Take upon the image

Kathleen and Sophia have reached the age of play pretend.  Sophia probably wasn't on her own, but she has been pulled into the game by her older sister and has no choice in the matter.  The enjoy emulating whoever has caught their fancy most recently.  Kathleen enjoys being a pilot, and has driven her sister around on our couch arm as Ayman, the driver.  She dresses up in ballet skirts and is the noble prince saving his baby princess from the evil sorcerer von Rothbart.  After reading one of the Little Bear books, we all had a party at lunch and Kathleen was Emily, teddy was Lucy, Sophia was Little Bear, I was Owl and Edwin was Duck.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I walked into the play room a few Fridays and found Kathleen 'nailing' her sister to the wall in a cruciform position.  The had watched The Testaments that day and evidently Sophia was chosen for the lead role.  After crucifying her sister, she 'buried' her in the play tent, and ran off to play.  

Sophia was happy to lay down on the provided pillow with her blanket and be dead for awhile.  After some time, she had enough, and sleepily got to her feet.  With a yawn, she mumbled, "I'm not dead anymore.  I'm resurrected."  I couldn't help at laugh at the outrageous words imperfectly coming from her infant mouth.  

"Why are you laughing?" she asked.  

"Because you're cute," I replied with a smile.

Indignant, she shot back, "Don't laugh at Jesus!  Why are you laughing at Jesus Christ?!?"

Chagrined, I stopped laughing.  Sophia flounced off, and I had to go tell the good news to Brandon.  Or something like that.

Jesus and the thief

Living in Cairo: Water

Cairo is like all other cities outside of first world: number one rule is don't drink the water.  Last time we were here, we just had cases of water delivered like most other ex-pats and most likely littered the desert with the empty bottles.  Now we have the benefit of a water filter in the kitchen.  As a result of this, Kathleen has acquired a skill that few of her American peers have: filling up cups from the water filter faucet.

We keep a bottle of water in the bathroom for drinks, but everyone brushes teeth with the tap water, and both Sophia and Kathleen may or may not have had a drink of bath water from time to time.  Edwin goes for it every bath.  I don't get to worried, however - we call it inoculation.

In addition to not drinking water from the tap, we also have to deal with a lesser-known hazard of third world water supplies: water pressure.  Most denizens of Cairo live in high-rise apartments.  The government isn't in the business of supplying water pressure, just the water itself.  And so most apartment buildings have cisterns on top that are filled with the building water pump. 

The problem with individual building pumps is that they can easily be shut off for some reason that is only known to... somebody.  We still haven't figured out who it is.  And when somebody decides to shut off the pump, they don't tell anyone else.  They also don't tell when they're going to turn it on again either. 

 I've had several morning showers where I've noticed a decrease in pressure and had to jump double quick to get the shower in before the water was shut off completely.  One notable morning, I noticed the water slowing, got in and got my hair damp before having to take the shower head off the wall and just settle for scrubbing off the morning run sweat and taking another shower later.  While getting dressed, I noticed that the tap was running somewhat promisingly and so got back in the shower and crouched in the tub while getting my hair mostly washed and mostly clean.  

To water the plants that day, I just left the tap on over a bucket and let the bucket fill as it wanted to, with the water shutting on and off at random.  I have a friend who keeps large jugs of water in all of her bathrooms to flush toilets when the water's being fidgety.

In addition to building water outages, there are also periodic and completely random neighborhood outages.  I've heard that they're announced over the loudspeaker at Friday prayers, but there aren't any mosques nearby and I'd be surprised if even the Egyptians understood anything coming from them.  

And so, you never know quite when you will and won't have water.  Every now and then, however,  circumstances line up just right and the water's out during dinner preparation time.  So I have no choice but to just order in.  Life is hard sometimes.

I'm all they've got

During the summers here in Cairo, everyone leaves.  Some people leave permanently and some people just leave for awhile - usually for at least a month.  Which leaves the branch in an interesting position.  Despite the mass exodus there are still enough people that have to be talked to, taught, and accompanied.  In past summers, this problem has been dealt with by simply having two hours of church.  But this summer, 60 BYU students showed up to play substitute teacher and fill in for everyone else during their vacations.

This past Friday was the low point of branch attendance, with the families of small children almost being non-existent.  Almost.  Which is worse for me than not at all.  In the primary, the primary president, first counselor and secretary were all gone, while the second counselor had moved a month ago.  And that left me, the primary chorister, running the show for all four of the primary children, two of whom speak (and understand) questionable English.

And so Kathleen gave the talk to her three classmates and the two nursery children who came to bolster the numbers.  Kaji, with some help, gave the scripture, Miriam gave the opening prayer and Farajela, again with some help, gave the closing prayer.  Next week they're switching spots, and the following week they're switching again.

And for singing time and sharing time, we watched a movie.  It was about Jesus Christ, and that's the theme for the month, so who's to complain?  And who would they complain to, as I'm the only one here anyway?  Next week, however, the secretary will be back and I'll have to think of something for singing time - this time for five primary children.

Living in Cairo: Change

After living in this strange land for almost a year, I've gotten used to all of the odd and unusual aspects of Egypt.  All of those sights that would make any normal American stare don't even cause me to turn a hair.  But all of the strangeness is new to you, and so I'll share in (somewhat) weekly installments.  Enjoy.

Cairo (as are all third-world cities) is a strictly cash-based society.  Credit cards do exist (I think), and some places do take them, but for most every-day transactions, cash is king.  And so, every month, Brandon gets an enormous stack of money from the bank at the Embassy and brings it home for me to disperse to all of the people who think they deserve a chunk of it.

The problem with this scenario is twofold: 1. The money comes in 100 or 200 pound bills.  2. Change is against the local religion.  Try and give a 50 to the ticket man at the Metro?  He'll tell you to go start walking.  Go and try and change the 50 at a local snack stand, and he'll tell you that really that candy you wanted isn't that good anyway so don't bother with it.  And try and give it to a taxi driver for a 5-pound ride and he'll happily take it - but he won't give you anything back.

Any time someone comes to deliver anything - groceries, dry cleaning, food, medicine - they want a tip, and of course nobody gives change for a tip.  Or when you try and pay for dry cleaning with that same 50.

That leaves me with a large stack of 100 pound bills (exchange rate: 5.5 pounds to the dollar) and few people who want to give me change for them.  And so any time I have the opportunity to make change, I pull out the largest bill possible to pay for the most miniscule charge.  The desirability of a bill is in inverse proportion to its value, and so every time Brandon comes home from work, I fleece him for the all 1-pound coins he got in change at the metro.

One night at 9 o'clock we realized that the dry cleaners were bringing Brandon's much-needed suits for work the next day, and we had a 50-pound note for a 25-pound bill.  And so, not wanting to give a 25-pound tip, Brandon ran out of the house, found the closest store that was open, and hot-footed it home with change and a bag of frozen onion rings - that we have yet to eat.

However, I only just discovered that the CIB bank at the Embassy does give change, you just have to ask.  So last week while I was up for doctor's appointments, I marched up to the window and changed 1600 pounds into 20s, 10s, and 5s for a stack at least an inch thick.  I'd never gotten so choked up in my life to see money that was already mine.  I felt like I'd won the lottery.

Stranger than Fiction

When Brandon joined the Foreign Service, and I learned that he was officially a 'diplomat,' visions of cocktail hours, embassy balls, and galas passed through my mind. With over a year of diplomatic life now under my belt, life has been similar to what I really knew diplomatic life would be like. Life is remarkably similar with three small children no matter where one lives or what one's husband does for work. A black silk cocktail dress that I bought upon Brandon's job offer still hung in my closet, with tags attached.

Until recently. Brandon's boss, the deputy consul-general, is leaving soon. As is usual in a tight-knit community of expatriates, various going-away parties have been thrown for her. So when Brandon sent an email detailing one that was being hosted by some friends at the Kempinski hotel, we RSVP'd and arranged for a babysitter.

I pulled out the dress, put on some impossibly high heels and my pearls, and we headed up to Garden City. Brandon told the cab driver the name of the hotel but he hadn't heard of it, so he drove us to the cross streets listed, and we got out at a building that could be a hotel. When we came to the front door and were asked our business, we named our quest, expecting to be directed to this or that ballroom.

Instead two gentlemen at the door warmly shook our hands and welcomed us both to the Kempinski hotel. What enthusiasm, I thought, the hotel must fairly new and have people to spare to welcome guests. When we were ushered into the entryway and given cold towels to wash our hands with upon entering the foyer, I realized that we were being hosted in the hotel entryway. I wondered what the other guests were doing; perhaps using the back entrance? This must be some party.

We soon found out that the party hosts were the hotel owners, and that the hotel itself was not yet open. After being served our non-alcoholic apple-ginger cocktails so happily fetched by a waiter, we found out that the party was also to include a tour of the hotel itself. Never one to turn down a tour of somewhere I'll never have the money to go myself, I happily followed the Ambassadors American and German up the stairs and dodged their security as we were ushered into The Blue.

Brandon and I waved off proffered glasses of white wine, and followed the confused crowd that soon found themselves with plates of beef carpaccio salad with balsalmic vinegar and parmesan cheese. Everyone found themselves a seat among the gleaming silver cutlery and Tiffany-blue chairs and enjoyed the elegance of a restaurant that would likely cost an Egyptian's month's wages to eat at.

After finishing our salads and making comments on the ability of decorators to make large bronzed chickens fit in a five-star hotel, we were herded out of The Blue into Osmanly. There, among the rich Turkish red walls, deep laquered seats, cut crystal glasses, and a new silverware pattern, we were given various dips and a red cocktail to accompany our Ottoman Turkish dishes.

Following that repast, we followed our guides around a few corners and into an elevator. The elevator carried us to the top floor, and out to the pool. We enjoyed a chocolate sorbet palate cleanser accompanied by champagne again (for some) and looked out over the lights dotting the Nile under a full moon.

Being used, at this point, to not knowing what was happening next, we found ourselves on the tenth floor with more gleaming silver, perfectly arranged flowers, and places set for dinner. Sherry was the proffered drink for this round, and to go with it lamb, braised leeks, and something small and mashed with an olive on top to the side. Upon finding that I didn't drink, the waiter practically danced away to find me a cocktail of mixed berries with mint to refresh instead.

Following the meltingly tender lamb and funny stories from the British School headmaster, we enjoyed dessert of various custards and mouses in small, chic glasses. The meal was closed by speeches, thanks, and an invitation to retire to the Jazz Club (with live jazz, of course) for cigars and Cognac.

At this point, Brandon and I (who had been expecting something entirely different and had planned to get in, get out, and get gone) looked at our watches to find the time closing in on 10:00 and declined both the cigars and Cognac.

On our way out, we were given a Kempinski hotel gift bag complete with commemorative ankh keychain. When the doorman found that we had come by taxi, he practically ran onto the Corniche to hail us one, and thanked Brandon for the kindness of his tip.

And then we came home and returned to real life where bums have to be wipes, noses noses, and dinner cooked.

Does Ketchup Come with That?

Recently, Brandon's brother put forth the opinion that Obama was to blame for the slow clean-up of the gulf oil spill, and that the government should have stepped in to 'fix everything.' Upon questioning, he admitted to socialist leanings.

Having spent over a year now in the fold of the federal government and coming from my recent experience of trying to arrange travel to the US for our summer visit, I would like to offer a scenario of how things would go if the well meaning, but incredibly inefficient government took over.

How it is done now:

1. Decide that you would like some McDonald's

2. Go to McDonald's, talk with the man in the speaker, and get your food.

3. Pay for it.

How it would be done by the government:

1. Decide that you would like to have some food in a week.

2. Fill out an online form requesting food. As the form has no clear instructions, ask friends, neighbors and family members how they filled out their form. Dial customer service, where you will get someone who has no idea what they're talking about. Don't forget to note the date and time you would like food.

3. Wait for your form to be checked over by four separate people.

4. Fill the form out again to correct the errors that the last person found.

5. Resubmit.

6. Receive an okay, and call the food scheduling office.

7. Speak to the office, and find out what restaurants they have a contract to work with.

8. Be given a choice of two meals that are in the contract.

9. Choose your meal.

10. Receive an authorization certifying that the government will pay for your food.

11. Go to McDonald's (if it's in the contract), and pick up your food. Make sure to pay for the food.

12. Submit a voucher online. Ask friends, relatives, and co-workers how to submit the voucher. Don't forget the receipt and three other proofs that you went to McDonald's and got the food.

13. Wait for your voucher to be checked over for four other people.

14. Have it returned for errors.

15. Resubmit.

16. Receive reimbursement for your hamburger.

17. If you would like ketchup, go back to step 1.

I can't say I wasn't warned

Most of the time being the mother of three-under-four isn't that bad. With the aid of Rere, my house is always clean. I only ever have to go out with all three once a week, to church. Edwin kindly takes 2-3 naps a day, and goes to bed at 5.

But three problem with three is that, well there are three. If one has a bad day, at least the other two are pleasant. If two have a bad day, there's still one left to remind me that I really do love my children. But if all three children choose the very same day to lose all sense of decency and kindness, heaven help us all.

Sophia started off this morning by not drinking her milk. Yesterday morning she didn't drink her milk either, and I'd had enough of trying to use all methods known to motherkind to get a two year-old to drink-your-blasted-milk-why-don't-you. Screaming and yelling will work in a pinch.

Edwin has recently turned six months old. Both the girls turned nasty at six months, not ever pleased with anything and abandoning nice long naps in favor of short erratic unpredictable ones. Edwin decided to eschew his 2-3 hour nap this afternoon in favor of a much shorter 45-minute one. And he decided to do it 15 minutes after I fell asleep for my nap.

Kathleen and Sophia have swim lessons twice a week. Kathleen has had mixed feelings, but mostly positive after her initial screaming session. Today, she evidently felt nostalgic and spent 55 minutes of the 45-minute lesson crying. She even tried to gag for crying so hard.

Sophia is potty trained. Mostly. Every now and then she'll fail to stave off what is inevitable, and this afternoon failed in her efforts, creating a trail 15 feet long across the carpet and floor.

And Brandon, the girls' one bright hope for making it to bedtime safe and whole, just left from work. An hour late.

Mama said there would be days like this, and I knew what I was getting into. But that's cold comfort when the days themselves arrive in full glory. Thank heaven for bedtime.

Falsely Accused

Friday afternoon after dinner, Kathleen brought Brandon's mini Russian dictionary to the table with an apology. Sorry, she told Brandon, that it had gotten all wet. But how did it get wet, with the middle pages soaking and end pages dry?

Brandon stepped down to investigate, and found a large corner of the carpet by the bookshelves soaking also. The wet area was quite large, and we could find no source for the water. It wasn't likely to be seeping up out of the floor.

With no visible source, we quizzed the girls. Did either know what happened? Kathleen immediately claimed no part in the problem, but pointed the finger to her younger sister. Sophia, happy to claim the blame, admitted that yes, she had gotten the carpet wet. We asked her how, but she wasn't talking.

With a stern lecture about not putting water on carpets (thank heaven for stone floors), we put a fan on the spot, and finished cleaning up dinner. Sometime during the events, Sophia solved the mystery by explaining that she had wet the carpet with her watering can so that she could wash it. We explained that watering cans are only for watering plants, and thought nothing more of it.

Until Sunday morning, when I found the carpet wet, again. This time, there was a definite trail - from the wall. I checked the air conditioning closet to find 1 1/2 inches of water on the floor. After facilities came to check it out, there was only a drainage hose askew.

The next time I need a ready confession, I'll just ask Sophia for one. Not only is she willing, but she's creative, too

You win some, you lose some

By many accounts, life with the State Department is pretty plush. Upon entering the Foreign Service, you are provided with housing which you don't pay for (provided you live overseas), a complete set of matching furniture for every room in the housing that you didn't pay for and don't pay for, upkeep on the housing that you don't pay for, access to a medical unit at post that you don't pay for, and flights back to the US once a year that... you don't pay for.

I enjoy not paying for all of those things. I enjoy the ---- dollars that go into my savings every month instead of into a mortgage payment or upkeep. I enjoy not having to decide whether we should see family or save the six thousand dollars it would take to do so. I enjoy having a seat for Edwin for our flights across the world to see the family. I enjoy, in between posts, having 4-6 weeks of additional vacation to see some more of that family.

However, there are always downsides to a free ride, or rather lunch. When my paid for housing doesn't have adequate air conditioning in the kitchen and my butter barely holds it shape and all chocolate has to be refrigerated because the temperature routinely hovers around 85 degrees, I am somewhat annoyed. Not enough to start paying my rent, but I don't like cooking dinner with sweat running down my back.

And if I might ask that perhaps an AC unit be put in the kitchen, or maybe just a fan, I do feel a tiny spark of frustration when I'm told that I'm free to have it put in - if I pay for it (and then enjoy it for the next 14 months until I leave and somebody else gets to enjoy it). Or if the bathrooms have nothing even resembling a vanity, I am once again welcome to have some custom cabinetry made at my own expense that I am then again welcome to leave for the next occupant.

Or when I'm scheduling flights (that I don't have to pay for) and I'm told that the flight that I have to take is one that only has three seats together and so I get to choose which one - the three year-old? the two year-old? the six month-old? gets to spend 9 1/2 hours on a separate row, I do heave a few large sighs.

But of course, I'm the only one heaving them for myself because everyone else in the normal working world has to shell out big bucks to have all of those things. And I'm grateful for the extra cash. But sometimes, just sometimes I'd like to have it be my choice that my kitchen isn't air conditioned - because hey, I don't like to pay high rent. Or I took that lousy flight because I'd rather use the money on something fun.

Of course those minor annoyances aren't enough to give up the perks. Just minor annoyances, that's all.

Dear Cairo,

I knew what you were when I decided to come here. I spent a whole summer in your sweaty embrace, living mostly air-conditioning free. I walked your streets in the melting sun. I rode your Metro on days that I couldn't touch to pole from your broiling, burning heat. I experienced sweat from places I never knew had sweat glands.

However, I am tired of your relentless, pounding sunshine that heats my cold water up to 100+ degrees straight out of the tap. I don't like your burning rays that scorch my child's feet on the blistering pool deck. The rattle of incessant air-conditioning forever echoes through my apartment. My ceiling fan has been on for at least a month straight. Brandon's birthday chocolates were melted in the box. The days of cool mornings and pleasant afternoons are a distant memory.

Cairo, it's only mid-June. I have three more months of your endless heat. I don't know if we can stay friends much longer. I just want you to know.

love,

Ashley