My muezzin is better than your muezzin

Students breaking for lunch in Maadi, Cairo

A new apartment and a new neighborhood.  Perhaps it is my illusion, but the muezzins of each mosque seem to project their calls to prayer in a different rhythm, with a subtle but distinct interpretation.  I find these appeals to worship rather soothing, a bit like the Gregorian chants.  

After a week of searching I am finally moved into a proper apartment.  To be able collect something without searching my entire backpack - what a luxury!

Though I remain in Cairo, my new neighborhood is a world away from Tahrir Square, the location of my former hostel.  The city center is rowdy, full of pedestrians, taxis and buses, protestors, the homeless, and the heavy presence of security forces; my new home in Maadi is relatively peaceful, the home of embassies and expatriate havens like the ACE Club and the British Community Association.

I remain conflicted about these expats' clubs.  It is good to have a few pints, relax, and watch 6 Nations Rugby.  However, I am not in Egypt to pass my time with Americans and Europeans, but to conduct my inquiry on an Egyptian subject.  Moreover, while I understand the desire to feel at home, club prohibition of the hijab struck me as odd.  What if a person is American or French but would like to preserve her accustomed sense of modesty?  That club policy seems to me as illiberal as the comment of a Salafist member of parliament, who demanded that an al-Ahram reporter veil herself prior to speaking to him.          

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Toledo craggy and sorrowful.  Glory of Spain and the light of her cities. *

- Miguel de Cervantes

San Roman Church, Toledo

Just a little over two weeks ago, I was in Madrid and Toledo for four days.  Partly to relax but also curious about Toledo's heritage as a city of all three Abrahamic faiths, I went to the former taifa and Castilian capital.  First under al-Mam'un (King of Toledo 1043-1075), then Alfonso the Brave (King of Galicia, and Castile and Léon 1072-1109), it was in Toledo where Peter the Venerable commissioned the first translation of the Qur'an into Latin.  Until Ferdinand and Isabella's abrogation of Granada's 1492 treaty of capitulation, Christians, Jews, and Muslims in Spain were largely free to practice their faith and speak their preferred tongue.  Some even claim that Cervantes was no author of Don Quixote de la Mancha, but merely the promoter of an earlier Arabic work.    

Synagogue Maria la Blanca, Toledo

What beauty the Toledo of the past created!  San Roman, a church built well after the reconquista, is decorated with Arabic calligraphy and Christian icons; some swear that the horseshoe arches and the decorative arts of Maria la Blanca and the Synagogue of el Transito (Sinagoga del Tránsito) resemble the architecture of the Great Mosque of Cordoba or that of the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus.       

* I hope my translation is faithful to Cervantes' original words.  It was "Toledo peñacosa pesadumbre.  Gloria de España y luz de sus ciudades".

The Toledo waiter

The waiter offered my a small discount. The kindness and grace of random strangers I meet while traveling. The conversation when something like this:

Waiter: "It's the least I can do. We Chinese must take care of each other. Where are you from?"

Me: "That is very kind. I live in Paris but am from California."

Waiter: looking confused, "But you are Chinese. I mean, your face . . . and we have been speaking Chinese."

Me: "Actually I'm American."

Waiter: "No worries. You speak Chinese,your family came from China some time ago. You're Chinese."

Me: "Well Ethnically I am Chinese I guess."

Waiter: "How it is in Paris? Is it hard to find a nice Chinese girl there?"

Me: "Umm, I really just fancy a nice girl."

Waiter: "Oh you're like one of them, the foreigners (meaning any non-Chinese)."

I guess I lost my Chinese membership card on account of the last question.

Cultural differences.

Home in Alicante, for a moment

Starting line for the Santa Pola Half Marathon

Alicante reminded me a bit of being home in Buenos Aires. As I was leaving at 07h30 for the bus to the Santa Pola Half Marathon, smartly dressed Alicantinos were joyously filing out of bars and night clubs - a wee bit intoxicated, singing, smoking, looking for an open cafe for breakfast - simply enjoying being young on an early Sunday morning.

Not familiar with the region I anxiously got the the bus station early and bought my ticket from Alicante to Santa Pola. Nervous I was for the half marathon. I hadn't properly train for the two previous weeks, and traveling solo I didn't have any trusted companions to air my anxieties. Not knowing how to handle the jitters, I closed my eyes and tried to forget about my apprehensions. It was a long 30-minute bus trip.

1:39:44 it took me for the half marathon.

Santa Barbara Castle, Alicante, Spain

The night before a valencian half marathon / Avant de une demi-marathon en Valence

Un méandre / A wander

Bir-Hakeim Monument

Plaza de la Constitución, San Sebastián, Spain

Soy mochilero nuevamente / Backpacking again

A poster by the Pamplona Bullring / Un poster por la Plaza de Toro de Pamplona

Al contrario de las imágenes Hemingway había retratado, donde la multitud festejaba durante las Sanfermines y los amantes se peleaban, Pamplona en noviembre parecía austera y melancólica. No había muchos turistas, toros furiosos, aristócratas inglésas viajando, y con la excepción de yo mismo, pocos borrachos.

Por la mañana, me voy de España. Paris yo vengo! Era una visita corta efectivamente.

Cafe Iruño, where Hemingway drank / donde Hemingway tomaba
Pamplona

Llegué a España hace unos días. Originariamente, querría conocer el País Vasco en ambos lados de la frontera. En Biarritz, por las razónes que fueran, subí otro tren directamente para España. Que aventura!

San Sebastián la lluviosa. Con un chaparrón que no podía detenerse, la cuidad por el Urumea me parecía como una dama gris, con tanta tristeza! Sin embargo, adentro, fuera de la cólera de la pachamama, me daba un gusto la cocina vasca y unos nuevos amigos del País Vasco y de Galicia.

Pintxo bar in San Sebastián / Un bar de pintxos en San Sebastián

* * *

I had originally wanted to visit both sides of the Basque country. But for whatever reason, upon arriving at Biarritz Tuesday afternoon and after a short lunch by the beach, I immediately boarded another train directly for Spain. It wasn't a plan. But it felt right.

Pamplona Town Hall / El Ayuntamiento de Pamplona

Pamplona in November was very different than that of Hemingway´s famous novel. Without the raging bulls charging down the narrow lanes, around-the-clock San Fermin Festival goers, and the bickering lovers with multiple affairs, the city seemed forlorn, austere, melancholic. Except for me, there weren't even that many drunks stumbling around the city squares.

San Sebastián during my visit was rainy and cold. I was chilled to the bones, but found warm companionship with travelers and locals alike. It felt good speaking Spanish again! With pintxos, txakoli wine, and lively conversations with a few new Basque and Galician friends, I merrily passed two days inside, out of mother nature´s fury.

Bar Eruko for pintxos and txakoli San Sebastián

/Comiendo pintxos y tomando txakoli en Bar Eruko, San Sebastián