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.

On the Streets

I’ve got culture shock again.  I’ve just returned to Egypt after spending weeks in America, visiting family and friends.

Azza met me at Cairo International Airport on the morning of my arrival.  Of course, I was very happy to see her and immediately began telling her about my trip, especially about the flight across the Atlantic and the days I’d spent in Madrid.  I recalled how I’d felt like yelling “hallelujah” as soon at the big Boeing had touched down on the runway at Madrid-Barajas Airport.  The ride across “the pond” had taken place in the middle of the night, and about mid-ocean or thereabouts, hundreds of miles away from the nearest land, we ran into a storm.  With nothing but deep blue beneath us, the jumbo jet buckled wildly for what seemed like forever.  I’m not a good air traveler even during the best of circumstances.  When the circumstances are the worst—I can’t imagine a more turbulent and scary trip than the one I just had—I become an emotional basket case.

The three days I spent in Spain’s vibrant capital were just enough to whet my appetite.  Had I stayed there longer, though, I probably would have gotten exhausted.  One often hears cities being referred to as places that “never sleep,” but in Madrid’s case, it’s more than a cliché.  The metropolis seemed eerily uninhabited during the day, but then exploded with activity an hour or so after sundown.  The Spaniards also struck me as proud, impulsive, and wildly inventive.  One way the latter most clearly manifested itself was in the number and quality of street performances I ran across while walking about.

I used my Nikon to record some of these.  Unfortunately, my camera battery went completely dead on me at the moment I wished to capture the most impressive of all those I witnessed—it involved levitation and those participating must have employed some sort of very effective optical illusion to float the way that they did.  I had a hard time choosing which video to embed here.  I finally settled on this one, which shows a performance that took place in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor, one of the city’s iconic locations. 

I eventually dropped a Euro into the tip jar and promptly got the bejesus startled out of me when the three lunged forward.  My face immediately reddened and then I faded back into the crowd as nonchalantly as possible.  A few minutes later, I left the scene to see what else the city had to offer.

Later that same day, I discovered that some of Madrid’s buildings also like to perform, as you can see from the following clip. 

 

And the Winner Is…

My parents divorced during my eighth-grade year.  This prompted my mother to do one of the most courageous things she’s ever done.  She loaded all our worldly possessions into a U-Haul truck and moved our three-member household—minus my dad, of course—out west, to Big Spring, Texas.  Because she has lived there ever since, I continue to be connected to that little town out on the Great Plains.

Over the years, I’ve formed a love-hate relationship with the place.  I love its big skies and rugged, cowboy demeanor.  I adore its breezy, summer evenings.  I find its quietness—in contrast to Cairo’s loudness—extremely attractive.  I also like, very much, the town’s bicultural character—one often hears Spanish being spoken on the streets and Tejano music being broadcast across the airwaves.  As you might guess, Big Spring is chockfull of wonderful Tex-Mex restaurants. 

I don’t like the politics of much of the citizenry, though.  Many in town seemed happy during the Bush years, probably because one of their own—a god-fearing WASP with a real talent for jingoistic thinking and speaking—was occupying the White House.  Today, on the other hand, they believe that America’s “Marxist” president has to be stopped (before it’s too late!) because he has secret plans to do all sorts of evil things, like sending the feds house to house to confiscate guns.  When I hear one of the locals make such a claim, I never know whether to guffaw or sob.

When Azza was here, we’d often go on walks just as the sun was about to drop down behind the horizon line.  Now that she’s gone, this continues to be one of my favorite methods of passing the time.  As a matter of fact, I took my trusty Nikon along on one of these recent strolls so that you could see a bit of Big Spring. 

I want to say a few things before you watch.  I apologize for the poor audio during certain portions of my little, two-part documentary.  (I did refer to the evenings here as “breezy,” and you’ll hear evidence of that here.)  I also suppose I should warn you ahead of time.  There’s very little chance that my movie is going to be receiving any Academy Award nominations in the near future.

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. 

    

Killing Time

Azza flew back to Cairo a few days ago.  Her trip was an arduous one.  She went from Austin, Texas, to Atlanta, Georgia, and then on to Europe.  Her first stop in the Old World was Milan, Italy.  She then had a short flight to Rome and finally, nearly twenty-four hours after she began, she made the last leg into Egypt’s capital city.

We’ve been talking, daily, on Skype ever since her arrival, and I frequently take snapshots of her while we’re chatting.  This is one of my favorites. 

 

I’ve been reading as one way to keep myself busy during her absence.  Luckily, in my mother’s house, I’ve got a whole stash of books I’ve been meaning, for the past several years, to look at.  Many of them are memoirs, my favorite.  Two nights ago, I started one by Julian Barnes called Nothing to Be Frightened Of. 

In his memoir, Barnes writes about his thoughts on death and family and religion and refers to himself as an “agnostic.”  There’s a scene, early on, when he views his mother’s body, at the hospital, not long after her demise.  He admits that he went to see her there entirely out of curiosity, the sort that writers necessarily have.

The book makes me think about my own aging parents.  For years, my father has been talking about dying and his own coming END.  This, I think, is extremely healthy, though it makes some uncomfortable.  For example, he said something on the subject around Azza, during our visit, and she shuddered and then covered her ears upon hearing his words.  These are very hard things for some people to listen to. 

By the way, my father is an artist, and I wanted to include a couple of photos, the first one of him working and the second of a finished piece.  What I’m about to say might sound strange, but I think some of the beauty of his creations comes from the fact that he knows his time, on this planet, is limited.  

It just so happens that my father and stepmother’s house, in Georgetown, Texas, is located near Odd Fellows Cemetery, the place where my paternal grandparents now “rest.”  One evening I took a walk to Odd Fellows—that’s a perfect name for a graveyard—with the sole purpose in mind of locating their grave sites, which I managed to do.  The proof can be found below.

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.   

Me Riding a Pig

My mom lives in this little town in West Texas called Big Spring.  It’s located in a part of the state where the land flattens out and the sky opens up.  The opening scenes of Midnight Cowboy were filmed there decades ago, back before Webb Air Force base shut down and the place went into an economic tailspin.  Being the setting for that classic movie is Big Spring’s one claim to fame.    

Every summer, when I’m back in the United States, I travel out to that little hamlet on the Great Plains to visit the woman most responsible for my personhood.  We spend the hot days and breezy evenings getting caught up.  This year’s visitation is a special one because I have Azza, my new Egyptian wife, with me.    

When we arrived in Big Spring several weeks ago, there was a carnival in town.  It had set up on a large parking lot adjacent to an empty, boarded-up structure that had once housed a supermarket.  We vowed, on that first day, to spend an evening at the midway before it packed up and moved on. 

Three or four evenings later, we borrowed my mom’s blue Pontiac and drove to the carnival.  It appeared that everyone in town had had the same idea because the place was packed.  We ended up eating cotton candy, watching teenagers scream while riding something called The Zipper, and trying our hands at a variety of contests with the intent of winning cheap, stuffed animals.  (Sadly, we weren’t successful in any of our endeavors.)     

As the night progressed, I ended up taking a few photos, a smattering of which I’ve included here.  I couldn’t help getting a little artsy-fartsy with some of them.

I’ve included the last picture as a bonus—a freebie.  It was actually taken a day or so after our night at the carnival, at The Big Spring Mall, a little shopping center that has a carnival-like atmosphere (as you can probably tell from the image).  I had loads of fun while riding a plastic replica of a razorback.  After inserting a quarter, the thing pitched to and fro for all it was worth. 

I’m happy to report that I remained astride the thing despite its energetic exertions.