I don't know much about dead animals, even though as a kid I used to pet the dead deer my father would shoot and will them back to life. (It didn't work.) I couldn't figure out what these animals were.
But they still had furry tails.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Meat Market
I don't know much about dead animals, even though as a kid I used to pet the dead deer my father would shoot and will them back to life. (It didn't work.) I couldn't figure out what these animals were.
But they still had furry tails.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
My Temporary Office
Yesterday, I caught the Metro over to Dokki, to go to my office.
I haven't been to the office much, because it doesn't have furniture, internet, phones, or that many walls yet. But I like to show up. I have this notion that it encourages the builders to work harder when someone is stopping by unexpectedly to get updates. I take photos and send them back to Kuwait and New York with progress reports. I say totally unreasonable things like "When will we be done? Can we bring in the new employees next week?" Of course not, but I learned last year from Mr. Fixit that if you move the employees in around the builders, the builders finish at the speed of light.
The Metro was cool but unfortunately, while it does go to the office, it will not be stopping in Zamalek for a few more years. They haven't built the station or the line yet. I walked to the other end of Gezira Island to take it. (It's less than a dollar to catch a taxi to Dokki, but I do love to examine public transport around the world.)
The Metro was clean, efficient, and prompt. The fare was 1 Egyptian pound. Eighteen cents. A bargain! I'd heard tales that it was packed, but I was traveling in the middle of the day. Most people were seated, with only a few standing. And I got on the women's car. Almost everyone else wore a headscarf, but no one looked at me funny. I'm sure plenty of foreigners take the Metro.
The furniture was arriving when I got to work. It was supposed to arrive on Saturday. My Egyptian colleague, before he'd left for Kuwait, had said "We'll plan on Monday then." So Tuesday wasn't bad.
Unfortunately, there are not too many freight elevators in Cairo, and the passenger elevators are tiny.
The furniture delivery men were carrying the desks—probably 20 desks—up 12 flights of stairs. One at a time. They even broke one while I was there, but took it right back out and replaced it.
I didn't hang around long. There wasn't much point. So I went back to my hotel, to work at my makeshift work station. Which looks kind of like this. It's really not so bad. The laptop looks the same no matter where I am sitting to stare at it.
I haven't been to the office much, because it doesn't have furniture, internet, phones, or that many walls yet. But I like to show up. I have this notion that it encourages the builders to work harder when someone is stopping by unexpectedly to get updates. I take photos and send them back to Kuwait and New York with progress reports. I say totally unreasonable things like "When will we be done? Can we bring in the new employees next week?" Of course not, but I learned last year from Mr. Fixit that if you move the employees in around the builders, the builders finish at the speed of light.
The Metro was cool but unfortunately, while it does go to the office, it will not be stopping in Zamalek for a few more years. They haven't built the station or the line yet. I walked to the other end of Gezira Island to take it. (It's less than a dollar to catch a taxi to Dokki, but I do love to examine public transport around the world.)
The Metro was clean, efficient, and prompt. The fare was 1 Egyptian pound. Eighteen cents. A bargain! I'd heard tales that it was packed, but I was traveling in the middle of the day. Most people were seated, with only a few standing. And I got on the women's car. Almost everyone else wore a headscarf, but no one looked at me funny. I'm sure plenty of foreigners take the Metro.
The furniture was arriving when I got to work. It was supposed to arrive on Saturday. My Egyptian colleague, before he'd left for Kuwait, had said "We'll plan on Monday then." So Tuesday wasn't bad.
Unfortunately, there are not too many freight elevators in Cairo, and the passenger elevators are tiny.
The furniture delivery men were carrying the desks—probably 20 desks—up 12 flights of stairs. One at a time. They even broke one while I was there, but took it right back out and replaced it.
I didn't hang around long. There wasn't much point. So I went back to my hotel, to work at my makeshift work station. Which looks kind of like this. It's really not so bad. The laptop looks the same no matter where I am sitting to stare at it.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
A Little GSM Primer
The first thing I did when I got to Cairo (after checking into the hotel) was go buy a SIM card. This was simple, as in many countries. I walked into a tiny store, found a salesman who could understand me, then bought a new phone chip called a SIM. He stuck it in my GSM phone, made an activation call (during which he kindly specifed "English" when the computer-voice asked), and I walked out moments later with my brand-new Egyptian telephone number.
For those of you in my home country who believe I am speaking gibberish, it works like this. Almost the rest of the world outside the USA uses GSM mobile phones that work on different bands to ours. As most of you know, your phones won't work overseas unless you buy a fancy one with tri or quad band. But even then you get to pay roaming charges and your charger won't plug in.
If you want to save a lot of dough, instead get yourself an unlocked GSM dual-band phone off eBay.co.uk or in a phone store next time you're in a foreign country. The older, the cheaper. Mine was 12 UK pounds. Then every time you go into a new country, you can walk into a phone shop, and walk out with a local prepaid phone number. These are cheap--my SIM card in South Africa was about $2. Here it was less than $10.
If you want to go even farther, get a USB charger for your phone. This is usually lighter than a charger, but obviously only works if you are also carrying your laptop.
This is not rocket science. You will see ads touting world phones and companies that will get you a local phone number for a small fortune. No need. Just remember not to make a lot of calls or you'll have to buy more minutes. But hey, in the rest of the world, incoming calls are free. That's right. FREE.
My new phone company here in Egypt, MobiNil, kindly pre-programmed in “common” SMS text messages. Great! With one click, I can tell someone “I am thinking of you,” "mabrouk" (congratulations), or “Dinner or lunch.”
This seemed a bit of a waste of my phone’s memory, so as soon as I found a little café where I got a mango juice and chicken salad, I hit “Delete.” I’ve never texted anyone “I am thinking of you,” at least not without an expletive on the end.
For those of you in my home country who believe I am speaking gibberish, it works like this. Almost the rest of the world outside the USA uses GSM mobile phones that work on different bands to ours. As most of you know, your phones won't work overseas unless you buy a fancy one with tri or quad band. But even then you get to pay roaming charges and your charger won't plug in.
If you want to save a lot of dough, instead get yourself an unlocked GSM dual-band phone off eBay.co.uk or in a phone store next time you're in a foreign country. The older, the cheaper. Mine was 12 UK pounds. Then every time you go into a new country, you can walk into a phone shop, and walk out with a local prepaid phone number. These are cheap--my SIM card in South Africa was about $2. Here it was less than $10.
If you want to go even farther, get a USB charger for your phone. This is usually lighter than a charger, but obviously only works if you are also carrying your laptop.
This is not rocket science. You will see ads touting world phones and companies that will get you a local phone number for a small fortune. No need. Just remember not to make a lot of calls or you'll have to buy more minutes. But hey, in the rest of the world, incoming calls are free. That's right. FREE.
My new phone company here in Egypt, MobiNil, kindly pre-programmed in “common” SMS text messages. Great! With one click, I can tell someone “I am thinking of you,” "mabrouk" (congratulations), or “Dinner or lunch.”
This seemed a bit of a waste of my phone’s memory, so as soon as I found a little café where I got a mango juice and chicken salad, I hit “Delete.” I’ve never texted anyone “I am thinking of you,” at least not without an expletive on the end.
Brave or Just All Used Up?
The young man who used to try to short-change me daily at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf now brings me my coffee at my table. I optimistically theorize that he respects that I've learned the currency, not that he's spitting in my coffee after I snarled at him over ten pounds the second time he did it.
And in the coffee shop where I was uploading files, the young Egyptian waiter playfully mocked my pronounciation of croque monsieur.
"Croak Mons-your?" He laughed. "It's croque monsieur, Madam."
Bring me one, whatever it is. And a mango juice, while you're at it.
Then a bellhop in an elevator yesterday said "This is not your first time in Egypt, is it? Do you know how I can tell? You are not scared."
Maybe I'm adjusting. Or maybe they're just mistaking exhaustion for confidence. Not necessarily exhaustion at Egypt. Just your average everyday run-of-the-mill burn-out. But yesterday, I laughed that the laundry man ironed my jeans and returned them on a hanger wrapped in plastic. Maybe there's hope for enthusiasm after all.
And in the coffee shop where I was uploading files, the young Egyptian waiter playfully mocked my pronounciation of croque monsieur.
"Croak Mons-your?" He laughed. "It's croque monsieur, Madam."
Bring me one, whatever it is. And a mango juice, while you're at it.
Then a bellhop in an elevator yesterday said "This is not your first time in Egypt, is it? Do you know how I can tell? You are not scared."
Maybe I'm adjusting. Or maybe they're just mistaking exhaustion for confidence. Not necessarily exhaustion at Egypt. Just your average everyday run-of-the-mill burn-out. But yesterday, I laughed that the laundry man ironed my jeans and returned them on a hanger wrapped in plastic. Maybe there's hope for enthusiasm after all.
Monday, February 05, 2007
The Flat With A View, the Sequel... the End
After I'd been waiting by the pianos for half an hour, the real estate agent's assistant showed up. She motioned to me to follow her to the other office down the street. She was sweet. We couldn't communicate very well but between my limited Arabic and her limited English, she'd managed to ask me what number my hair color was, so that she could get it for her 15-year-old daughter. I'd tried to explain that it doesn't work that way, that it depends on the head of hair, but finally I gave up and wrote Wella Ash Blonde. Which it may or may not be, but I'd seen them use that a few places in Africa, and it more or less had done the job.
Finally, forty minutes late, the agent showed up. He had a conversation with the assistant and then turned to me.
"She has a flat with a Nile view and internet, only $900. Do you want to see it?"
"What? I thought we were meeting the doctor."
He turned back to the assistant, and had a lengthy discussion.
Finally, he said, "She is getting the keys tomorrow. I will believe it when I see it. We will see the doctor, but he called me at 3:20 and said that we were so late that he was going to sleep, and we should not wake him for one hour."
We were late?
His mobile phone rang. He answered and started talking. The office phone rang. He answered that one too. He had a phone in each ear when two young American Arabic students walked in and asked if he had something downtown for 2000 LE. He was talking to them too, and so was the assistant. I sat quietly and read the printout in the corner. It was a bill to someone for one thousand two hundred dollars, a fee for having found a house or condo for someone on the Egyptian soccer team.
Finally, he hung up both phones. The two Arabic students left. He sat quietly for a minute and then said, "Come on. Let's take a walk."
Uh, okay.
We walked to another flat. This one was small and lovely, and the floor had been varnished within the last week. The kitchen was tiny and new, with marble counters and a circular sink and a coffee maker still in the wrapper. The painters were inside finishing up. It was really nice, but too early to know if it would have internet. But it was right upstairs from a wi-fi cafe. No view.
"The problem is that he wants $1500 for this small place. I told him that is crazy, that you'd be better off at the Marriott. If you like it, we can try a thousand."
"It's very nice but we should stick with what we have already."
He nodded. A bird in hand and all that, y'know. We left.
"I would like to invite you to Dido's. It is the cheapest and best pasta in town. Let's go. We have to waste time."
I glanced at my watch. An hour since the doctor had said to wake him in an hour. Uh, okay. And I sure was getting a lesson in time-wasting. Days of time-wasting, chasing flats that did not fit the criteria I'd described, and now an entire afternoon spent on paying a man rent. What WAS the point?
He had pasta and I ate a few pieces of bruschetta. Struggling to make small talk, I asked him how I could tell a good employee from a bad employee when I was interviewing.
"You must ask them..."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Do they want to work or do they want to sleep?"
Ah, helpful. I'll try that. Right after I use my friend Marc's line of "What is your third most important reason for wanting to work here, the first being pay and the second being benefits."
Finally, it was time to wake the doctor.
The housekeeper gave us the keys and went to wake him. The apartment-with-a-view was across the hall from the doctor.
We were sitting at the dining room table filling out the contract when the doctor walking in, in his bathrobe and slippers.
He sat down and started reading the contract. I had 6,010 Egyptian pounds on the table. I got to the blank about when the lease was effective.
"I am writing Tuesday."
He glared at me. "No, it starts now."
"No, a day for cleaning."
"This flat was cleaned two days ago."
"No, there is rubbish in the kitchen."
"Show me."
I showed him.
"Ah... that will be gone."
"And these doors."
I pulled open all the doors in the kitchen. They were falling off. Inside there was a jumble of crap.
"That is nothing. It is fine."
This deal was getting worse and worse. Note to self: Follow instincts. When they say they'll do something and you know they won't, trust your instincts.
Okay, fine, but I could clean a kitchen. Not to worry.
"And the ADSL. When will that be turned on?"
"A man will come by and do it for you. You sign a contract with him."
SCREEECH.
"There is no internet included? I am not taking this flat."
"Okay." He got up.
The agent tried a last ditch save.
"No, no, your son said it is included. It only needs one piece."
"Well, you can try it." As in "not my problem."
Out walked the doctor. The agent looked baffled. I felt sorry for him.
We got into the elevator.
"His son said it had ADSL." His voice quivered a little.
"I know. I was with you."
He couldn't quite wrap his head around what had just happened. A man in a bathrobe had refused to clean a thousand dollar flat and had reneged completely on the as-advertised bit.
"He said it. I am not lying. He said it had internet."
"Yes, I know. I WAS WITH YOU. It is OKAY." I didn't think the agent was lying. I really did hear it from the son too.
He was in shock all the way down the elevator. Then he couldn't get away fast enough. I think he was mortified.
"I am taking a break from flat-searching," I told him. "Tomorrow, no flats."
"Please be in touch. I am at your service."
He left, and I went to look at a room across the street at the Flamenco Hotel. It was lovely, with a desk and a Nile view balcony and included internet. I'd talk to their sales manager tomorrow.
Finally, forty minutes late, the agent showed up. He had a conversation with the assistant and then turned to me.
"She has a flat with a Nile view and internet, only $900. Do you want to see it?"
"What? I thought we were meeting the doctor."
He turned back to the assistant, and had a lengthy discussion.
Finally, he said, "She is getting the keys tomorrow. I will believe it when I see it. We will see the doctor, but he called me at 3:20 and said that we were so late that he was going to sleep, and we should not wake him for one hour."
We were late?
His mobile phone rang. He answered and started talking. The office phone rang. He answered that one too. He had a phone in each ear when two young American Arabic students walked in and asked if he had something downtown for 2000 LE. He was talking to them too, and so was the assistant. I sat quietly and read the printout in the corner. It was a bill to someone for one thousand two hundred dollars, a fee for having found a house or condo for someone on the Egyptian soccer team.
Finally, he hung up both phones. The two Arabic students left. He sat quietly for a minute and then said, "Come on. Let's take a walk."
Uh, okay.
We walked to another flat. This one was small and lovely, and the floor had been varnished within the last week. The kitchen was tiny and new, with marble counters and a circular sink and a coffee maker still in the wrapper. The painters were inside finishing up. It was really nice, but too early to know if it would have internet. But it was right upstairs from a wi-fi cafe. No view.
"The problem is that he wants $1500 for this small place. I told him that is crazy, that you'd be better off at the Marriott. If you like it, we can try a thousand."
"It's very nice but we should stick with what we have already."
He nodded. A bird in hand and all that, y'know. We left.
"I would like to invite you to Dido's. It is the cheapest and best pasta in town. Let's go. We have to waste time."
I glanced at my watch. An hour since the doctor had said to wake him in an hour. Uh, okay. And I sure was getting a lesson in time-wasting. Days of time-wasting, chasing flats that did not fit the criteria I'd described, and now an entire afternoon spent on paying a man rent. What WAS the point?
He had pasta and I ate a few pieces of bruschetta. Struggling to make small talk, I asked him how I could tell a good employee from a bad employee when I was interviewing.
"You must ask them..."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Do they want to work or do they want to sleep?"
Ah, helpful. I'll try that. Right after I use my friend Marc's line of "What is your third most important reason for wanting to work here, the first being pay and the second being benefits."
Finally, it was time to wake the doctor.
The housekeeper gave us the keys and went to wake him. The apartment-with-a-view was across the hall from the doctor.
We were sitting at the dining room table filling out the contract when the doctor walking in, in his bathrobe and slippers.
He sat down and started reading the contract. I had 6,010 Egyptian pounds on the table. I got to the blank about when the lease was effective.
"I am writing Tuesday."
He glared at me. "No, it starts now."
"No, a day for cleaning."
"This flat was cleaned two days ago."
"No, there is rubbish in the kitchen."
"Show me."
I showed him.
"Ah... that will be gone."
"And these doors."
I pulled open all the doors in the kitchen. They were falling off. Inside there was a jumble of crap.
"That is nothing. It is fine."
This deal was getting worse and worse. Note to self: Follow instincts. When they say they'll do something and you know they won't, trust your instincts.
Okay, fine, but I could clean a kitchen. Not to worry.
"And the ADSL. When will that be turned on?"
"A man will come by and do it for you. You sign a contract with him."
SCREEECH.
"There is no internet included? I am not taking this flat."
"Okay." He got up.
The agent tried a last ditch save.
"No, no, your son said it is included. It only needs one piece."
"Well, you can try it." As in "not my problem."
Out walked the doctor. The agent looked baffled. I felt sorry for him.
We got into the elevator.
"His son said it had ADSL." His voice quivered a little.
"I know. I was with you."
He couldn't quite wrap his head around what had just happened. A man in a bathrobe had refused to clean a thousand dollar flat and had reneged completely on the as-advertised bit.
"He said it. I am not lying. He said it had internet."
"Yes, I know. I WAS WITH YOU. It is OKAY." I didn't think the agent was lying. I really did hear it from the son too.
He was in shock all the way down the elevator. Then he couldn't get away fast enough. I think he was mortified.
"I am taking a break from flat-searching," I told him. "Tomorrow, no flats."
"Please be in touch. I am at your service."
He left, and I went to look at a room across the street at the Flamenco Hotel. It was lovely, with a desk and a Nile view balcony and included internet. I'd talk to their sales manager tomorrow.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
The Flat with a View
"Good afternoon. I called you yesterday but you didn't answer."
It was the real estate agent. I was tired of looking at flats. I just wanted to not spend a small fortune and have somewhere to spread my stuff out. But I'd run into him on the street.
"Come by later. I will have my staff show you more places."
They did, and the places were more of the same. I GET IT. Living in Zamalek means taking up residence in an ancient, huge diamond-in-the-rough apartment with an ornate sitting room and a crappy kitchen. Paying more means a Nile view and internet access. I get it. Stop hitting me over the head with it now. I'll take the crappy kitchen.
The next morning, I went by to see the real estate agent again. I had something to say.
"You know the $1200 one with the ADSL and the Nile view? Just call him and offer him 5000 pounds. He can take it or leave it, but I am tired of looking."
"Why don't we offer him $1000?"
Sigh. Fine. But I was going for pounds because my offer won't be accepted and he'll counter, and I'll end up paying more anyway. Not happy about any of this, but sick of looking.
The real estate agent put me on the phone with the owner, a doctor. I wasn't altogether comfortable with this arrangement. I thought there was an agent in order to avoid me negotiating directly. But the doctor countered with $1100. I countered with $1050.
"Oh come on," said the doctor. "Fifty dollars is nothing to you."
You're not supposed to blow your top in negotiations, but where the hell does he get off assuming that just because I am American, I am filthy rich?
"Obviously you've confused me with a rich American. Fifty dollars is NOT nothing. I have paid only $550 a month to live in a nicer place in Kuwait and also in Kampala. I only pay 900 euros a month when I live in Spain. Why should I pay more to live in Cairo? You are talking about New York rents. There are many things wrong with that flat and I don't need a three-bedroom and I'm only taking it because it has internet and I am going to have to scrub the kitchen as it stands."
"It will be clean."
"Okay, and the ADSL will be working?"
"Yes, yes."
"Okay. $1050, right?"
(laughs)
"No," said the doctor. "$1100. I can rent this for a lot more money to someone else."
"Then maybe you should."
"Yes, maybe I should."
I handed the phone back to the agent. I knew it could go either way. I almost blurted out, "tell him $1100" but I waited. The agent had words with the doctor and hung up.
He smiled.
"Okay, $1050. We will meet here at 3. You can get two months cash in advance?"
"What? No! I can't get that much. The ATM won't let me."
"Okay, get what you can. We will give him that today and the rest when you move in. When do you want to move in?"
"The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow they can clean and get the internet working."
"Good. Here is the address for Citibank. One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Would you like a job? I really need an English-speaking agent."
I declined and went back to the Mayfair to check my bank balance. What? Negative $400? Guess those checks haven't come through yet, and the Kuwait payroll hasn't happened yet. So much for the rich American. Ah, well, that's what overdraft is for. The condo will cover me.
Then, what the hell is this? Foreign fees? Citibank is charging me a FEE to get my money out of the ATM? I've spent $46.68 in FEES for NOTHING? *%$#@!! And taking the rent out of the ATM is going to add even more to that?
I marched right over to Citibank.
"I am sorry but the Egypt Citibanks are not on the network with the US banks. You cannot withdraw from a teller from your account or avoid fees. You must withdraw from the ATM. It would be the same if I went to your country. I would pay a fee."
Swell. I feel great about it now.
I asked the Citibank rep if I could get a local account. "Yes, but you must have a residence visa."
I'm not getting one of those. We're not even officially a company yet and I'm only here for two months. But how to get around endless fees to get my own money? This hadn't happened before with Citibank, and I'd chosen it precisely because it was an international bank.
I could only get 1500 LE at a time out ($263) of the ATM, so I kept pushing buttons until I maxxed out my daily rate. I just made it to one month's rent.
At three, my passport, cash, and I were waiting at the real estate agent's office. An antiques shop had taken up residence on the open-air mezzanine nearby, and some men plonked out melodies on the pianos, while gray kittens scampered around the pedals.
And I waited.
And waited.
It was the real estate agent. I was tired of looking at flats. I just wanted to not spend a small fortune and have somewhere to spread my stuff out. But I'd run into him on the street.
"Come by later. I will have my staff show you more places."
They did, and the places were more of the same. I GET IT. Living in Zamalek means taking up residence in an ancient, huge diamond-in-the-rough apartment with an ornate sitting room and a crappy kitchen. Paying more means a Nile view and internet access. I get it. Stop hitting me over the head with it now. I'll take the crappy kitchen.
The next morning, I went by to see the real estate agent again. I had something to say.
"You know the $1200 one with the ADSL and the Nile view? Just call him and offer him 5000 pounds. He can take it or leave it, but I am tired of looking."
"Why don't we offer him $1000?"
Sigh. Fine. But I was going for pounds because my offer won't be accepted and he'll counter, and I'll end up paying more anyway. Not happy about any of this, but sick of looking.
The real estate agent put me on the phone with the owner, a doctor. I wasn't altogether comfortable with this arrangement. I thought there was an agent in order to avoid me negotiating directly. But the doctor countered with $1100. I countered with $1050.
"Oh come on," said the doctor. "Fifty dollars is nothing to you."
You're not supposed to blow your top in negotiations, but where the hell does he get off assuming that just because I am American, I am filthy rich?
"Obviously you've confused me with a rich American. Fifty dollars is NOT nothing. I have paid only $550 a month to live in a nicer place in Kuwait and also in Kampala. I only pay 900 euros a month when I live in Spain. Why should I pay more to live in Cairo? You are talking about New York rents. There are many things wrong with that flat and I don't need a three-bedroom and I'm only taking it because it has internet and I am going to have to scrub the kitchen as it stands."
"It will be clean."
"Okay, and the ADSL will be working?"
"Yes, yes."
"Okay. $1050, right?"
(laughs)
"No," said the doctor. "$1100. I can rent this for a lot more money to someone else."
"Then maybe you should."
"Yes, maybe I should."
I handed the phone back to the agent. I knew it could go either way. I almost blurted out, "tell him $1100" but I waited. The agent had words with the doctor and hung up.
He smiled.
"Okay, $1050. We will meet here at 3. You can get two months cash in advance?"
"What? No! I can't get that much. The ATM won't let me."
"Okay, get what you can. We will give him that today and the rest when you move in. When do you want to move in?"
"The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow they can clean and get the internet working."
"Good. Here is the address for Citibank. One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Would you like a job? I really need an English-speaking agent."
I declined and went back to the Mayfair to check my bank balance. What? Negative $400? Guess those checks haven't come through yet, and the Kuwait payroll hasn't happened yet. So much for the rich American. Ah, well, that's what overdraft is for. The condo will cover me.
Then, what the hell is this? Foreign fees? Citibank is charging me a FEE to get my money out of the ATM? I've spent $46.68 in FEES for NOTHING? *%$#@!! And taking the rent out of the ATM is going to add even more to that?
I marched right over to Citibank.
"I am sorry but the Egypt Citibanks are not on the network with the US banks. You cannot withdraw from a teller from your account or avoid fees. You must withdraw from the ATM. It would be the same if I went to your country. I would pay a fee."
Swell. I feel great about it now.
I asked the Citibank rep if I could get a local account. "Yes, but you must have a residence visa."
I'm not getting one of those. We're not even officially a company yet and I'm only here for two months. But how to get around endless fees to get my own money? This hadn't happened before with Citibank, and I'd chosen it precisely because it was an international bank.
I could only get 1500 LE at a time out ($263) of the ATM, so I kept pushing buttons until I maxxed out my daily rate. I just made it to one month's rent.
At three, my passport, cash, and I were waiting at the real estate agent's office. An antiques shop had taken up residence on the open-air mezzanine nearby, and some men plonked out melodies on the pianos, while gray kittens scampered around the pedals.
And I waited.
And waited.
"The Skinless Calf Will Cost Extra, Sir"
It rained yesterday in Cairo. And not just rain, but HAIL! Pounding down on cars. So I took refuge in Costa Coffee. That's an international coffee chain, like Starbucks. Kind of like Starbucks, but with better coffee. And their wi-fi is free.
I was furiously typing out emails to Egyptian real estate agents. "I am looking for a place with internet, a Nile view, and a kitchen that is not digusting." Since marveling at the quality of the kitchens, I had read that the reason so many kitchens were tiny and gross was that only servants used to use the kitchens. There were invariably grand reception areas, Italian marble floors, and nasty kitchens. I'd sooner a peel-and-stick vinyl floor and a decent place to cook food, but maybe I'm just bringing my values along for the ride into a different culture.
The two girls next to me--two Californians studying Arabic at the American University of Cairo--started giggling. I looked up.
A man outside was hauling animal carcasses out of a taxi. Just carcasses. No plastic, no storage device. He threw them all into a shopping cart and wheeled them into the back of the supermarket.
I started giggling too. I could only imagine what it would be like to drive a taxi in Cairo.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Did I Take It?
The real estate agent called me at 10 a.m. the next morning. But I was in a taxi to my new office, so I hit "silence." Except I'm so used to my US mobile phone, not my Rest-of-World one, that I disconnected him instead.
Oh well.
The taxi driver was sweet. He was an older man, who totally bought into my confident pretend-local act until we got to Mohyi Eldin Abu El Ez Street.
He motioned left and right and looked at me quizzically. Which way, madam?
I shrugged and started laughing. Not a clue. First time I've seen this intersection in my life.
He looked stunned, so I helpfully said "Okay, left." I pointed left. He looked uncertain, but he went left anyway, also laughing.
We did stumble over my office, which turned out to be conveniently next to Citibank (my bank so I can avoid ATM fees). I paid him 5 Egyptian pounds, the going rate, plus a healthy 2-pound tip. He was nice and he didn't try to scam me.
The office is a story for another day, but after my colleague from Kuwait (a/k/a the Egyptian editor-in-chief) dropped me off back in Zamalek, I went to the see the real estate agent.
I asked if we could return to the $1200 place. The agent made me nervous. He seemed gleeful, almost like he was rubbing his hands together in anticipation of my commission. Surely I was going to take it.
I didn't. Closer inspection revealed that the doors were all falling off the kitchen cabinets (and covered in a film of kitchen grease), there was no kettle or coffee maker, the entire place was dusty, there were piles of rubbish under the sink, the few electrical outlets had wires falling out of them, the sheets were dirty, and there was no desk. And no electrical outlet near the kitchen table.
"What do you want? We will have the owner fix everything."
"I want a new kitchen. That one is disgusting. At least I want all the rubbish gone and the doors fixed and a kettle."
"Okay. What else?"
"It is not enough to say it has ADSL. I want to see what that cable goes into."
"And what else?"
"I don't want to pay $1200 a month."
Ah. We had the deal-breaker. I expected him to say "Okay, we will negotiate." But he instead sat me down and asked what else I wanted to make it worth $1200 a month.
And that is when I told him I did not want it at all and thanked him for his time. What are the odds that any of the conditions would be met? He was saying whatever it took to get my money. I may be new in town, but I know that what you see is what you get, and what I saw was not worth $1200.
I moved into the tiny room at the Mayfair Hotel for a week. I'm stalling. I sent out emails to rental agents, reasoning that agents that are on the internet will be more modern and perhaps innovative. I should be able to come up with something within a week.
Oh well.
The taxi driver was sweet. He was an older man, who totally bought into my confident pretend-local act until we got to Mohyi Eldin Abu El Ez Street.
He motioned left and right and looked at me quizzically. Which way, madam?
I shrugged and started laughing. Not a clue. First time I've seen this intersection in my life.
He looked stunned, so I helpfully said "Okay, left." I pointed left. He looked uncertain, but he went left anyway, also laughing.
We did stumble over my office, which turned out to be conveniently next to Citibank (my bank so I can avoid ATM fees). I paid him 5 Egyptian pounds, the going rate, plus a healthy 2-pound tip. He was nice and he didn't try to scam me.
The office is a story for another day, but after my colleague from Kuwait (a/k/a the Egyptian editor-in-chief) dropped me off back in Zamalek, I went to the see the real estate agent.
I asked if we could return to the $1200 place. The agent made me nervous. He seemed gleeful, almost like he was rubbing his hands together in anticipation of my commission. Surely I was going to take it.
I didn't. Closer inspection revealed that the doors were all falling off the kitchen cabinets (and covered in a film of kitchen grease), there was no kettle or coffee maker, the entire place was dusty, there were piles of rubbish under the sink, the few electrical outlets had wires falling out of them, the sheets were dirty, and there was no desk. And no electrical outlet near the kitchen table.
"What do you want? We will have the owner fix everything."
"I want a new kitchen. That one is disgusting. At least I want all the rubbish gone and the doors fixed and a kettle."
"Okay. What else?"
"It is not enough to say it has ADSL. I want to see what that cable goes into."
"And what else?"
"I don't want to pay $1200 a month."
Ah. We had the deal-breaker. I expected him to say "Okay, we will negotiate." But he instead sat me down and asked what else I wanted to make it worth $1200 a month.
And that is when I told him I did not want it at all and thanked him for his time. What are the odds that any of the conditions would be met? He was saying whatever it took to get my money. I may be new in town, but I know that what you see is what you get, and what I saw was not worth $1200.
I moved into the tiny room at the Mayfair Hotel for a week. I'm stalling. I sent out emails to rental agents, reasoning that agents that are on the internet will be more modern and perhaps innovative. I should be able to come up with something within a week.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The Man with the Key is Sleeping
"I wanted to do this from the beginning—wake up the doorman," muttered the real estate agent, pointing at the young man beside the snoring doorman. "But he would not let me."
We were hunting for keys to an apartment. They were, predictably, in the doorman's pocket. But arriving at this seemingly obvious truth had taken some time.
First, we'd trekked up and down the elevators knocking on doors, hoping for cleaners to be in the flats. When this had produced no results, we'd gone back downstairs. The real estate agent argued with the young man for a while, and finally the young man told the agent to call the owner. The agent called the owner, who told him to wake the doorman and get the keys from the doorman's pocket.
"I lived in Kuwait for six years," said the real estate agent, an older Egyptian man, perhaps in his sixties. "I do things the Kuwait way. I wake the man who is sleeping on the job."
I had to agree with him that his approach seemed sensible. But was my agent honest? How would I know? When you walk into an real estate office off the street, you have no way of knowing if you are dealing with someone good or bad at their job. What I knew was that he SEEMED honest and seemed to have the same approach any agent would have. We walked around to all the major (dilapidated) tower blocks in Zamalek, and he would have extended conversations with doormen, who invariably produced a set of keys. We'd then board elevators (in varying states of disrepair), go high up in the sky, and look at apartments.
At first, I said I was looking for somewhere small and cheap, safe and clean.
This produced $700-$800 charmers that look like this:
We moved up in price rapidly once I declared that I didn't want to see any more ugly places. We then started looking at "really nice places." But apparently "really nice" to my agent meant faux tiger-skin rugs, huge glass chandeliers, blue-and-gold bulbous vases the size of three heads, gold-painted ornate picture frames, and velvet Elvises. Okay, not velvet Elvis, but you get the point. "Nice" meant seriously gaudy. Which would have been funny if the kitchens weren't completely revolting, or if the gaudy furniture had been relatively new. But it was all old and sad. (I did go home and look at Ikea.com to see if there was an Ikea here--maybe I could go unfurnished? No such luck.)
The problem, explained the agent, was that we were looking 1) in Zamalek, which is in high-demand and quite expensive and 2) for a short-term lease of only two months, which means paying more and having fewer places to choose from.
After the first few places, I started backpedaling. He got less chatty. "I am thinking," I explained, "that maybe I am wasting your time. Maybe I do NOT want to rent a flat. Maybe I can just stay in a hotel." A hotel would be clean. A hotel would have wi-fi. A hotel would have free breakfast, and people to talk to. And a desk clerk to ask questions of, such as "How much is a taxi to Dokki" or "Where do I buy an electric kettle so I can have coffee in my room?"
The last place we looked at was $1200 a month. Yow. I'd pay that in New York. This is Cairo. But then, this is Zamalek too.
It was much nicer than the others. Had a nice terrace, a washing machine, ADSL, three (no, I only need one) bedrooms, and a great view of the Nile. But I was tired. I looked around quickly and thought "$1200 is too much." We left. I took my leave of my agent and instead made a circuit of hotels in Zamalek, finding out prices in all of them.
The best one was clean and tiny, with wi-fi on the balcony but no desk in the room. It was the Mayfair, about $550 a month. The others were much pricier. But then, I kept going back to that Nile view.
I couldn't say "Nile view: Priceless." After all, the Nile had been in my backyard in Uganda. And that Nile had hippos. But damn, that Cairo Nile was a nice view. But was it $1300 plus $120 fee over two months worth of nicer? And why hadn't I thought to see how many electrical outlets there were, or if the water pressure was all right? I hadn't even checked to see if there were kitchen appliances, or forks. Did the washing machine work? Was the place clean?
Still, $1200 a month. That's a lot for almost anywhere.
But that view of the Nile. Priceless?
We were hunting for keys to an apartment. They were, predictably, in the doorman's pocket. But arriving at this seemingly obvious truth had taken some time.
First, we'd trekked up and down the elevators knocking on doors, hoping for cleaners to be in the flats. When this had produced no results, we'd gone back downstairs. The real estate agent argued with the young man for a while, and finally the young man told the agent to call the owner. The agent called the owner, who told him to wake the doorman and get the keys from the doorman's pocket.
"I lived in Kuwait for six years," said the real estate agent, an older Egyptian man, perhaps in his sixties. "I do things the Kuwait way. I wake the man who is sleeping on the job."
I had to agree with him that his approach seemed sensible. But was my agent honest? How would I know? When you walk into an real estate office off the street, you have no way of knowing if you are dealing with someone good or bad at their job. What I knew was that he SEEMED honest and seemed to have the same approach any agent would have. We walked around to all the major (dilapidated) tower blocks in Zamalek, and he would have extended conversations with doormen, who invariably produced a set of keys. We'd then board elevators (in varying states of disrepair), go high up in the sky, and look at apartments.
At first, I said I was looking for somewhere small and cheap, safe and clean.
This produced $700-$800 charmers that look like this:
We moved up in price rapidly once I declared that I didn't want to see any more ugly places. We then started looking at "really nice places." But apparently "really nice" to my agent meant faux tiger-skin rugs, huge glass chandeliers, blue-and-gold bulbous vases the size of three heads, gold-painted ornate picture frames, and velvet Elvises. Okay, not velvet Elvis, but you get the point. "Nice" meant seriously gaudy. Which would have been funny if the kitchens weren't completely revolting, or if the gaudy furniture had been relatively new. But it was all old and sad. (I did go home and look at Ikea.com to see if there was an Ikea here--maybe I could go unfurnished? No such luck.)
The problem, explained the agent, was that we were looking 1) in Zamalek, which is in high-demand and quite expensive and 2) for a short-term lease of only two months, which means paying more and having fewer places to choose from.
After the first few places, I started backpedaling. He got less chatty. "I am thinking," I explained, "that maybe I am wasting your time. Maybe I do NOT want to rent a flat. Maybe I can just stay in a hotel." A hotel would be clean. A hotel would have wi-fi. A hotel would have free breakfast, and people to talk to. And a desk clerk to ask questions of, such as "How much is a taxi to Dokki" or "Where do I buy an electric kettle so I can have coffee in my room?"
The last place we looked at was $1200 a month. Yow. I'd pay that in New York. This is Cairo. But then, this is Zamalek too.
It was much nicer than the others. Had a nice terrace, a washing machine, ADSL, three (no, I only need one) bedrooms, and a great view of the Nile. But I was tired. I looked around quickly and thought "$1200 is too much." We left. I took my leave of my agent and instead made a circuit of hotels in Zamalek, finding out prices in all of them.
The best one was clean and tiny, with wi-fi on the balcony but no desk in the room. It was the Mayfair, about $550 a month. The others were much pricier. But then, I kept going back to that Nile view.
I couldn't say "Nile view: Priceless." After all, the Nile had been in my backyard in Uganda. And that Nile had hippos. But damn, that Cairo Nile was a nice view. But was it $1300 plus $120 fee over two months worth of nicer? And why hadn't I thought to see how many electrical outlets there were, or if the water pressure was all right? I hadn't even checked to see if there were kitchen appliances, or forks. Did the washing machine work? Was the place clean?
Still, $1200 a month. That's a lot for almost anywhere.
But that view of the Nile. Priceless?
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Zonked in Zamalek
I thought I wanted to live in Zamalek, a tree-lined expat and embassy neighborhood on an island in the Nile. That way I could walk to restaurants and supermarkets, and the gym I'd been looking at was located there.
So I booked a hotel for three nights, right smack-dab in the middle of Zamalek. It was run by an Egyptian woman who had spent decades in Frankfurt. Let's call her Frau Z (for Zamalek). I'd read all kinds of dazzling reviews of her establishment on TripAdvisor, but my first reaction was more amusement than amazement. The elevators to the top floors were the super-old kind, where you have to manually tug on the doors until they hit the right spot, so then the lift will move.
The hotel is on two upper floors of one of Zamalek's dingy, rotting tower blocks. This is not unusual. There appear to be only two types of buildings in the area. Rotting concrete blocks and lovely embassies. And the room was very clean and slightly dilapidated. But clean, safe, and with free wi-fi is enough. It's just that I don't usually feel compelled to pay $44 a night for such things (remember the economics of where I am). But I realized that to live in Zamalek, even in a hotel, I'd have to pay expat prices. And I'd been in a few hotels in Cairo before, so I knew that there were a lot of disgusting and expensive places. Frau Z's place was actually stunning by comparison, even though the free breakfast included... (gasp) Nescafe. (Am I too whiny and complaining? C'mon, you know I'll get with it after a few days. Let's call it Culture Shock.)
Dazed, I walked around Zamalek my first night, trying to get my bearings. I bought a SIM card for my phone, so I now have an Egyptian phone number (though I am struggling with the SMS text options). The gym was just down the block. Across the street and behind Hardee's was Einstein's Kaffee, complete with pasta salads and fresh squeezed mango juice. I enjoyed my dinner to the tune of the Bee Gees singing "Night Fever, Night Fever." (Obligatory Video-Night-in-Kathmandu-world-is-shrinking go-global theme, there, let's not mention it again.)
Zamalek is still Cairo, with broken pavement, deteriorating blocks of gray concrete, and honking taxis fighting for patches of tarmac. But it's got cafes and upscale supermarkets, and it's still in the city. I didn't want to move to the Cairo suburbs, where I would need a car. I saw a few signs that read "Flats for Rent." I'd call them (on my new SIM card) in the morning.
So I booked a hotel for three nights, right smack-dab in the middle of Zamalek. It was run by an Egyptian woman who had spent decades in Frankfurt. Let's call her Frau Z (for Zamalek). I'd read all kinds of dazzling reviews of her establishment on TripAdvisor, but my first reaction was more amusement than amazement. The elevators to the top floors were the super-old kind, where you have to manually tug on the doors until they hit the right spot, so then the lift will move.
The hotel is on two upper floors of one of Zamalek's dingy, rotting tower blocks. This is not unusual. There appear to be only two types of buildings in the area. Rotting concrete blocks and lovely embassies. And the room was very clean and slightly dilapidated. But clean, safe, and with free wi-fi is enough. It's just that I don't usually feel compelled to pay $44 a night for such things (remember the economics of where I am). But I realized that to live in Zamalek, even in a hotel, I'd have to pay expat prices. And I'd been in a few hotels in Cairo before, so I knew that there were a lot of disgusting and expensive places. Frau Z's place was actually stunning by comparison, even though the free breakfast included... (gasp) Nescafe. (Am I too whiny and complaining? C'mon, you know I'll get with it after a few days. Let's call it Culture Shock.)
Dazed, I walked around Zamalek my first night, trying to get my bearings. I bought a SIM card for my phone, so I now have an Egyptian phone number (though I am struggling with the SMS text options). The gym was just down the block. Across the street and behind Hardee's was Einstein's Kaffee, complete with pasta salads and fresh squeezed mango juice. I enjoyed my dinner to the tune of the Bee Gees singing "Night Fever, Night Fever." (Obligatory Video-Night-in-Kathmandu-world-is-shrinking go-global theme, there, let's not mention it again.)
Zamalek is still Cairo, with broken pavement, deteriorating blocks of gray concrete, and honking taxis fighting for patches of tarmac. But it's got cafes and upscale supermarkets, and it's still in the city. I didn't want to move to the Cairo suburbs, where I would need a car. I saw a few signs that read "Flats for Rent." I'd call them (on my new SIM card) in the morning.