V.D. in Cairo

Who knew that Valentine's Day was such a big deal in Cairo? Not me. I never would've thunk it.

For weeks leading up to the big day, there were signs and gifts everywhere. Like in the States, before Halloween.

It reached a kind of frenzy on the 13th, with stuffed bears spilling out onto the sidewalks and giant hearts advertised on windows.

On the actual 14th of February, I saw something new--women with headscarves on the metro had red fringes on their scarves, or red sticking out from under their wraps. Were they going on dates?

I saw a half-dozen Egyptian couples wandering around Zamalek, some hand in hand, which is something I have not seen any other time. Maybe Valentine's Day is a kind of free pass to be lovey-dovey in public.

Back in Action

I am in Cairo listening to Christmas carols. This is great news because it means I am in Beano's, working on the wi-fi while eating my lunch.

(Yes, Beano's plays a Christmas CD over and over. And Dido's Al Dente—the cheap pasta restaurant near my apartment—only plays Elvis' Greatest Hits. But I have yet to hear Elvis' Christmas Album anywhere.)

Hooray for Appleline! That's the Apple-certified reseller here in Egypt and I wholeheartedly recommend them. Heck, fly here next time you need a repair. Pyramids and laptop packages available, or should be. They have one satisfied customer in me. They took the bezel, rear cover, and clutch cover off an old broken laptop that was lying around and installed it on my older broken laptop for about $90 including labor, taxes, and parts.

It was a disconcerting 48 hours on my own. I had backed everything up onto my Firewire hard drive but had no way to get to it. I had lots of things on my USB thumbdrive, but of course nothing that I needed. I have gone plenty of times without internet access but had no idea how much I'd come to depend on my laptop. I use it for work, for freelance, communications, reference... heck it's essential. On my trip around the world, I used pen and paper but now I just stared at the blank page and thought about how much easier and faster I can type than write.

Checking Her Out

"You must come to Garden City with your iBook, to El Qasr Al Aini Street. Take a taxi."

"I don't know where that is. Can I take the metro?"

"Yes, take the metro." The Apple tech guy laughed. What was so funny?

It isn't expensive to take a taxi. It's just that I had no idea where I was going, and one surefire way to end up in a battle of wits and bluster with a taxi driver is to let on that you're fresh off the farm. So if a driver asked me where on El Qasr Al Aini Street, and I said I didn't know, I'd be asking for trouble. I'd rather stumble down the street trying to figure out which number is which. (Today I learned 7, which is a V. Confusing because 8 is the same, but upside-down. So I now remember that 7 has a V in s-e-v-e-n, and 8 is the other one.)

I went to the metro, bought my ticket, slid it through the turnstile, and took the escalator to the platform. I walked up to the front of the train, identified by a sign that said "Front of Train."

Why is there a sign that says "Front of Train?"

Because the front two cars are women-only cars. And having encountered my share of gropers in past trips to Cairo, I'm keen to avoid any potential groping situation.

I had just missed a train, so I stood, staring blankly towards the tunnel the train would come out of. The platform filled up with women. Women in headscarves. Women in long skirts, jeans, calf-length full skirts with boots, and full-on black cloaks with hoods. A few women showed their hair as I did, but we all dressed the same--frumpy modest. Layers and long sleeves, pants to the ankles. I wish I could say I was thinking ahead, dressing this way specifically for Cairo, but it's more my de facto way of dressing these days than any nod to the culture.

All the other women, about 20 of them by now, were staring blankly down the platform too. It's what you do on subways.

Then... a stunningly beautiful women sauntered by. She wore a tight horizontal-striped sweater, a dangling gold belt around a tiny waist, and tight black pants the flared out to bell bottoms, over stiletto heels. Her long, curly hair was black with frosted blond stripes, and Jackie-O sunglasses covered her eyes.

She walked all the way down the runway platform, halting at the very front of the train.

And twenty pairs of eyes, twenty heads, turned as one.

Creeping Coffee Chains

At the moment, my iBook is at Appleline across town. I asked the tech guy how long and how much--he thinks it will be about 24 hours and $50.

"Can you do it faster? We haven't been parted in five years." I threw my arms over my laptop.

He laughed. I was joking, making a point to hurry it up, but actually, as I left, walking down three flights of the dilapidated dirty building (full of dusty "Think Different" posters) to the congested street, I realized I was barely exaggerating. The only time I have been separated (for more than a few hours) from that little white box of wires, metal, and plastic was when I went to Antarctica for ten days.

Right now, I'm working in the internet cafe. That's a first for this job. Usually, I'm chasing wi-fi with the iBook.

Last year in Kuwait, Sven and I used to joke that when the history of our start-up comic book company is written, it will tell that our company was created in coffee shops.

And that's not because of the coffee.

We'd just moved into our offices last year, and the internet wasn't working yet. Then to make matters worse, there was a fire in the communications building where our ISP was housed, which temporarily knocked out access in roughly half the city. Sven lived an epic in getting the DSL turned on once he got a Salmiya flat, and the access that was included with my serviced apartment was broken for a third of the time I was there. (They didn't believe me, and I knew I was on my own when the man helping me asked me where Windows was on my iBook.)

Sven as COO was dealing with licensors in Europe and America, as well as checking with vendors around the world—some in Hong Kong, some in India. Meanwhile, I was dealing with freelancers in California, England, and New Jersey. And then sometimes chasing files that were in Ireland or Italy. We were handicapped without internet access. We probably spent forty percent of our time hunting signals the first month-and-a-half that I was there. We got to know the details of Starbucks menu, and again, it sure wasn't the coffee. The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf was better, but for me that involved a bus ride.

There's no shortage of wi-fi cafes in Zamalek, which is good as it offers me a change of scenery, and I can work while I eat (aside from now, when I am laptop-less, of course). There are the international chains, like Costa Coffee, Einstein Kaffee, and The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. But also some great Egyptian chains, such as Cilantro and Beano's. And the best part? The wi-fi is always free. I mean included, because the costs of eating or sipping cappuccino in these places is higher than other places. But plenty of them have power outlets by the tables, and none of the staff rushes you out.

So where is Starbucks on that list? Starbucks has spread over the world like they keep telling us bird flu is going to. But what's up with Egypt?

There is one. I haven't seen it, because it is nowhere near here, but it was recently opened by the Kuwaiti Starbucks franchise.

There's no reason for me to seek it out, since there is no shortage of wi-fi opportunities in Zamalek.

Free wi-fi, that is.

So what I wanna know is this:

Is Starbucks going to charge for wi-fi like they do everywhere else?

iBook Disaster

I just broke a hinge on my five-year-old iBook.

I am in Cairo.

This isn't good, is it?

Simple Economics

Given how much money I was forking over, you'd think my new flat would come with towels and a blanket.

But it didn't. The mattress and pillows were so new that they still were covered in plastic. There was a new bottom sheet (no top sheet) and a new bedspread. But no blanket.

And it's winter. Granted not much of a winter, but I feel the cold.

So I went in search of a towel ($3.10, Egyptian cotton) and a blanket. The blanket on display was 115 Egyptian pounds. $20. More than I meant to spend on something I was tossing at the end of two months. (Or maybe foisting off on the Omani designer flying in from Kuwait on Thursday to join me and Mr. T, the Kuwait office editor-in-chief who is here too.)

"Do you have a cheaper blanket?" I asked.

"Yes, this one. It is wool mixed with synthetic. Only 43 pounds." $7.50.

"What is the other blanket made of?"

"That one is all synthetic."

"The wool one costs less than the synthetic?"

The young woman in the headscarf laughed. "We have many sheep and camels in Egypt. Not so much synthetic."

I bought the wool mix and a top sheet, and still walked away five dollars richer. I like the idea that my blanket might be made of camel hair.

Cornered

"These rich people, they think they are better than everyone else."

Mr. M, the real estate agent, was not very happy. We were walking to my hotel, to get my passport to sign the contract for the apartment. He was humiliated, having been sharply reprimanded—and threatened—by the wealthy owners of the flat I was considering renting.

"If you do not want to rent this flat, and I have brought my old father all the way here for nothing, HE is going to be in trouble." K the owner had jabbed a finger at Mr. M, who unbeknownst to me had inflated my interest in the place in order to get the parties together in the same room.

I'd stalled for time, said I was taking it and then left the room to go and get my passport. And to think.

"My driver will take you," said K.

Mr. M had accompanied me. We couldn't find the driver so he'd suggested we walk.

"Shouldn't we hurry?" I asked.

"They will wait." Mr. M. was steamed. Making the rich men wait would assuage his wounded pride. "We are giving them MONEY. They will wait."

He calmed down as we'd walked. He told me a thing or two about rich people, then he reminded me a few times that everyone else was lazy and he was not, because he had worked in Kuwait for many years.

I calmed down too. It was every man for himself. The agent was making things up, saying anything to close the deal, like many agents do in all countries. The owner had not meant to surprise anyone, had just brought along his father because his signature was required.

"Mr. M., what would happen if we did not go back? If I did not take the flat?"

"NOTHING. What can they do to me? They are not better than me. No man is better than another because of his money." He waved his hand dismissively. He was almost daring me, spoiling for a fight.

Ah, one less thing to worry about. If I bolted, the real estate agent would not be mortally wounded.

So I had been cornered. Only my pride was hurt, and my wallet. But in the end, if I moved in, what was $400 over two months? An hour in a balloon over Masai Mara. Enough for two-and-a-half annoying wheeled suitcases. A plane ticket to San Diego. And quality of life was important. It was the best apartment I'd seen.

I was annoyed that I had not had a chance to negotiate, that I was paying a premium for the place. But in the end, I'd remember I lived in a decent place in Cairo, not that my cheapskate's pride had been offended.

When we returned, the real estate agent left the room for a while to get a photocopy made of the contract. K took the opportunity to tell me how unlike other Egyptians he himself was, that the others were all lazy.

Yeah, yeah. And all Americans are loud and tacky except me. I've heard this one before.

I had my laptop open to the currency exchange page, to back up the amount I'd decided was the Egyptian equivalent of $1200. Two emails rolled in, to my surprise. I glanced at the little Airport signal bars. I was on the downstairs cafe's signal, ever so faintly.

The neighbor, sporting an Indian appearance and a British accent walked in.

"This is the man who you will share the ADSL with," explained K. "He will collect 62 pounds from you in two days and the router will be installed."

I grinned. Now we were talking. Maybe rich guys weren't so bad after all. I looked around at my new flat, which was above a 24-hour restaurant, down the street from the gym, and in one of the nicest parts of town.

My pride would recover. I picked up the pen and signed.

Home With A View of the Chinese Embassy

I have a home, for better or worse. It happened in a way I am not comfortable with, and I realize it's outrageously expensive and I was pushed into it, but it is going to be all right. Or it might not be all right, but either way, it's done and that' s the end of it. I do actually regret getting involved in it in the first place... had I a time machine, I'd just stick with my hotel plan.

And then I would have a desk and a towel too. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I'd decided that staying in the Mayfair Hotel and then switching to the Flamenco for a splurge was the best course of action. The Mayfair was clean, cheap, safe, and they let me use their kitchen. My room--114--was next to the balcony so I got the free wi-fi in my room. Not luxury, mind you, but quite decent for the price, which was about $18 a night for a monthly rental or $26 a night by the week.

But I did like the $1500 flat that I'd seen. I dropped by the real estate agent's office--let's call him Mr. M--and said: "Offer them a thousand a month. If they don't want it, fine, I will stay in a hotel."

He called. The owner--K--said $1400.

"No."

I left. I'd go pay a deposit after lunch on my Flamenco room with the Nile view that I'd move into next month. The savings at Mayfair would allow this.

But then my phone rang. Or buzzed. It was Mr. M.

"$1200."

"No, that is too much."

"Look, let us meet with the owner at 8. Maybe in person, it will be easier to negotiate."

Though my internal BS-ometer was screaming to be noticed, I agreed. What harm could it do?

At 8, I showed up at the flat, meeting Mr. M downstairs. I didn't mention it, but I'd brought a month's rent and it was in my bag. If the flat was as nice as I remembered, maybe I'd just go ahead and do it just to have some stability. It was in a great location above a swank cafe and was the nicest place I'd seen.

K was friendly, about 40 and a stylish, wealthy lad. He explained to me that his family had once been one of the richest in Egypt, indeed one of the richest in the world, but all was gone overnight during the time of Nasser and Arab Socialism. His father had worked to regain what he could, and when K had moved to Cairo and rented a flat, he'd stayed exactly one day in it before he called his family to complain about the state of rentals here. The family had scraped together the cash to buy him an old flat, which they had renovated in a modern way. That was where we sat now. He now lived with the family in a suburb, in a huge villa, so obviously their fortunes had turned again.

I nodded. Are you supposed to be sympathetic to people about these sorts of injustices, taken in the name of reform? I really don't know enough about this case to say for sure. But I wanted to be polite.

Eventually we got down to business.

"The flat is very nice. The nicest I have seen. There is no problem with the flat," I said. "The problem is that the rents here are very expensive, and I do not know if I can afford this."

His eyes slanted. "What? I thought we were here to sign a contract for $1200 a month? HE told me this." He pointed at the real estate agent, who was suddenly looking very small on the tiny stool K had placed him on.

"Whoa, wait. I didn't say anything about signing a contract."

"This is a big problem. I would have had the bowab show the apartment instead of coming all the way from 6th of October City. If there is no contract, I will have a big problem with him. Because I have brought my father here since he is the owner and he must sign the papers. He is in his eighties and coming here is very difficult for him."

Mr. M seemed to shrink further. I understood now. He had inflated my interest, talked it up to K to get him into the room with me, expecting that K would see that I looked responsible and lower his price, and I would see the flat, and raise my offer, and all would be happy. Not an unusual tactic, and it probably works in most cases.

But no one counted on the old man, who had just tottered in with his walker and his contracts.

"Nice to meet you," said the old man, extending his hand that he had just lifted off the walker.

The BS-ometer that had gone off earlier cackled "I told you so." I felt a tightening in my stomach, the way you do when you are cornered and the only alternatives are fury or flight.

Tomorrow: Part II

The Accidental Home

I have a flat.

It was kind of an accident, and involved a near-total loss of control on my part. I am not sure if I am happy about this or not, though I realize it is best to unpack and have a base.

Here are some photos. Story to come.

Not Everyone's Dream Organized Tour, But It's Mine

I would love to go on this Intrepid trip. It goes from Cairo to Casablanca, which means through Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. What a great itinerary.

Course I can't go because I'm American and can't get a Libya visa. I can't even get as far as pondering the high price or kidnappings in Algeria (surely not in this part or Intrepid wouldn't go) because I'm automatically excluded.

Maybe someone out there with a European or Australian passport can go and tell me about it, okay?