Solo Travel

"I looked for you last night," said the flat owner. "I was going to a party."

"Oh," I spoke quickly, with a nervous laugh. "I was at Sagrada Familia taking photos."

"Would you have gone?"

"Well… no."

He said he was going to another party tonight. I made excuses and fled, unable to properly explain that I didn't want to go to any parties, talk to anyone, and that I wanted to be alone.

And so I walked aimlessly, with no destination in mind, solely with the purpose of avoiding the flat. I walked and walked, up out of Raval, out of the old city past the hordes of tourists, past three Starbucks, past Plaza Catalunya and the Saturday shoppers. I walked until, exhausted, I stumbled into of one of those assembly-line all-you-can-eat places that serves pizza, pasta, rice, and potato dishes. All the carbs you can eat.

"Why the hell did I pay ten euros for this crap?" I wondered as I stared at the hardening spaghetti, rice, and watery "gazpacho" on offer.

I knew why, even as I asked myself the question.

Anonymity.

I seek out anonymity everywhere I go. I'm only partially connected to anywhere, a semi-stranger even in that place called home. I'm comfortable being anonymous and disconnected.

I don't want to go to Spanish parties. Nor do I want to go to parties in New York. I barely want to go to parties in Egypt. "Stalking the Wild Dik-Dik" was one long essay about overcoming fear of commitment, of not being afraid to connect with others, but over the last two years, I've completely backslid.

Bouncing around the world has benefits. I'm semi-comfortable anywhere. I assimilate quickly. I can figure out how things get done in a society in about a week. But then there are drawbacks too.

When world travelers crow that they've become citizens of the world, what they don't mention is that it is at the expense of home. Deep roots erode over time, until home has changed to the point where it's no longer home. And even if it looks the same, the friends you left behind have evolved in their lives. You gain the world but you lose home. You belong everywhere but also nowhere.

And then there's this. An even-scarier concept.

Maybe it's not world travelers. Maybe it's just me.

Public Privacy

I did it! I invested 17 euros in a Tin-Tin caganer. I'm still not altogether sure I need this, but Edward Readicker-Henderson suggested I could tend caganers as a new hobby in order to keep my mind off of unpleasant thoughts when I have newly discovered down time. (There was no down time when I was editing comics in the US, proofreading for Kuwait, and managing an office in Cairo.)

Tin-Tin can take up residence pooing next to Fidel Castro on my souvenir shelf, just like he did in the store.

Speaking of poo, there's a delicate topic here in Barcelona that I find somewhat odd. It's the placement of toilets.

Toilets have to go somewhere, of course, and in urban living there are all kinds of interesting sounds that echo throughout apartment complexes. But it still seems odd to me that the bathrooms usually open onto airshafts, and so do many kitchens.

Airshafts here are on the compact side. This amounts to the private-apartment version of public toilet stalls. Add this to the echo-effect produced by the airshaft and the number of families congregating in the kitchens, and you have a somewhat embarrassing situation.

This has been the case in three of the four apartments I've rented in this fine city.

I've learned to "avert my ears" as I prepare my lunch or my morning coffee. That is, pretend I can't hear what I can hear. Maybe I'm squeamish. Anyway, everyone else has been "averting their ears" their entire lives. So it's no big deal. I guess it's me with the hang-up, not the Spanish.

The Holy Family

I am a little bored here, all alone in Barcelona. So tonight I took a field trip up to Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's eternally under-construction masterpiece.

Sometimes, when I look at his buildings, I think that Gaudi must have been quite a strange man.

The Amazing Glamour of International Life

Today in Spain, I:

1) Did my laundry.



2) Picked up a CD for Nabeel in Kuwait.



3) Picked up some absinthe for a friend in the States.



4) Sat in the Pans & Co near El Corte Ingles and used the free wifi from the square to talk to the office, while buskers played below. I had to buy a coffee to sit in Pans.



5) Bought two new shirts that were on sale. (The low dollar is killing me!)



6) Oogled two new caganers, one of Tin-Tin and one of the Michelin Man.



7) Went to the post office. But I forgot to take a photo.

Cairo to Milan to Raval

Spanky and Captain M saw me off to my three a.m. flight.

"You never know what will happen," said Captain M. "Maybe they will send you back in a week. Maybe you will not even make it home from Spain."

Well, that seems unlikely. We said goodbye, and I felt like a harlot hugging the boys in public on the Cairo street. I forgot to ask if it was against the rules during Ramadan, but then, to hell with people thinking I'm a harlot. By their standards, I am. I yam what I yam. Marie the Infidel Tramp. Whatever.

At the airport, a thug in a uniform threw my Ramadan lantern onto the x-ray machine belt along with heavy bags.

"No, you'll crush it!" I protested in horror.

He then asked me for money.

I checked in, then sat miserably picking at the thin metal strips of my Ramadan lantern. The one Spanky-Mohamed bought for me. I didn't exactly resurrect it, but I didn't have the heart to throw it away either. Anyway, there were no trash cans at Cairo airport. Possibly a security thing.

The Ramadan lantern is currently in a luggage locker at Barcelona airport, along with the wheeled duffel I bought in this very city in January.

At Milan Malprensa (a overcrowded airport, one of my least favorites with its only redeeming feature being the availability of pizza for breakfast), I sipped a cappuccino while standing. There were no trashcans here either, so everyone put their napkins and emptied sugar packets into dirty coffee cups. I watched as an older Italian man strolled over and threw his rubbish into a full cup of coffee that a Japanese businessman had been drinking. The Japanese guy was a good sport about it.

In Barcelona, my apartment wasn't ready, so I ended up in the owner's personal apartment. I dropped off my luggage and wanted nothing more than a shower, a chance to do my laundry, and a nap. But the cleaner was still working on the flat. Grimy from sleeping on the plane and still in my sweaty clothes that I'd carried bags in, I wandered off down the street.

I was dirty, stinking a bit, behind on my work, delirious from lack of sleep, and wistful for what I'd left behind.

But the sun was out, a breeze was blowing, and I was in Barcelona. I love Barcelona.

The Fork in the Road

I couldn't sleep after the mosque called Cairo to its early morning fast, then finally fell into a restless dreamy state, where I ran into my ex, HM of Dik-Dik infamy. Strangely, he was living (with a woman) under an assumed name, while working at a college radio station as an intern. At a shopping center. In Israel. And he wouldn't speak to me when I called him by his real name, so I had to address him as Raghul. Which all seemed plausible in my dream. And then I woke up and realized the assumed name was a bastardization of the villain's name in the comic book I edit.

That was nearly as disturbing as the nightmares I used to have in Namibia after "Raghul's" sudden disappearance, so I went ahead and got out of bed, though it was just after five a.m.

Anxiety dream? But why? Nothing too worrying is happening.

Ah, but I leave Cairo tonight and suddenly I am full of doubt. I am uncertain as to which path to proceed on, blinking as I stumble along at a fork in the road.

I enjoy living in Cairo. It would be no-big-thing to get transferred here for keeps. Should I go home? Should I come back? Could I really make a life here, join the gym, buy a colonial-era flat and renovate it? Have I really resolved to be a single, independent woman forever, to live life on my terms without being too fussed that I neglected my basic human duties of family in a society where the family unit is utterly important? To do all this in Cairo? Is that crazy talk?

I'm a good expat. It suits me. My theory is that I'm alienated anyway, and when I'm out of my own country, at least I have a justification for being alienated.

But as soon as I bought my ticket to Barcelona, I mentally checked out of Cairo. Two weeks ago, I was loving my life here. Yesterday, I couldn't wait to leave. And now, I'm having anxiety dreams.

I will go to Barcelona, buy some new clothes, and get work done for both the Cairo and New York offices, so that when I go in to work in New York in one week, I'm starting new and not as far behind as I usually am. I've stored things under my desk in the Cairo office, on the assumption that I'll return. Captain M pretends I'm returning. Yasir has offered to find an apartment for me. In my gut, I believe it's time to go home. In my brain, I'm not sure why my gut believes that, and wonder if maybe my gut is just acting as a homing beacon and telling me to follow the traditions I've made for myself. I go to New York because it's what I do.

Is Cairo a distraction from my other life, or is this my life? I don't know if I'm supposed to move on or get comfortable.

Souvenir Hunting

If you've been reading this blog a while, you know that I like the pillowcases made by the Egyptian tentmakers.

Last time I was in Cairo, I stocked up on pillowcases late one Saturday night. But now in JC, I have a coffee table that needs refinishing. Why refinish when you can buy a lovely applique cloth cover instead?

I went to the tentmaker's bazaar. Tentmaking isn't much in demand these days (outside of Ramadan times) so tentmakers sew all kinds of other cloth products.

The bazaar is across the road from Bab Zuweila and is located in a lovely covered alleyway. As far as shopping in Cairo goes, it's relaxed. Not much hard sell like at Khan El Kalili, and not crowded like the shopping malls.

Inside View

Here's the inside of a Cairo black taxi.



These taxis would be illegal in the States. They'd never pass any safety inspection and certainly would not meet smog standards as they careen around town spewing leaded fumes.

I took a black taxi to Bab Zuweila yesterday. I wish there were some magic key to telling if a driver were competent and honest, but unfortunately, you never know until the ride is over. Are you safely at your destination and did he accept a fair price? Or are you clear across town and is he screaming for more money?

Yesterday's driver took me about three blocks then pulled over to give water to another driver, whose taxi's radiator had burst. He got back in and started fussing with me about what fare I was going to pay him. I told him to pull over--my policy is to get out whenever they start trying to negotiate. Fares are set, by a nebulous zone system. There's no room for negotiation. Unless you're a tourist who doesn't know better.

I thought we'd reached a compromise--a too expensive one--and off we went. He took me to some city walls that were halfway to Nasr City and declared "Bab Zuweila." I laughed at him and said "That's not Bab Zuweila."

I caught another taxi to my destination. Made it safely, plus I got to see something I'd never seen before. Pity I have no idea what it was called.

Morning Excursion

How did it get to be the end already? I never even used my guidebooks to neighboring countries!

I didn't get out to see much in Cairo this time. So once again, I am cramming all my sightseeing into the end.

Yesterday, I took the metro down to Coptic Cairo. That's the historic part of town that has ancient Christian churches and Egypt's oldest synagogue. There's a cave where it is said that Jesus, Mary, and Joseph took shelter, and there is a spring where—perhaps—the pharaoh's daughter found Moses. (Does she have a name? Or is it just "pharaoh's daughter?")

The metro goes straight to Coptic Cairo at Mar Girgis stop. I can't say that I was enthralled enough to return one day, but it was an easy journey and the sights took only a few hours to navigate.
 

From Uncle Ben to Tahrir Square

Years ago, I used to send off for American University in Cairo course catalogs.

What year was this? I'm not sure. It must have been 1983 or so, the year before I went to college. Or maybe it was after college, as I sought an escape from the drudgery of the first "normal" day job. Though there was nothing normal about working at Marvel Comics, even then, before the cycle of bankruptcy-retrench-repeat began.

I liked the idea of a huge, chaotic city in an opaque culture, of being surrounded by Egyptian students. It sounded... so different.

I never went to AUC. To learn, that is. But last week I went to teach.

Yasir invited me in to discuss comic books with his first-year Mass Communications class. It went well, and I showed Before and After images of how we alter Betty and Veronia—and especially Sue Storm—for more conservative markets. I explained our original comic and the students asked insightful questions.

But best was when Yasir opened the class, asking "Who knows the primary lesson of Spider-Man?"

They all perked up. Some raised their hands. They all nodded as one spoke—with great seriousness—for the group.

"With great power comes great responsibility."