Of iPods and Engines

Although Hubby has traveled throughout Africa and Asia, he has far fewer flags captured for Europe than one might think. When we found out about his conference in June, we knew we needed to turn this work trip into a great vacation. After all – we had at least one free airfare to a continent that interested both of us and plenty of vacation time saved up to go exploring.

The decision was made very quickly that this would be an ideal opportunity to bring back our favourite alter egos – Map Girl and Clutch Boy! Hubby and I adore road trips not only for the enforced togetherness and inevitable fights but also as an opportunity to discover new places in a leisurely and enjoyable fashion. Hubby, as his superhero name would suggest, always drives and when I’m not napping in the passenger seat, I navigate. After all these years of long car trips, we are an unbeatable team.

We picked up our car at the airport in Vienna and set off for the beginning of our multi-country tour. Our first discovery was that Europeans aren’t clear on what signage is for. At least half the time we would try to follow signs to local destinations only to discover that someone had stopped hanging them before they finished their job. Despite having several semi-decent maps of Innsbruck, for example, it took at least three circuitous trips around the city pointing at where signs should be before we finally found our surprisingly central hotel.

Normally, we would eschew trips that merely touched down in a myriad of countries without allowing time to enjoy the culture but this time that was the whole point. “Breadth not depth,” Hubby kept insisting. We still did something significant in each country but with one notable exception most of it was fairly superficial. Driving from one hotel to the next with pit stops for cool ruins, empty gas tanks, or lunch would turn out to be more fun than we had thought to imagine.

Our long drive through Austria would mark only the first of many days that left Hubby and I speechless. While North America is great in its majesty and breadth, there was something awe inspiring about the magnificence of the countryside we drove through. Admittedly, part of the reason we were so taken by the simple beauty of blue skies and green pastures is that we don’t get see those colours a lot in dusty, brown Cairo. Clean air and picturesque castles on random mountaintops go a long way toward transforming a trip down an ordinary country road into an extraordinary journey.

Austria was the first country we would drive through during those few weeks of summer. A few weeks where we would be stuck inside a tin can on wheels powered by snack food from local supermarkets and music from an iPod plugged into the car radio. It would be a few awesome, emotional, and fun filled weeks. And this was only day one.

Tag – You’re It

Many European cities have a lot in common: rivers that run through their hearts, buildings older than the US constitution, and ridiculously gorgeous women for my husband to ogle. Today’s post, however, is not about Robert Redford’s movie, awesome architecture, or my desire to tattoo “taken” on my husband’s forehead. Today’s post is about the other thing virtually all the European cities we visited have in common: graffiti.

Hubby and I were taken aback by the amount of tagging we spied during our journeys this summer. None of the European cities we visited this summer was spared the wrath of these spray can wielding “artists.” Walls, doors, archways – from what we could tell all flat surfaces were free game for taggers.

We did see some evidence of cities trying to take their cities back by painting over or chemically removing the graffiti. This somewhat thankless task can, from what I understand, be not only costly for city governments but also rather futile.

As Hubby and I snapped photo after photo of graffiti, we wondered why we were more sensitive to this visual pollution than the people around us. Our American friends in Hungary found our outrage puzzling since tagging happens virtually everywhere. For the most part, they didn’t even notice the spray painted walls we walked by.

In the time since these photos were taken, I’ve thought a lot about what these tags meant. They were not, I was informed in several cities, gang related but that doesn’t make them less insidious. The reason it bothered me, I think, was simply the juxtaposition of these beautiful old buildings with their amazing rich histories contrasted with the disrespect and hate behind the graffiti that now “decorated” these walls.

I can appreciate graffiti art in its place but none of the tagging I saw this summer was art. It was mindlessly and needlessly destructive and that makes me sad.

Saturday Escapes

I’ve decided to experiment with a new series of weekly posts. Every Saturday for as long as I have something cool to share (and if I remember to do so), I am going to post a random photo and tie it into a cool website that I love. Every week, I’ll showcase a different website and a new photo from my album.

Our first awesome website is This is Why You’re Fat. If you aren’t already a devotee of this addictive site, visit and then come back and tell me all about your favourite yummy disgusting dish. (I’m a comment whore that way!) While more than half the photos of food on TIWYF are legitimately disgusting, a scary percentage make me stop and say, “Well, that doesn’t look too bad. I’ll have one of those.”

Which brings us to the smorgasbord we were served at Tanyacsárda, the location of the final conference dinner about two hours outside of Budapest. After we came in from the amazing but water logged traditional equestrian show, each table was presented with an overflowing platter of meat. When the food arrived, I wasn’t the only one with a dubious look on my face but five minutes, two sausages, several bites of chicken, pork, and other delicacies later, I had to admit it: when it comes to food, looks aren’t always everything.

This is Why You’re Fat is this week’s Saturday Escape!

An Honest Mistake

A few days ago, I mentioned that my friends and I tooled around Budapest on the bus. What I didn’t mention is that we accidentally didn’t pay for it at first. In fact, we probably could have “forgotten” to pay for the bus in most of Europe this summer. This, I learned, is a continent that relies far too heavily on the integrity and honesty of its citizens. And let’s be honest: I’m a cynical North American who, while honest for the most part, is not above the lure of a free ride.

The public transportation system in Toronto, where I grew up, is known as the TTC. I became a regular passenger on the Red Rocket when I was a short 10-year-old and transferred from my local elementary school to one further away that offered a French Immersion program. The rules were simple: the front and middle doors opened and people flowed out onto the street, then only the front door would remain open so that the shivering masses could pile on, up the three stairs to the bus driver where we would drop our tickets, tokens, or cash into the box, and then move back toward an open space. Those rules were pretty much standard on most of the buses I have traveled on throughout North America.

Europe is a different beast all together. First, both sets of doors open and you can enter from either one. There isn’t anyone watching you drop your money into the box or ensuring that you stamp your ticket on one of the many self check-in machines located throughout the bus. That’s right -- Europe still believes in the honour system.

The first time Sconni Girl, Pequeña, and I rode the bus in Budapest, we did so without stamping our tickets because we sincerely didn’t realize that we were supposed to. We were waiting for someone to come take our tickets or instruct us in local bus etiquette. Of course, by the return trip, we had figured things out and simply enjoyed the inherent danger of getting caught during our “free ride.”

For the record: this system, which we found throughout the continent, was not exploited other than that one time. There were two reasons for this and the biggest is Hubby who is the most honest person I know. (He’s the guy who finds $100 on the street and gives it back to the obviously rich guy who dropped it.) The other reason is that the fine for getting caught is ridiculously high. (Ok, again, that was Hubby’s reason for paying – I was totally willing to take my chances. I am a bad, bad girl.)

While it is vaguely possible that I need to learn to be more honest, it is also true that depending upon the kindness of strangers is a dubious business plan. In an economy where major cities have to close public libraries and reduce public services, closing loopholes like this ought to be an obvious way to guarantee revenues. I can’t be the only person in Budapest to have calculated the cost/benefit analysis of paying a fine versus the number of times riding the bus for free without getting caught. Or am I?

Not So Anonymous

After you spend a day or two in Budapest, you quickly come to realize that this is a city that loves its statuary. Moreover, if you were an old guy alive during the infancy of this country and you don’t have a statue of you erected somewhere in town, you were probably the only loser on your block who didn’t. “Statues of old dudes” as Hubby put it, were on buildings, in parks, on monuments, and just about anywhere else the people of Hungary could fit one.

But my favourite of this plethora of statues, the one I most looked forward to visiting, sitting in the lap of, and fashioning my own future after, is known only as Anonymous. No one ever knew who exactly this chronicler of King Bela’s life was yet he made enough of an impact on his audience that they carved his unknown likeness in stone and set it out for future generations to revere.

Anonymous. I can barely spell the word correctly without my spell check and yet that is exactly who I am in the blogosphere. I am a giraffe who lives in Egypt with her husband who works for shady employers known only as the Instution. I’m a woman who shares parts of her life with other equally anonymous people all over the world. Some of you are less shrouded in secrecy than others, but to each other we are all faces on a screen and voices we hear in our heads.

I long to be like the man in the statue whose greatness has been deemed worthy by an entire country. Yet I hesitate because I know that I don’t want to walk into this greatness in shadowed anonymity. Am I the world traveling, blogging giraffe? Or am I a woman with a voice yearning to be heard above the din.

Anonymous had reasons for wearing his mask and so do many bloggers. We say we don’t want people to “know who we are” yet we continue to share ourselves – our featureless selves – with other strangers. Is the dream of being anonymous on the blogosphere a lie? Do you all know who I am because you have read my words and read between the lines of my repartee? Or am I simply one of a billion blogging drones sitting in a darkened room waiting fearfully and expectantly to be unmasked?

Who will erect a statue to the nameless blogger?

The Castle Beyond the Goblin City

Hidden deep beneath the cobblestone walkways of Castle Hill is one of the coolest tourist traps I have ever visited. Stretching the length of Buda Castle, the Labyrinth is a series of poorly lit tunnels that have been divided up into different areas and themes. I wish I could tell you more about the layout and idea behind the Labyrinth but in the poorest bit of marketing I have ever seen, there was no gift shop waiting for me at the end of my adventure.

And an adventure is exactly what the Labyrinth is. With low ceilings that would have made the trip impossible for our men, Sconni Girl, Pequeña, and I proceeded into the darkness with only slightly freaked out giggles. From the ominous music and damp, dripping ceilings the mood was set before we had ventured very far.

The further we walked, the more confused we became. The walls of some rooms were covered with carvings and paintings depicting everything from the now familiar labyrinth symbol to animals mating. One room contained a calendar of sorts but this - like most of what we would see - was difficult to make out due to the lack of light. Often, the only way we could light the way was with our camera flashes.

Odd statues were strewn throughout – some simply guiding the way with an unlit candle, others seemed trapped in perplexing tableaux from which they could never escape. Wherever the three of us found a statue, an odd sight was sure to follow. Like the wine-dripping fountain (a nod to the tunnels’ previous use as a giant wine cellar) orthe elaborate string security system we discovered a girl attempting to thwart.

Every time we beheld some new puzzlement a quote from Hamlet kept leaping to my mind: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” For surely this array of subterranean oddities was never dreamed of in anyone’s philosophy. “What were they trying to tell us?” we wondered when we walked through a curtain of heavy iron chains and found giant head floating up from the ground beneath us like a scene from “Planet of the Apes.”

Near the midway point the Labyrinth challenged us to enter a room that was not simply poorly lit or dim but DARK – no lights, no auras from candles, no illumination of any kind. Pequeña and I bravely headed in and I at least, was far more freaked out by this complete lack of light in the unknown than I had been prepared for. I snapped my flash as often as my camera would allow and probably bruised Pequeña with my grip on her arm. Darkness, I learned, is a matter of degrees.

Perhaps the oddest part of the entire adventure was a section of “found artifacts” that were allegedly fossils that dated from thousands of years ago, yet also depicted modern items like a sneaker print or a laptop. While I greatly enjoyed the rest of the odd collection of paints, carvings, statues, and other assorted curiosities, these “modern artifacts” didn’t seem to fit. Why create a scene of foreboding with uber creepy music, sounds, and lighting only to finish on such a discordant note?

Sconni Girl, Pequeña, and I wandered back into the rainy streets of Budapest after our shadowy escapades, pleased that we had discovered this unplanned adventure. I know the other two thought I was over analyzing the entire affair but that was okay because I sincerely had a fascinating afternoon.

Let’s Start at the Very Beginning

If I’m going to tell you about my summer, I suppose I had better hop in the time machine and go back to June when I wheedled my way into Hubby’s business trip to Budapest, Hungary. After convincing Hubby that he couldn’t possibly have fun without me in a new city while meeting up with several of our old friends from the Midwest, I packed my bags for what would turn out to be a fantastic European odyssey.

Budapest was the site of a conference that Hubby had been invited to speak at. (As a proud wife, I would now like to mention that Hubby won first place in the best paper competition at that conference. I married the biggest and cutest nerd in the room!) Since several of our friends were also scheduled to present papers at the same conference, we knew it would be an awesome week, especially since, for a change, I wasn’t going to be the only girl surrounded by sweet, brother-like boy nerds.

As our men were busy presenting papers, listening to talks, and otherwise justifying the long trip to Hungary, Sconni Girl, Pequeña, and I headed into the city to do some serious exploring. After hopping on a bus into town (more on that in another post) we found ourselves in the Castle District of Budapest.

This decidedly Eastern European city is steeped in history that North Americans like us found fascinating despite the constant and never-ending downpour that taunted our stay. During our first dry spell, we walked through Holy Trinity Square, past Matthias Church, and along the walls of Fishermen’s Bastion. From there we beheld the amazing panoramic views of the parliament building almost directly across the river from us to the beautiful architecture in virtually every direction and we snapped photos like the vaguely lame tourists we were. At least, we told ourselves, we weren’t lame enough to have paid to walk along the slightly higher parapets when the “free” view was just as impressive.

While we looked for a nice restaurant to have lunch we noticed a large group of people standing in front of a door to the palace. We immediately knew this was a tourist trap that we were too smart to be sucked into and started to walk in the opposite direction. At that moment, an old man stepped forward and told us that we only had until the bells finished chiming to watch the changing of the guards.

I want to state for the record that I was beyond dubious of the weird local guy and his ominous Cinderella-esque warnings but I ran over to the thronged crowds just as willingly as the Sconni Girl and Pequeña to catch the final moments of soldiers stomping and marching as the changing concluded. I confessed to the girls that I was ashamed for having doubted the Crazy Old Guy and needed to be less suspicious of strangers.

Immediately adjacent to our location was the famous funicular we had been told to look for by all the guidebooks. Although we deemed the price to go down a little steep (pardon the pun) we did enjoy further explorations of the views over Budapest. Well, we enjoyed them until the Crazy Old Guy showed up again.

Always go with your gut, Beloved Readers! If you think the weird old man is really a Crazy Old Guy, then he probably is!

COG proceeded to tell us that he was a tour guide and would take us around the area for a small fee. He claimed he knew the area (“Look at me!”) better than the other younger guides (“You are not paying attention!”) and was very friendly. Since the three of us weren’t really tour guide people and COG was starting to freak us out with his randomly yelled comments we tried to politely decline.

“No! I give good price!” Our attempts at good manners were failing when Pequeña took matters in her own hands and firmly explained to the Crazy Old Guy that we weren’t buying and that we wanted to leave. Sconni Girl and I congratulated Pequeña on ditching the Crazy Old Guy when he started muttering after us that we were impolite women. That’s when we declared it time to leave the funicular behind, and find some lunch.

The unbelievable part of the Crazy Old Guy story is that he found us again several days later when we returned with the boys. We stood in the same spot and were joking about the man’s insistent attitude when he showed up offering his guide services yet again. Some days, déjà vu really sucks.

Bad Blogger Girl

I thought about writing a post filled with great excuses about the lack of posts over the last three months. Then I thought I’d write a post filled with good reasons for that silence. I even contemplated telling the truth but realized that was boring and no one wanted to read about that.

The truth, however, behind the summer of 2009 will take far, far, far more than one simple blog post. You see, when last I blogged I had yet to tell you about my amazing Euro-trip through Hungary, Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Germany, the Czech Republic, Poland, and Slovakia. As much fun as Hubby and I had tooling around for two weeks in a tiny car, our adventures had barely begun.

Since then I’ve been back to India – the country that started this whole expat dream. From there we hit Dubai, London, Inverness, took a side trip to Jordan, and stopped to visit a mystery city, where I met up with several Internet and bloggy buddies. I have also formed a slight addiction that is not only costing me far more money than I had anticipated but is also driving Hubby nuts. (Okay, that part isn’t so bad.) Plus, I’m well on my way to forming a second addiction that may secretly be the best marital therapy since Eve slapped Adam upside the head and told him to start taking responsibility for his own actions.

Oh and I have a HUGE announcement.

Am I forgiven for leaving you with a photo of the Gloved One for so long? What if I promise that I still have one more trip yet to take, and lots of blogs yet to post? All those stories I hinted at above and many, many more are on their way to a blog feeder near you. Best of all, I can finally catch up on what you guys have been doing all summer.

I really am sorry about the silence but I promise you that I will more than make up for it in the weeks that come!

RIP Michael Jackson

Today is a sad day all around: not only have I returned to Cairo from my amazing European adventures but it is also the day of Michael Jackson’s memorial service in Los Angeles. Since I am still working on posts to tell you about the places I saw and all the beer I drank, I thought I would instead stare this story from Prague.

Hubby and I learned about the King of Pop’s death while we were checking our email at a Mac Store in Zurich. “Holy crap! Did you see Michael Jackson died?!” I called over to his station incredulously. Several people in the store also commented about the shocking news and Hubby and I endeavored not to moonwalk as we made our way back to our hotel.

(Aside: Do the people who own Apple realize that the only reason people go into Apple Stores is to use the Internet for free? I’m a Mac baby and have rarely purchased anything at a brick and mortar Apple store. The Internet is for shopping and Mac Stores are for checking email. Is it just me?)

Anyways, two days later, we were in the Czech Republic walking through a really cool ped mall when we noticed a huge group of people gathered. Flash Mob? Dead body? We weren’t sure what was going on and no matter what we did we couldn’t get close enough to the epicenter of the circle to figure out it. Of course, the Michael Jackson impersonators and dozens of people wearing one single, sparkly glove probably should have tipped us off.

Two hours later, the group of mourners had grown exponentially and this time they had props. Someone had brought in a generator attached to giant speakers and was playing Jackson’s greatest (and not so greatest) hits on full blast. Children were dancing, couples were embracing as if only together could they hold back the tears, and several people had lit candles.

What amazed us was that most of the people we saw probably hadn’t even been born during Jackson’s heyday. They may have seen Thriller or heard the Dangerous album as teens but they weren’t there when the albums changed the face of music. I still remember watching the thirty-minute video on MuchMusic and dancing like a zombie in my living room. What connection did these kids have to him?

I suppose the King of Pop transcended generations and cultures. People in almost every country we visited were talking about his death and how tragic it was. They mourned the loss of the music icon. His dubious “Wacko Jacko” years and even sketchier child molestation trial were blips on the radar to these fans. They mourned him for the music he brought to their lives.

National OLD Day

I would never point out to someone that they were OLD just because they had hit a particularly significant birthday. I mean, OLD means different things to different people. Heck, I would never even use the word OLD to describe someone of a certain age because I know it’s rude.

You wouldn’t want to be told you were OLD just because today was a landmark day in history. Clothing bought say, forty years ago, would be considered vintage. And jewelry created around the same time might even be considered antique. But no one would call either of those things OLD because the word OLD sounds so harsh.

What do you consider OLD?

I don’t think my husband is OLD because his age isn’t that far off from my own and that would be like saying I’m almost OLD. And I’m not. I have two brothers who are OLDer than I am. But I don’t call them OLD to their faces because it’s mean. My middle brother, BBA, is the same age as Hubby so I guess technically he isn’t OLD.

So who is left to be described as OLD?

That must be my OLDest brother, BBS. Today he is 40 years OLD. He is the first of my siblings to hit the ripe OLD age of 40. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was the OLDest person I knew. But I know people who are OLDer than 40. After all, 40 isn’t that OLD.

Does being this OLD make him eligible for Social Security cheques or OLD age discounts at the pharmacy? No, he’s not that OLD yet. But he’s awfully close.

HAPPY 40th BIRTHDAY, BBS!!

PS. To everyone reading this who has already passed this age marker or is closer to it than I am, please know that today’s post was not meant to throw salt in your wounds or to mock you. I save those special treats for my family.

142 Years and Counting

O Canada!

Our home and native land!

True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide,

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

O Canada!
Terre de nos aïeux,

Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!
Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix!
Ton histoire est une épopée

Des plus brillants exploits.
Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,

Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.

Happy 42nd Anniversary Mum and Dad!

Beloved Sister

Twenty-nine years ago today, the amazing woman whom I call my neighbor was born. This fantastic person has made my time in Cairo so much better simply by being her fabulous self.

She has been my shoulder to cry on, my drinking buddy, my partner in (shopping) crime, and my confidante during good times and bad. This beautiful woman has loaned me clothes, turned me onto Twilight, let me beat her at Scrabble, and cheated on diets with me. What more could you ask for in a friend?

Happy Birthday, Adelpha!

And They’re Off!

We departed Egypt from Cairo’s new terminal three on Thursday morning and were left with no doubts as we boarded the plane that we both desperately needed a vacation. Although the first week of our European adventure was scheduled for work-related purposes (i.e., a conference), the rest won’t be.

Even from the air, we knew Austria would be different from our usual sand coloured existence. The windmill-spotted landscape was a sea of green beneath us. In some more forested areas, the ground looked like giant blocks of broccoli florets surrounded by rectangles of emerald fields. Sure, it sounds cheesily poetic but for people who have learned to discern shades of tan and brown, the sweetness of the raucous colours could not be denied.

The plane landed at Vienna’s International airport and we quickly set forth to make the most of our single day in this famed city. As our taxi took us to our hotel, we watched the city go by and enjoyed the almost seamless blend of new and old architechture.

At my mother’s urging, our first stop that day was the famed Sacher Hotel so I could have a slice of the chocolate cake they made famous. While Hubby sipped a glass of white wine with his apple strudel, I dug into my Sachertorte like a woman possessed. Of course, the hot chocolate with Sacher liqueur may have helped with that too. (For the purists out there, yes, I did try the Sachertorte down the street at Demel’s and have been forced to admit that it was indeed superior to the slice I ate at the hotel of the same name.)

Hubby and I spent most of Thursday wandering the tourist areas of Vienna, enjoying the busy pedestrian malls, and simply taking in the splendor of this old city. I ran through the sprinklers at Burggarten Park on our way to see the Mozart monument, and cooed at the beautiful horses at the Lipizzaner Museum. Due to the extravagant cost (and lack of love on Hubby’s part), we were unable to take a carriage ride through the city past famous sites like the Hofburg Palace although we did manage to wander around the Michael Wing.

During our walk though the ped-mall, we encountered everything from “robot guy” mimes and break-dancers to visiting high school bands. The latter were incredibly amused by the various street artists and were constantly getting in our way running and posing with every busker they could find. Thankfully, whenever the array of expensive shops and annoying tourists got to be too much, there were plenty of bars and cafés for us to duck into and enjoy a cold beer or cosmo.

Although currently undergoing a bit of a facelift, we were able to see St. Stephen’s Cathedral, which lies at the heart of this pedestrian mall. Despite the hoards of tourists wandering around and snapping photos, this Catholic church still celebrates mass daily and has managed to retain a feeling of religiousness (if that is the correct word) that similar tourist sites like Notre Dame have long since lost.

We enjoyed dinner that evening at a restaurant Hubby had previously discovered called Little Buddha, where we gorged ourselves on sake cocktails and obscene amounts of sushi. The latter was a real treat as we haven’t enjoyed sushi in ages and the offerings at Buddha were creatively wrought and tasty. Somewhere between the semi-finals of our usual wasabi eating contest and our fourth round of drinks, we came to the mutual decision that despite being stuffed, an extra plate of “caterpillar maki” was essential.

Later that night, and slightly tipsy, we walked back to our hotel that night, we both agreed that our Eurotrip was off to a fantastic start. Next stop: Budapest, Hungary!

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

I am a very lucky woman who married a very wonderful, good looking, sweet, kind, and cheap man. I appreciate all of those positive qualities, but even he would admit that he brings the term cheap to a whole new level. (Hubby edit: No, I don’t!!!!!!) Doctor Cheapo, as I once dubbed him, enjoys looking generous while secretly being cheap.

You see, with a few notable exceptions, most of our wanderings are on someone else’s dollar. Generally speaking, if he can sneak me along on a business trip, Hubby will “kindly” let me tag along. This means that his flight, our hotel, and usually most of our food are paid for.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. (Hubby edit: Too late for that one …) I love traveling and am willing to do so pretty much any way I can. But every so often, I kind of wish our trips were for us. You know, romantic getaways that weren’t squeezed in-between meetings, presentations, and cocktail parties with the folks footing the bills.

Which brings us to today’s post. Even as you read this, I am currently flying to Europe for a fabulous combination business/romance trip. Hubby and I will be spending almost a week in Hungary for his work during which time I will get to meet the fabulous Nicole, whose blog I adore, reunite with amazing friends from our days in the Midwest, and hopefully sneak in time for some window shopping when Hubby isn’t watching.

The best part of our trip is that once the work portion ends the fun portion will begin! Hubby and I are planning to rent a car and go on our very own Eurotrip-inspired vacation. During that week and a half, we plan to drive through Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Germany, the Czech Republic, Poland, and Slovakia. In each country, I have insisted to Hubby that we must complete at least one culturally significant task.

Normally when I travel, I forget about the blog because I’m a bad blogger. *shame* This time around, however, is going to be different. Stop shaking your heads and doubting me! You’re my Devoted Readers, you’re supposed to have faith! Hmmph!

My goal is to try to post at least once from each country. Sometimes this won’t be possible because we’ll be on the road (Liechtenstein) or because there is no Internet since Hubby is being too cheap to pay for ten minutes worth of access. (Hubby edit: Ummmm…) But I’m going to do my best to blog as often as possible during the trip. So keep an eye out, and you too can play, “Where in the World is Carmen SanDiego Typ0?"

Stuck on Blank

As I was struggling to come up with something to write about today, I found myself Googling the words “writing prompts.” I don’t often find myself in desperate need of something outside my own craziness to write about, but suddenly with everything else going on in my life, I was truly stuck.

The first site I found, the Imagination Prompt Generator, allowed its users to keep clicking until they found that prompt that prompted them back to their blog. Here are first couple of ideas it came up with for me:

• Activities I enjoy are: This one wasn’t going to work since, in addition to obstinately being a PG rated blog, my mother reads this stuff! No fun “activities” for this blogger, thank you!


• People that irritate me: I started writing this one and suddenly noticed that I was on page 10. This taught me two things: I really know nothing about brevity. And I’m a hater who is irritated by a lot of things. In an effort to reform and not be so irritable I deleted the post.


• I wish I could: fly, be invisible, walk through walls, read thoughts…. Basically I want to be a superhero, which made me realize I am kind of sad and pathetic. So I won’t be sharing that post either. (Rogue Rules!!!)


• Close your eyes and count to ten. When you open your eyes write about what you feel: If I could do that, I wouldn’t need to use the damn prompting tool!


• What do you do to help the needy: My husband says I’m needy. Does that count?


• Why did you do it: You can’t prove that I did it, so I don’t have to answer your questions!

Obviously, I wasn’t meant to use machines like this since they only help prove how weird I am. Luckily, I’m okay with that. After all, if I were normal, would I really be wandering the world and blogging about it?

Lunch Time in Cairo

Some of you fabulous Devoted Readers have asked about the local foods here in Cairo. I have previously blogged about the yummy, carb-filled goodness that is Koshari - or as we like to call it in the Typ0-Hubby household “Sunday dinner before South Beach made us miserable.” But neither expat nor local can live by carbohydrates alone, so today I thought I would take you to visit some local snack shops.

First up, we have The Juice Guy. These juice shops are a common sight in Cairo. For a nominal sum, you can have everything from a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice, to a bottle of mango juice for take-away. The fruit juices are incredibly tasty and since they’re made right in front of you contain zero preservatives.

Further along the street is The Nut Guy or as Hubby calls him the purveyor of Crack Nuts. They’re the ones with the silver spoon in the following photo.

If you visit this shop at the right times, you can actually see the nuts being freshly roasted and turned in the giant cookers. During the winter months, we would often buy a ¼ kg of chocolate covered nuts, a ½ kg of pistachios, and another ½ kg of the aforementioned Crack Nuts, which are candy coated, sweet peanuts. This week’s worth of fresh nuts would cost no more than 47LE or about $8.50 USD.

Our brief tour today will conclude with the Ta'miyya Guy. Ta'miyya is what the locals call falafel. He also makes sandwiches with the döner meat that turns on a spit in front of his shop.

Like the Nut Guy and the Juice Guy, every neighborhood has its own Ta’miyya Guy or two. Hubby’s favourite is located in Zamalek where he can get a falafel sandwich (4 falafels in a pita) for LE1.5 or about thirty cents US.

The Quarantine Kids

As some of you may be aware, we recently had several cases of Swine Flu diagnosed here in Cairo. Several of these positive tests arose in people living the Zamalek dorms of the one of the local universities. In the hours after the first cases were diagnosed, the university closed its doors for a week and locked the inhabitants of the dorm in a quarantine that would eventually last more than a week.

As you read this, the inmates residents of the dorms are preparing for what is scheduled to be their first day of freedom since those first two students were diagnosed early last week. Two of our friends, the newly named Quarantine Kids, have been going slightly stir crazy since this all began. As a consequence of the quarantine, they have missed out on a fabulous trip to Dahab that they had been looking forward to for ages.

But luckily for our poor heroes, they have great friends like Little One, Adelpha, and me! I mean, having three awesome (yet humble) ladies like ourselves as friends would be enough for anyone to count themselves fortunate, but in this case, we decided to go the extra mile and keep the inmates from going too batty.

Early last week, we put together the care package to end all care packages. There was booze, knitting, games, and even a copy of the Kama Sutra. We didn’t bother with silly things like food – we were more worried about their ability to make it through the week with their minds intact.

The three of us cabbed it to Zamalek and generously allowed Adelpha to carry the 50-pound bag everywhere. We approached on foot and all noted how quiet the normally busy road in front of the dorm was. Barriers were set in front of the stairs leading to the front door and several surgical mask-wearing officers lingered next to the building.

We were immediately told to step away from the dorms. We explained we were there to drop off a gift for friends staying inside. Since food (and care package) delivery was ongoing to the dorms, they thought nothing of this and called out to the man inside the front door.

The guard told us to "place the bag on the stairs and step away" in such a serious tone that I almost thought we were dropping off ransom for the release of the Kids. When I tried to take a photo of the goings-on, we were immediately rushed by the previously sleepy looking officers and told to stop. When Little One innocently asked why we couldn’t take photos, the response was silence.

Upon hearing we were there, the Quarantine Kids came downstairs and waved to us from their side of the large glass doors. After a great deal of screaming, waving, and jumping up and down on all of our parts, Mr. Kid came very close to mooning everyone but stopped for reasons I have yet to determine.

But the best part of the gift was yet to come! You see, I had included one of my many copies of Trivial Pursuit in the bag and later that evening we put it to good use. With the Quarantine Kids in Zamalek on their board, and the three of us in Garden City with my board, we played a game of Skype-assisted Trivial Pursuit for several hours.

Sure, we came nowhere near to finishing, and I forgot simple answers like “Niagara Falls” but a great and drunken time was had by all. The best part of our Swine Flu-free game was the simple fun of hanging out with good friends – even those separated by governments, guards, and the Nile’s waters.

Meet Ted

(To prove that I’m not always a Grumpy Gus as my more recent posts may have suggested, today for your reading pleasure, is the story of Ted, the puppet monster.)

Back in April when I was in Toronto, I attended the One of a Kind show with my parents. While there, I found the most adorable puppet for my young nephew.

I naturally tested the puppet’s voice and ability to groove at the stand before I handed over my money. The conversation I held with the puppet greatly scared the two men in charge of the stall although I think I amused my mother and the one or two people who had gathered around to see the crazy lady.

All the way home this purple monster and I bonded through conversations about the differences between Muppets and puppets and the state of the economy. We waved at cars going by and ignored my parent’s pained looks from the front seat.

By the time we arrived home, the monster and I had bonded. He begged to be allowed tot stay and travel the world with me and I found myself unable to deny his wish. Sadly this meant my poor nephew was denied a gift but since he’s still a baby I’m hoping he didn’t notice too much.

Ted the Monster enjoys his new home and spends countless hours watching television and enjoys avoiding my neighbor’s dog, Alex, who thinks he’s a chew toy.

Having a Good Day

Hubby and I are often asked by friends and family back home how our life in Egypt differs from the life we might have been leading had we remained in the States. These questions are usually prompted by kind folks who want us to move back home, settle down, have children, and hold down jobs like normal people do.

These kind folks have obviously forgotten that we are not normal.

Usually, my first step is to remind people what Hubby does for a living requires a great deal of travel and that I like seeing him more than one or two days a month. But today I’m feeling rather ornery so I’m going to explain some of the differences between our lives in Egypt and the lives of our friends and family back in the Real World.

Waking Up
You are awoken by your alarm clock.
I am awoken by a grumpy muezzin who no more wants to be awake at 4:30 a.m. than I do. On good days he doesn’t have the loud speakers turned up full volume.

Grocery Shopping
You go to one store and buy everything on your list. If you feel truly adventurous, you can also seek out a butcher or specialty shop but you don’t have to.
I go to nine different stores, none of which has the ingredients I need to make the dinner I planned for this evening. Just because they had my ingredient every day for the last five months means nothing. If I had truly needed this item, I should have bought nine of them the first time I saw them and known this day would come. It is, as always, my fault.

Repair Men
You call the repair guy who listens carefully to your explanation of the problem at hand. When he arrives, he removes his shoes and kindly asks you to direct him to the broken machine that requires his services. He fixes it and leaves.
I call the Housing Department and explain the problem. My explanation is ignored and five wrong guys show up and are angry that I didn’t correctly explain the issue to Housing. Two hours later they send the right guy who doesn’t want to talk to me because I am merely a woman. After discussing the issue with my husband who asks if it can be repaired the reply is, “Insha'allah.” Repair guy then fiddles with some wires, shorts out all the power to my flat, and leaves blaming me because I am merely a woman. (Repeat this scenario three times to ensure power returns but item is never repaired.)

Going Out
You get in your car and go where needed to complete your daily chores. Or, you hop aboard public transportation and the same occurs.
I flag down a black and white taxi. The fourth one finally agrees to take me where I want to go. He takes the long way there, almost kills both of us numerous times, and then demands an unreasonable amount of money when we arrive because I am a woman and foreign. I tell him where to go, throw the money through the window and walk off the opposite direction. Many hours later, hot, sticky, and not looking anywhere near as cute as I did when I left the house, I repeat these actions to return home.

Walking
You walk down your sidewalk, admire the scenery, and nod to the occasional person you see.
I walk down the road because the sidewalk is blocked by cars. I dodge moving cars whilst ignoring comments from men who disapprove of the full-length skirt and loose fitting, long sleeved shirt I am wearing.

Oh you thought this was going to be one of those posts filled with the positive things about living in Egypt? As soon as I remember any, I promise to blog about them. Until then, I’m going to stand in front of my air conditioner, ignore the thermometer that reads 110F, pray the power doesn’t go off again, and hope tomorrow will bring better veggies to the market and saner drivers to the road.

I Am Not PMSing

The following is a brief list of things men don’t have to go through. Things men don’t get. And most of all, things men need to learn a little bit more about before they complain about anything to any woman ever again.
There’s the bloating, the cramps, that time of the month, and all the euphemisms that go with it.

During the summer, there’s the bikinis and the bikini waxes.

At least those are only in summer. Because all year round we have to deal with lip waxes, high heels, and eyelash curlers, all of which go with the dress you can’t sit down in anyways.

Don’t get me started on childbirth.

In the workplace, we have charges of being b!tches when we fight the glass ceiling. While on date night we’re called sluts for smiling at cute boys, or frigid for not giving them our numbers.

And at home, we’re accused of PMS just because we want to eat everything in sight, write bitter blog posts, or snap at our loved ones who dared to suggest that books don’t always have to be in alphabetic order. Just because I’m cranky doesn’t mean it’s PMS! Maybe you did something wrong!

Oh and I’m never, ever cranky!

But when all is said and done, I have to admit that I wouldn’t trade it for all the Y-chromosomes in the world. You see, I enjoy being a girl!