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By the way, I've adjusted the settings on Blogger to allow you guys to post. Hopefully I'm below the spam-dar, but I guess there's one way to find out.

Let's give it a try, shall we?

The end of the earth

Still in New Jersey ... it's cold, and damp, and grey. Again, has it always been like this, and I just didn't notice because I was right in the middle of it?

I'm sitting here in the cold watching On Demand (which I remember totally changing my life a few years ago) - I've found an episode of Tony Bourdain's "No Reservations" about Patagonia.

Tony Bourdain just kills me. I enjoy his iconoclastic attitude and his experimental bent on food and cooking. That said, though, I'd rather swallow one of my carving knives - covered in broccoli - than have him over for dinner. He can be ... caustic.

In this episode he's starting in Buenos Aires and eating his way down to Tierra del Fuego. As I'm typing this, he's hanging out with gauchos at a campfire, discussing how even die-hard vegetarians begin eating meat in the Pampa. I can think of quite a few people who would approve of that work of goodness.

Speaking of vegetarians, I took advantage of KC's absence last night and tried the new Zen Palate in Princeton. I'd looked at the Zen Palate in Union Square for years but never actually went in. The food last night was good, but the experience was pretty funny. I consider myself pretty up on food and food terms, but the menu threw me for a loop. Wolfberry seeds? Soy nuggets? Virtual Buddha?

I've just watched the branding and castration of a few Argentine bulls. My whole-wheat noodle curry soup from last night looks better and better.

Bourdain keeps talking about drinking whiskey at the end of the earth. He's seen one end of the earth; I've seen the other. I've even got a t-shirt that says "Resolute Bay: It's not the end of the world, but you can see it from here." And I went north from Resolute.


So what does the end of the earth look like? During the endless day I saw gradations of the sky through shades of blue I didn't know existed. When the appalling weather let up (there's that perspective again, New Jersey's not so bad) the sun wheeled through the sky overhead, flirting with the always-visible moon that made sine waves across those many blues. It was cold, but clearly not cold enough. There's no mud like polar mud.

We had no whiskey, but I admit I found out why drinking lab ethanol is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. But then again, putting six adults at the end of the earth without ... adequate ... supplies is also a very, very bad idea.

I wish I could spend my life traveling the world, eating, seeing, writing, doing, and generally experiencing things I couldn't make up. I wish I could just learn for the rest of my life, without worrying about taxes and mortages and the trappings of real life.

Until the day I'm independently wealthy, though, I've got people I love and work I enjoy. Isn't it a shame that you have to retire at the end of your life, when you're tired, instead of about a third of the way through, when you can still enjoy your freedom?

Christmas Eve

Was the weather always this grim in New Jersey in December? Ugh. We've had freezing rain for days - and it rained while I was in San Francisco last week. I don't even have a raincoat anymore.

And speaking of grim, I haven't been feeling any surging of the holiday spirit. I'm not sure I even understand what it means anymore. I'm not sad so much as puzzled.


I try to remember what it was like when I was a kid - god in heaven, was it twenty years ago? I suppose that number will only become more perplexing as I persist. I remember going to see the tree in Rockefeller Center, when we lived on the east coast. I still love doing that, seeing the tree and the skaters, smelling the chestnuts, walking through the double-line of stores, past the white angels and on up to St. Patrick's. That picture up above shows those same white angels with their trumpets - can you believe the decorations are still precisely the same after all these years?

But so much else has changed ... either that, or I've changed. I guess the two aren't mutually exclusive. But when did everything get so damned commercial? Check out this picture of my parents from way before I was born. I see a nice small trimmed tree in the back of a modestly decorated living room. (My father's mustaches are far from modest, though).

We used to pile in the car and go look at Christmas lights on Christmas Eve. Of course, gas costs way too much to do that now, and I feel like I gag on the ostentation displayed by the McMansions that surround Princeton. I mean, really - lights and blow-up presents and wicker lighted deer and banners and gaudy things I can't even identify? What is the point of it all?

I find myself beginning to sympathize with the "put Christ back in Christmas" movement. I am in no way a religious person, but I'm sickened with what our culture has turned Christmas into. My friends ask me what I want for Christmas; I truthfully reply "nothing." What does a Best Buy gift card have to do with the birth of Christ? I remember being in Christmas Mass once, and the priest supplemented the homily with a story about a mystery child helping Santa drive his sleigh ... and that baby was Baby Jesus. Even then, I was seriously confused. What on earth did the two things have to do with each other?

Want to do something for Christmas? Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Drop books or food at a local drive. Hell, spend 30 seconds online and make a donation that you'll never miss anyway. But do something to help someone else. Fight the cheapening of our culture - and our morals.

Yesterday I was in the mall getting a prescription for new contacts. While I was filling out the forms, the receptionist asked me off-handedly how my Christmas shopping was going. I told her I was done, then returned the question. She said in a voice without emotion, "Well, my kids are going to be disappointed this year. They're 7 and 5. I work all the time, and got no money to shop, so we got a nice tree with nothing underneath it. They're gonna hate me. It's hard being a single parent." I glanced at this woman who was clearly younger than me and had even less reason to be seasonally joyful than I do. What the hell was I supposed to say? I responded, "Seems like when I was a kid, Christmas was about being together, not about presents." She mumbled, "Times change."

I came home to be with my family and the people I love. Not to spend money on things no one needs anyway. At this point, even Festivus seems like a better idea to me.

One of the unmentionables

Greetings from San Francisco!

KC sent me this article from the New Yorker the other day. Take a few minutes and read it - it's an interesting discussion of something we think about, but don't talk about.


Well, some of us talk about it ... with varying degrees of success. Examples: James Watson (above) and Larry Summers (below - and not a Harvard-approved image, I'm sure).


To be precise, Jim Watson - of double helix and Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory fame - recently remarked in an interview that he feels "gloomy" about Africa's future for inherent, ahem, biological reasons. And Larry Summers stirred up a storm in 2005 when he suggested that the science gender gap was due to underlying, ahem, biological differences in math and science cognition. If you've got the time, take a look at Summers' actual speech.

Incidentally, Watson gave a screamingly funny interview on the Daily Show about intelligence a few years ago. And he certainly didn't lose his job at CSH over it. See if you can spot the independent variable, scientific thinkers. Darn it, my link to the video is dead. If I can find it, maybe you'll consider signing my petition to create a Nobel Prize in "Keeping Your Mouth Shut."

So how on earth does an intelligent person think about these things that can't be talked about? The New Yorker article does a nice job of summarizing some statistical analyses of racial I.Q. "gaps." And as they say, there are lies, damned lies, and statistics.

Bottom line: I don't know what to think. How is it possible to separate the variables that go into the development of a person's intelligence? And what variables do you highlight? Parental involvement in homework? Household salary? Median number of library cards per household? I.Q. tests from parental generations? And how do you quantify something like cultural appreciation for intelligence? I'll tell you for sure, America would not do well in that last category. Take a look around - it's cool to be stupid. At least if you think television coverage is a measure of cool.

Naturally, I particularly enjoyed the last paragraph of the article that dealt with mixed-race children. If the race of the father is what mattered, have KC and I benefitted, or not benefitted?

And what the hell is going to happen in the next generation?

Homeward bound

I'm off to the US tomorrow morning! I get up at oh-dark-thirty to head for the airport. I'm trying the direct EgyptAir flight into JFK. I'm not thrilled about flying into JFK - it takes forever to get to Princeton - but I don't trust Alitalia with my checked bags connecting through Milan. I figure I'll try this direct flight once, and if it's not worth it, at least I've tried the experiment.

I find myself in a bit of a quandary. Where is my home? Do I even have a home anymore? Or just places scattered around the world where I sleep occasionally?

I like it here in Cairo. This city is incredibly exciting, although it's exhausting too. And speaking of exhaust, the city's got a lot of things wrong with it, like the absolutely horrendous air quality. But I've got a great apartment, I'm enjoying myself at AUC, and I've fallen in with an excellent crowd here.

I am looking forward to going back to the States. I miss my friends and family a lot. I also miss the normalcy of my old life - understanding how things work, the ease of simple things. I also miss being able to go to a bar without a big fuss, and watching TV, and going to the movies. The only movie I've seen here was Cabiria at the Opera House! And shopping places that have clothes I actually want to wear.

Maybe home is where you're surrounded by the people you love. So come to Egypt! All of you!

For you AUCans, I'm back in Egypt January 9th, with KC in tow. Looking forward to my return ... insha'allah.

Doing the math

I had a very good day yesterday - and it seemed to be an especially "Egyptian" one.

Two friends offered to take me with them to the Tentmaker's Bazaar, and of course I jumped at the chance to do some Christmas shopping. We got started a bit later than first planned (again, very Egyptian), but they picked me up in a cab at my place, then it was off to the races near Al-Azhar.

I got out of the cab at the same place KC and I did to go to Khan al-Khalili, the great tourist bazaar here in Islamic Cairo. While the Khan does grab more than its fair share of the tourist trade, the bazaar has been in place since about the 14th century, and is full of more interesting things than the ubiquitous musical stuffed camels and child-sized belly-dancer outfits. The latter I find disturbing on more than one level.

But instead of turning left onto the overpass across the terrifying four lanes of asphalt (with the standard 8 lanes of traffic), we turned right onto Al-Muizz li-Din Allah, passing under a high, dim gateway. And on this side of Al-Azhar, quite a bit is different.

I've been in this souq before, with KC. The front part of the narrow lane is jammed with tables sporting bras, fluffy slippers, robes, pots, pans, and, well, everything you can picture. If I ever try to buy a bra off a table in a bazaar, I want someone to slap me. They're all enormous affairs, some embellished with sequins and beads, others sporting leopard print or Mickey Mouse. Perplexing.

The street itself is filled with garbage, uprooted paving stones, various forms of excrement, corn husks and yam skins this time of year, and sundry unidentifiables. It's best to just keep moving and watching your feet. I kept a firm hand on my bag at all times. Formidable Egyptian matrons loudly discuss the wares in various parts of the street, damming up traffic. In this part of town, traffic consists equally of ramshackle truks, donkey carts, vespas, motorcycles, bicycles, and milling pedestrians, some of whom are carrying enormous loads of something on their heads. I sustained a blow to the head - and narrowly avoided a second - from a huge bale of something on my way through the souq yesterday. At least it didn't squish.

We plowed through the street as best we could, sometimes separated, sometimes together. At one point I became trapped between a motorcycle and a pick-up truck, but since no one was moving, it ended well. The souq evolved from underwear to brass to vegetables to spices ... and finally we came to Bab Zuweila.

Bab Zuweila is the southern gate of the old city. It looms up over the twisting street, gray, pitted, formidable, and old. I imagine that after a thousand years of watching Cairenes go about their mad business, this gate is tired. What's the rush? - I picture it sighing. You were all here yesterday, and you'll all be here tomorrow. And the next day, and on and on ....

Of course, I thought that about the World Trade Center too.

On and on we pressed, and finally we arrived in Sharia al-Khayamiyya, the street of the tentmakers. Yasir turned right into one of the (to me identical) storefronts, and we were effusively greeted by the proprietor, Mr. Magdy. I was introduced, welcomed to the store by Mr. Magdy and his son, and tea was ordered all around.

Serious shopping takes time in Egypt. We spent time on pleasantries until the tea arrived, steaming hot, with mounded plates of sugar balanced on top. My sugar spoon was a bit crusty, but I thought in for a penny, in for a pound. The tea was good, hot, and strong, and I was thirsty and looking to drop some money - on good prices, of course. I glanced around at the appliqued work on display, but Mr. Magdy immediately began pulling stacks of fabric from behind a curtain.

With flourishes he displayed them, one after the other. Many sizes, many colors, any type of custom work available. Yasir and Sufia had commissioned two lovely pieces from him in dignified colors, lotuses entwining over a beige background. My eye was immediately arrested by a stunning blue piece of medium size and intricate workmanship.


I hate haggling (it seems so sordid to me, somehow, as if it's a ritualized form of confrontation), but I know the rules - keep expressed interest at a minimum, even when you're pole-axed, and keep going. I couldn't keep the admiration off my face, though.

Mr. Magdy turned my attention away from the display items in the shop, riveting me with his hidden stash of treasures. Nonetheless, he was displaying some works that incorporated arabic calligraphy into various designs of birds and animals. It was very cool, working verses from the Quran into pictures of something else. I've seen it before, of course, but never in something that was actually accessible to me.

In the end I purchased three items (I've photographed all of them, but since some of them are Christmas gifts, I'll post the pictures later), including the blue piece that I instantly knew I would keep for myself. And of course I was offered a "special price" for being a friend of Sufia and Yasir - and promised an even better price the next time I come with new friends. I was absolutely appalled at his initial offering, and even after he made his second offer, and Yasir negotiated even further, my brain was staggering.

But then I did the math. And even with the dollar in a cardboard toilet full of flaming dung, I knew I'd done well. I've got my eye on a few bedspreads that I know back home would cost somewhere between 800 and 1000 dollars, and here will be less than half that. And I've got all the time I need to acquire them.

On the way out of Islamic Cairo we popped into the mosque of al-Mu'ayyad. We'd wanted to go in earlier, but I'd forgotten to bring a scarf. Mr. Magdy had generously given me one as a gift - I'm sure he was out almost nothing - so I was able to cover my hair.

Stepping into the mosque reminded me of an initial scuba dive entry. You slide from the boat - sun, wind, salt, engine, gasoline fumes, chatter of excited divers - into near-silence and serenity. Entering a mosque in Islamic Cairo can be the same thing, slipping into a sea of tranquility in the midst of Cairene chaos.

We didn't climb the minarets, but we did walk through the mosque, which doubled as a mauseolum. The crypts of the men were quiet, and white, and scented with incense in the front of the mosque behind a massive, studded wood door. We were also shown the women's crypts in the back of the mosque, where the floor was strewn with rubbish and birds had nested in the ceiling lamps.

The beautiful stained-glass window cast colored light onto the walls in the rear of the mosque. I'd never seen that before - somehow the light from the glass never seems to go anywhere. But here it was, and I savored the view before resurfacing into the reality of Cairo.