Not by the Book

In less than two weeks I’ll be leaving Texas and my family to return to “Um Al-Dunya.”  On my way back “home”—a wanderer like me has to put that word in quotation marks—I’ll make a brief, three-day stop in Madrid, Spain, to break up my trip.

I’ve already spent time in Madrid’s Barajas airport, but that doesn’t count.  Thus, this will be my first time in the land of bullfighting and flamenco.

If Spain turns out to be anything like Portugal, a place I visited a couple of years ago, then I’m in for a treat.  As a matter of fact, I’d put Lisbon on my list of favorite European cities.  I’d add Amsterdam, Krakow, Prague, Valletta, and Bucharest to that exclusive group.  Wait.  Throw Istanbul in too.  (The interesting parts of that Turkish behemoth are in Europe, albeit just barely.)

I’ve already reserved a room in Hotel Meninas, a four-star facility that’s located in the heart of the city, walking distance away from palaces, squares, museums, parks, eateries, bars, shopping districts, and you name it. 

In the world of travelers, there are those who consult guidebooks and those who don’t.  I’d definitely put myself in the latter group.  Before jetting off, I read just enough about my destination to make sure I can get from the airport to my hotel without too much hassle.  I also want to learn enough to get a feel for the sort of city I’ll be visiting and its basic layout—I might carry a map with me or get one soon after my arrival.  Other than that, I like to wander, turn down narrow alleyways, get “lost,” and make accidental discoveries.

My trip to Romania, several years ago, epitomized this sort of travel.  To get there, I went on a twenty-hour train ride from Istanbul to Bucharest.  I didn’t have a hotel reservation upon disembarking but managed to find an atmospheric place, near Revolution Square, after a bit of trial and error.  I then spent the next few days stumbling upon many beautiful spots, like the Cişmigiu Gardens.

Of course, this approach also has its risks, and I occasionally find myself in a dodgy neighborhood in some unfamiliar city.  This happened in Bucharest, and I was accosted by three robbers, pretending to be police officers.  We wrestled around for awhile, and they nearly ended up making off with my wallet and all its contents.

Yes, they nearly enriched themselves at my expense.  Actually, in some strange way, I feel like that whole episode enriched me.  It certainly made my visit to Bucharest that much more memorable. 

    

Egg on My Face

It’s confession time.  Before flying to Texas in early June I worried that someone in my very politically conservative family might inadvertently offend Azza by making derogatory comments about Muslims in her presence.  After all, we would be traveling deep into the heart of the Lone Star State, a place where many were radicalized by the events of 9/ll.  To make matters worse, lots of impressionable Texans obsessively watch FOX news and uncritically accept everything they hear coming from those Islamophobic talking heads.  

Prior to our departure, Azza and I even discussed how we would handle such a situation if it were to arise.  We finally hit upon the idea that we simply wouldn’t discuss religion at all, with anyone, even if pressed to do so.   

My Aunt Betsy was one of those I was most worried about.  During my visit to Texas the previous summer, she’d questioned me about Egypt and Egyptian cultural practices.  During the course of our conversation, she’d said a few things that left me feeling a bit uncomfortable.  As a result, I fretted about what might come out of her mouth when she came face to face with Azza.

When the two finally met, they acted like long-separated friends that had just been reunited.  In other words, they hugged and chatted like there was no tomorrow.  They even asked me to photograph them together, a request I immediately honored.  Aunt Betsy, who has a wonderful sense of humor and is very outspoken, said to me, as soon as I was done taking the picture, “Show it to us so we can decide who is the prettiest.”  Her comment cracked up everyone, including Azza.  

Now that most of the Texas trip is behind us, I can say that my fears were totally overblown.  The subject of religion did come up numerous times, and I have to admit that I cringed each time that it did.  To her credit, though, Azza talked openly about being a Muslim and demonstrated, in lots of different ways, that not all of its followers are wild-eyed radicals, as many unfortunately assume.  Conversely, everyone listened carefully to what she had to say and learned a lot in the process.

I’ve learned lessons too—not to jump to conclusions about some of my kinfolk.   

Two Thousand Words

Back in May I blogged about my impending marriage to Azza Omar, an Egyptian I met while living in Maadi, a leafy suburb of Cairo.  Well, given everything that’s happened in recent weeks, I can see that an update is in order. 

The nuptials took place, as advertised, back on the evening of the last day of May, and then the two of us set off on an extended trip that has been part honeymoon and part opportunity to introduce Azza to her new American in-laws. 

Our first stop was in Rome, Italy, where we ate enough pizza and pasta and bruschetta to add considerably to our beltline circumferences.  In an attempt to minimize our weight gains, we spent the daytime hours wandering the cobblestoned streets and alleys of The Eternal City.  We soaked up the sights like two thirsty sponges.  (By the way, I’ve got photos and videos of the place that I’ll eventually post.)

After that, we flew, with the Delta Airlines bunch, to America, making stops in New York City along the way.  We eventually ended up in Austin, Texas, where my dad and stepmother live.  Actually, they reside in a bedroom community called Georgetown, which is just up I-35 from the Lone Star State’s capital city.

From there, we set off to the hinterlands, otherwise known as West Texas.  Actually, what I really want to share with you is a couple of photos I took of my maternal grandmother (aka “Memaw”) who will (inshallah) celebrate her ninety-sixth birthday next month.  Memaw—yes, I know it sounds terribly down home to refer to her that way—resides in a little town that you’d be hard pressed to even find on a map.  If you don’t believe me, pick one up and try to locate Christoval, Texas.  (Hint:  it’s not far from San Angelo.)

When Azza and Memaw met and hugged one another, it was like the meeting of two civilizations that had hitherto never encountered one another.  Azza is Muslim and from the Middle East, and Memaw is an American WASP who couldn’t tell you what Islam is if her life depended on it.  Anyway, despite those glaring differences, the two hugged and bonded like there was no tomorrow.  It warmed my heart to see it happen too.

The other photo, I suppose, is pretty self-explanatory.