Ethnic Drinks

The punishingly air-conditioned coffee shops are imported directly from suburban Atlanta. There are at least seven damn menus on every table: drinks, food, ice cream, "gig guide," wireless internet guide, comment card, a flyer advertising the new opening in Heliopolis...

The TVs play BBC News on mute, and Celine Dion and Evanescence dominate the airwaves with an occasional announcement: "Hey everybody! Try a Beano's new Cajun Chicken Sandwich! A light and healthy snack!"

In the neon orange menu, under the section "Ethnic Drinks," you can find Lime Hibiscus, Blackberry Hibiscus, and Tamarind & Sobya Blend: "They are a wonderful choice that have many proven health benefits... from fighting fevers to lowering blood pressure."

On the opposite page, these drinks fall under the category of Mashroubat Masri, or "Egyptian Drinks." This categorization and translation are emblematic of how upper-class Cairo imagines itself. Repulsive.

The service in institutions like Beano's sucks. There are five waiters standing like innocent vultures, watching you sip and munch. Hands folded behind their backs, they wear pressed khakhi and smile, just as the boss said. As they strive to be elegant, they subtly slide you a coffee exactly below your chin. The milisecond after your last bite, your plate vanishes. They're instructed to say "thank you" every two seconds. When you speak to them in Arabic, they respond in English. After I say, "We are Arabs, let us speak Arabic," they smile and, after a hiatus of Arabic, they defer to English.

Outside, through the windows frosted with "Beano's...the place to be...yourself," crumpled black and white taxis roll by. Whenever a Cairo taxi breaks, it launches into a squeaky rendition of "It's a Small World." So, at any given moment, you are bound to hear the first three bars of "It's a Small World" while walking down any busy street in Cairo.

I hate this city. I just hate it. The food sucks, and the air-conditioning units rain on pedestrians.

There is a Gold's Gym on a boat on the Nile. The sails on the Nile feluccas have become canvases for Coca-Cola advertisements (this was not true two years ago). And every Pizza Hut is flanked by a Hardee's, McDonald's, and a KFC, resulting in a continuous swath of fast food red on the city block.

Nestled outside of the window of the KFC (or was it Hardee's?) was a boy of about ten in blue shorts and plastic sandals, his head in his elbow. We both had dirt in our toes, but I sleep on a bed at night.

While I type into my MacBook gazing ahead at the shelf of Beano's mugs for sale (no one will ever buy them) and the columns of fresh books in the walls (no one will ever read them...I'm probably the first to notice them), all I can think of is returning to Beirut.

A year ago, I was on a nasty Egyptian ferry on my way to Paphos, Cyprus while Israeli warplanes were ripping Lebanon to pieces. From Paphos, we had dinner in Laranca with Constantine, a boisterous Russian with a wild history as a private-insurance agent. I saw the sun rise in Agia Napa and flew first-class to London the next day.

From the window of the Air France bus, I saw my mother waiting for me at Porte Maillot. She hates sweating and went on about the heat wave in Paris. When we returned to the apartment, we turned on the news. We sat before the screen together. Her anguish was simmering. I wasn't alone.