Friday, July 27: Today I return to Coptic Cairo to buy some black and white photos I saw in a shop the last time I was here. I love how the photographs capture an old romantic version of Cairo. I end up buying three of them.
While I’m in the shop, I ask someone in the shop if they will take a photo of me with the shopkeeper. Right after the photo is snapped, I am shocked to feel the shopkeeper’s hand grab my butt. I say, “What are you doing???” and promptly move away. He says, “Please can I have your number?” I say no! What presumption!! This kind of thing happens too often in Cairo.
When I return from Coptic Cairo with my amazing black and white photographs, I put them away and check my emails. I find the following from R:
I’m gonna go back to my old style of writing. Hope you don’t mind. I’m just too tired and frustrated to be efficient. And so all the nothing will come out in full form, or something like it.
I am in such a funk. Since hitting the office I feel like I’ve been in a particularly creative episode of the show “Office.” OMFG!!! What is this place? It’s a steady flow, intrusions really, of people– and always not men, btw– with long discussions of issues, matters, problems, complaints that I just don’t care about. I can’t bring myself to care about them. I can’t even pretend to care about them. And, I can’t even order them to leave cuz that is so not PC.
I’ve resorted alot to wandering off to NY while they regale me with their drivel. I have even resorted to excusing myself from my own damn office and just leave. HS, what is this? After particularly bad episode that just ended (intruding grievously on my lunch), I locked my door, turned off the lights and put on Gloria Esteban, just to decompress. So my secretary and assistant (also not a guy) had to come in to see if I’m all right and hung around wanting to help and get me stuff and offer suggestions and get me to talk it out with them. OMFG!! What did I do to deserve all this. I’m just sure I was an evil overseer of a harem in an earlier life. And not one drop of Scotch in my whole office.
So I write to you, letting my fingers follow my mind, following my heart, to Cairo. And, truth be told, I feel better. Thx. But a Scotch would still help. A hug would help ever so much more. I can’t remember being so in need of a hug. Hugs and scotches, in NY. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
And yet, here I am.
I’m off tonight to meet with some friends– one of whom is going pay big time for getting me to buy that dumb-ass book about millionaires. I’m in just the right mood to meet with that bozo. (As you’ve no doubt
noticed, I’m transferring my stupidity to his cupidity. I’m into cognitive dissonance and blame transference.)
Stay well, stay safe, and try not to get over me just yet.
In the afternoon, I invite Shannon, Clint, and Kevin to accompany me to our last Cairo Hash. We start in an Egyptian neighborhood at a big unfinished villa. The pool is finished, and it’s quite lovely, but the house is just a shell, like many houses throughout Cairo. This time we hike out in the relentless heat of the desert; we’re all in complete misery.
At the end of the evening, as we are leaving, Wesley, the head hasher extraordinaire, grabs me as I’m leaving and kisses me. I am baffled. I look at him, bewildered. He says, “I just wanted to see what it was like.”
As far as what it’s like, maybe it’s no good. Because I never hear from him again. 🙂