Moe and a Train

Dear Ellie,

What is it you like about Thomas the Tank Engine? Is it because of his big, friendly smile? His bright blue body with red trim? The way he his wheels glide along the smooth, steel tracks, safely sending him along his way in the great, open air? Or is it his eager attitude? His willingness to help, to have an important job and role in the lives of others? Is that why you always want to show him to Maurice?



Well guess what? Maurice and I get to ride a train everyday! Unlike Thomas, it does not have a big, friendly smile. Nor is it painted blue with red trim. And it rarely runs in the open air! Our train, painted gray with pink and purple stripes, is located a few levels underground. Instead of gliding throughout the countryside, it reliably chugs below the cluster and chaos of the city, booming through tunnels and crowded platforms. It works hard to send passengers from their homes to their places of work, from their schools to their churches and mosques, from the busyness of Tahrir Square to the tranquility of quiet gardens and parks, from the east bank of the Nile to the west, or even from the airport all the way to the Great Pyramids at Giza!



The Cairo Metro is an essential piece of the public transportation puzzle for a city of 20 million people. It's true that a lot of people ride the public busses, especially students for their daily commute to University. Most of these busses, however, are old, hot, dusty, and slow. And with the endless traffic, it's a wonder they are not always hours behind schedule. It's also true that many people drive cars. But the cars are much smaller and older here than they are in Michigan, and unlike those in the US, it's as if they are able to change size! Always squeezing in and out of tight spots, making a fifth or sixth traffic lane on a road built for three, and piling more people inside than what seems to be possible, they seem to shrink and swell as needed, like the shoreline ebbs and flows. There are just as many motor bikes as there are personal cars. A few nights ago, walking along a bridge that crosses the Nile, Maurice and I saw a family of four comfortably riding one bike, constantly weaving in and out of the congestion composed of pedestrians and machines. Even more people take taxis, but unless you are lucky enough to hop into a newer cab with a meter, you have to haggle with the driver, predetermining the worth of your ride before you even sit inside.

Luckily, Maurice and I live just a short walk away from the Metro! And for less than twenty cents, we can travel from the new, modern sections of Cairo to the old, traditional neighborhoods; we can explore the city like tourists; we can ride to the library or universities like students; we can commute to work, visit friends, or go out for the best fiteer (Egyptian pizza) on the other side of the Nile. It's amazing. I wish Moe could show you this train.

Love,

Aunt Em

fresh fruit

Dear Lucas,

I haven’t eaten strawberries with you in so long! I haven’t folded the green leaves between my fingers before taking a bite of the deep red fruit. I haven’t had the juice of a particularly ripe one run down my chin, or the tiny yellow seeds get stuck in my teeth. I haven’t picked out the biggest five from the plastic container to put on your plate, and I haven’t dunked them whole into a bowl of cool whip.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw a strawberry! Or any kind of berry for that matter! Morocco doesn’t seem to have much by the way of berries. There are no strawberries, no blueberries, not raspberries, and la samah allah, (God Forbid!) no blackberries! On Fourth of July I couldn’t make a berry-flag cake if I wanted to, and I can’t make us a single banana-berry smoothie!

It’s not that bad, though. The abundance of other fruits make up for the lack of berries. And, more so than their abundance, their quality really makes up for it. The other fruits here are so wonderful, so fresh, and oh so flavorful. You can’t eat an orange without needing to wash not just your hands, but all the way up to your elbows afterwards. There are figs that are bright green on the outside and pink on the inside. The peaches aren’t as good as they are in Texas (and no one has ever even heard of peach cobbler!), and I’m sure not as good as they are in Florida, but the nectarines are unlike any other nectarine I’ve ever eaten. They are so ripe the skin peels right off, and I always have a puddle of sweet juice left on the table that, unfortunately, never made it to my lips.

But the best fruit here, by far, is the melon. No question. Not only have I never seen so many mountains of melon before, but I’ve also never tasted so many different kinds! Of course there is watermelon and cantaloupe, but here is also “yellow melon” and the most delicious, juicy, wonderful honeydew I’ve ever tasted. I didn’t even know honeydew could taste so good! And regardless of what they look like on the outside—like a cantaloupe with brown little ridges or like a smooth, yellow colored football—I’m always excited to see what they’ll look like on the inside. Sometimes I think it will be honeydew, but then it turns out to be the milder, firmer yellow melon. Other times I expect it to taste like cantaloupe, but it ends up being honeydew! And I’m not the only one who is confused. Everyday at lunch when we are served melon for dessert, I ask my speaking partners what it is called. Without a doubt, there is over a debate: is it honeydew or yellow melon? Cantaloupe or simply just “melon?” No one can ever agree!

But everyone knows what watermelon is. There is never a question with watermelon. Its size gives it an automatic royal status. It is usually cut into manageable, handheld pieces, but is served by itself on a grand platter. My host family will always serve it with pride, and share its glory with our neighbors.

After we’re full from our watermelon dessert, we say alhamdallah (thank God!), and lean back into our cushions, hands on bellies, eyes on the rivers of pink juice spotted with black seeds flowing on the table in front of us.

Love,

Miss Emily

a celebration fit for a queen

Dear Olivia,

A few weeks ago, I was in the presence of a queen. And not just any queen, but a queen of cherries. It’s true! She rode by in her horse-drawn carriage, dressed in white with flowers in her hair, waving to her subjects as they showered her in praises and adoration.

She was a new queen, having only been crowned that day. She was selected from the most beautiful, eloquent, and mannered young ladies from her village, Sefrou, for her wit and charm, and especially for her gentle, agreeable demeanor that every honorable suitor desires in his future bride.

But I didn’t actually see her. The crowds were too great and my self too short, but her presence was made known as hundreds of loyal subjects applauded her, trying to sneak glances of her as she rode by.

But what I did see was equally as grand. Puppets—HUGE puppets—followed the queen closely. A giant paper swan soared above the crowds, flapping its wings in steady, rhythmic pulses. A traditionally dressed lady bounced her shoulders in a jittery dance. An old Moroccan man, clad in a white thobe and red fez, spread his long arms over the crowds. And the Berber Mother, with colorful beads in her hair and striking embroidery on her gown, stood tall, barely moving, her head almost level with the peaks of the surrounding mountains.

Away from the parade, just as many people congregated in celebration. But instead of crowding the queen, the families and companions congregated around vendors selling the most colorful foods in the land. Their cries and chants mixed with the smells of their specialties, wafting to my nose and ears before their vibrancy could reach my eyes. Once I was close enough, their sight only made their smells more intense, allowing me to almost taste them without even touching them. Corn on the cob crackled and charred over hot, black coals. Pink and green colored sugar sanded the hot, exploding kettle corn. Bright red sausages and cracked eggs sizzled on the grill, begging to be stuffed into the warmth and comfort of freshly baked bread. Chips were fried and oranges were pressed for their sweet and refreshing juice, though I couldn’t resist ice cream served in a tiny green (and tasteless!) wafer cone, drizzled with the tiniest bit of an unidentified sticky, sweet, pink syrup.

And they crowded around games and street performances. Little boys climbed onto the back of a baby camel and its mother, smiling nervous grins and desperately grasping the saddle for dear life with their tiny hands as their parents paid too much money for a camera man to snap a Polaroid. Women delicately painted the arms of young girls with flowing, flowery henna. Local celebrities sang and danced on stage under flashing purple lights disco balls, and fathers bought their little ones bright bouncy balls larger than their heads.

Yet although it was a cherry festival, not one cherry attended the celebration on the busy street. They preferred, instead, to hide in the silence of the small souq. We set out on a quest to find these beloved berries, and were not disappointed. Our journey through the twisty, maze like roads in what is considered the “old city,” led us to Sefrou’s hidden treasure. Box after box lined these tiny streets. Though seemingly chaotic, they were organized by type, quality, and size—the best costing up to 45 dirhams a kilo! I bought some that were pink and yellow, others that were deep red. I gave half to my family as a gift, and pitted and halved the rest for the galette I baked with my friend, Sam. My family was grateful for the simple gift, as this specialty of Sefrou is somewhat hard to come by in Fez.

Love,

Miss Emily

my secret palace

Dear Ellie,

I go to school in a palace. You enter through a large wooden door to a small hallway smothered with checkered blue and white tiles. Sunlight guides your path, and as you turn the corner you find yourself overwhelmed by the huge space before you. In what was once an open courtyard, my friends and I drink sweet mint tea and snack on Moroccan cookies as we chat with our language partners and teachers. The skylight illuminating our meeting space is more than three stories above us, and the walls and floors are covered in stunning, perfectly symmetrical mosaics. The bright blue and fresh green tiles are accented with tiny spots of yellow, red, and white. Looking up, you see the wrought iron and stained glass windows to our classrooms, intricate carvings on the ceilings, and wispy Arabic calligraphy that flows from one wall to another.

To your left is a small library—a nook lined with bookshelves filled with stories and guides and wisdom from distinguished scholars. In front of you is the kitchen where three or four women work all day to prepare our snacks and lunch. Beginning with a salad of some sort, followed by a large, main course made with local spices and flavorings, and ending with fresh, flavorful fruit for dessert, our feast is always a traditional Moroccan meal. Immediately to your right is a tiny bathroom—also covered in mosaics—tucked under the staircase leading to our classrooms and our teachers’ offices. My classroom is on the top floor, below only the roof (where we sit under the shade of large tents during our breaks.) Every hour, I climb the windy, steep stairs to my small classroom in order to try to understand the secrets and complexities of this beautiful, yet seemingly impossible language.

But from the outside, you would never know how wonderful a place it is. It’s tucked away on a small, stone lined, crooked street in the quiet neighborhood of an old—but still bustling—city. Compared to the loud, crowded, sensory stimulating market districts of the city, my neighborhood is seemingly quite dull. There are no vegetables for sale, no sweets to taste, no meats to smell. And though I often squeeze by a donkey on my walk to class, colorful leather goods don’t pour out of the doors of shops, begging to be purchased by passers-by. But, though it’s quiet, you never know what you’ll find behind a wooden door, or down a tiny alleyway.

And all of Fez is this way. Even in the exciting parts of town it is always worth it to take a moment, slow down, and notice something you’ve never seen before. Secret palaces are around every corner, you just have to know how to look for them.

Love,

Aunt Em

Dear World,

I love to travel: to see new things, to smell new smells, to taste new tastes, to meet new people, to speak new languages.

One thing about traveling is, though, is that you leave many old things--old smells, old tastes, and old friends--behind. Staying in touch isn't terribly difficult, but facebook, surprisingly, does have its limits.

Recently, I've spent a lot of time with children. I've also been thinking about how children think and look at the world, how they learn what they learn and connect what they connect, how everything can be new and exciting. So for this blog (yes, yet another one), I'm going to write to the kiddies in my life. Hopefully it can be a way for my 2 year old niece and the 15 month, 4 year, and 8 year old kids I babysat to see what life is like in the new places I live and visit. And hopefully it will inspire me to look at things through the eyes of the child, with the excitement and optimism and innocence that Ellie, Olivia, Lucas, and Robert have. And, as they do with so many wonderful children's stories, maybe the adults in my life will get something out of it, too.

And tomorrow I'm off to Morocco (after a visit to Georgetown Cupcakes, of course)!

Love,

Aunt Em/Miss Emily