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.          

# # #

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 grace of poverty

The Coptic Museum in Old Cairo

Though many Egyptians live on less than US$1 a day, their willingness to share is continuously on display.  Just last night a distressed looking gentleman and his wife received alms from nearly every person in my Metro car.  They would scarcely receive a second glance in the Paris Metro or the Buenos Aires Subte.  I continue to question the source of this charity; is it faith, basic human kindness, or both?

Though some expatriates I have met have cautioned against using public transportation at night, it remains my preferred mode of transportation.  It is through this lens where I get a brief view of Egyptian life, and I want to seize every moment of it.    

Some Egyptians aren't too keen on the military government

You say coffee, I say كافية

Nasser the hero, Mubarak the enfant terrible

18C and sand was the weather prediction yesterday.  Growing up in Taipei, I remember days when sandstorms from the Gobi Desert would blanket the sky with an ominous cloud of dust.  But it was never like Cairo.  Here the desert is much closer and does not have to cross an ocean to reach me.  New York City may be dusty, but at Cairo I return to my hostel everyday with a film of grime on my face.

For the past two days, a friend and I have been crisscrossing Cairo, meeting realtors, and looking at possible housing options.  Walking and taking the Cairo Metro is a fine way to explore the winding alleyways and sample street food.

As I am drafting this entry, the Egyptian government's prosecutor is discussing on television the prosecution of foreign NGO workers.  While I do not understand the unfolding discourse in Arabic, from talking to the Egyptians in the hostel, it is their belief that foreign funding is enabling criminal elements to destabilize Egyptian society, and should be punished under Egyptian law.  Although I know that American foreign assistance is never given without an agenda or strings attached, the concept that organizations dedicated to democratic and civil society development would participate in criminal enterprise is challenging indeed.    

A Cairene symphony

The one constant of Cairo so far is the car horns.  There are short protesting ones, long loud blasts, or a series of rapid honks as if they are Italians racing to say "ciao!"  I am told that they each have their own significance, like "I'm passing get out of the way," or simply "I'm on your left, don't move over!"

A small kitten adopted me this morning, and was keen to share my breakfast.  So she got almost everything except for my tea.

American University in Cairo Tahrir Square Campus

Breakfast by Tahrir Square

Tahrir Square looked much like a neighborhood under siege this morning.  On the way to the Sadat Metro Station, evidence of street violence remained in plain sight.  The American University in Cairo's (AUC) Tahrir Square campus remains shuttered, with concrete barriers immediately next to the school's buildings.  All through the night I heard the distant explosions of tear gas canisters and shouts of anger coming from the streest.  Though Cairo is relatively quiet at the moment, there is a restive ambiance about the city. 

Mubarak the Terrible?

But the famous Arab hospitality continues.  On the metro, an older gentleman asked me in Arabic if I am Chinese.  He was amused by my answer, and insisted that as the guest, I must take the seat. I also blindly stumbled into the AUC conference "The Arab Spring: One Year On," and got to reintroduce myself to what seemed to be the entire University of Oxford Middle East Centre faculty.   

Tahrir Square is so alive!

First night in Cairo and the city is still very lively at close to 01h00.  Young Egyptian men and families are spilling out of cafés, shisha bars, and restaurants.  Arriving at my hotel at close to 23h00, I ducked out for a chicken shwarma and a soda, and easily found all the food I wanted in less than five minutes walk.    

Except the airport, Egyptians I have met have all gone out of their way to be friendly and helpful.  Even with my limited Arabic, just a simple "shukran" or "asalam alaykum" drew big smiles from those I met on the street.  I briefly walked around Tahrir Square, and took in the street food stalls and signs representing various social and political movements.  

With travel fatigue setting in, I am turning in to get some rest.  Tomorrow I will sort out library privilege at the American University in Cairo, and start looking at apartments with a former Oxford classmate.  More photos to come.  

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.

Winter is coming

I rose this morning brooding, thinking about what may come in the near future.

My second autumn in Paris dashed by and old man winter and an uncertain future are fast-approaching.  For almost ten years prior to arriving at the French capital, I measured my time by Capitol Hill's legislative sessions and the 2-year election cycle.  With university life, I pace myself freely and according to exams, weekends and travels, paper deadlines, revolutions won and hopes unattained, intellectually challenging and sometimes intoxicating conversations, and the validity of my French visa.      

Perhaps it is the season, or that my current mood tells me I have very little to trust the world about . . . the sweeping breeze, the hunchback lady by my neighborhood pub whose outings to the corner store are measured in painful steps, or just the inexplicable sentiment that all things in my life seem unsettled . . . the head is unhappy today.      

The father (extreme left) playing for his university rugby club in Taipei

I never sorted out how to talk to the old man before he passed away, but having this photo around helped.  

I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales

Five days in Wales have passed but the songs and words still rest in my head. The Welsh rugby supporters in Millennium Stadium serenading the English . . . "bread of heaven, bread of heaven . . . feed me until I want no more!" still drone in my ears. The conversations meandered and were imprecise, but words spoken in the Swansea house where Dylan Thomas grew up brought back images, some good and some bittersweet, to reflect. As the three year anniversary of my father's passing clung to my thoughts, surfaced the verse "Do not go gently into that good night. Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage rage against the dying of the light". I still haven't got peace for never properly knowing the old man.

Almost four weeks ago I left Paris and reached the White Cliffs of Dover by ferry. That rainy morning on 27 July the wind blew over the Channel as if mother nature was unhappy with me. My mind raced with anticipation.

Two weeks at St. Antony's College were filled with cheers, engaging talks, new friends, good mates, hopes for the future, and unwilling goodbyes. Oxford treated me well and I didn't want to say farewell. On came Wales, with her fire breathing dragon and her gentle people. Of an uncertain night in Cardiff ending with the superb hospitality of a Welsh policeman, of kind travelers who stopped to give a lift to a perfect stranger stranded at the side of the road, and an elegant Swansea lady who put her soul and her fortune into the memories of a poet.

Cheer!

The Turf Tavern

Oxford, England

Paros, Grecia

4 julio 2011

Al contrario de la ferocidad de la temperatura del día, cuando la calle estuvo vacía, por la noche los paseos de Paroikia estan tan animados y la parte vieja llena de inhabitantes locales y viajeros. La Isla de Paros me ha tratado bien los dos días pasados. Aunque la vida acá no está tan emocionante como otras islas de Grecia, me alegra este lugar. Esta isla me ha atrapado el corazón con su gente amistosa y las noches dulces de Paroikia.

Las calles de Paroikia estan tan llenas de movimiento en la noche! En realidad, tengo sueño después de un día donde he pasado abajo del sol griego. Unicamente me quiero descansar en mi propria cama. Pero con más vagando, me pierdo y me animo más. Con cada puerta que pasé, hay músicas diferentes – las familias que ríen juntas, los niños que juegan el fútbol en las callecitas - sencillamente disfrutando el verano de esta isla.

Happy birthday to the United States!

* * *

In contrast to the day, when people took shelter from the bright Aegean sun, at night Paroikia's narrow lanes teemed with life, with shops, eateries and cafes teeming with locals and travelers. Though the island is not as exciting as other Greek isles, Paros captured my heart with its well-mannered people and Paroikia's gentle but lively evenings.

The streets of Paroikia is so full of life tonight! Actually, after spending a full day under the brightGreek sun, I'm exhausted. I only want to rest in my own bed and sleep. But with more wandering, the more I lost myself in the cheerfulness of the streets. With the passing of each door a new music drifted into the air – families who laugh together, boys who play football in the alleys and teenagers who flirt on the beaches - simply enjoying a warm summer night on the island.

Joyeux anniversaire aux États Unis!

Sunrise on the Aegean

So I'm on the road again. Actually, to be precise this time I am on the sea. Though four hours of sleep over the last two days of traveling by plane and by ferry made for an exhausting arrival to Santorini, it was nice to be lost in the shadows on the early morning, in my own thoughts, only to be animated by a brilliant sunrise.

Day one was logistical in nature. With arrival to Athens uneventful, sorting out the geography of this large city and the ferries were nonetheless something I was in no humor to deal with. Even prior to departing Paris, I was really not looking forward to airports, train stations and docks again. I'm just tired.

Market day on rue Cler

Sunset from Pont Royal

Happy hour in Belleville

By Comédie Française

Biking to French class in the evening

Study break from the university

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