An Arab Magnet

This is what I was in Egypt—an Arab magnet. I don’t know what it was—whether it was my beautiful Egyptian eyes, or maybe the passionately angry scowl that I threw out at the men sometimes, or the short reddish-brown hair that was continually in a pony tail (since my straightener burned out), or my CIA-ish sunglasses, but for some reason wherever I went I got a lot of attention. And I mean a lot. All the men asked me if I was married (“I am engaged” quickly became my favorite Arabic phrase) and continually told me how beautiful I was. Perhaps they were just impressed with my incredible Arabic skills.

But if it I was popular with the men, I was like Santa Clause with the children. Everywhere I went children would run up to me, say hi, ask me if I would take a picture of them, and offer to give me favors.

My favorite was when I was at the biggest park in Cairo (Hadiqa Al-Azhar) and I was casually walking to the bathroom with another student. Some little children having a picnic with their families waved at me, and I of course waved back happily (what can I say, I love the children as much as they love me!). They immediately ran over to me and asked in Arabic, “Do you want some of my drink?”

Do I want some of your drink?! Repulsed by the idea of drinking a strange child’s Coke from a communal bottle that probably wasn’t washed before it was filled again (ever!), I quickly refused, pretending to be polite. The girl (she was probably about 7) insisted, and again I refused. After doing this several times, I think she finally got the idea. After exchanging names with the group, I used the restroom (and got away without tipping!), and then had to walk past them again. They ran back over to me and started following me around the park!

I was more than happy to speak with them in my broken Arabic, and then they wanted a picture with me. I, of course, obliged.

And then there was the girl in the bathroom in Garbage City (more about that to come) who, immediately upon my entrance, asked, “Will you take a picture of me?” and then followed me throughout the city.

Or the family who rushed up to me, also in Garbage City, with their little baby (I think it was her christening day—they were Christians, obviously) and asked if they could take a picture of me holding her. This time, however, I had my camera ready and had them take a picture with it too (although the guy who took the picture couldn’t figure out how to work my camera and pushed the “off” button instead of the “take the picture button”).

Or the little boy in City of the Dead who ran up to me and asked if I would take a picture of him and then, unsatisfied with the result when I showed it to him, asked me to take another, this time of him “standing on his hands,” or something.

And, of course, my favorite tour guide, who was twelve years old and lived near Coptic Cairo. I asked her if she knew where a certain church in Coptic Cairo was, and she said she would take me (her seven year old brother followed us). She talked animatedly the whole way in Arabic, and then when we got to the church, she showed me where it was and then started to walk away. Then, she turned around and ran back and asked if I would take a picture of her!

What can I say, I am just an Arab magnet!