The Well

My two-week-long interview on The Well is finally over. It was fun answering questions all day and waxing on about travel theory.

Ha, as if there is such thing as travel-answers. It's all common sense, of course, though it does make me feel important, as if I have some secret information garnered through elite experiences. But the point of many answers is to build up the confidence of the asker, to let them know that they too can run around the world without fear. Because that was my whole point in Stalking the Wild Dik-Dik. I am just normal and lazy, certainly not the least bit athletic. And if I can make it around the world with a backpack (for a year), so can anyone.

Well, it was one of the points. The other point is that there's nothing to be afraid of, that people around the world have the same hopes and dreams for happiness and success for their families. The unknown is nothing to be afraid of, whether they have a mud hut or a McMansion, they are essentially the same as you or me.

Pollo de Chocolate

Barcelona is home to hundreds of chocolate chickens over the Easter season.

Do these exist in other places? I'm not sure. I don't normally go to chocolate shops. But there are so many delicious chocolate shops in Barcelona that I can't help but check them out. I almost never buy anything (though I always try the free samples), but this time I bought two chocolate chickens—one for Michael Kraiger and one for his kid.

What A Difference A Week Makes

I was in the thick of the crowd before I realized there was even a crowd, before I had time to avoid the teeming masses. I instinctively put my left hand over my wallet, which I’d slipped into the left pocket of my expensive new Barcelona coat.

And then I was stuck. I pushed on, with no way back and no clear way forward.

What was going on? Was the Easter Bunny about to make an appearance? Or was I going to see Barcelona’s Easter Parade, perhaps a uniquely Catalan take on bonnets?

No. It was a religious procession. Something for Good Friday, perhaps, as it was the Friday before Easter and the shops were closed. That's Good Friday, right?

I know very little about Catholicism, but I assume this was a Catholic procession. First came men in black robes with black pointy hats. Then some drummers. And finally, a life-size replica of Jesus dragging a cross down the street. I took a few photos and pressed on, passing what looked like an especially gory statue of a dying Jesus being held by… Mary? Mary Magdalene? Every single person reading this outside of Kuwait—heck, probably even in Kuwait—knows more about what I was watching than I do.

Uncomfortably, I snapped a few photos and left the area as quickly as I could. A week ago, I was in a part of the world where paintings of holy people don’t even have faces. And here there were especially graphic images. What a difference a plane ride can make.

Mobile Office

My friend Lynne came down from the UK and met me in Barcelona. She was preparing for a job interview and I keep regular office hours even here, so we both spent a lot of time in the library.

During the off hours, we managed to drink hot xocolata, and eat at the Cuban restaurant and at Milk, a bistro down the street from my studio.

Somehow, I ended up buying some new clothes too, which is seriously messing with my frumpy-modest self-image. I bought a 145 euro coat. Have I lost my work-at-home mind? What's next, brushing my hair and shaving my legs? How very un-freelancery of me! Must be the idea of reporting to a normal office next week.

Here is Lynne in the library.

Studio With A View

A few days ago, Marc asked me what kind of view I have from my Barcelona studio.

It's a lovely view. You may not think there's much atmosphere in someone's laundry, but just having a view of old buildings in Barcelona is enough for me.
 

New Adventures in Wi-Fi

Rain drizzled down on me in Barcelona's Pi square. It's where I piggyback on someone's open wi-fi when all else fails.

"That's not good," I thought. I packed up and went to Starbucks. I bought a cup of bitter, expensive coffee and sat down in a cozy chair to do some office work. No signal.

"Is the internet broken?"

"Yes, sorry."

Damn. And me with their sucky coffee.

I chucked their coffee into the trash and wandered out in the rain. Yesterday morning I'd gotten a mysterious signal in my studio, but it had cut off abruptly. There were a half-dozen password-protected signals. I'd run my packet-catching password-crack software for a bit but had gotten bored with that and gone to the library to work using legal internet access.

But now the library was shut, Starbucks was not working right, and it was raining outside. And I had freelancers to deal with, work to do, and of course a blog to update!

I wandered the alleys of the Gothic Quarter in the rain... maybe it was time for the old standby, the internet cafe.

Then, a bright light in the drizzle. A laundromat. A warm, bright spot. I wonder...

I went into the laundromat, sat down, and took out my iBook. A strong signal! My new office had a great view of swirling clothes.

A new low in my career as a wi-fi swiper, perhaps. But it worked.

Back to Barcelona

"Don't these people know how to form a line? What's the matter with them? And why does it involve a ten-minute wait to buy a bottle of water anyway? Don't they have shops here?"

Was I still in Cairo? No--Italy! Specifically, Milan Malprensa airport, during a long layover between Cairo and Barcelona. My Egyptian friends do struggle with the concept of the queue, especially in the Cairo Metro, but you can by a bottle of water just about everywhere.

Why had I left? I was kicking myself. I hated Cairo at first, sure, and actually, hadn't been real fond of it in the middle either. But I'd scraped together a life there. What was waiting for me at home? Routine. Moving furniture up four flights of stairs. A lot of expenses. A birthday, in which I'd turn... 41.

Okay, the birthday is going to happen no matter where I am. Even if I just stayed in the Milan airport and refused to move, time would still pass.

I finally boarded a flight to Barcelona, and there discovered that the rain in Spain doesn't fall just on the plains, but also on the planes. And the airport, and the highway, and the entire city state of Catalonia.

I put my giant wheelie bag into a luggage locker at the Barcelona airport. See? I can learn. I took the small bag with just enough clothes for a week, and headed down to the old city through the drizzle. I'd taken a studio this time, same as a year ago. I went to an all-you-can-eat place, ate enough salad to qualify as an honorary rabbit, and then returned to my studio and fell fast asleep.

The Other View

Two tourists clumsily staggered up to the taxi as the driver was dropping me off at Terminal 2 in Cairo.

"Pounds Towmanel 1?" The older tourist couldn't speak Arabic and scarely knew English. He seemed to be Japanese, wearing beach clothing, and was ready for a fight with the driver. The driver stared for a minute, trying to work out what he was being asked.

"Where are you going?" I intervened.

"Bali."

"No, I mean now. Where? Terminal 1? Airport? Aeropuerto?"

"Yes. Towmanel 1."

I held up one finger and he nodded with satisfaction. I turned to the driver.

"20 pounds."

Ha! That's outragous. It should be 2 pounds, but I'd allow 5 for airport prices. But for a moment, I could see through the taxi driver's eyes. Here was this ridiculous tourist in beach clothing in Cairo, one who probably was paying a thousand dollars to get to Bali from... somewhere. I couldn't imagine why he had been routed through Egypt.

I could have gotten further involved. But instead I grinned, handed the driver 50 pounds for my ride from town--an excellent tip but he had to wrangle the wheelie bag and I had no further use for Egyptian pounds--and wheeled my bag into the departure lounge.

Tail Between My Legs

Had I left Cairo on Thursday instead of Sunday, I'd have left triumphantly. I'd come to this city reluctantly, apprehensively--Cairo! It was low—very low—on my list of places I wished to live.

But I'd made a semi-life here quickly. Meeting Dana (friend of a childhood friend's brother) for coffee on Saturdays, going to parties and poker with Craig (I met him in New York at a party in 2002), and roaming the streets of Zamalek or seeing movies with my 30-year-old colleague (longtime readers will know him as the 29-year-old Omani designer I would tease every day last year in Kuwait). The office had worked out so far, and the apartment really did turn out to be on one of the best blocks it could have been on.

I wanted to stay. But I had a ticket home and an apartment waiting for me.

I saved the last night for my young colleague, who then proceeded to vanish. He'd done that last year too, when I'd left Kuwait. But he'd surprised me later that night by showing up with a good-bye gift.

But this time, he didn't even return my calls or texts. I thought over the last few days. What I'd said, how I'd said it. Had I gone overboard in teasing him? Had I said something untoward, been a creepy older woman? Was I going to get my company sued for sexual harassment? And what would I do with the chocolate Easter bunny I'd bought him? (I doubted anyone had ever bought him a chocolate Easter bunny before, Easter not being a big deal in Kuwait or Oman.)

And so I sat wondering, checking my phone for answers (there were none), my face slightly red that Hot Landlord sat right outside the coffee shop, smoking, and aware that I was supposed to be meeting someone. Maybe Hot Landlord would be gone when I next looked up. Or maybe he'd be less hot somehow, or less my age, or maybe he'd forget how to speak English, and I'd be less embarrassed.

Finally, I skulked by the landlord, sheepishly collected my bags from the doorman, and saw myself off to the airport. Leaving Cairo as anonymously as I'd entered it. In with a whimper, out with the same.

My phone buzzed on the way to the airport. "I'm so sorry! I overslept after those two days of working on that 3-D project!"

I bit the head off the chocolate bunny. I'd see Oman's Brightest next time. Who knows where we'll be sent to in 2008? But for now, next stop: Barcelona.

Pillowcase Emergency

"Neek!*" I swore quietly. "Why is the pillowcase bazaar in an Arabic country closed on Sunday?"

Here is was Saturday night, with me in need of some pillowcases, and the damn souk didn't even have the courtesy of keeping opening hours on my last day in the country.

Or at least the few travel sites that mentioned the souk claimed it's closed on Sunday. Maybe it isn't. But why risk it when desperately in need of pillowcases?

I know, I know. I've had two months to buy pillowcases. But the truth is, I forgot these special pillowcases existed, even though my mother has two from my 1999 touring visit to Egypt. Then, over our good-bye dinner, Craig reminded me of them when I said I was unwisely considering lugging home inlaid backgammon sets to give as gifts.

"Get applique pillowcases instead. They're in the tentmaker's bazaar. There's not a lot of tent business these days, so they make embroided textiles that take up no space in your luggage."

Good idea. I'd go Saturday. It was in old Cairo, next to the historic city gates called Bab Zuweila, below Khan El Khalili bazaar. It would take a fair amount of patience and effort. Getting there would be annoying enough, as the tentmakers had rudely encamped clear across downtown, nowhere near Zamalek, and not too close to a metro station. But I'd also have to wade through the melee of the ancient teensy alleys, no doubt packed with merchants and shoppers, and probably busloads of tourists as well.

Then Saturday came. I lazily idled away the afternoon over coffee with Dana, my photographer friend. Then, just when I had to go to see a man about a tent and Dana had to go to a shoot, the wind kicked up something fierce.

Sandstorm.

Well, that was the end of that. Dana still had to go work, but I wasn't going to go shopping in dirt.

I chafed as I sat in my apartment, waiting for the wind to slow. It didn't until after dinner, and then I thought it was too late. Who knew what time the tent/pillowcase guys shut their shops? I'd go in the morning.

But then I googled it. "Hours: Mon-Sat 10-10." Could that be right? No! I want my pillowcases! I raced out of the house and into a taxi. The driver was a smooth operator, immediately announced an outrageous price, then had to stop and ask another taxi driver for directions. I argued a while with his price, then acquiesced in defeat. He drove me deep into old Cairo, to the part of town where donkeys, horses, scooters, taxis, carts, pedestrians, and private cars all vie for the same twenty square feet of paved road.

I turned the wrong way immediately, and ended up walking down a street that sold clothes, pots, pans, household goods, and had no tourists at all. No one looked at me funny, but I felt out of place on a Saturday night in the local section of old Cairo. I squeezed through the cars and carts along with everyone else. A cart tire scraped my leg, leaving a tread mark on my nice jeans. But I'd spilled schwarma juice on it earlier anyway. I'd just have to take it to the laundromat with my sheets in the morning. My apartment had a washer but no dryer and there would be no time for air-drying.

"Afowan," I asked a shopkeeper. "Khayamiyya?" Actually, the "kh" is a sounds us Americans can't even make, like in the name "Khaled." I tried to gurgle it out from deep in my throat. I probably sounded like an idiot, but the shopkeeper knew what I was talking about and pointed me back in the direction I'd come from.

I returned and walked through Bab Zweila, and there on the other side... alley of the pillowcases!

I went to the first shop where the shopkeepers didn't try to lure me in, and picked out four nice pillowcases at twenty-five pounds each. Then, back into the madness of the packed streets. A donkey walked by, cutting off my escape route.

"Which way... Ataba metro?" I turned back and asked the shopkeeper.

"TAXI," he yelled. A taxi stopped in front of the shop and he opened the door. "Pay him two pounds," he said, then instructed the driver to take me to the metro.

The driver got caught in the whirlpool of people, cars, donkeys, and carts. He inched forward slowly. I felt guilty about giving him two pounds after 10 minutes of trying to get me out of the bowels of the souk. So instead, I gave him 15 pounds to drive me and my new pillowcases all the way home.

*Translated to Arabic to preserve the PG-rating of this blog.