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 

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!!!

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 1 – the umbrella, the consulate, the martini

Once upon a time there was a bunch of people from all over the world that went in Alexandria for a training project on New Media. Here’s the very true chronicle of what happend there how it appeared through the eye of a young and smart italian event organizer.

The workshop started on the 22^nd November 2007 with the arrival of ( almost all) the ladies participants of the workshop. The “almost” refers to the fact that  for some of them arranging a direct flight to Alexandria was kind of impossible, and despite the Travel Agent ( chapeau, Gennaro) and I spent the last weekend playing Risiko! with the airlines, some of them had to fly from Morocco or Algeria to Italy, then Greece, Singapore, Greenland and, in the end, reach Egypt after a 24 hour long trip. I wonder if it would have take less riding a horse. Anyway, the night of the 22^nd we had a welcome party at the French Consulate and, although of course everyone was a little shy, for what concerns me the martini helped. At the consulate we met the Consul, and it was kind of cool for me, since I’ve never met one in my life. From this experience the idea I now have of Consuls is that they are some kind, elegant and middle – aged women who speak French (but of course I’m sure the cathegory it’s much wider than that). Anyway, getting into the Consulate wasn’t precisely a bowl of cherry: first of all, it was rainy and windy and we had to walk from the hotel to the Consulate (on super cool white platform shoes that, before arriving at the consulate, had uncannily turned brown), and the umbrella I borrowed from the hotel (swearing to look after it no matter what) couldn’t really protect me from the rain that actually wasn’t falling perpendicularly but horizontally. Then, as we got in front of the entrance door, we had to wait ten more minutes before getting in because there was this soldier guy praying on his knees on the floor right next the door so we couldn’t open it without hitting him in the head. And, believe me, hitting a soldier guy with a gun between his knees while he is praying it’s not the best idea ever. In the end we finally got in, and there were welcome toast, and hooray CFI, and hooray COPEAM, and some more hoorays and in the end we were a little more relaxed. I must admit that I was very curious about how the girl would have been,because even if of course I spoke with them at the phone, and I received their emails, still looking at them chatting side by side on the Consulate sofas, being – at last – able to associate a face ( a real one, of course I’ve seen their passports, but there’s no need to explain why passport photos aren’t that trustworthy…for example, in my passport photo I look like an alien while in person I’m one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen ( hahahahahah)) was really exciting. The morning after, Paola ( who is my senior colleague and also COPEAM coordinator) left, leaving me as the only representative of the association, and also a little worried…two weeks can last a second or for ever. Wonder how much will they last for me.