Knowing

You are no more than a particle of dust floating aimlessly through the air. Is that a comfort? Does it help to know that you can go unnoticed, that your wandering is known to you alone? But so is theirs. None know the drifting of others. They too are floating through the skies. Some, filled with a vague hope, believe they are on a path. They ‘plan’ their course, seeing their route mapped out for them. Sometimes by them. They too are undetectable specks. What makes you any different? It is a knowing. You recognize your powerlessness. That is the whole of it. It is your quiet acquiescence. For if you have no destination, you can never be lost.

Fool's Errand (fiction)

I love a trip to the market as much as I loathe a trip to the mall. For some reason, buying groceries has become a sort of psychoanalytical errand for me, while clothes shopping remains a torturous, demeaning experience at best.

Some might call my interest in strangers’ shopping habits intrusive, but I would assure them that I do a great deal of self-analysis and would invite anyone, with the proper qualifications of course, to carry out the same study on me.

That afternoon I had finished my last session of the day and stopped by the market to buy some mandarin oranges and a few other necessities. The store smelled of freshly baked bread and human suffering. I knew it would prove to be a fruitful visit.

A few feet ahead of me, a tall, young woman with dark hair jerked a cart out and rolled away. I recognized but couldn’t quite place her. What’s her name? Sara? Sophia? Probably a former patient. I exhaled with relief when she took no notice of me. To my right stood a middle-aged man in a training suit and tennis shoes. He gazed forlornly at the glass that seemed to safeguard him from the dessert display. Poor man. He’s obviously trying to get in shape but he seems fixed on that red velvet cake. Poor fellow. Eternal is the struggle between man and his desires. What weak-willed souls we humans are.

As usual, my analysis proved true. He called out to the man behind the counter to box up the cake. By now, I had grabbed a basket and decided to pick up some mini muffins before leaving the bakery behind. As I turned into the cereal aisle, I caught a glimpse of Sara/Sophia (my mind was in a civil war as to which one was her name) tossing a box of Trix in her cart and gliding off again. I’d seen it a hundred times: fully grown adults buying children’s cereals. I pitied her. I can’t remember her case, but what a regression. I sense she’s feeling lonely, but trying to perpetuate her childhood won’t help. So many people walking around with unresolved issues from their youth these days…

I scanned the shelves and claimed three boxes of Cheerios. (One must never find himself with a cereal shortage.) My next stop was for hand soap and laundry detergent. Already browsing the aisle was a young boy of about 9. Further down stood a discreetly elegant woman around my mother’s age. The boy stared perplexedly at the sea of detergent brands then, as if defeated, settled on the nearest one and walked away, dragging the bag behind him. Too heavy for him, both in a literal and a figurative sense. Parents these days either give their children too much responsibility or too little. I’ll probably see that poor kid buying Trix when he’s 40 years old.

After securing my soap and detergent, I was able to get a closer look at the woman and her items, thanks to her preoccupation with choosing just the right air freshener. (You see, I may be excessively curious, but I am nothing if not professional.) Her selections were typical: canned tomatoes, flour, eggs, whole wheat toast, a pack of butter, yoghurt, a selection of fresh fruits. These items, along with her dedication to choosing the perfect air freshener, confirmed my first impression. The domestic life has subdued many a passionate woman. Headed for a meltdown she is. No doubt about it.

My last stop was the produce section, where I went straight for the oranges. Once again, I spotted Sara/Sophia. Oddly, she seemed to be scouting the least desirable apples. One by one, she examined them, pondering their brown spots, pressing her fingers into their soft exteriors and tossing them into the plastic bag. This is too much. I wish I could remember her case, though I don’t think anything could explain such abnormal behavior. Oh well. I guess I can’t save them all.

Puzzled, I bagged a week’s worth of oranges and headed for the checkout. My professional interest urged me to steal one more look into Sara/Sophia’s cart, but she was now following me, apparently sharing my peculiar habit of paying for groceries.

I stood in the line next to hers, trying not to look suspicious. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her grab two bags of Gummi bears. A touch of sympathy threatened to interrupt my study, but I persevered. I stared down at her items: Trix cereal, a bag of nearly rotten apples, sugar free popsicles, gourmet cat food, bubble bath and Gummi bears. I didn’t know quite what to make of it. It was clear she had serious childhood and insecurity issues. Still, something didn’t add up.

Before I could delve any further, it was my turn. Synchronized to the last minute it seemed, Sara/Sophia’s turn came too. I made a decision: I would speak to her. In general, I didn’t acknowledge patients outside of my office, but I simply had to know who she was and, more importantly, her case.

We both finished paying and she turned towards the door. I sped up my typical leisurely pace to catch up with her before it was too late.

“Excuse me, but haven’t we met before?” I asked.

“Well, yes, actually. I don’t usually speak to patients in public, even former patients. But I suppose it’s been a long time, and you’re sort of a colleague, too. How have you been, Ali?”

“Of course!” Of course. It had been about five years. We only had three or four sessions. We had gotten along pretty well, almost like friends. Her name was Dr. Sophia Laurel – I should have remembered that because it always reminded me of Sophia Loren. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” 

“Oh, I’m good thanks.” 

My senses of curiosity and politeness were at odds. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but why have you picked out the oldest apples?

She laughed: “Oh, that? Well, I guess it does look strange. My nephews and I have a fun, little science experiment planned.” We exchanged smiles as I tried to make sense of this unexpected explanation. “What about you? Still living off Cheerios, oranges and dark chocolate? Breakfast of champions!...And lunch and dinner, for that matter.” If I hadn’t been so charmed, I might have taken offense to her candor. Instead, I laughed with her, shoving down a vague sense of irony I couldn’t define.

I watched her pass through the sliding doors before I turned around and walked back into the store.

I had almost forgotten the dark chocolate.

The Forest

In the forest where none may pass but you, the stillness envelops you and you embrace it in return. This embrace courses through your blood; it is neither a pulsing nor a pounding, but a steady stream of warmth making its home in your veins. 

The trees provide the peace you have craved and by simply receiving it, you have thanked them. As you breathe them in, you defiantly exhale your fears, reclaiming the quietude that once fed your lungs.

Your body has been stirred awake. Breathing and circulation can no longer be overlooked as ordinary life processes. They are your guides through this enchanting new setting. However, curiously, there is nothing magical or supernatural about this place. The fallen leaves you walk upon are no path of gold, nor is the chirping of the birds akin to the Sirens’ song. Its allure lies in its commonplace existence. It is a forest like any other. It is this authentic, lackluster quality that draws you in, cries out to a part of you that even you have never really known.

You kneel down tentatively to feel the earth and reassure yourself that your other senses have not deceived you. The slightest brush of your lined fingertip against the cool, yielding soil sends a jolt through your arm and you can no more deny your surroundings than a bird its wings. No longer inhibited by suspicion, you carefully but resolutely follow a path you cannot see but your legs seem to have sensed. Conscious of the solidity of your feet upon the fragile terrain, you take gentle, apologetic steps, not wishing to damage the place that has taken you in so graciously. 

Tweet

Tweet…Just one. Tweet…A trivial two. Tweet…Now three. It was a sound that should have been as natural and as rejuvenating as the birds outside her window. Instead, it assaulted her ears mercilessly. It taunted her now. What nature had made a sweet melody had become a nightmarish refrain. Tweet…Only four.

She had promised herself peace. She desired this elusive tranquility despite her unwillingness to silence the source of her agitation. Tweet...Five messages seemed to beg for her attention now. It was a nagging sound, echoing in the depths of her consciousness, usurping her reason. Still, she endured.

Tweet…Six. This was not her first attempt to unshackle herself from the grip of this device. Tweet…Seven. However, the sound pursued her with the relentlessness determination of a cheetah stalking its prey. In an unsuccessful attempt to weaken the gadget’s hold, she had modified its voice, from a beep to a ping, a ping to a pop, a pop to a click and finally, from a click to a tweet. 

Tweet…Eight. The sound consumed her. Tweet…Nine. With a sigh of defeat, she gave in.

Becoming

I am becoming an oak tree. No longer an ordinary acorn to be collected by passing children, I stand tall, resolute. I feel my newfound strength with both the pride and uncertainty that come with self-reliance. With pride, my branches extend, ever-enduring, ever-reaching for unexplored horizons. With uncertainty, I hold on to my leaves, the only parts of me that I know may not always be.

I am becoming an oak tree, fearless, yet not to be feared. My stillness makes me yearn to bring the same lasting peace to others. Waiting for nothing in return, I offer the coolness of my shadow. Once only a sprout peering out from the soil, I can now give the gift of my encompassing vastness. I have long awaited this day, the day that I might return the kindness this earth has shown me and prove that I was worthy of its favors.

I am becoming an oak tree. Though my strength may be expected, to me, it has been my life’s work, not bestowed upon me by nature, but earned through resolve.  The source of this resolve has remained unseen by most; I owe my might to my unyielding roots. My life began in darkness. Buried deep beneath the ground, I wondered when, if ever, I would feel the warmth of the sun or its radiance. My roots knew what I did not: to reach the light, I would have to descend even further into the darkness. Only then would I earn the right to tower above the ground with the quiet fortitude I now wear humbly.

I am becoming an oak tree. Though my might seems infinite, I am not unmoved by the changes around me. My trunk, once smooth and fragile, is now a column of force covered in unforgiving bark. And yet, I must confess that I am not above the thrust of a winter storm or the innocent nudge of a summer breeze. Inflexible as I may seem, my branches sway in rhythmic submission, not wishing to question the wisdom of nature’s plan. 

Giving with no desire of receiving, firm, yet obedient, I have become an oak tree.

Only in Egypt

Only in Egypt...

•  is a pink teddy bear considered an appropriate gift for one adult to give to another.
• are there more pharmacies than supermarkets.
• can a man who has never driven a car expertly guide you out of a parking space where you've been double and triple-parked on.
• is it perfectly normal to pack a whole cucumber as part of your lunch and bite into it later as if you were eating an apple.
• does the guy who runs the fruit stand on the corner have a business card.
• is the longest, most convoluted route usually the fastest way to reach your destination.
• is an hour-long car ride called "traveling".
• can the official weather forecast refer to today's weather as "sandy".
• do veiled women seem to have more "hairstyling" options than do non-veiled women.
• is choosing the country's favorite chip flavor the most democratic process most people have ever experienced.
• can an entire empire be built on one concept: the long-sleeved undershirt.
• is it more unusual to be awake at 10:00am than it is to be up at 10:00pm.
• do children have such busy schedules that they might actually need those Blackberrys and iPhones.

Why You Need to Get Away from Your Getaway

Once you've made the move abroad and settled in for a year or so, you may be thinking, "I've got this down.  I've got Skype, I found out where to get my favorite cereal, and now that they've opened Pinkberry here I don't care if I ever see my hometown again!" You seem pretty sure of yourself. You've finally adapted. No more a stranger, you have arrived. No longer are you an unsuspecting foreigner who gets tricked into paying 50 pounds for a keychain with a plastic pyramid hanging off of it. With your newfound (over)confidence, you smugly take your visiting friends to Khan El Khalili and bask in the glory of snagging 10 keychains for 5 pounds. Your friends will return home and tell your tale. You've made the leap. You are a legend. And to prove that you've made it, you may foolishly claim that you don't need "home" anymore. Sounds like a well-meaning statement. Well, let me take a moment to be condescending and tell you why you are so very wrong.

When you first left home, you may have been looking to get away, to escape the ordinary. Hopefully, you found what you were looking for. But after a while, you may realize that you need an escape from your escape. Why, you may ask? Well, there are plenty of good reasons, but as I myself am busy escaping my escape, I will list just a few here.

1. Food - This would definitely be at the top of my sister's list. Depending on where you've moved, you may find that your dining choices, and even quality, leave a lot to be desired. A trip home will give you a chance to indulge in all your favorite foods. No, there is no need to feel guilty about cheating on the falafel sandwiches that you've been so loyal to. They have enough fans.

2. Friends - Remember those people who thought you were crazy (in a loving way, of course) when you left home? Well, they miss you. Reconnecting with old friends helps you refuel and re-energize. Even if you've made friends in your new country, there is a big part of your life that no one there will ever know or understand. Don't you want to go "where everybody knows your name"?

3. Sanity - For the sake of your mental health, you need to get out every once in a while. Particularly if you're living in what they now call a developing country, to be politically correct, "every once in a while" is more often than you think. Signs that you need a break may include, but are not limited to, the following: becoming irritated when someone actually stops at a traffic signal, deterioration of your language skills in both your native language as well as your new one (At some point, I began to worry that I would become alingual. Yes, that is a real word!), and an intense fascination when overhearing strangers speaking English in public.

4. Fresh Air - You know pollution is bad when you need to go back to LA to get some clean air. Unfortunately, living in Cairo has left many an expat with pesky allergies and other health troubles. It doesn't take long for a newcomer to make friends with his local pharmacist. If you're living in a country with poor air quality, the cost of the plane ticket is well worth that breath of fresh air that awaits you at home.

5. Reality Check - Some expats have a love-hate relationship with their new home. They love it for all its failings, for its stark contrast to the life they knew. They love the way it brings out the fighter in them. But, if this sounds like you, you may have noticed that somewhere along the way unfair comparisons led you to romanticize your former home. Thanks to selective memory, all you can remember is how easy everything used to be. Comments like "In the U.S., I'd never have to wait in a line like this!" or "Don't they know what real ranch dressing tastes like?" become the norm. A quick trip home will remind you that the grass tends to be greener on the other side and, sure enough, you'll soon find yourself "homesick" for that not-so-foreign country.

So, get some fresh air, both literally and figuratively. It'll do you good, I promise. And don't worry, those falafel sandwiches will be waiting for you when you get back.

Be

We've all spent a great deal of time thinking about what we want to be. That's harmless enough. I'm curious to know when we got the impression that we could (and should) actually decide who to be. It seems we're all shopping for new personas almost daily, testing out what will make us feel complete, or sometimes less wisely, what we know others will admire. Right down to the color of our hair, our taste in music, or the books we read, we can control our image, run our own PR. But, like Cinderella's maligned step-sisters, it may feel that we're trying to squeeze into something that just doesn't fit. (By the way, it's not nice to make fun of people with big feet! Maybe that's why they were so mean...?)

It would be inaccurate to say that this pursuit is derived solely from an inherent need to impress others. There's something about control that intrigues us. They say it's what separates us from the animals. Imagine if we told people that who they are is exactly who they should be, idiosyncrasies, tragic flaws and all, and that they should just sit back and enjoy life instead of constantly pursuing the ever-changing definition of perfection. Sounds somewhat defeatist, doesn't it? In the name of self-improvement, why settle for "less"?

Each of us is raised to believe that his identity and, ultimately, his destiny is in his own hands, and that may very well be the problem. We like control. On a whim, we can decide to be stylish, be a health nut, be funny, be driven, be emo (that could be another post altogether!) or whatever the passing trend may be. How lucky we must be to get to choose what we want to be at any given moment. But what happens when this supposed freedom becomes more like a ball and chain?

Control is a tricky thing. It's a paradox in and of itself. It can be addictive for many people and, therefore, turn on them. What we think we control often ends up controlling us. The strangest part of all of this is that we're generally unaware of, unfazed, and unconcerned by this transfer of power. We seem perfectly content to be run by our current compulsion to be something or someone.

So what's the point of all this? The point is that I'm afraid we might be missing out on life. Constantly seeking self-improvement makes us feel powerful; but is this pursuit of power really just a life-long wild goose chase? What are we chasing? Death? I believe that nature adjusts for us. We can actually accomplish more by living more naturally and letting things take their own course, including our flaws. It's not a crime to accept life for what it is. In truth, it takes strength to know when to let go of control.

Why Living Abroad is Good for Your Ego

Making the decision to move to a new country entails a tug of war of sorts between our sense of adventure and our ego. We imagine that our willingness to venture off the beaten path will be rewarded with some form of enlightenment. On the other hand, we're aware that leaving behind what we know almost guarantees that we will eternally be humbled by our own ignorance.

One of the most underestimated obstacles in living abroad is the language barrier that many people face once they've reached their destination. Potential expatriates give serious consideration to their job opportunities and living arrangements but often overlook this pesky little step. Interestingly, and maybe naively, English speakers assume that everyone is likely to speak at least passable English. This is, of course, a myth. However, even if it were true, anyone who has lived abroad for an extended period of time will tell you that you cannot fully understand and connect with a culture and its people without learning (or making an attempt at learning) the native language.

Being Egyptian myself, and more of a repat than an expat, one would think that my transition to Egypt would present only minimal challenges, language being the least of my worries. This is true to an extent. Arabic is not quite foreign to me. Perhaps not foreign at all. But the truth is my Arabic gives me away almost as soon as I begin to speak. In some ways, this can be more frustrating for an Egyptian than for a foreigner. I look like I belong here; so why don't I sound like it?

Of course, my Arabic has improved a great deal since I first arrived. But perfection (or anything in the vicinity) is elusive and perhaps not worth attaining in the first place.

...Which brings me to the title of this post. I suppose it's somewhat misleading, as I don't believe that living in a new place is a means of inflating one's ego. Rather, I think that the cultural missteps and awkward moments that come with living abroad actually force us to swallow our pride, get off our "first-world" high horse and connect with the people around us.

Here's an article about an interesting study done at UC Berkeley that explains how embarrassment actually allows people to warm up to you more easily. We all need to be humbled from time to time; living in a new place just creates more opportunities for it. So go ahead and embrace the awkwardness!

Are You Happy?

It's been about one year and two months since I packed up my things -- for the third (and final?) time, I might add -- and moved to Egypt. It's strange, but sometimes I feel like I never left, like that year I spent in California in between my two moves to Egypt was actually further mental preparation for the final plunge. During that time, I never felt quite right. Though I was technically "home", I felt like a sellout, like I had given up on Egypt when it had needed me most, and maybe more importantly, when I needed it most.

When I arrived last June, and as my first post reflects, I was apprehensive of what remained of the Egypt I remembered. Had I romanticized it to make the transition easy, or was that the real Egypt? Truth be told, the first two weeks back were tough. A heaviness set upon me that made even the slightest task seem difficult in this not so new place. I did not feel that rush that I had expected upon reaching my supposed homeland. Though I tried to conceal my anxiety, it didn't take long for my family to see that I was feeling a little overwhelmed. Fortunately, my father was not having it. He could see that I was homesick for California. "This is not a revolving door," he warned me. I remember laughing it off at the time, but those words forced me to jump back in. Regardless of how I was feeling that moment, I was going to make it work.

While it's only been a year, I can now say that my reasons for coming back to Egypt may have had less to do with the country itself than I had originally thought. There is no doubt that this country and its people have been through (and are still undergoing) radical transformation and change. It's certainly an inspiration and an honor to be part of it. But that's only part of the story.

Last week, I had the pleasure of spending some time with my good friend Amira, who was visiting from California. Like others before her, she was curious to hear my answer to that all-important question: Was I happy here? Truly?

...in case you forgot what these states are supposed to look like

My answer to this question changes depending on various factors. If an acquaintance is asking in passing, I answer concisely, "Yes, it takes some adjustment, but it's good." If a close friend on the verge of her own leap of faith asks with wide eyes and has an hour or so to kill, I offer a more in-depth analysis of my ongoing journey and the challenges and triumphs associated. My response is also influenced by whether the questioner is fond of or detests Egypt. For my idealistic friends, I make sure not to sugar-coat my experience any more than they have in their own minds. To those cynics who think I'm simply playing the part (until I crack) while suffering in silence, I am more than happy to boast about the privileges of my supposed prison, which include but are certainly not limited to 24-hour delivery services, the best fuul and ta3maya sandwiches in the world, and enough scarves to satisfy even the most devoted collector.

So, what did I say this time? Well, Amira was none of the people described above. She was simply a sensible, level-headed person curious to hear my answer. I felt no need to justify or glorify my decision, nor did I need to offer her a sobering account of the fragile state of this country. My reply was that the question itself seemed irrelevant to me. People, particularly those who are unsettled by the thought of living in a so-called third world country, seem so preoccupied with place. I don't quite see the relationship between location and happiness. I told my friend that of course I realize that California is beautiful, and that life is "easy" there. But when the demands of daily life kick in, you hardly remember where you are. You seek happiness from the people around you, not from the traffic-free roads or those "How-in-the-world-did-I-spend-so-much? I-only-came-in-for-batteries" trips to Target.

Whoever said to choose your company before your destination was right. It doesn't matter how many malls are within a five-mile radius of your house, how many different kinds of cereal you have to choose from, or how big your backyard is. If you're not with the people you love, it won't be worth it. On the other end, there are people in the world living in unfathomable conditions who are content simply because they are surrounded by the people that matter. Life may be difficult, at times impossible, but being with the right people helps us forget, even if just for a moment.

Of course, if you're lucky, you won't have to give up much from either side. Life is good, and, though each day comes with a bigger dose of unpredictability than it once did, I am now with the people that mean most to me. Yes, Laila, I'm talking to you. Actually, mostly your kids, but I guess that includes you by association.

You Know You've Lived Through an Egyptian Revolution When...

1. You've slept with any piece of furniture pushed up against the door and/or a can of Pyrosol next to you.

2. Baltageya (thug) horror stories begin to sound more like jokes. So a baltagi walks into a bar...

3. Your cleaning lady is ready to quit her day job since she's sure she'll be rich once Mubarak's money is distributed.

4. You're convinced those fireworks in the distance are actually gunshots...But you don't really care.

5. You own any/all of the following revolution paraphernalia: key chain, January 25 license plate bumper sticker, bracelet, hat, t-shirt, mug, Egyptian flag (special edition, of course).

6. You've prayed for things to calm down but secretly hoped it wouldn't end before you got a picture standing on/next to a tank.

7. Your seven-year-old child has a hard time naming kinds of fruits but can easily recall, in both Arabic and English, the terms for revolution, protest, thug, rifle, dagger, and tank.

8. The aforementioned seven-year-old has engaged in protests at school with his friends, chanting "El shaab yureed BREAK!"

9. The day after voting on constitutional changes, you've shunned anyone at work who didn't have a pink finger.

10. You or anyone in your family actually went to Tahrir and now truly know what it means to walk and talk like an Egyptian.

11. What pyramids? You forgot that Egypt used to be famous for anything other than protests and politics.

12. You use the revolution as an excuse for just about anything, which made sense in the first couple of weeks but is starting to wear thin six months later. I would've picked up your dry cleaning. Really, I wanted to. It's just, with the revolution and everything...you know.

13. The saying "Masr om el donya" suddenly makes sense.

The Pineapple Rule

About a year ago, I was out to lunch with my cousin at one of our favorite restaurants. I was starving and eagerly awaiting my food when I saw the waitress coming our way. To my horror, shamelessly placed next to the main course were sliced pineapples. How dare they ruin a perfectly good meal with this uninvited guest? See, for as long as I can remember, I've been anti-pineapple. It's got sharp edges, an odd scent, and an even weirder taste.

After staring at the fruit on my plate for a while and attempting (unsuccessfully) to pass it over to my cousin, I had a wild thought: What if I just ate them? People eat pineapples all the time. No one's died yet...I think. Before actually taking on this feat I prepared myself mentally. I decided I would like pineapples...But I hate pineapples. No, I would eat them and I would love them.

So, it turns out we are capable of manipulating our minds. Since that day, I've loved pineapples. I no longer eat them only when forced. I actually seek them out. I love how they look, smell, and taste. And to think, if it hadn't been for that sneaky restaurant, I'd be missing out on all that juicy deliciousness.

Since then, I've encountered many situations in my day-to-day life where the pineapple lesson applies. People have become very picky when it comes to their tastes, and not just about food. Being blessed with abundance has made us feel the need to have an opinion on just about everything. We feel we're expressing our individuality when we choose to like one thing and hate something else. I say "choose" because I believe that many of our preferences are arbitrary, not based on reason or logic, but on some superficial basis. Not only are we needlessly picky, but we're stubborn. We don't like the idea that we might be wrong or that our so-called preferences may simply be baseless personality quirks of our own creation, essentially figments of our imagination.

I admit I'm guilty of this quite often. For example, I am known to absolutely despise the singer Pink. If one of her songs comes on the radio, I must turn it off. If a friend says she likes her, I start to have serious doubts about our friendship. I will confess that this has nothing to do with Pink's talent or anything she's done. I just decided, long ago, that I didn't like her and that was that. Technically, I could apply the pineapple rule here...But I don't want to.

In truth, there are much more important lessons to be learned from my pineapple epiphany. How many times do we make our lives harder by refusing to get on board mentally? In my opinion, that's half the battle. A great example of this is work. People love to complain about work. It could be their boss, their coworkers, or a lack of passion for their field. Whatever it is, these people have chosen to hate their jobs. They drag their feet around day in and day out dreaming of the weekend, during which they will only complain that the start of the work week is fast approaching. That means that 5/7 of their lives will be spent feeling miserable and the other 2/7 will be spent anticipating the misery to come. Sounds just lovely, doesn't it?

What if you decided to love your job? What if you decided to take it seriously and commit yourself to nothing short of excellence? Needless to say, you would be happier and more content with your life. But the added bonus is that you would also be more successful. The same could be applied to just about anything. Living in Egypt, for instance, is not without its challenges. But moaning and groaning the whole way through, longing for the easy life won't make things better. Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, you have to make the conscious decision to like Egypt, to appreciate its charms and forgive its shortcomings. Again, not only does this give us peace of mind, but navigating life in a new place actually begins to feel easy and natural.

I believe that you can choose to love fruit. You can decide to love your job. You can decide to love a new, unfamiliar place. I even believe that you can choose to love your life. I know it sounds easier said than done. And in a way it is...But in a way it really isn't. It's simple: Love pineapples and they'll love you back.

"Take that thing off your head because no man will want to marry you as long as you're dressed like that!"

Any excuse to include a picture of chocolate

If I had a Lindor truffle (my preferred currency) for every time an older, "wiser" woman said this to me, I'd be a little more than pleasantly plump. I can't say that this kind of thinking comes as a shock to me. Nonetheless, I always find it disappointing. I think the fundamental difference lies in who you're trying to please. These types of women are aiming to please men, essentially people. I, and many others like me, are aiming to please God.

This post is not about religion; nor is it about wearing hijab versus not wearing hijab. Rather, it is about knowing yourself and avoiding the self-betrayal that often results when we look to others to define and validate our success.

Regardless of one's degree of spirituality, it cannot be denied that striving to please people is the quickest route to unhappiness, frustration, and very often failure. You will never make everyone happy. And what's more, even if that elusive feat were somehow possible, it would not bring along with it satisfaction. True satisfaction is the product of strong convictions reinforced by corresponding actions. In other words, you need to know what you want, what you believe and live in a way that manifests your principles.

Back to the point: If my goal in life were to "catch a man," I would have long ago traded my flowing fabrics for something a little less subtle. That is not to say that I intend to remain single for the rest of my life; but I refuse to believe that in order to attract a man I must make myself so irresistible that he has no choice but to marry me. (Anyway, that's a bait-and-switch if you ask me, but that's another story.) Furthermore, there are plenty of things men find attractive that have nothing to do with appearance. Yes, intellect and insight actually count for something.

So, what about those men that supposedly won't give us a second glance because the first was nothing to write home about? Well, needless to say, those guys aren't even on my radar. I do believe that it's possible for a man to respect me for my choice rather than write me off for it.

And what if he doesn't exist? What if the old women are right? What if I become a crazy cat lady? That's life. More than anything, I will be content knowing that I stayed true to myself and my beliefs. The outcome is irrelevant.

The Signs of Summer

I was recently reminiscing about those old Ball Park hot dog commercials that used to air in the nineties. Every year, around May or June, I'd get so excited the first time I saw one because that meant that summer was right around the corner. Whether its summer or devouring a fuul sandwich, I enjoy the anticipation of something almost as much as the actual experience. So, as I anxiously await the arrival of summer, here are a few signs that it's fast approaching in Egypt.

The (in)famous Egypt smell
That familiar scent that greets/assaults you when you first arrive in Cairo seems to be much more potent during the summer. It's that blend of dust, pollution, and the occasional burning incense. I won't lie; for some strange reason, I love it. 

The empty streets of Cairo
Did I say "empty"? That's correct. As the weather begins to heat up, all the vacations spots along the North Coast or Red Sea that have become ghost towns during the winter come back to life. Cairenes who either can't or don't care to leave just yet get to enjoy the city as it was meant to be. Traffic is lighter, lines are shorter, and parking is a lot less frustrating. My sister says Cairo should take advantage of this mass exodus and "lock the doors" and whoever is out is out...forever. We can dream I guess...

The first lizard of the season
Even though I'm used to seeing lizards back in California, something about the ones here in Egypt makes me jump every time. The unsettling sight of a tiny lizard scurrying up my building, making its way up to my house, has made me the door/window Nazi. No one wants to see the chaos that ensues if I hear that someone has left a window or door open in the house.

The great uniform switch
This is one of my favorites. After a winter of gray weather and black police gear, you wake up one spring morning to find that the entire police force has swapped out its winter wardrobe for crisp, white, scorching-Cairo-heat-friendly uniforms. I wonder how they synchronize that. I wonder if one guy ever got confused, or didn't get the memo and came out wearing his black winter uniform and got laughed off the street. Anyway, aside from the obvious practical reasons, the white uniform reminds me to get my summer wardrobe out too! (This year the change is particularly welcome, as all the incriminating images of the police during the revolution feature them in their black uniforms.)

That mysterious trail of ants
One day soon you will likely fall victim to the following scenario: Oh, there's an ant on the remote control...That's random. [Insert your method of bug-killing here.] Oh, there's another one on the vase. Hmm, weird. Wait, there are, like, five on the coffee table. You finally catch sight of the ashtray and realize you've left an empty candy wrapper in it and are now under invasion by about 36,84793 ants and their closest relatives. I can't count how many cans of Raid I've wasted because I can't seem to remember that when the weather starts to warm up, just talking about sweets will bring an army of ants right to my doorstep.

There you have it. There are probably many more, but I'm gonna go take advantage of the empty streets, right after I secure my doors and windows...