You Married A What?!

It’s the early hours of the morning. We’ve just landed in Cairo. Dear God cover me in a hijab. Every woman pulls a headscarf from their purse and covers their banned locks like it’s back to work. Mine is the only female hair on show: brassy, blonde and blatant. Even though I’m almost sixty, age is just a number and I feel like I’m hanging from a stripper pole; hussy tattooed across my forehead. I’m exhausted, scared and nervous so I lower my eyes, look at Tony’s pant cuffs and follow a respectful two paces behind my man.

Tony loves Egypt. Every stranger is a potential audience. His Mom cast an embryonic spell: have fun, make people laugh, and never be serious. My Mom threw a hex: don’t embarrass yourself… ever. So while Tony, not speaking Arabic is surrounded by laughing Egyptians, I’m hiding elbows, knees and toe cleavage; silently repeating, Om Mani Padme Hum, a mantra I learned when I climbed to Everest base camp in Tibet a few years ago. It’s supposed to invoke peace but it’s not working.

Even though Cairo is one of the more cosmopolitan cities in the Arabic world, I’m nervous going through customs. The agent looks as if he’s been sucked dry of humor. I worry my passport picture is too happy. Will I be refused entry, taken to a small room and interrogated about my positive mental attitude?

Finally, after twenty-three hours of travel, we walk out of Cairo Airport to be greeted by a wall of men who are so loud they clear our sinuses. I feel like a white chalk mark on a black board.

Although we’re American citizens, we were born in England in the late 1940’s where polite people talked quietly, formed straight lines and followed rules. Here in the middle of the desert shouting is the only way to be heard. I yell at Tony, “Where’s our guy?”

“Don’t worry my little petit pois one of these smiling faces belongs to us.”

We travel a lot for our business so I’m used to the normal mayhem of faraway airports. Taxi drivers in exotic places calling, “Missus, I take you any somewhere!” But here it’s desperation on steroids. Cab drivers push and shove for our bags until the scrappiest wins grabs our luggage and points to a black and white rust bucket resting on four bald tires; a 1970’s Fiat.

Thankfully, we see our savior above a clean white shirt waving a card with our name in big black letters. The relief is like letting out a fart that’s been held the entire flight. “Welcome to Egypt. I am Ali. At your service 24/7.”

Ali, a tall fit man, scolds the cabbie with just one look, and our luggage is meekly surrendered.

With one hand Ali scoops up our bags and with the other commands the sea of men to part. We fall in line and follow him to his shiny black Range Rover SUV with half-inch treads. Oh joy! Were it not for the strong Eau d’Pharaoh cologne we could be in a limo at O’Hare.

Before we set off, Ali turns around and in a very serious tone says, “Seat belts, please.”

I do as he says, but why so stern? “Are the roads terribly dangerous?” I sound like the Queen.

“No. I drive fast,” he lets out a quick laugh.

Tony joins him and says, “Thank God. A man after my own heart.”

I settle in the back seat. I’m used to aggressive drivers. Tony has a lead foot. He tailgates cars to get them to move over, flashes his Bright’s and stares them down as we drive past. But as soon as Ali takes off I realize there’s fast and there’s freaking fast. I want three seat belts. He’s swerving and missing cars by a fly’s butt crack. He’s literally bumper to bumper. We’re so close we could be hitched.

The road rules are none existent. There are no lanes or road markings. Some people even drive against the traffic. Yes, there are traffic lights, but they’re only suggestions. If I were stupid enough to put my little pinky out the window it would be sliced off by another hurtling car.

And noise? Holy moly. If I thought the airport was loud I hadn’t reckoned with the horns of Cairo. Honking is a second language, “Hey, move over.” Honk, honk, honk. “No, you!” Honk, honk!

Sometimes when I’m scared I laugh. It’s a knee jerk reaction to danger. Ostriches put their heads in the sand, opossums play dead and I laugh. So now I’m cackling in the back seat for all I’m worth. Ali sensing my stress says, “I number one professional driver. I drive General in Egyptian Secret Service. I protect you. Always.” His confidence is soothing so I sit back, unclench my body parts and let the Now have at it.

Tony turns to me, “This is fantastic. It’s like the Wild West but with cars!” He’s in heaven, “No clueless American slowing down the fast lane. Rock n roll!”

Once we’re away from the lights of the airport the streets look eerie and dark, but still, there’s lots of people out and about enjoying the cool night air. I grab Tony’s hand for comfort. It works. I close my eyes and let my mind wander. Not a good idea. The word kidnapper pops in. With zero filter I turn to Tony and whisper, “I think we’re being kidnapped.”

I know Tony would gladly jump into a mosh pit full of terrorists to save me, but how can we know what evil lurks in a person’s mind? Yes, from the outside, Ali seems an intelligent, non-violent man, but so did Ted Bundy. “Tony, you’ve got to do something.”

“Think how disappointed they’ll be when the kidnappers realize we’ve got nothing,” he laughs. I don’t. “Come here,” he says and puts his strong arms around me. “Plus, this would be a great way to go, eh? Kidnapped in Egypt. What a brilliant story? Buried in the Pyramids.”

I can’t believe it, “You love Cairo don’t you?”

“What’s not to love? It’s beautiful. Friendly people. Wonderful smells.” He presses a button to bring down the window and draws in the night air, “Mmm camels, sand, diesel.”

God I wish I had his sense of humor. After an eternity of thinking up every possible kidnapping scenario, I spy our luxury hotel gleaming like Shangri-La in the distance. An oasis of clean water, air conditioning and fluffy white towels beckon my travel weary body.

I recall the virtual tour when I was back in Chicago before we embarked on this epic journey: enormous pillars, sweeping staircases and drapes that Scarlett O’Hara could turn into a spring collection. As we get closer, it truly is a joy to behold and I finally let go of Tony, “Our hotel.” I yearn for sleep. I would stone a panda for a bed. I relax my bum and shuffle forward preparing to pull up to the lavish entrance. But Ali speeds on by. In a harsh voice that scratches like a steel pan scrub I say, “What the heck!?”

“Ali?” Tony takes charge in his kind, but forceful manner.

“Yes sir. At your service 24/7.”

“We just passed our hotel.”

“Yes, sir. You need mango juice.”

“Mango juice?” Tony is horrified. Finally, he gets what I’ve been going through. For me it was kidnapping, for him it’s a mango juice run at three in the morning. But the hotel is already long gone, plus we’re so tired we just quietly croak in the back of the limo.

I glance sideways at Tony and raise an eyebrow—I told you so. I’m too polite to say anything to Ali. Remnants of subservient DNA runs alongside my ‘We will fight on the beaches’ attitude. I could have been a scullery maid, or a militant suffragette in a past life. My grandma’s number one rule; do what needs to be done and don’t make a scene. Tony never got that. He loves making scenes. Not confrontational, just funny, entertaining ones.

Whereas I was brought up beside a Chapel, he was brought up next to a coal mine ironically named the Sunshine Pit. Even with his coal-mining heritage, he thinks Royal blood runs in his veins and everyone and everything is out to support him. I’m determined to change my family dynamics and be more like him.

“Egyptian mango juice is best in world. Make you energy after long flight.” Ali smiles in his rear view mirror and thinks we actually want energy instead of a long and glorious sleep in a giant king-sized bed with a choice of pillow: soft, firm, feather or foam?

Tony jokes back, “Unless we can sleep in the Mango juice, I’d rather go to the Hotel.”

“You sleep good after Mango juice. Trust me. Do you trust me?”

Ali throws down the gauntlet and my manly man picks it up, “No!” they both laugh. “What the hell. We’re on an adventure. Mango it is!” I can’t even muster energy to squeeze Tony’s hand. I give up the oars of resistance and float like a dead fish toward a ghastly storm drain.

With the hotel slipping away in the rear view mirror, we speed on and eventually turn down a sandy dirt road with crumbling buildings on either side. Under thin lights, everything looks run down and tired. Even the garbage has given up. Stray cats wander about looking for food and rats sleep out in the open. I bet they’d love mango juice. I’m past exhaustion and have gone into my ninth wind.

“Want to hear good story?” I think Ali must be on speed he’s so wide awake.

“Why not?” I resign myself to my fate.

“When I was boy, I left home to visit my auntie and uncle in Alexandria. It was very far. I sat in front with driver in big passenger van. There was five people in back. After one hour, driver stop at roadside café. Everyone get out. They go drink free water outside. It is kept in a…what you call that…big water cup?”

“A trough?”

“I don’t know exactly but yes, a tarof. The five people drink from it. I did not. My father was diplomat at Egyptian Consulate and tell me, ‘Ali, never drink from water cup.’ Tarof?”

“Trough.”

“Tarof yes. So I no drink water. Instead I get Pepsi. I love Pepsi. We get back in van and everyone laughing and chatting. Then, after few minutes, I hear nothing. The van completely silent. No one talking, no joking. I ask driver to stop. We turn around and look. I can’t believe my eyes. All five passenger’s dead.”

“Oh my God! What happened?”

“Police find big snake in water cup. It in all papers,” says Ali.

“What?”

“The snake it was how you say…danger?”

“Poisonous?” guesses Tony.

“Yes, poison snake,” says Ali.

“Wow Ali!” My worst comparable story would be walking across a field of cows and stepping in a cow plat. I say, “It’s so amazing you didn’t drink the water!” I am truly in awe. He was saved by a Pepsi. He must be touched by God.

“Alḥamdulillāh.” Praise be to God. It’s a phrase he uses to bring Allah into the picture. Especially when thanking Him for blessings, or achieving something out of hardship.

“Do you always pick up Americans at the airport?” I ask.

“Yes. I the one to pick up The Foreign. I have English so I get job. Because you with big company you very special high up people.”

“We don’t actually work for a big company; we’re the consultants,” I say.

“My general manager say American very important,” says Ali.

“Hmmm. I guess so.” I have to admit it’s wonderful being treated so well. Limousine, luxury hotel, body guard. And for a moment I forget the energy sapping detour for mango juice.

“Okay, we here.” Ali slows and parks in front of a dirty storefront and I’m thrown back into my fear. Young men stand around cracked plastic chairs as if they’re waiting. For us? I imagine the headline, ‘Chicagoans Kidnapped by Mango Juice Gang.’

“I will lock you in,” says Ali. Yeah right. That’s exactly what a kidnapper would say before being duct taped and shoved in the trunk.

“Okay,” I wave weakly. And Ali leaves to get the infamous Mango Juice.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! We almost piss our pants. A wizened crone dressed like The Witch of the North taps loudly on our window. Tony begins to let it down.

“Stop!” I yell, “What are you doing?”

“Letting the window down.” Tony looks at me like I’m a total stranger.

“She could be part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“The mango juice kidnapping gang!”

“Really?” He looks at her. I look at her. He’s right. Her skeletal frame with its missing teeth couldn’t overpower a toothbrush. I wish I were different. Not so paranoid and always making up dramatic stories. I wish I was loving and accepting like Tony, but what would happen to my boundaries?

He puts up the window. The crone shakes a string of small white flowers at us and walks away mumbling in Arabic; it could be a curse, a blessing or a gardening tip. I don’t know and I don’t care.

Changing the subject I ask Tony, “Seriously, what do you think of Ali?”

“Nice guy…”

I sense Tony is about to deliver one of his impromptu lectures about emotional intelligence, the strength of diversity or some other enlightened concept, but I’m too tired for motivational input, so I put up a hand, “Shh, he’s coming back.”

Ali smiles at the old woman, gives her money, takes the flowers, unlocks the car and hangs them over his rear view mirror. “For good luck!”

I’m such a jerk.

He hands us two large cups of something bright orange and unnaturally chunky. “Thank you.” Tony and I speak in unison, a trait of being married almost half a century.

“It looks like run-off from a nuclear reactor,” says Tony.

“You welcome,” laughs Ali. Now his job of giving us Super Mango Energy is accomplished, he weaves and dodges back to the hotel. My only control is to close my eyes and think of British pie-making.

Once in the hotel, I go straight to the nearest garbage can and throw my mango juice in. “Tony, I wouldn’t drink that if I…”

He stares at his empty cup, “Why not?”

“Mexico?”

Memories of Montezuma’s Revenge flood his memory. “Aww shit!”

“Well, it’s your problem if you’re chained to the toilet tomorrow.” But I feel mean saying that, and as we ascend in the elevator to our executive suite I say to Tony, “Listen. I’m really tired of being afraid and scared. Tomorrow I’m going to love everyone and everything. I’m going to accept every moment as if I had chosen it, because on some level I have.”

“Great,” smiles my sweet, kind hubby. But I get the feeling he doesn’t quite believe me. I can’t blame him. How often have I tried to change, only to remain the same? Ah-ha moments that I’ve forgotten the very next day? Woo-woo stuff that hasn’t worked?

But I am so bone achingly tired of being scared and untrusting, then beating myself up about it. It has to stop.

Amy Bloom, American writer and psychotherapist said, “You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed—and you are beautiful.”

As if sensing my thoughts Tony kisses the top of my head. “I adore you just the way you are.”

“Aww. I love you so much,” I realize that I’m learning to let life flow without resistance. I don’t need to defend myself in order to feel safe and complete. To live in the present is to flow with life. And I lovingly hold his hand until we get to our suite.

Once inside I climb into bed as fast as I can. Oh the joy of luxury high-thread Egyptian cotton. Finally, I’m safe like we’re back in America and I fall into a sleep so deep a grave digger would think I’d died, toss me in a coffin and cover me with dirt.

ALI

After Ali has dropped The Foreign off at their hotel he drives to his mom’s place where he sleeps. His mom, a short, fatter version of Ali, asks, “Did you take them for mango juice?”

“Of course Mama. They love it.”

“Masha’Allah,” God has willed it. “Did you bring a small cup for me?” she looks up hopefully.

“Of course. No.” Her smile fades, and he quickly adds, “I brought you a BIG cup Mama.”

She looks at him with a twinkle of love in her eye, “Oh, Ali...”

“I got you Mama,” he laughs. If there’s one thing Ali loves to do it’s play jokes on people, second best is to give gifts.