Hunker Down

This morning, on the bus from Maadi to The American University in Cairo’s new campus, located in posh and remote Katemeya, I sat next to John, a teaching colleague and buddy.  The two of us spent the forty-five-minute trip—traffic was good and never got snarled, not even once, or we would have had an even longer conversation—talking about the current political situation in Egypt.

I prefaced my remarks to him by saying I thought this little piece of northeast Africa was on the path taken by Libya and Syria, meaning that it was headed toward a bloody civil war.  My friend wasn’t as pessimistic as I was, though he seemed, as we bounced along on the city’s potholed roads, to find a lot of what I was saying quite convincing.

For the past five days, Egypt, especially Port Said, Suez, and Ismailia, right on down to its massive capital, has been wracked by ugly protests and riots.  The two-year anniversary of the revolution against Mubarak and the court ruling on last year’s football massacre at a match in Port Said, were the sparks that got the bonfire raging, but days later now, the anger has become more diffuse.

Watch Egypt's Morsi Hoped Violence Would Burn Out, Spreads Instead on PBS. See more from PBS NewsHour.

The video provides a pretty good overview.  What it doesn’t address is Morsi’s recent attempt to call for dialogue with the opposition, an offer that was unceremoniously rejected.  Now, the country, quite literally, continues to burn as the political sides sit and stare at one another across a great divide. 

The Western media is actually missing a lot of the story.  The local Egyptian TV news coverage is much more immediate and clearly shows the scale of the unrest.  For the past few nights, Azza and I have been sitting together, in front of our flat screen, and watching events unfold in real time.  We’ve seen it all, and heard it all too, as a variety of pundits, mostly “liberals,” relentlessly bash Morsi and his Brotherhood.     

Egypt’s failing economy is the backdrop to all of this craziness.  The currency is being devalued as I write this.  (A month ago, it took 6 Egyptian pounds to buy a dollar, and today, it takes 6.6.)  We’ve seen the results of this devaluation with our own eyes.  When we tried to buy dollars for our Italy trip, we had to go to several currency exchange shops before we could find any greenbacks in stock.  There was panic buying on the street and black marketers were taking advantage of this mood of uncertainty.  My wife, who is a caterer of fine Italian cuisine and thus a serious shopper, has seen a spike in food prices recently.

Things just feel like they’re spiraling out of control or coming unglued, whatever metaphor you want to use.

And now, there’s this sobering pronouncement by General Abdel Fattah al-Sisi.     

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.

***

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.