Follow The Thread

End of the week, at last. It's been another long one, and the work is really coming on. Three papers to finish in the next few weeks. But relative to Brandeis, the workload is still pretty easy. Mostly, it's just the way the writing is at a much lower level here - what I would do an in-class or one-week assignment becomes a final semester paper. And the pace of reading is much, much slower.

I also went to see a play here in Egypt which my Egyptian friend Sarah was in, called The Bussy Blay. Bussy is colloquial Egyptian for "look!" or "Pay attention!" when speaking to a woman - but Egyptians also pronounce P's as B's, so it's a bit of a double entedre. The point of the play comes from a performance a few years ago of the "Vagina Monologues," which as you can imagine was a bit of a controversy. So they decided to retool the show to be more about Egyptian women.

And it's a really, really interesting and intense show, split 60-40 between English and Arabic, with lots of stories you've heard about Egypt, some you've guessed, and some you never would. I've always had trouble relating to women's-empowerment type literature - after all, I'm not a woman! But this was well-acted and well-done, lacked the gratuitous shock factor of the Vagina Monologues(although considering the culture there's some shock going on for sure!), and surprised me in many ways. The format is of students acting out anonymous monologues pertaining to particular women's issues. Two of the ones that shocked me the most were stories of girls being fondled by their Qu'ran teachers!! I guess it's not just the Catholic Church...

But there were other, lighter ones, humorous ones, personal ones, tragic ones, romantic ones - it was really quite a show and I fancy it made me a little more open-minded. But despite the one monologue entitled "Muslim Women," filled with equal amounts of rage at Islamic society and Western cultural imperialism - the show as a whole made me think the society could use just a touch of our cultural imperialism. One of the lines that stood out to me was about how "Yes, my father tells me how to dress...but so does Gucci!" Well, yes - but the difference is A)Gucci isn't supposed to be your father, and B)Gucci won't beat you for not wearing their fashion. A specious and silly comparison, to link traditional Islamic patriarchy with the much milder patriarchy of body image and advertising in the West - most often employed by Islamo/Marxo/Feminist types who need something to rail against and self-righteous suburbanites who want to pretend to connect with their "sisters" in Saudi Arabia or Sudan.

I also took Jon to see my tailor, and took the opportunity to get some pictures so you can see just how original and old-school this guy is. He really is the real deal vintage tailor, and he even does all his sewing on a peddle-driven sewing machine. Here's what his shop looks like. Click for bigger pictures.

Jon and Zaghloul.

Zaghloul's workdesk:

Works in progress.

The innards of a suit.

Waiting for delivery.

New and Improved

So after submitting my story The Finn to the Dimensions newspaper here, one of their editors/cartoonists decided he really, really wanted to turn it into a "graphic novel" serialized across several issues. While this means that I don't do as much writing per week, it came out pretty damn cool.

So props to Marwan Imam for turning my work into something really kind of unique. He did a pretty good job drawing Boston for someone who has never seen it before in his life!!!



Here's the text, since it's kind of unreadable from the scan:

I worked but I didn’t manage to find satisfaction. That was Boston’s fault. This town had dulled me with its persistent winds, and I was slowly wearing away in the rain, the snow, the battered sidewalks and cracking roads. In this city, every thing was a defense against the elements, every day was a task. And the people, clannish and irritable, could become as cutting as shards of glass. Every one shuffled around in coats and scarves, each a castle, a fortress, with layers of battlements and almost never visible. Boston wore at my soul and I could not escape.

A vast melancholy swept over me as I sat on the embankment, waiting for the train to take me home. It was one of those cold New England nights where your breath comes in freezing clouds that glow in the stainless steel moonlight. I could see the train coming half a mile away along the tracks, its running lights reflected in long beams down the rails. The track ran straight and then curved at the last minute before the station, so as it approached all I saw a was three flashing lights bearing down on me with an increasing roar. The cars blew by in a blast of hot air and roaring diesel that splashed through my mind like an ocean wave.

On the train, I sat facing the wrong direction, watching Belmont and then Waltham slide silently by. Staring through the scratched glass of the windows, I watched the tattered remnants of New England's industrial past slide by – battered redbrick buildings covered in cracking paintwork and dying ivy, junkyards filled with rusting trucks and stripped tires, men standing around in flannel shirts and dirty workboots the color of old wheat, smoking cigarettes. I looked down at my own shoes, chestnut boots polished to a waxy sheen, and then at the shoes I wear at work, scuffed and filthy with cheap leather. Why did I feel the need to change them every day before I left?

Also, I'm went to Zaghloul today to make sure the trousers fit and to get the final measurements for the coat. He's such an awesome old guy:






It's raining today...in Cairo! Blech on that.

Tinker, Tailor...

I went on a long hunt through the streets of Downtown Cairo a few days ago, trying to find a tailor. Although it wasn't just finding a tailor that was hard - it was finding the right one. Cairo has districts that are full to overflowing with tailors and shops that sell cloth. But most of them look absolutely awful, and they sell really cheap stuff. I was looking for somewhere with real craftsmanship but Egyptian prices...a daunting task.
Following a recommendation and a vague set of directions from a classmate, I set out trying to find the right place. I quickly began to realize that in many ways, Cairo is like a giant village. I spent an hour wandering around a two block area trying to find a specific set of alleys, and then another 30 minutes in those alleys trying to find the right building. Get more than 100 metres away from your destination, and no one can tell you where it is. Everything is intensely localized.
Finally, wandering through the bottom story of a dilapidated apartment building, I asked a man who looked half blind and about 150 years old. His answer? "Zaghloul's not here." Not even the name of the store or anything, just the man's name and his absence. He pointed to a shuttered door with a sign over it. The sign had faded, illegible Arabic and the words: "Zaghloul Fayek: Taileur."
When I returned the next day, the shutter was up and I could poke my head into the shop. It was like an explosion in a very small textile mill. Bits of cloth lay everywhere: in cupboards, in the windows, over dummies, on the chairs and sofa. An wizened little man stood behind the desk, conversing with another, equally ancient man.
Success!
Zaghloul took me aside and tried futilely to communicate with me in French. That, combined with the sign on his shop, made me realize he was really pretty ancient, dating to the time when French as, well, the lingua franca of the Middle East. I took a look at his work-room and the stuff he was working on. I was pretty impressed - as far as I could tell, he really knows his stuff.
After a bit of haggling, discussion, fabric sampling, picture exchanging and lots and lots of broken Arabic, I commissioned a handmade made-to-measure charcoal pinstripe 2-button double-vented suit with a ticket pocket and peak lapels. All this for just about $100. If everything works out as planned, I'll have it for next Wednesday.
I can't wait.