This is for you…

Chicken Dance – Grand Final

Ladies and Gentleman, this is my last goodbye from the makinoff blog. As you will see in the video below, my fight against the evil Egyptian chicken was a complete failure. One of the trainers got infected and in this moment he spreading the virus all around Paris. The CIA have just employed me to help them to save the world, so from this moment on I will have my name, face and ( hopefully) bottom changed. Take care of yourselves. With all my loveSara 

Back home

While increasing your anticipation for the next and last part of the Chicken Issue – that I’m sure has got you all on fire, I write my last post from my COPEAM desk in Rome. The fact that I’m here tells you couple of things:

1) I broke off with my Egyptian affairs  and decided that, even if my suitors were all very handsome and interesting , it was not time yet to quit Italy and get married with some Omar or Asman guy.

2) Despite the appearances, it can happen to you to take a car trip from Alexandria to the Caire and survive.

Last night in Alexandria was kind of weird: first we went to say goodbye to Mr. Dauriac at the Cecile ( the third hotel in Alexandria, besides the ones I’ve already told you about, which is unbelievably not crumbling like the rest of the buildings in town…if you pass by, go visit what they keep optimistically calling “the SPA” , it’s really amazing: the sauna is as clean and as big as the toilet of a plane…if i would’t put dirty my laundry in there, I don’t even think about stepping in it half naked). While we were sipping our Stella beer and thanking Mr Dauriac for some beautiful shells-made necklaces he bought for us at the fishmarket, Madame the Consule of France stepped in and rushed towards the dining room talking about some Beaujolet ( I’ve no clue of the exact spelling of this word) stuff…then I don’t know exactly what happened, but two minutes later I eating some cheese bread sticks in a room full of french people who were talking about France lounging around in a room full of french cheese and french wine. For about 5 miutes I wondered if had walked into some stargate and been projected into a third dimension where only french people lived, but then I realized that I was dealing with some Air France party and so I chilled up a little and starting enjoy the scene: Mr Dauriac was holding a conference about french wines making Hasna ( that passed by since she was supposed to leave for the Caire with Mr. Dauriac  and didn’t seem embarassed from wearing german-style-sandals-with-white-socks at a fancy event) drink one glass of whine after the other. Mahmud was as usual flying  above my head like a vulture, calling me at the phone from the next room asking “Five minutes they ( Mr Dauriac and Hasna) leave?”. Christophe couldn’t hide his joy for being in the same room with so many french delicatessen ( and who wouldn’t, anyway, after two weeks of chicken?) and Vincent just kidded around with my headphones with the only evil ( and achieved) intent of making me feel embarassed. 

Since we’re talking about that, I would like to ask you something that really haunts me, some kind of unanswered question like “Where do we come from? Where are we going? Where in the name of the lord I have put my lipstick?” etc, which is: ” Why during the fancy parties the waiters with the lousiest trays ( those with the ten years old canape) always approach to me while the ones with the best trays ( those with hot, fat and tasy stuff) root always on the most remote corner of the room so I have to walk  to grab the good stuff ( which is very tiring and anyway I can’t see the point of doing that since waiters with trays have been conceived with the clear aim of sparing fancy people from moving to grab some food).

In the end, Mr. Dauriac and Hasna left, and we went back to the Girl’s Hotel, where I got the next shocking experience of the day: the partecipants and the trainers where having SPAGHETTI. Now, that made me think. Could it be that after my scoop about chicken they are trying to buy me by preparing spaghetti? Listen you all, the enquiry of the truth is too important for me, is that clear? You won’t buy my quest for the truth with a plate of lousy spaghetti…you should at least give me some home made lasagna, what the hell!

The dinner was a little sad as goodbyes always are, and then we kept chatting, and hugging, and crying, and kidding around, and showing my underwear to the street in front of the hotel ( never ever wear a short skirt in a windy day in Alexandria).  

 After two satisfying hours of sleep, I was woke up by the reception guy who told me that Christophe, Lelia and Vincent (plus the “driver”) were all waiting for me in the all ready to go. That kind of sucked, since I was still wearing my pajamas, so I grab the first clothes I could find,  jumped like a wrestling star on my baggage to close it, and rushed to the Brazilian Coffee at the corner, where Christophe and the others – who have asked for two espressos and a french coffee – were staring distraught at one american coffee, one cumin flavored capuccino with wipped cream and a banana smoothy.

The trip to the Caire was real fun: we asked Lelia to ask the driver to stop to some restoring area to get a little breakfast but I guess that there must be some differences between Egyptian and Lebanese because for the dirver, the word “restoring area” meant some crappy hut in the middle of nowhere.  In the end we convinced him to bring us to somwhere more healthy, so I brought us in a really nice restoring area, with some nice tables to sit and have breakfast at. Too bad that, after have already asked for cheese omelette, we realized we were actually having breakfast in a zoo surrounded by llamas, goeats, flamingos, deers and ostrichs…no chicken, anyway.

The trip to the Caire was too short and a little sad. As we got  to the airport, we kissed eachother and said goodbye, while some Egyptian guy walked towards me asking: Alitalia?Christophe, Vincent and Lelia went away sure that I was in very good hands…in fact the guy just wanted some money from me and then left me all by myself struggling in the airport…well, whatever. As I got in Rome, after three hours spent I realized one lady has taken my luggage instead of hers. I would have love to have a Mahmud to yell at. That was when I realized I’d already started missing Alexandria.  

Chronicles of Alexandria, Episode 4 – Courting Strategies

 Every woman in the world naturally attracts specific categories of men. Mine are: 

1)       Old men ( 70 years old minimum)

2)       Working class ( waiters, guards, bricklayers, electricians, postmen…better if 70 years old)

3)       Arabians

The good thing about that is that I used to live in the Arabic quarter in Milan, and so that turned up to be very good for some reasons: 

Improves you ego : since no matter how bad I’m dressed, how fluffy my hair are ( and I promise you that most of the time I look like the rasta sister of the Lion King), how messed my make up is, I always feel like Monica Bellucci on the red carpet, with all these nice guys whistling and yelling at me.  

Keeps you thin and fit: Since, especially late at night, these guys express their admiration chasing me, I learned to run like Forrest Gump and I could keep a perfect shape without having to pay expensive pilates lessons.  So, no surprise that during my Egyptian period I got some admirers, also considering the fact that Alexandria is the African Paris, with all the lovers holding hands, smoking shisha and looking at the sea sat on the corniche. 

The funny thing is that there are a lot of differences between occidental and Egyptian courting strategies. Mainly, in Italy, if you really fancy someone, you grab a big poster, you draw in capital letters I FANCY YOU (+ your phone number), you place it right in front of his face and then go out for little shopping hoping that sooner or later he will understand it’s him you’re talking with.    

If he does, the courting ritual schedules:  

1)       Him pausing the Playstation to send you an sms

2)       You not answering to create a little suspense

3)       Him re – sending you the same sms he already sent you

4)       You keeping not answering

5)       Him giving up the courting ritual an going back to the Playstation

6)       You ending up all by yourself listening Barbara Streisand and eating ice cream on the couch. 

 In Egypt it’s completely different. If you can’t help from impacting with an Egyptian men ( example: you have to work with him, you have to ask him how much the muddy-texture-Turkish-coffee costs etc etc) at the beginning you will be a little puzzled by their kindness. They open the taxi door for you, instead of quickly jumping in it leaving you like an ass in the middle of the street. They pay you drinks, instead of turning into sloths and sloooowly open their wallet when waiters bring you the bill. After a while, however, they start to become a little too caring. I’ve been also proposed while paying my tea in a Bowling place by quite a handsome guy whose courting strategy consisted in pointing out that his sister has my same name. Well, that was quite a catch.   

MAHMUDIA

 

  MAHMUD, Mahmudi Phone-callingus : a Mahmud is a 1.05 m height male Egyptian whose age and last name are still undetected and whose tailor is, without any doubt, the Godfather’s. He lives in tourists environments, such as Hotels and restaurants, and it’s very easy to recognize him since his cell phone is the prolongation of his right hand, that he uses compulsively to call me ten thousand a day from 8.00 am in the morning to 1.00 am in the morning. He never eats, but smokes a lot, if possible my cigarettes, and always asks the same milky slimy cocktail ( something called guava, that according to me has rather the taste and texture of guano, but at breakfast I once had to swallow it and looked pleased despite that, because Mr. Dauriac from CFI asked me to, and I didn’t have courage enough to disappoint such a nice person.)  Anyway, a Mahmud is someone who is paid to take care of you, but not in a nice way, for example bringing you chicken soup when you’re sick, or singing you a lullaby before going to bed. Not at all. The Mahmud is mainly annoying. He only speaks Arabic, and a few word of English, that he uses in a random way, and with the wrong intonation. Example: every night, I have this little briefing with him to arrange the transfers for the day after. The first days he politely waited in the hotel hall until the I finished my dinner. The fourth day he started calling me on the cell phone asking me where I was. From the sixth day on he took the amusing habit of having is guava thing sat at the table next to mine, staring at me like a vulture with its prey. When I can’t stand his sunglassed gaze anymore, I give up my chicken ( no regrets, anyway) and go meet him. Since the Mahmud doesn’t understand English very well (or, at least, my English) communicating with him requires a bunch of cigarettes, excellent gesticulating capabilities and some Arabic-speaking person  to ask to if you really can’t help. If you are in Alexandria in these days, give up the boring belly dancers, buy some pop corns (cumin-flavored, of course), grab a chair, put it outside the Windsor Hotel at dinner time, and enjoy the show.  Ladies and gentleman, The Windsor Paradise Inn Hotel in Alexandria is proud to present the Egypt v.s. Italy Mime Challenge . At the right corner we have the Queen of transfers, the Princess of the flight plan…meet Copeamgirl!!! ( the crowd applauds) At the left corner we have the one and only Egyptian champ…the Mahmud ( delirium of the crowd). (Play by play of the match): the two fighters approach…they shake hands…here’s the Mahmud… 

Mahmud (speaking, he will keep having the same paralysis-like smiling facial expression for the whole time): SIT DOWN!! (translation: please, take a seat)

Copeamgirl (speaking, very self confident): no thanks, I’m fine.

M. (speaking, same facial expression): GIVE ME A CIGARETTE!! (translation: would you lease give me a cigarette?)     

C. (gives him a cigarette)

M: all ok?

C: (speaking very slowly) no. a –girl –lost –her –luggage –and –she –wants –to –go –grab –it –as –soon –as –it –arrives –with –the –next –flight –at –the –Alexandria –airport. Can – we –arrange- a – car –for –her?

M: (keeps smiling) bus tomorrow afternoon?

C: (starting to gesticulate) a – girl ( pointing at the hotel restaurant, in which the ladies are having chicken) lost – her – luggage ( miming the act of carrying a bag) and – she wants – to – go ( miming someone driving) to – get – it ( miming someone that picks something) at – the – airport ( drawing a square in the air, in which a lot of flying things land…very difficult to understand) as –soon –as –the –play –arrives (miming something landing). (only miming) she – is – afraid ( terror on Copeamgirl face) that – if – no one (miming “no one”, very difficult, Copeamgirl gets 100 points)  – gets – the – luggage (miming the luggage) people –at – the –airport –grab –the –luggage –and- send –it –back (miming a catapult) to the –next –flight ( waving her harms as they were wings). You understand? ( hope in Copeamgirl’s eyes)

M (keeps smiling) : plain? Airport? How many tomorrow for lunch?  

C: (almost crying does all the mime thing again while smoking three cigarettes at the same time)

M: (keeps smiling) aaaaaaaaaaah.ok, airport. Luggage, tomorrow.

C: (shaking her hand and tearing her hairs) no –tomorrow. Now!  

M: (keeps smiling) sorry. No understand. Give me a cigarette.

Copeamgirl grabs one of the Arabic-speaking girls visibly upset and ask her to explain him, then leaves them and goes get a double Tony Youseff Especial.  

  

The Chicken Issue

Ok, so far I wrote about the young n’ sexy side of this workshop, but now it’s time to quit trifles and get a little more into breaking news, because, in the end, I’m living among super smart journalists and it’s time to adapt my IQ to the average. So, let me introduce you The Chicken Issue. I’ve been doing a massive enquiry, took pictures, interviewed people, followed the news up to the most dangerous shisha bar, risked my life ( but that was actually my fault, because I crossed the street chatting at the cell phone) and here you are, after a week of super hard job, some brand new clues that could really help in throwing light on the mystery that is getting people around the world on fire: what is going on between Egyptians and chickens?  To prove you I’m not kidding at all, here you are some data that can provide you a panorama on Egyptian Chicken Issue: 

 Permanence in Alexandria: 15 days   -      Number of meals/ day ( breakfast excluded): 2   -      Number of restaurants in which we have meals: 3 ( Windsor Hotel Restaurant, Metropole Hotel Restaurant and the Cafeteria of Bibliotheca Alexandrina by Hilton Hotels)    -      Rating of the above-mentioned restaurants according to my  “ Act like a perfect Egyptian in Egypt even if you look the hell like a Finnish, which is what you are” guide book:  5 silver forks.   -       Total number of cooks in the above-mentioned restaurants: 2  ( for the three of them, because the Metropole and the Windsor have the same cook, or two twin – cooks, I didn’t have –alas!– the chance to check, should go and try to buy our beloved waiter Tony Yousseff to know a little more…I promise I will.)   -      Number of times we had chicken at meals: 26   -     Ways Egyptians apparently  know to cook chicken: 3. fried, grilled, fried and then grilled. 

 We actually asked more than once the hotel to vary a little the menu, but there must have been some kind of misunderstanding, since the only thing that has been varied ever since is the flavor of the rice they serve as a side dish ( from cumin-flavored to cinnamon-flavored). Anyway, wandering around a little, I encountered some events that made me starting to think that what I saw was just the surface of something more deep, complex and sinister.

 I asked some Arabic-speaking friends of mine to translate what those guys that – yelling like hell – kindly woke me up from my first half-hour-nap of the week, but none of them could actually explain exactly what they say, so let’s try to guess starting from the elements we already have: 1) I only know two reasons why people may feel the need to gather in the center of town blustering that way with drums and whistles : a. When their national football team wins the World Championship, which is clearly not the case since it was my team who won ( too bad CFI people, you lose!!! ahahahahahahahah). b. When they can’t stand a situation anymore. 2) As you can see the protest was actually going on in front of a Kentuky Fried Chicken restaurant, which is an American chain that mainly sells spicy-like-hell fried chicken ( ah!).  So, according to these incontrovertible evidences, I wonder: if, after two weeks of chicken eating I’m turning into a chicken myself ( I swear I found feathers on my t-shirt, so I’m certainly turning into a chicken, or my winter coat has a hole from which the down comes out.), how can this poor people carry on eating chicken 24/7 for their entire lives? No wonder they feel a little pissed. Discover the sordid sequel of this fire-hot issue in the next episode!!!

Chronicles of Alexandria,Episode 3 – Sex and the City

Done, we have the name for the blog: NewsLab. I know, I know, it’s not very girlish, but you can’t imagine the effort the ladies did to sort out something that didn’t sound like the pay-off of some nouvelle cuisine fanatics sorority. Moreover, most of the organizers belong to the male side of the moon ( but I promise you it’s not their fault), and that didn’t help very much because, despite the best intentions – in the end the workshop was their idea , so I assume they’re not permanently gone yet – during the brainstorm they came out with some foolish suggestion like “Blah blah blah”, “Drifting women” etc etc… you judge by yourself. Anyway, these episode made me think about the differences between men and women and also about Egyptian men wooing strategies. So, here’s another little handbook to get along with Egyptian men: 1)  The Egyptian male not necessarily court women in person. They have in fact developed a complex and imaginative set of activities to let the female understand he’s kind of interested: a) Horn Concert: if the well known beep beep  in Egyptian means: get out of my way or I’ll run you down , and the beeep means: Fancy a ride? , Luciano, who is half Egyptian, told me that the bebebeep beep beep means: I remark your beauty, my sweet and charming lady. Lazy people. 2)       When they unfortunately don’t have a horn to blare nearby, they replace it with a range of charming sounds like whistles, yahoos, and some more onomatopoeias that I use to chase my cat away or when I feed chickens ( well, if I had chickens I’d use them for sure). 3)       If the female is strong enough to resist to such charming courtship, it could happen to her to be thrown some contusing  object such as lighters or even little stones ( a six year old kid threw on to me this morning). Don’t interpret that in a wrong way, they didn’t really mean to hurt you ( I hope) …here a little video made by the photographer Vince who, without knowing about this post, realized a Love according to Vince” slideshow, that clearly demonstrates his capability of adaptation to Egyptian context.  

CityLifeStyle,Episode 1 – Hotels

Since it’s been a little while we’ve been here now, and since you may at some times end up in Alexandria, I think it could be nice of me to tell you something about Egyptian leisure and lifestyle. In Alexandria there are mainly three big hotels to stay at: The Metropole ( which is mine), The Windsor ( which is the one of the ladies) and the Sofitel ( about which I don’t care because none of us is staying there). These three hotels have been built at the beginning of the XX century but, thankfully, they had someone who cared about them and did something to prevent them to crumble as it’s happening to great part of Alexandria buildings. (Travel tip: never stop for a long time too close to Alexandria buildings).  They have a super kitsch décor, that I truly love, some kind of mix between my granny’s living room ( the elegant one without the plastic cover on the sofas to prevent them from being used, very comfy especially in summer), Napoleon’s bedroom and the Parthenon. The staff is super nice, although a little anxious, it looks like they have some kind of obsession with the room numbers of the customers, that they keep asking you all day long. I’m thinking about hanging a nice poster around my neck with my room number written on it. The rooms assignation has been soooo reasonable: I got a stadium-sized room, I can roller-skate into bathtub using it as a half-pipe, and my bed  is so wide that could comfortably lodge an entire Chinese family ( grannies and pets included). Chris “Chef du Projet” Dhelinger’s room is a super cute cabin, like the ones Japanese use to doze in the afternoon, and I also think I’ve seen the Grumpy dwarf asking the reception guy when could he get his room back. One nice thing about rooms, is the shower: there must be some secret law that only Egyptian know ( and they won’t tell you) according to which hot water never works when you decide to take a shower. I guess the only way to avoid to get freeze to death is to pretend you don’t feel like having a shower, move slowly towards the shower while chewing your nails or whistling and, suddenly, jump in the bathtub with all your clothes on opening  the tap at the same time.  I won’t tell you much about the meals, because I feel the need to dedicate them a whole post. Anyway, I must admit that dinners are really cheerful: there’s always this Buddha Bar atmosphere, you eat at feeble candlelight, you see nothing of what you eat, and you are brightened by a piano player whose repertoire clearly shows his will to kill himself by the end of the month. Around 10.00 p.m. there’s dinnertime climax: the traditional (Finnish !?) belly dancer flails for ten minutes provoking faint enthusiasm in everyone except from Vincent, who has exhausted his camera memory card taking picture of her. Last, but not least, there’s the alcohol issue. In Egypt having alcohol is forbidden in many places so you mainly drink loads of tea or coffee ( with astonishing diuretic effects). If you fancy a beer ( or something stronger), the only place where I so far could find it was the hotel itself but I warn you, it’s not a bowl of cherries at all. There you are a handbook for asking something alcoholic to drink in a Hotel:  1)       You’d better sit down in the hall with your room number poster around the neck , because (since is a quite complex operation) the staff of the hotel will ask you it at least a thousand times. 2)       You ask for a menu, in which the non-alcoholic choice is written in capital sparkling letters while the alcoholic one is hand written on the back cover. 3)       You’d better ask for something that just needs to be pour from the bottle to the glass, like a vodka. (Travel tip: a booster dose or a vodka on the rocks can cause misunderstandings. Yesterday I asked a double vodka with a lot of ice, and they actually brought to me a glass of vodka, and a filled-to-the-top ice bucket…well, that was a lot of ice.)  Never ever ever ask for cocktails. Vince, Chris and I have been looked like pioneers when we suggested our beloved Tony Youssef waiter ( such a Rock n’ roll name!!!) to mix some Paradise fruit juice with vodka. His life is never going to be the same again.

Chronicles of Alexandria, Episode 2: The Weekend, the sunshine, the brush.

Someone says that there is some kind of curse that follows people abroad and my colleague Paola must be one of them. In the exact moment she left Alexandria the sun has begun to shine again, wind and rain are miles away (waiting for her in Rome, I guess), birds sing, deers couple and the male organizers have walked into the breakfast room wearing their best suites with a children-the-day-of-Christmas-like-smile , suddenly realizing they are living among the most charming, smart and beautiful group of ladies ever and that, since they’re actually stuck here, they can’t escape from relating with them.    Although it’s Friday (which is like weekend here) everything is very nice and calm at the Bibliotheca and we are the only people working. Now, this is democracy: since the organizers couldn’t decide whether having a break following the European calendar or the Egyptian one, we ended up not having a break at all.  Which was kind of cool, though, since it gave me the chance to observe the few Egyptian at work during the weekend and get some elements to figure out how life works here. First of all, it must be said that Alexandria isn’t the cleanest town ever, it looks more like the International Open-air Gathering of Garbage ( I’m waiting for the mayor of Naples to show up as the special-guest lecturer). For this reasons, it really surprises me that in the perimeter of Bibliotheca, people never stop doing cleanup no matter what. So, if you happen to be at the Bibliotheca Alexandrina on Fridays, you’d better keep in mind that, because of this cleansing fervor, it can happen to you’d be washed away by some smiling guy with a water cannon. I also believe that all this cleaning could help archeological research: I’m afraid that, if they brush a little more, they will end up digging the floor and bringing to light some super cool find, like Alexander the Great’s toilet brush or stuff like that. Anyway, the ladies are starting to get along, the workshop is really interesting and if you pass by, you can see a bunch of people who look, live and speak different but, in the deep, are much more alike than I expected.

Taxi – driver

After the experiences of the last three days, I feel the need to dedicate a post to Alexandria taxi – drivers for the following reason:

 1) They make you feel rich: no matter where you go (could be your hotel or the Carrefour, but if you exit the city center you’d better remember that the name of the Biblioteca  is MASTABA, if you want to be brought back to the center of town),  you always pay 5 egyptians pounds max.(which is the equivalent of 70 Eurocent). 

 2)The cab – fare meter is one of a kind in every cab I’ve been: in the first cab I took the meter was stuck on 6 Drachmaes, and had the cutest dolphin-shaped statue glued on it.  The second one was stuck on 6 Francs ( and then I started to wonder if I could pay the ride , let’s say, 6 florins or 6 apples as well). There was a super technologic one, with a GPS navigator system powerful enough to detect a flock in the most remote Egyptian countryside and a remote-controlled mp3 system (I actually saw the remote, I swear). There was this super cute one who was completely fur-covered, and was like a theology essay on wheel : beside the dashboard there was a shoking purple velvet box containing the Koran plus a stars-n’-stripes Arbre Magique plus a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror.

3) Calling a cab could become an athletic disciplin: there are mainly two ways of calling a cab. The first one, best known as stop’n go consists in rushin against it as it passes by hoping it stops before it squashes you. The second one, best known as the taxi-dance consists in waving convulsivly your arms to draw the attention of the taxi driver who, as soon as he’ll detect you, will just cross the street without caring of the other cars passing by. My opinion is that there must be some kind of God that looks after Egyptian taxi-drivers.

 4) Taxi drivers are super funny, especially after 9.00 p.m. and they make you really enjoy life: two nights ago we stopped a cab to be driven back to the hotel. The Egyptian taxi-driver protector God must have done a huge effort to make us reach the hotel alive, since the funny guy has driven all time chatting with us, and laughing, and clapping hands, and repeating every word we said.

God bless ( and keeps lookin’ after) Egyptian taxi – drivers!