My First Night

So…. a few blocks of broken sidewalk later, Rami and I and my two suitcases come to a very crowded market area. Vendors line the streets and a large building to our right houses about eight stores.
Rami heads up the stairs leading to a bakery.

“This is us,” he says. The bakery??

We walk through a wide building corridor with more storefronts on either side. He makes a sharp left into a vestibule with a concierge desk. The attendant smiles as Rami rings for the elevator.

Yes, we are staying right above – literally – a market, both inside and outside our building. It’s a deliciously noisy strip of street where you can buy yummy fruits, veggies, meats, breads, condiments, chesses, apparel, accessories and more knick-knacks than a paddy can whack.

I’m tired and hungry and want to nap, but Rami has bought some pizza – a thick-breaded square topped with chunky fresh sauce and olives. And Raquy is just about to head off to teach her Thursday tabla class at a nearby university and asks if I’d like to join her.

Can I possibly resist??

Nope.

We skip a short three blocks to a salmon colored building where the guard asks for my passport. Then it’s up the slow, slow elevator to a dumbek-filled ante-room. We follow the DUMs to a gaggle of students cheefully whacking away.

They are all beginners, but surprisingly good – and they will perform with her at her concert next week! One student plays his homework composition as I accompany with a steady malfuf.

Ah… then it’s naptime. (Back at the apartment, not at the college – though I was ready to hit the tiles anytime!)

I doze for a few hours and wake to find two new people in the apartment: Dave, a guitarist Brit now living in Cairo, and fellow musician Fred who is visiting from Sweden.

We are planning to go to The Blue Nile restaurant, which is a swank hot spot on a fixed boat, so I dress up. But when we call for reservations, we are out of luck.

At 11pm, we manage to get a table at a nearby Lebanese place that serves a bowl of unsliced raw veggies – tomatoes, cukes, peppers (red, green and hot!) – which we devour. “Most people just leave the salad as a centerpiece,” Raquy remarks, “I think we’re the only ones who actually eat it!”

I tried out my few Arabic phrases on the waiter, but ultimately Rami ordered mixed meats, hummus, breads and other tasty staples.

“The best food in Cairo is Lebanese,” Dave noted as we strolled back. “Most of the Egyptian stuff is heavy and greasy.”

Finally back at 1am, we drop our bags and jackets at the apartment and head downstairs to our Nubian neighbors’ weekly Thursday party.

We descend a flight to a spartan lounge – linoleum, flourescent lights and about twenty Nubian men chatting, smoking, drinking tea, playing pool and ping-pong. I watch the pool game and am quickly asked if I want to take a shot.

I try. I miss.

I join Raquy in a sideroom where she has set up her kamanche, with Rami, Dave, Fred and several frame-drum-toting partygoers holding down the rhythm. I join on zills.

She plays her own compositions and a few Arabic numbers, then the Nubian men begin to gleefully sing traditional songs. They bring us tea and cigarettes. I’m in heaven.

Finally. Bed at 3am.