Sabah al-Kheer (Good Morning!)

I am not a morning person. Simply that. But here in Cairo, life comes at you fast, and I can't afford to be off my game in the morning. The good, the bad and the ugly all happen here before 8:00am. My alarm sounds at 7:15, and I open my eyes to take in my surroundings. I hear my air conditioner chugging away, not quite a plane taking off, more like a lawn mower caught on a branch. I feel my fluffy pillow which was recently purchased at the mysterious store named "Carpet City" which suprisingly was also famous for its pillows. I burrow my head into the fluffy delight and recall that this pillow was the pot of gold at the end of a long, dirty rainbow road which no taxi driver knew how to navigate. I rub my eyes and see my white washed walls, which I have covered with my photos of my friends and family. I also see that it is 7:20 am, which in my opinion, is way to early to be stumbling around Cairo. Slowly, key word being slowly, I make my way to the kitchen and turn on the gas to light the stove, boil water, and make myself some delicious Nescafe. I am in my own personal Maxwell House commercial as I open the bottle of the freeze dried coffee, and smile as I smell the stale aroma, anticipating the rush of caffeinne to my system. I decide to eat cerael and open the fridge, secretly hoping that overnight a gnome had replaced my falsely advertized "SoyFresh" soymilk with a nice carton of Vanilla Silk. Of course I am not holding my breath, and begrudgingly grab my disconcerting soymilk which tastes slightly like vodka. Slightly ironic of an Egyptian product, isn't it? After I throw down breakfast, my roommate and I lock our door, and face the world. It is about a twenty minute walk to school down a busy, lively street. As long as the traffic permits, we always choose to walk in the actually street. Everyone does, and the sidewalks are usually vacant. Why? Because here in Cairo it actually does rain, but only on the sidewalk. Every five feet you will see water dripping from high above, forming puddles. Cairo rain falls from the thousands of air conditioners that decorate the buildings, and if you aren't careful, you will find yourself taking a freon shower. Okay, so maybe it isn't freon that is dripping, but everyone seems to agree that walking in the street is the only way to walk in Cairo. As we weave through parked and moving cars, we dodge puddles, rotten vegetables and men who think kissy noises and purrs are appropriate forms of greeting. I have almost perfected my dead stare and the dirty look that can answer for me when solicited with a "oh Sugar, do you speak English?...I love you..." If the suitor is particularly persistent, I may spit out some Arabic to prove to him that I am not the American lush of his fantasies. "Shame on You" can work magic here, especially if it is used strategically in bigger crowds. Never underestimate the power of a good old fashioned public shaming. Despite their best efforts, I am not held up by these obstacles of patriarchy, and my walk to school is direct, brisk and empowering. I never look passing men in the eye for fear of unwanted attention, but it is amazing what one can absorbed from a glazed over stare at that place above their heads or at a sea of torsos. It's not that Egyptians aren't friendly people just because they don't smile and wave at strangers on the streets. There is simply a different definition of what is appropriate in public, and what is appropriate for the private space. Friendly interaction is saved for inside the work place, the school, the home, or even inside a store when you are working with an employee. Simply smiling at strangers on the street may be normal in Nashville or Ann Arbor, but in Cairo, it is seen as strange and an event worth making kissing noises after. Of course I also pass women on the way to work, but they seem to always go without much notice. Quietly walking alone or with a friend, colleague, or husband, they watch me just as the men do. They want to see what I will do when the men give me a wink, or if I have done something to provoke such attention. I still wonder exactly what they think when they see me in my loose, modest wardrobe. Is she American? Don't all American women wear mini-skirts? Is she Lebanese? Israeli? I just don't know, and guess will always wonder what they think. I try to move so fast that I am a mere blur in their radar screen, but I am sure that for the shop owners on the busy street, I have become a regular curiosity.