The DOs and DON'Ts of Riding a Taxi in Cairo, Egypt

As an avid taxi rider, I have notices some peculiar behavior from cabbies. I shouldn't be surprised. Cabbies' actions are a reflection of the continuum of descent we face in every facet of life in Egypt. Each group simply descends in a manner congruent with their perception of acceptable behavior, not taking into consideration the affect of their actions on others. Not only do they neglect to acknowledge their impact, they simply do not care.

As someone who works in change management, I have found it frivolous to try and change the behavior of Egyptians. A carrot never works, only a stick. Even so, punishment must be consistent and continuous. The moment you remove the stick, people revert back to their original state. They are willing to chance termination in order to be lazy, careless, and do as little as possible. The other alternative is to change the people all together and start with a clean crop of employees, while constantly weeding out bad elements. Do not delude yourself and think that harmful weed will not grow in your organization. The only way to combat mediocrity, is to constantly remove negative influences from their roots. If once, only once, you rest on your laurels, harmful weed will infest your entire garden. So, in conclusion, Egyptians are impervious to change.

As a result I don not go into a long diatribe with cabbies, or try to lecture them on customer service, or explain to them how they are role models to future generations of taxi drivers and how their constant presence in the streets of Cairo has a harmful effect, far more penetrating than civilian drivers, yet they can also be a positive change, that is, if they wanted to. It is a fruitless debate that will render me breathless. That being said, it is not in my nature to passively stand by. If I cannot eradicate taxi behavior, the least I can do is not condone it. I own a carrot, the fare. I control my choice of cabbie, and thus have become quite selective and very aware of my own behavior as a rider of taxis.

Here is my list of DOs and DO NOTs:

1) When hailing a cab, select a proper area to wait. Take into consideration that when the taxi stops to let you in, he doesn't disrupt the flow of traffic. Avoid the corner of narrow busy streets and double parked cars.

2) Be courteous to your follow taxi riders and stand after those already waiting for a cab.

3) Make sure that you have enough change before getting into a cab. If not, let the cabbie know in advance so he can stop at a gas station and break a 200 pound note.

4) Know where you are going and don't rely on the cabbie to know how to get there. Some of them are clueless and may not work in the area regularly. Identify the various routes that you are comfortable with and make sure that the cabbie does not detour.

5) Put down your phone and pay attention. If the cabbie takes a detour you are unfamiliar with, ask him where he is going. You can also ask him to take another route. Be polite but unyielding.

6) Commercial license plates are ORANGE. The blue ones are for civilian cars. Ask yourself, why is a civilian driver masquerading as a cabbie. Least of all, there will not be a meter.

7) You are not obligated to shout out your destination from across the street because a cabbie doesn't want to pull over. Wait from another taxi who values his job and does it properly.

8) A cabbie who cuts across from the left lane ahead of another taxi to beat him to a customer, is a person who will not think twice about cutting in line at the supermarket. If this behavior irritates you, then wait for the other cab who kept to the right.

9) If you are crossing the street, in order to wait for a taxi from a better vantage point, and notice that a cabbie pulls over and waits for you, don't get in. This means that he noticed you standing on the other side of the road. If he's truly keen on picking up a customer, he would have been paying attention to the sidewalk to his right, where normal people wait to hail taxis, not the opposite direction.

10) If you are happy with the service rendered, don't forget to thank the cab driver and tip him accordingly. They have a terrible job and the worse work environment possible. 

Beauty in midst of Disarray

I've been back in Egypt for three months now. It has been a tiring process of adjustment and assimilation resistance. Somehow Egyptians are more tolerant of my peculiar personality than before. Though unjustifiable, for I have not changed at all. I suppose I'm much less edited and thus amplified, but I am the same person I have always been.

I must admit , I'm finding it difficult to return to the state of contentment I inhibited before leaving. I never fitted in with society's definitions of who I should be and how I should behave. I've never been happy, living in Egypt. I hate the dust and crowds. Very few things brought me genuine happiness. These things revolved around certain people. But, beyond them, I merely existed. I went through the motions everyday because I had no other choice. My only solace of satisfaction and self actualization came from work. The only beauty I perceived was watching my niece and nephews morph into human beings. I was never truthfully happy, only content. That was my life in Egypt. I had grown to accept it for what it was. I lived one day at a time.

Moving to New York, I found new avenues that excited and motivated me to live. My job there played no role. It was tedious and mind numbingly boring. But it didn't matter. Fulfillment came from else where. My colleagues were an amazing wonderful group of people. I enjoyed their company profusely. I looked forward to spending time with them every week. Most importantly, I'd eagerly await the weekends. It's in those forty eight hours that I truly lived. I divided my time between choirs and fun. I read books and wrote stores. I watched films and went to the theater. I walked around New York and enjoyed the scenery. I took in nature and people watched. It was a beautiful serene interlude. I will, forever, dearly hold those two and half years in my heart. I look back on those times, mesmerize, cry and smile.

My move away from Egypt was a lifestyle change. I exercised more. I ate healthier. I met new people. I made new friends. Everything I could not and cannot do in Egypt. Everything that makes me happy and I no longer have in my life.

The choice to move back was a rational one. I had my reasons. I do not regret it. But, I'd like to retain some of my New York being. I enjoyed being happy. Mere contentment is unacceptable. I have boxed my professional life in a 9-to-5 window. I refuse to carry my job around with me all the time. Once I step over the office's threshold, I shun all worries. It hasn't been easy, but I persist. I'd like to maintain a healthy diet. Something that has proven more difficult to do. There isn't an abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables. My roommates deplete my food stock. I want to continue writing, but inspiration is fleeting, as is the solitude necessary for the writing process (just had an argument with my mother to explain to her that I need to be left alone while writing). So far, I've been unsuccessful at maintaining a happy lifestyle. But I haven't given up hope.

The theater is the one true thing I miss the most about New York, together with green grass and donuts and independent bookstores and a bunch of other things. There's something electrifying about live performances. The energy from the stage is contagious. There's inherent beauty in witnessing artists creating art. In an attempt to retain that beauty, I attended a Harp recital at Cairo's Opera House. Despite the misery associated with purchasing tickets and battling God awful traffic during rush hour, the concert lifted my spirits. It was like finding a radiant rose in the middle of a garbage dump.

The performance was held in a makeshift open area stage on a Wednesday evening, early September. Temperatures were too high to accommodate for outdoor activities. The musicians melted under the added heat of spot lights. We sat on bare boned banquet chairs that were very uncomfortable. The audience unapologetically chatted amongst themselves during the performance. Many people popped out of their seats to get a better vantage point for their smart phone cameras. Despite all this, the musicians, centered around Dr. Manal Mohei El Din and her harp, closed their eyes and lost themselves in the music. Their heads swayed to the rhythm. Their energy infected the audience, who soon enough clapped along with the beat. A smile emerged from my lips. I forgot the heat. I forgot the traffic. I forgot contentment. I was happy for two hours.

The beauty of art is that performances stay with us. We reminisce the experience and relive the moment.  Every time I hear Elqamh El-Liela, I remember the recital and smile at the memory.

Since June 30th 2013, Egyptians have been bombarded with fund raising themes. Donate to Charity. Donate to rebuild the country and renew prosperity, despite paying ever increasing taxes. We are assaulted with beggars and hobos who have sprouted on every corner. These are all noble causes, but charity should also extend to one's self. Donate an evening to yourself. Experience art and be touched by the performance. Support local artists and appreciate their work. 

Solidarity – Freedom For All

Solidarity - Union or fellowship arising from common responsibilities and interests

In 2011 I made a conscience decision to leave Egypt because I had a premonition that sectarian rule will reign supreme. Not that I had the ability to see into the future, but my logic told me that Egyptians will elect parties running on a religious platform since it is easier to believe that a religious man can be trusted and will do the right thing, than to debate candidates and comprehend their ideologies. Logic also dictated that there is nothing holy about politics and that politicians hiding behind the cloak of righteousness and religion, whether be it a beard or a veil, are nothing more than a fox in sheep’s clothing. Thus I moved to the US.

While living in New York, I participated in stand-ins and protests against the Brotherhood (I will not associate my beloved religion with this group) because I firmly believed that they would infringe on the freedoms of our nation and that their only loyalty was to their group and no one else. I didn’t want my niece to grow up without the freedom to choose how she dressed, what she did with her body, and to be deprived of the chance to become anything she wanted to be.  Having moved away from the apex of events, I had a more objective view. I was liberated from the fear of a future lost and doomed destiny. This doesn’t mean that I was objective throughout the entire Jan 25 revolution, on the contrary. I was among the group of people marked with the moniker “The Party of the Couch – Hezeb El Kanaba”. I firmly stated that Mubarak wasn’t as bad of a tyrant as Tahrir painted him to be, and I still stand by this statement. Sequestered for 12 days in a small Cairo apartment with my mother, brother, sister, and her three young children, not knowing if I had a job after the curfew, not knowing what kind of future my niece and nephews would have, completely giving up on any kind of future for myself, I was appalled that a bunch of kids who did not work and thus didn’t pay taxes would demolish the country and bring it to a standstill. I feared a civil war. My world was shattered in a matter of days and I couldn’t envision a life beyond the moment. I wished someone would go down and just gathering everyone in the streets and reset Egypt back to my normal operating procedure. I didn’t care about the freedom of others as long as my status quo and the safety of my family were maintained.

While in New York, although my future was still MIA, I reflected on the situation more clearly. I am not going to justify my change in stance, for my convictions within 2011 were wrong. Yet, as much as I loathed the brotherhood and everything they stood for, I supported their freedom to practice politics in the state. I support the freedom of those who support the brotherhood as much as I support the freedom of those backing the army and Al Sisi. To me they are exactly the same. I roll my eyes at inane Facebook and Twitter comments, but I support the freedom of these people to express their point of views despite how stupid they seem to me. Although I was among those standing at Etihadyia on June 30, enjoying the festivities, I didn’t support the ouster of Morsi, as it didn’t help the implementation of democracy in the country. Yet, I was happy and relieved when he left and I can understand the elation of my friends still living in Egypt upon the departure of the brotherhood. I don’t support any criminal actions performed by the brotherhood’s leadership or members, or any citizen for that fact. I personally believed that Sisi remaining as minister of defense and a counter force to an elected president would have been better for the country, yet I respect the freedom of those who voted for him or Hamdeen, as well as the freedom of those who boycotted the entire process. I firmly believe that democracy represents the freedom of citizens to practice politics and participate in the process accordingly to their desires. I also believe that Freedom is absolute and cannot be segmented into acceptable freedoms and regulated ones.

With the ouster of Morsi and the ascendance of Sisi, I became somewhat optimistic. I saw a future beyond the moment. I admit that my optimism was attributed to pre-2011 status quo, yet the pragmatists in me wouldn’t rest on her laurels. I knew that Egypt will not rewind to a time before the revolution and that Sisi is not Mubarak. I was apprehensions because I didn’t know his political tendencies. I feel that he is leaning more towards a socialist state than capitalist. I fear protectionism of industries and nationalization of corporations akin of Nasser era. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that Egypt would revert to the worst of Nasserizm and Bushizm with the infringement of citizens’ basic freedom to peacefully protest, express their opinions, censorship of media, and intelligence surveillance of Egyptians.  We are being bullied by the state and the government. Within the last few months we have witness atrocities of the most cowardly nature. The cancelation of a satirical TV show or dramatic series seems a silly issue but it exhibits a weakness I wasn’t expecting of the Sisi regime. If the rulers’, government, and citizens cannot take criticism of any kind, how will we evolve.

Regardless of my opinions, whether agreement or disagreement, I call for the immediate release of activists, journalist, the deregulation of media, and the prosecution of any and every criminal activity that has been proven with concrete evidence beyond any doubt. If for anything, it will give the country a clean slate to start anew. If the president will not intervene, I call upon the constitutional court, namely Egypt’s only living former president Adly Mansour, to right the wrongs and to be our moral compass. To any Egyptian who calls for the right to vote, the right to a respectable existence, the right to safety and stability, we must all standup for what is just. For today the freedoms of someone external is being violated, tomorrow it will be yours.

Serenity Now - Egyptian Edition

Having moved back to Egypt, I've been observing the general atmosphere. Although I've only been here a week, yet not having the sanctuary of knowing that I'll soon retune to a place I prefer, I've become more attuned to my surroundings. I'm not going to catalogue everything that is wrong with the country, or compare it to the US. There's no benefit in doing either. This piece is rather a reflection on our ability as Egyptians to live in Egypt. 

In 2011, I made a conscious decision to leave the country. Everything bad, everything disgusting, everything appalling about Egyptians came out after Jan 25. Although, I willingly lived and worked in Egypt for the entirety of my adult life, the country - post Jan 25 - suffocated me. I decided to leave, in order to continue loving it. It make sense that all our bad habits would surface midst the turmoil Egypt is witness at the moment. When something boils at high temperatures, all impurities and imperfections rise to the top. Egypt has been simmering for the past twenty years. Hopefully we can skim off the layer of scum soon.

Now, after three years of toil, the country has digressed to the dark ages. The neglected streets, power outages, and exaggerated prices are reminiscence of the 80s. Yet, the worse thing about Egypt at the moment is the overwhelming sense of negativity that permeates the country. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, every breath I breathe is saturated with negative vibes. Everyone I talk to, they are all complaining, all the time. Whatever happened to Al Hamed Lellah, Thank God. Do we have nothing for which we are thankful? I understand that Life's a Bitch, with a capital B. All of us endure the hardships of living in Egypt and life in general. The last thing we need is to be burdened with other people's aliments. We can offload every once in a while, but our only dialogue has become a constant array of whining and moaning. If you are unfortunate enough to glimpse at local TV programs, you'll be assaulted with a slew of national "newah" complaints, or God awful soap operas. Our streets are void of smiles and laughter. If you greet someone with Al Salam Alaykoum, you either get a begrudged mumble in reply or nothing at all. When have we become such a miserable nation. The most enduring thing about Egyptians, was our ability to smile and make fun of dire situations.

I'm a firm believer in Karma. If we wallow in negativity, we'll only reap negativity. Life is too short to spend it being angry. I try to be positive as much as I can. I try to ignore all the little irritants and not bother myself. I try to maintain relationships with people I truly value and care for, and shun those who emit negative energy. Each morning, I'll try to start my day with reciting at least one positive thing about living in Egypt. I expect the list to be short and brief. I also expect it to grow with every sunrise. Hopefully, I'll discover things I couldn't see before. Hopefully, we, the Egyptians, will embrace happiness for a better future and remember that smiles and greetings are charities for our souls.

A Chance Encounter

This is my original story chronicling how a Christmas holiday spent exploring NYC helped me cope with the emotional turmoil of leaving my home and family in Egypt after the Arab Spring.

A Chance Encounter

By: Amira Badawey

All my bags are packed I’m ready to go

I’m standing here outside your door

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye

But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn

The taxi’s waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn

Already I’m so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me

Tell me that you’ll wait for me

Hold me like you’ll never let me go

Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane

Don’t know when I’ll be back again

Oh babe I hate to go

Leaving on a Jet Plan echoed in my head while I packed my life into two suitcases. I was preparing to leave my home, my family, my country and move to the US. I sorted through my belongings, selecting what to take. I wept, knowing that I’d be leaving behind loved ones, a lifetime of memories, and a future of dreams.

Hard work always pays off, or so we’re told. Study diligently and you are rewarded with high grades. Put in the time and effort at work and you get a promotion. Yet, a single incident can eradicate all the hard work and in a heartbeat you lose everything. One of the first phrases our parents teach us in Egypt is “In Shaa Allah”, if God is willing. Can you take us to the amusement park? In Shaa Allah. Can I get more allowance for doing the dishes? In Shaa Allah. We learn early on that we are not in control of our destinies, for everything is by God’s will. Nevertheless, we’re expected to strive at achieving life’s rewards. We must work tirelessly and maintain the patience of Job. When the coveted promotion goes to the boss’s inept nephew, people condole us with “God wasn’t willing for it to happen. He has something better in store for you.” When we lose everything we’ve worked for, all our hopes, all our reasons for being, it is God’s will. We are helpless. We can only pick ourselves up and start over, while thanking God for his mercy, for we are better off than others. Mourning our loss is a sin. “Do you object to God’s will?” we are accused, “This is a test. Patience and perseverance will get you through. God will reward you, if not in life, then in the afterlife.” We are programmed to endure hardship with a sliver of hope for a reward after death. 

Spring is a time for blossoming and prosperity. However, the Arab Spring hit Egypt like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path. The revolutionists wanted to dispose of the country in its entirety and start anew. The economy and every other domestic system crumbled with the crush of the political structure. The only form of communication to survive the tumultuous birth of democracy was argument. Everyone was fighting with everyone. If you didn’t wholeheartedly support the revolution, then you were against it. If you dared to criticize the situation, you were pinned with a scarlet letter of traitor, democracy hater. Egyptians only saw the world in black and white. White being their opinions and black was all the others, the naysayers. I had lost my country, my job and life savings were soon to follow. I sought refuge in leaving Egypt, while I still loved it. As I stepped off the plane at JFK with a tear stained heart, I was certain that I would fall apart after a few weeks. Yet, I survived the first year and was planning a vacation. 

For the past twenty years, I had been the good student, the obedient daughter and diligent employee. I was exhausted, always rushing to meet deadlines and working tirelessly to secure my career. I continuously did what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And In the process, I became dull and humorless. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed out loud, the last time I played hooky to go to the movies, or the last time I merely had fun for the sake of having fun. I decided to spend Christmas break in New York and enjoy myself as much as I could. Yet, solitary tourism was a grim notion. Not having someone to remind me of the memories, someone to smile with over the mishaps was disheartening. My insecurities about being a thirty-seven year old single woman unfolded. The thought of spending ten days with just me, and no other human contact, was daunting. Surprisingly, I received a message from a friend, Magdy, saying that he would be in Philadelphia for the holidays and might come into the city for a quick visit. 

***

On The night before the beginning of my vacation, I was as excited as a child on her first day of school. I woke up the next day with a smile on my face as I rushed through my morning routine, eager to get to the city as soon as possible and rendezvous with Magdy.

I arrived at Penn Station at 8:30 am. The streets weren’t yet littered with tourist. I leisurely walked around without fear of stumbling over sightseers. Hidden snuggly in my jacket was a faithful travel companion, my digital camera. I took it out and captured the memories for future returns. I photographed Macy’s window displays along 34^th street, the statue at Herald Square, the Christmas tree at Bryant Park, Radio City Hall, the enormous holiday decorations lining 6^th avenue, and the Cartier store disguised as a gold and red glittery gift. I spent the majority of the day roaming Rockefeller Plaza. I enjoyed chocolate dipped macaroons from Godiva. I browsed the merchandize at the NBC experience store, reminiscing about Seinfeld and Friends. I admired the Chinese silk tunics on display at the MET shop and scrutinized the overly priced Egyptian memorabilia. I obsessively glanced at my phone, checking for missed calls or text messages, although I knew there were none. “This is ridiculous”, I thought, “Am I expected to spend the entire day tethered to my phone, hoping it’ll ring?” I decided to call Magdy. I looked up the familiar number and dialed. The phone rang for a while and then it went to voice mail. I left a message, 

“Hi! This is Amira. I just wanted to let you know that I’m already in the city. So call me when you get in and we can meet up, . . . or whatever works for you. . . . um. Okay, looking forward to seeing you. Byeeee.” 

I wondered aimlessly around the Plaza. With nothing better to do, I decided to ascend Rockefeller Center to the Top of The Rock and observe Manhattan. 

It was a sunless New York winter day with clear skies. I could see as far as the George Washington Bridge. Forgetting my fear of heights, I surveyed the magnificent Manhattan horizon. It is always the unexpected that brings so much joy. If Magdy hadn’t stood me up, I would’ve missed the best view of New York City. I sat on a large leather bench and took in the sight. The sheer size of Central Park was overpowering. Although it looked more like a winter horror than wonder land, it was captivating. As I rode down the psychedelic elevator, I checked my phone. There were still no messages, but to my surprise almost ninety minutes had passed. My ticket included admissions to MoMA. I wasn’t sure if Magdy was coming. Ever the planner and always the hopeful, I convinced myself to call him one last time. There was no answer. I reached for my guidebook and headed north on 6^th Ave in search of the modern arts.

I started on the last floor of MoMA and worked my way down. I looked at exhibits and paused on occasion to read the descriptive plaques. My heart wasn’t really into it, until I came across “The Scream”. I couldn’t stop staring at the painting. It was smaller than I expected, yet quite poignant in the expression of agony. The distorted face conveyed congealed shock, pain and fear. I could’ve been looking into a mirror. During my first year in New York, I was overwhelmed with the newness of the experience. I missed my family and the familiarity of little things like the metrics system and Celsius degrees. I missed Egyptian food I rarely ate but always had the convenience of consuming when I got the urge. I frequently ended in bed, crying and catching my breath between sobs. Washing away the tears, I was always surprised by the person staring back in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I was a stranger. An old stranger agonizing over what the future might hold. “The Scream” evoked all those tearful nights.

Upon exiting MoMA, I walked straight to Penn station. It was early, not yet dark, but I had no desire to remain in Manhattan. I wasn’t hungry, despite only eating the macaroons. It’s amusing how things changed over the course of the day, how harshly they turned from sweet to sour, from light to dark. My feelings were dark, a mixture of blue sadness, black anger, and gray melancholy. I was homesick. I was lonely. I was angry for being homesick and lonely. As the train moved away from Manhattan and back to Long Island, my disposition darkened with the skies.

***

I had planned to see a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof the next day, but I wasn’t in the mood. I decided to stay in and watch TV. The rest of the holiday wasn’t any better. Every morning, I forced myself to get out of bed, to get dressed and do something, anything. Every second, I forced myself to breathe in and breathe out.  I saw a couple of movies and I caught a cold. I went to an outlet mall seeking retail therapy to alleviate my somber trance, but to no avail. Each evening, I had dinner in bed and counted the days until the end of my self-induced sequester.

On the last Saturday, I had a ticket to see The Nutcracker. Lincoln Center was a vision out of the enchanted forest. Snowflakes cascaded onto the fountain and an animated toy train circled a large Christmas tree atop Avery Fisher Hall. I stood outside admiring the view. My mood lightened as I watched children catch snowflakes in their mouths and tourists pose for photographs. Entering the David E. Koch Theater, a smile emerged and remained plastered across my face throughout the entire performance. My joy didn’t deflate during intermission. Nestled squarely in the middle of a bank of seats, I was privy to the interactions of those around me. I sat in my place happily thumbing through the playbill and eavesdropping on their conversations. As the final act came to an end, I jumped out of my seat with jubilance and applauded with all my might. I understood why The Nutcracker was a cherished Christmas tradition and why families continue to attend the performance whether with their six year old daughters or grown sons. Clara and Fritz invite us to venture to their amazing dreamland, where gingerbread soldiers battle mice and little girls are crowned princesses of the Sugar Plums. A land we can revisit as often as we please as long as we hold the memory of The Nutcracker in our hearts. A land I was fortunate enough to witness in all the glory of the New York City Ballet.

I woke up the next day still basking in a dreamy state. My sadness, anguish and melancholy were fading, not so much for the imminent end of the vacation but rather the joyful aftertaste of The Nutcracker. I resolved to spend the day in my small town of Rockville Center, sleeping in, checking Facebook and Twitter, and eating at a local diner. 

One topic in particular was trending in the Egyptian Twitterverse that day. The country’s political unrest had devastatingly devalued the local currency. The elected government did nothing to rectify the situation. Instead, they adopted a passive attitude, blaming the old regime and never putting any solutions forward. Everyone was tweeting about the economy free fall. Comprehending the complicated tapestry of Egypt’s infant political system was as vexing as following the online rants. I escaped to Facebook, yet the Egyptian Pound’s plight followed me. The virtual arguments were taxing. Rather than justify their rational, people hurled insults at one another. I responded to tweets and posts with humor to deflect the tension. Soon after, I was frustrated and my earlier exuberance melted away. “To Hell with this”, I thought as I turned off my computer, got dressed and left for Manhattan. Not wanting to spend the day stewing in an endless political debate, I jumped on the train and retreated to New York City, hiding from the chirps of my twitter account.

I exited Penn Station and walked up the familiar path to Time Square. It was December 30^th, preparations for the New Year celebration were underway. A large crystal ball hovered over the busy intersection of 7^th avenue and 47^th street. Two stages were erected to accommodate TV presenters. The area was packed with crowds of people. I turned left onto a side street to escape the masses. As I walked down 46^th street, passing Broadway marquees, I noticed a poster promoting Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I bought a ticket for that night’s show. 

The play had nothing on Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman. The cast stumbled around Maggie and Brick’s bed while shouting out their lines. The performance finally ended after three agonizing hours. As I stood up and turned around to put on my coat, I noticed James Franco in the seat behind me. I was overtaken with the urge to proclaim “That’s James Franco”, but to whom? Should I have told the couple to my left, who spent the entire time sipping wine and kissing? Should I have told the lady to my right who was chatting with her husband? I stood there looking left to right, following some invisible tennis match. On a whim, I decided to complement his acting, but for the love of God I couldn’t think of any other movie besides Pineapple Express. “You are a sophisticated thirty seven year old woman who enjoys the ballet and Tennessee Williams, how can you praise a stoner movie?” I scorned. After a while I finally remembered one of his worthier performances, thus saving face, but not for long. As I conjured up enough courage to approach him, his back was turned. That didn’t stop me, for I was hell bent on talking to him.  I tugged at his sleeve and he turned around. His face was five inches away, if I had tripped, I would have fallen into his arms. I gave him my most poised smile and said, “I liked you in Milk.” He nodded and replied with a silent thank you. For a sane person, that would have been enough. But I was running low on sanity that day. Instead of walking away, I gushed, “This is such a big deal. I have been in New York for a year and you are my first celebrity”. As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, remorse followed.  Concealing my blushed induced embarrassment, I looked down at the floor and wished him a happy holiday. Mr. Franco’s response was quite charming and gracious. He smiled, with all his face, and wished me happy holidays in return. Although he was smiling in amusement to my comic reaction, I chose to believe that he was simply smiling at me.

On my way back to Penn Station, I noticed a bounce in my step. I was dying to tell someone, anyone, that I had just met James Franco. I almost shouted it out to complete strangers. Skipping down 8^th Avenue my smile widened with each leap. The darkness dissipated into New York’s aura. As the sadness, anger, and melancholy lifted, I could see more clearly and out in the obscure crowd I noticed a face, someone I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. She looked up and smiled. We ran towards each other and embraced. The first thing she said was, “Oh my God, you look so old.” This took me by surprise, for I had forgotten how painfully honest she can be. Then I remembered detecting glimpses of her throughout the week. She was present in my passion for The Nutcracker and disdain with the political discourse, in the ferociousness of my humorous tweets, the spontaneity of planlessly riding into the city that Sunday, and the giddiness of proclaiming My First Celebrity. At that moment, I decided to hold on to her, to hold on to me. A me that existed before the seriousness of life took over, before I was burdened with the responsibilities of making a living and riddled with the guilt of disappointing my mother for never marrying. A me who made her own luck. A me who allowed herself to be silly and relished the experience. Since 2011, I’d been living the life of a victim, grieving the loss of my country and predictability of my life. I’d been pursuing the negatives and neglecting the positives. By approaching James Franco, I took control of the situation. I changed it from “Seeing James Franco” to “Meeting James Franco”. I made that happen, and I can make my time on earth a great and memorable experience. I have learned to savior the little things in life and embrace happiness, even when it comes in the form of a chance encounter with James Franco and the pleasure of bragging about it to everyone I meet.

Our National Identity

Last week I was in Manhattan to renew my Egyptian ID. It was a Tuesday and I made the assumption that the entire day would be consumed in the process. Although the website stated that appointments would be from 10:00 to 18:00, I decided to arrive at the consulate as early as possible and simply wait for my turn. To my surprise, they'd started that day at 9:00, no worries I was the twenty second person in line. To my surprise further, the process proceeded quite smoothly and in a very organized fashion. Of course there were the naysayers, those Egyptians who have been living away from Egypt for so long they have forgotten how to gauge their expectations. They complained that the new IDs weren't going to be delivered on the same day, that the process was taking too long (OMG - three whole hours), or that they were missing certain documents that halted the process. Oh, the horrors.

I suppose some context is in order. A special committee of government officials (police officers and what not) where visiting NYC for four days to allow as many people as possible to apply for an Egyptian ID since there has been an increase in demand as ID were required to vote in upcoming elections. So, when I say it took me three hours and the whole thing was very organized, it's important to keep in mind that the consulate was servicing 150 - 200 applicants each day. The employees were very helpful and accommodating. During those three hours, I was transported back home. Surrounded by nothing but Egyptians, clutching my Arabic application and documents, and listening to Egyptian chatter with Om Kalthoum in the background, I forgot that I was in the US, only to be hit with the reality as I stepped back on to 2nd Ave. 

All sorts of Egyptians were gathered at the consulate that day, people with expired passports and old paper IDs with black and white photographs, Egyptians who couldn't speak Arabic, Egyptians who haven't been back to Egypt in ages, Egyptians who were born abroad and have never lived in Egypt. As I sit at my desk typing this blog and listening to Aida Al Aiyoubi's Ala Baly and of course singing along quite poorly, I wonder why all these Egyptians were clamoring to apply for an Egyptian National ID. Was it due to their patriotic zeal or sense of entitlement.

Egypt: Our Cinematic Heritage

When buying Egyptian gifts for foreigners, I prefer to stay clear of the usual pharaonic souvenirs. It seems unfair to narrow the many facets of Egypt down to one specific era. I have more than often opted for cotton t-shirts and unique wood art or silver accessories. I like the items to be visibly Egyptian, perhaps through design, color, or subject matter, but show casing a different side such as our sense of humor or Arabic roots.

I was fortunate enough to be in Cairo between June 22 and July 5 in 2013, during the ouster of The Brotherhood. My initial instinct was to gift my American friends a small replica of our Egyptian flag, the very same variety millions of Egyptians proudly carried during the marches. Having participated in the presidential palace stand ins, I must confess that my patriotic sense was in over drive. I finally settled on an assortment of items to demonstrate Egypt's diversity. The inevitable t-shirts found their way into an array of almond stuffed dates and hand crafted items, ensuring that I cater to the individual preferences of each recipient. Due to the political events, I only had a few hours on the very last day of the trip to complete my shopping. I made due with City Stars shopping mall in Heliopolis area. On the most part I was successful in my shopping spree  with the exception of one gift.

A US colleague of mine enjoys old black and white movies, with an affinity for musicals. I wanted to get him a DVD of one of the old Egyptian movies we used to watch on TV. I remember that the majority of those films, if not all, had both English and French subtitles. It would have been amazing to gift him the opportunity to experience the marvelous music of Mohamed Abdel Wahab or the powerful voice of Abdel Haleem Hafez, subtlety exhibiting the refined sophisticated beauty of the not-so-ancient Egyptian culture through the muted tones of the black and white footage, and disparaging the notion that we are rural hooligans roaming the desert on camel back in our third world country. I could only think of one place in City Stars to purchase such a DVD, Virgin Mega Store. Upon entering the establishment, I realized that it isn't so "Mega", with my favorite section in the store diminished to a corridor lined on one side with a measly collection of books. Nevertheless, I ventured to the inner most area where the CDs and DVDs are located. I was miserably disappointed with the selection of Egyptian films on display, a humble assortment of modern (i.e. colored) movies from the 70s and 80s, most of which were produced and distributed by Al Sobky, thus including no subtitles, or so I was informed by the shop assistant. I had to make due with a Lute medley of famous songs such as Ben Shateen wa Meyia.

Like the pyramids and other monuments, motions pictures and music have and will continue to shape our culture as a nation. Movies chronicle the history of the country in a much more vivid manner than written media. What are we doing to preserve these national treasures? For many years, there's been talk about a music museum named after Abdel Wahab and individual attempts to restore old movie negatives. I haven't been back to Bibliotheca Alexandrina since my first visit in 2002, yet shouldn't such establishments have cinematic and musical archives. Maybe The Cairo Opera House has already embarked on such efforts. However, I call on all Egyptian intellectuals to embrace this cause. I call on the ministry of culture to establish a cinema curation committee to work on the preservation of our national cinematic archives, a treasure trove of cultural gems such as Naguib Mahfouz's Trilogy, Al Bostagy (The Postman), Al Ard (The Land), and Bab El Hadid, to name a few. When The Cairo Film Festival is revived (I believe it should be, in due time), we should dedicate a section to the Egyptian and Arabic film heritage, juxtaposing the grace and beauty of those films with the coarse realities of current events and current movies. 

I am aware that Egypt, namely the government, has far more pressing issues with the frail economy and more than half the population living in poverty, but neglecting our cinematic artifacts will lead to the erosion of our cultural identity. Egyptian film legends such as Ismail Yassin and Youssef Chahine are as immortal and majestic as the Sphinx and thus deserve a similar place in our cultural repertoire.

I'm coming home

Been away for an eternity
365 days 
Been back for a few seconds
308 hours
Back for a visit, to stay I decline
Old and weary, my childhood home
cracks all over, the paint is gone
Ghost of the past lurk in the dark
Memories every where against the stark
No future. No hope.

A new addition has been appended
Walls splashed with red
Carpeted with bodies dead
My heart sinks as I step in
Offended with the stench of sin
I look at the red designs to realize
Not paint but blood of the fight
Brother fighting brother
Both to dominate 
Their voices rise above
To destruct. To hate.

We tape the cracks, hope they'll stand
We sweep the debris, collect the sand
At the addition, confused what to do
We build, they demolish
Our freedom, they abolish 
No where is sacred
No one is safe
We brace ourselves
We carry our pails
We step steadily into the room
Lift the corpse of life and doom
Wash away the blood, to see
Walls of glass that bleed

We scrub and pray the brothers unit
We scrub and pray they stop the fight
Rays of hope to come through glass
Enlighting the hallways and the paths
Usher in the future, recall the past
a Hope, a Dream
We pray to come true
a Hope, a Dream
Power of me and you

Short Story - Dog Resurrected

“The dog is dead! The dog is dead!” mumbled Mostafa as he rushed into ESCO’s Alexandria office. He hastily slammed the door with a loud thud, waking the other employees from their mid-day slump. He power walked through the labyrinth of desks, cabinets, and files to the farthest north door. The employees looked on in amazement as Mostafa silently blazed by without offering his customary beaming smile and Al Salam Alaykoum greeting. They were astounded with this unlikely behavior. Yet, when he paused at the office of the Customs Clearance Director, they knew there was a problem with one of his shipments. They shrugged and returned to sipping mud like Turkish coffee. Mostafa peeped through the glass panel in the door and saw Mrs. Hoda occupied with work. Managing the customs clearance department of an Egyptian freight forwarding company was taxing. Hoda was constantly on the edge of her nerves. This was 2006. President Mubarak’s five year prosperity plan was in high gear after stagnating for a quarter century. Prosperity was long overdue. The plan had been extended, or as the government worded it, renewed five consecutive times with the promise of fortunes to come. Two years prior, Ahmed Nazif took over as Prime Minister and rumored economic growth slowly surfaced from the shadows of haphazard development. Technology sectors and call centers boomed over night with three mobile carries competing in the already saturated market. Factories emerged in industrial parks east and north of Cairo. Riches were steadily, yet slowly, dripping down Egypt’s chin. Freight forwarders benefited enormously from this period of economic steroids. Raw materials originated from Asia and the Mediterranean, while finished goods departed to every realm of the globe. Textile and cotton garments went to the US and England. Potatoes and citrus flew to Germany. PVC pipes shuttled to Nigeria. Marble floated down the Red Sea en route to China. As Egypt’s GDP blossomed, local shippers accumulated enough experience to deal with temperamental customs authorities and tumultuous supply chains. The Egyptian Shipping Company – ESCO was one of the early adopters.

Hoda was on the phone with an irritating and irritated client who demanded specific attention, always following up on shipments and flirting with female employees. Every so often, Hoda came to the rescue and handled his calls herself. Her patience was wavering as Mostafa hovered at the door. She beckoned him to enter. Too nervous to sit, Moustafa stood before Hoda’s desk with his hands clasped together, intently examining his shoes and repeating the mantra, “The dog is dead.” From the grim look on his sweat drenched face, Hoda knew that Mostafa was harboring bad news. She regarded the stout man and silently debated whether her nerves could handle more trouble. She delayed addressing Mostafa, prolonging the phone conversation. She finally stowed away the handset. Mostafa’s lips parted to explain his quandary. Hoda raised a palm in a stop motion bringing him to a halt as she finished recording the issue. She laid down the pen, slid back into her chair, crossed her legs, took a long calming breath, smiled, gestured to Mostafa to sit , and said,

“Yes Mostafa. Tell me, what’s the matter?” 

Mostafa was too apprehensive to reply. His intestines expanded with nervous gas. He contracted his buttocks to trap the odorous gasp of air. Sweat leaked through his shirt. He was thankful to his navy blue polo for concealing the perspiration. He had a cramp in his left calf and a twitch under his right eye. He took off his glasses, wiped the invisible dust and placed them back on his face. Mostafa, too, wanted to delay the discussion. This wasn’t like any of the numerous problems he encountered during his seven year tenure. This was a dead dog stewing in the humid summer heat. Temperatures were in the high thirties, thirty eight degree Celsius to be exact, the hottest of the season. Mostafa positioned himself in one of the faux leather chairs opposite Hoda’s desk. He chose the one to her right, he wanted to be on her good side, the side of the Angels.

“I’m waiting Mostafa. The sooner you tell me, the sooner we can deal with it.”

“The dog is dead!” He exclaimed.

Hoda stared in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“The dog is dead! The dog we are shipping to Manchester. It is dead. The dog that belongs to Mr. Mohamed’s friend, is dead. It is dead! What can I do?”

Hoda blinked nervously as she recalled the shipment details. Mohamed El Nazir, a managing partner, oversaw port authorities and customs relations. Although a wealthy educated man from an upper middle class family, when angered his good breeding evaporated as he’d burst into fits of fury and fling curse words. A week prior, he approached Hoda about a shipment. His friend, an English expat, wanted to send his dog back to the UK. Mr. Mohamed asked her to personally handle the request. Hoda found this odd since she managed the customs clearance process and had no experience in exports. Mr. Mohamed explained that the shipment demanded specific paper work and handling. He believed she was better suited to deal with the government red tape. Pleased with the acknowledgement, Hoda accepted the task without hesitation. She contacted the client and arrange for the dog, Alfred, to be transported to ESCO’s premises. Hoda amused at the client insistence that she take extra care of Alfred and make sure he was treated well. She couldn’t believe he referred to the dog as “he”. Foreigners relocating to Egypt spared their pets no expense. They spent thousands of pounds transporting cats and dogs. Alfred in particular had been to Singapore, Dubai, Lagos, and now Alexandria, while Hoda had never been outside of Egypt. The proud pet owners happily incurred enormous amounts of money for their furry friends’ upkeep. Imported pet paraphernalia stocked supermarkets shelves across Alexandria. These domesticated dogs lived better than half the Egyptian population. Hoda ensured the client that Alfred would be safe with ESCO. She assigned her best broker, Mostafa, to take care of the dog. And now Mostafa stood before her claiming “The dog is dead!”

***

“Tell me what happened. I want you to give me all the details. How did the dog die?”

“Mrs. Hoda, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t kill the dog. Please tell Mr. Mohamed that it’s not my fault, please. I can’t lose my job. My children, Mrs. Hoda, how will I feed my children with no job.”

“Mostafa! Relax. No one’s going to lose their job. Take a deep breath and tell me how the dog died.”

“Well, Mrs. Hoda, I sent Ragab, the driver, to the address you gave me, the villa in San Stefano, to collect the dog. He swears by Allah that the dog was alive when he put the crate in the van. Ragab was very careful driving back to the warehouse. He avoided speed bumps so he wouldn’t disturb the dog. We carried the crate into the building. I prepared a nice place for the dog to stay. The customs clerk even agreed to come to complete the inspections at the office. The dog was sleeping, so we left it in the crate. But after two hours, I got worried. I opened the crate and looked inside. The dog…”

“Alfred”

“I’m sorry?”

“The dog is called Alfred”

Bewildered by this statement but not wanting to contradict his manager, Mostafa corrected, “the dog, Alfred, was just laying there, covered with a blanket. I tried to nudge him awake, but nothing worked. He was stiff and cold. I immediately knew he was dead. I locked the carcass in the warehouse refrigerated area and came directly to you. What are we going to do Mrs. Hoda? Please, I cannot lose my job. I need my salary to feed my children. Please Mrs. Hoda, you must help me.”

“Wait a minute. Did you say that Ragab picked up Alfred in the van?”

“Yes.”

“But Mostafa I deliberately told you to use the company car for transporting the dog because it is air conditioned. Why did you use the van?”

“Well, Mrs. Hoda you see, when I called to confirm the pickup time, the house keeper informed me that the dog, I’m sorry, I mean Alfred will be inside his crate. It is too big to fit on the back seat. Besides Mrs. Hoda, Alexandria is full the stray dogs and cats, they don’t need air conditioning, so why is this dog any different? Was it sick Mrs. Hoda? Because, if the dog was sick then it is not our fault. He must have died of sickness. Yes, Mrs. Hoda, Alfred the dog died of sickness.”

Hoda stood up and walked to the window. She needed time to think. She gazed out onto the vast Mediterranean sea. The office was located in a residential building along Alexandria’s main street, El Cournish. A huge sign with luminous red letters spelling ESCO over looked the wide asphalt lanes traversing along the Egyptian northern shore. Every window in the building exposed the tranquil azure waterscape. The prominent location aimed to impress customers and intimidate competitors. Hoda considered the view from her office a privilege, a sign that she had achieved excellence. She liked her job, she liked her office, and wasn’t going to allow a dog to cost her either. After a moment of reflection, Hoda turned to Mostafa and said,

“Don’t worry Mostafa. Everything’s going to be fine. Take me to see the dead dog.”

“You mean Alfred”, Mostafa corrected.

***

Hoda and Mostafa stood over the dog’s corpse, privately wishing for a miracle. There was no doubt in Hoda’s mind that Alfred was indeed dead. She was relieved to see that it was a Boxer Mix and not some exotic bread like Chihuahua or Shih Tzu

“Who else knows about the dog?”

“Just Ragab.”

“Have it properly disposed. Call a veterinarian and make the necessary arrangements.”

She took several photographs of Alfred. Mostafa found this quite peculiar. They frequently photographed damaged cargo for insurance claims. But Alfred wasn’t shipped yet. None of the paper work had been issued, least of all shipping insurance. So, why was Mrs. Hoda documenting the dead cargo? Mostafa knew better than to question the judgment of his superior. He simply looked on as she circled Alfred with phone in hand, zooming in and flashing away. She knelt down and removed the dog’s tags and leash, then turned to Mostafa and commanded,

“Guard the dog until the vet arrives. This is my personal phone number. Call me if anything happens.” She handed Mostafa a business cards with a number scribbled on the back as she aimed for the door.

“Where are you going Mrs. Hoda?” Mostafa frantically inquired. He feared she was abandoning him to suffer all the blame.

Hoda flung a pair of Persol sunglasses on her face and said, “I’m going to see a man about a dog.”

***

With keys in the ignition, Hoda immediately reached for her mobile. “Hi Samir. This is Hoda…. I’m doing fine. I need a favor. I need to buy a dog. I’ll send you a picture.” She texted Alfred’s photographs while simultaneously navigating the congested narrow roads on her way back to the office.  Samir Wasif, Hoda’s bother in law, was a street smart Alexandrian. He owned a chain of striving coffee shops. To replenish menu items, Samir got the best deals on meat, lobster, Belgium chocolate or saffron. If it was legal, he had a supplier for it. His establishments were notorious for their hookah pipes, shisha. They served an assortment of tobacco selections displayed in dessert menus. A variety of strawberry cheesecake, apple strudel, and pina colada flavored tobacco appealed to the growing upper-class female clientele of shisha smokers. Hoda was confident that Samir would hunt down an Alfred look-a-like. He didn’t ask any questions and simply replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Hoda busied herself with work while waiting for Samir’s call. It was easy to get distracted. There were always incidents and issues regarding customs clearance, delayed shipments, and missing documentation. Port officials overestimated tariff amounts to intimidate under the table payments. ESCO implemented a strict no kickback rule and thus custom clerks placed every obstacle in their path. The timely release of shipments with reasonable tariff costs was Hoda’s responsibility.  It took her fifteen years to learn the ins and outs of the shipping industry. She would be damned to let a dog cost her the job she has earned with endless days of hard diligent work. She texted Samir, “Any news on the dog situation?” He didn’t reply. She called him but he didn’t answer. Samir’s number flashed on her phone seventy five minutes later.

“Okay, there’s guy who has a few Boxers. I’ll send you the address. I wasn’t sure about the size or weight, so you’ll have to select one that fits the description. It’s going to cost fifteen hundred pounds. You’ll have to pay him in cash.”

“Thanks Samir. I owe you big time.”

“Don’t worry you will pay me back. I’ll meet you there.” 

Hoda had an uneasy feeling that she’d just sold her soul to the devil. Maybe this was the dog’s revenge. The first traces of regret manifested into her conscience. She wondered if she was making a terrible situation worse. She could incriminate Mostafa and Ragab, but the dog’s fate was ultimately her responsibility. With mortgage payments and two young daughters in private school, Hoda needed her salary which was double that of her college professor husband. No household in Egypt survived on a single income. All hesitation disappeared upon realizing that her family’s salvation lied in Alfred’s resurrection. She grabbed her purse and heeded out to buy a dog. Too nervous to wait for the elevator, she climbed down the stairs. Descending the marble slabs, Hoda breathed in a medley of dinners. Her stomach grumbled to the aroma of baked fish sayadeyia, fried garlic taeleyia, and stuffed cabbage leafs. She hadn’t eaten all day. No time to eat when you need to bring back the dead. She texted her husband to inform him that she would not be home for dinner.

***

Assisted with a vet report of Alfred’s specification, Hoda selected a close enough proxy. Happy with her purchase, she packed the animal into her car. She secured the tags and leash around the dog’s neck and took to calling it Alfred. It didn’t respond to the name. She worried that this little detail would unravel the entire plot. Since Alfred II would not come into contact with his owner until arriving at Manchester, Hoda decided not to worry. She smiled for the first time that day as she arrived at the warehouse. Waiting in the court yard, Mostafa was surprised to see Alfred’s reflection, afraid the dog’s ghost would haunt him for life. He thanked God when pseudo-Alfred barked as Hoda coaxed him out of the car. She didn’t need to explain the scheme, Mostafa knew what to do.

“Take care of this one. Get him on the first flight out. I don’t want to ever see that dog again. Do you understand?”

Mostafa nodded.

“Oh, by the way, you owe me five hundred pounds. That’s your share. You can give me the money at the end of the month when you get paid.”

Hoda didn’t wait for a response. She turned around, got in her car, and drove away, leaving the dog in Mostafa’s custody. In a moment of synchronized serendipity, both Hoda and Mostafa sighed a breath of relief.

***

Hoda had a restless night, unable to relax until the canine nightmare arrived at its final destination. She arranged for a guardian, Mai Elshazly, to accompany Alfred. There was nothing Hoda could do to make the time pass swiftly. She could only wait.

A number flashed on Hoda’s phone. She immediately answered to Mai’s panicked voice,

“Mrs. Hoda, the client refused to collect the dog. He’s saying that this isn’t his dog.”

“Put him on the phone, I’ll talk to him.”

“He left. He got very angry and shouted ‘Where’s my Alfred?’ and just left. What am I supposed to do with the dog, Mrs. Hoda?”

“Don’t worry Mai. I’ll take care of everything.”

Hoda frantically stifled through her contacts, trying to locate the customer’s number. Mr. Mohamed was approaching her. Her heart sunk. She was about to lose her job and her dignity in front of the entire staff. Mr. Mohamed opened the door and stepped into her office, he was smiling. 

Mohamed took his time addressing the situation, elated to see the concern in Hoda’s raised brows and wrinkled forehead. He didn’t particularly like her. She was one of those tough women who spoke their minds and didn’t tolerate condescension for anyone, least of all from him. He wasn’t happy when Hoda first joined the customs clearance department. Women belonged in the kitchen not a sea port. A woman couldn’t deal with rough customs brokers and crude port officials. Hoda proved him wrong and eventually earned his respect. Yet, he still liked annoying her whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was warranted. It was pay back to every woman who belittled him. He intended to excruciatingly torture Hoda over the dog debacle. He silently sat across the desk from her, took out a cigarette, lit it, dragged a breath, exhaled the smoke out of his nostrils and calmly asked,

“Where’s the dog?”

“The dog? What dog?”

“Alfred. The dog you were supposed to ship to Manchester. Where is it?”

Hoda stared back at Mr. Mohamed, stalling for time, her confidence not wavering. Mohamed admired her tenacity. ‘Big pair of balls on this one’, he thought. She rummaged through her files and picked up a random piece of paper. She looked Mr. Mohamed in the eyes and stated in a matter-of-fact manner,

“Flight MS 830 landed at MAN airport at exactly 8:00 am Cairo local time. The dog has been safely cleared through customs. At the time of this report, Mai was on her way to the hotel. She will send an e-mail with a signed copy of the delivery order once the dog is collected. So, we can safely assume that the dog is at the hotel with Mai.”

“The customer called. He claims the dog isn’t his.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Mohamed but I don’t understand. What does he mean the dog isn’t his? We shipped the dog that was collected from the address stated in the file. How can the dog not be his?”

“Hoda, I think the guy can tell his dog apart from others. He’s saying that the dog with Mai isn’t Alfred.”

“Why does he say that? What’s different about this dog?”

“This one’s alive!”

Hoda’s calm and collective demeanor melted away. She went pale, her mouth hung ajar and she blinked frantically as she struggled to comprehend what was happening. How could the client possibly know that Alfred suffocated in the hot van? 

Gloating with a smile of sheer delight in Hoda’s predicament, Mohamed decided to put her out of her misery, “It was quite a sock when my friend saw the ghost of his dog in the hotel lobby because Alfred died a week ago. He was shipped to Manchester to be buried.”

”