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.