-the-top, campy thing called The Dictator.  To give you a little taste of what was on offer that evening, I’ve included the official movie trailer.

 

Earlier in the day, a few hours before we set out for the theater, I had Azza call the place just to make sure it would be open for business and to check that the film would come with Arabic subtitles.  The woman who answered the phone gave us an affirmative to both queries and then warned, speaking in a really serious voice as she did so, that the film was definitely not for children, a fact that was also made clear to anyone who happened to look at the movie poster on display at Bandar’s front door. 

     

Because I was familiar with some of Cohen’s earlier work, I knew what we were in for, and I tried to warn Azza about the director’s acting style and sense of humor before the film began.  I explained how much he liked to lampoon things.  I told her that he enjoyed making many moviegoers feel really uncomfortable.

To this day, I feel that Borat is one of the funniest and most interesting films of all time.  At the conclusion of The Dictator, I was a lot less sure that Cohen had succeeded.  I felt, many times during the movie, that he was being way too self-indulgent.  That said, I would still recommend the film to anyone who hasn’t seen it.

I suppose I mainly wanted to see the movie because I was curious how an Egyptian audience would respond, especially given the country’s recent history and the current political situation.  How, I wondered, would viewers in this part of the world react to a film about a dictator?  Plus, I wanted to know if they’d be able to handle a work that portrayed North Africans in stereotypical (and even offensive) ways. 

My answer to these questions came as soon as those around me laughed uproariously at Cohen’s first gag.  From that point forward, I sat back, relaxed, and got into the film.

I’m a Regular Mister

One of the things I like to do, when I'm not at work at The American University in Cairo, is frequent a place called The Green Mill, a cafe-restaurant located in my neighborhood, a suburban district called Maadi, which is located several miles to the south of the city's loud and chaotic downtown.  Because I spend so much time at The Green Mill, I have earned the right to be called a "regular."

The Green Mill doesn't sound Middle Eastern or Egyptian.  Sometimes, though, when the many nearby mosques start up with the call to prayer and the Muezzins' voices are bouncing off of everything outside, creating an echo chamber effect, I'm reminded where I am.  I'm situated once again.

All The Green Mill servers here are pleasant Egyptian men who ride bicycles to work.  I sometimes see them peddling down the street.  To a man, they always sit on their seats with straight backs, looking very dignified and with their legs pumping, but slowly.  I nod and show them my smile, and they say, in passing, "Hi, Mister."  For some reason, it's always "Hi Mister" even though they all know my name.

The eatery has a TV mounted high on one of its walls.  Sometimes it's turned on, sometimes not.  Often, at night especially, when there's a football game on (we Americans would say soccer) the waiters spend an inordinate amount of time in its vicinity.  When there's a score, some of the fellows celebrate and others turn their backs and walk away in disgust.  On such evenings, I always feel a little guilty asking for a second cappuccino or whatever.

The Green Mill management decided a while back to put in wireless, so I often bring my computer.  I'm always amazed at how I can sit in a cafe in Cairo, and bring up the Austin-American Statesmen (I'm from Texas) with just a few clicks.

Because Maadi is a very international district, people from every nook and cranny of the planet frequent The Green Mill.  I know it's always risky to make generalizations, but I'll go ahead and take the risk anyway.  When the Egyptians come, they drink Turkish coffee and smoke cigarettes.  When the Europeans come, they order vegetarian meals and hold their eating utensils a certain way, fork in one hand and the knife in the other.  When the Americans come, they order the "Green Mill Burger" and talk loudly, often about very personal things, things the Europeans (and others) would keep secret.  When the Canadians come, they act like Americans but they are quieter and a touch less confessional.  When the Japanese come, they order soup and lean toward one another and speak in near whispers. 

One of the beautiful things about coming to this little cafe, is that I can learn about the world and its peoples over a steaming cup of tea or while dipping Arabic bread into a bowl of delicious foul.

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Epilogue

I wrote this piece a year or so ago.  I intended to try and publish it with NPR, one of their “All Things Considered” pieces, but never got around to it.  I might still try to do that.

I discovered it recently when I was going back through a bunch of old folders that were crammed with unpublished writings. 

It’s a bitter-sweet piece now.  That’s because Green Mill closed a few months ago.  Today, when I thought about publishing this piece on my blog, I walked over to the old place, now in shambles, and took a couple of photos, which aren’t that impressive.  (I guess pics of this sort would tend not to be.)

I’ve included them here.  I took one through the plate glass window, which turned out to be saddest. 

I guess eateries are just like people—both seem to come and go in our lives.