I keep forgetting to post these/day two

Taken in the Library of Alexander

They won’t stop feeding me. As a self proclaimed foodophile, one would think that I would be thrilled. Alas an epithet about “too much of a good thing,” comes to mind. Fact is, I simply can’t eat this much. Heba and Mahmoud think I’m being shy—he even told me “aib” or shame on me—but as it turns out this hearty foodophile eats like a bird according to Egyptian standards, ironic as I had prescribed such mannerisms to my mother and had often wondered at how she could live as if on air when there is so much good food in the world. No longer. I only hope that as I learn more Arabic I can figure out a way to sincerely decline food without seeming “bird-like.” Thinking into the future however, reminds me of the impending end of Rahmadan. What will I do when they all start eating again, rather than just at sundown? Lord preserve me I might just die before then.

After a meal of chicken baked with onions, potatoes, and water with salt, pepper and other lovely condiments to create a baked-in sauce with (Compliments of the lovely Heba), I had a little battle with my phone (unlocking it). I had to pretend I was my mother, then pretend I was me on speakerphone, then pretend I was me and my mother together on skype. It was exhausting, but I got things running eventually. Skype saves lives, I tell you. After that I packed for a three day trip to Alexandira! Mahmoud and Amr have been planning to take me to the North Coast. I guessed they had an apartment, but what I hadn’t guess was how much I would love their mom, who came with us after we picked her up from her Alexandrian home (more on this later). We left at around eleven thirty in the evening or so for the two or so hour trip. Lovely, right? Mahmoud played tour guide and pointed out big hotels and the Nile. But after a while even he grew silent, tired as we all were. Amr drove, and remained mostly silent though I was surprised to learn he understood English quite well when I tried to explain to Mahmoud that I was allergic to cigarette smoke (Amr had just lit up). When we picked up Ohm or mom, she invited me into a richly furnished home with a fond kisses on my cheeks and charmingly accented English. She had me sit in a parlor as she got things ready for the car. After that brief interlude we carried on and I marveled at how much Egypt reminded me of Nigeria. Cairo was Lagos in twenty or so years (if Nigeria can get its act together) and the Alexandrian country side reminds me of Umohia or Erifite. Homes equipped almost to the limits of taste with plush upholstery and chandeliers, and outside a shaky infrastructure, unpaved dirt roads and peeling plaster.

We reached the apartment at three or so in the morning (Joy) and after un-packing and being shown my room, I was promptly fed. Again. This time there was baked pita, fresh mangos (the best I’ve ever had), and “straight from the cow” milk (Which Ohm had warmed for me to drink after she finished stuffing my face), an omlette dotted with black pepper, and ishta (fresh frozen milk) with honey, and reddish olives. Did I mention the olives? Oh and the Greek yogurt—there was just so much! Needless the say the whole thing was DELICIOUS. But Ohm just kept giving and giving…
She did call me beautiful on several occasions which leads me to believe that Egyptian men get their charm from their mothers. No surprise there.