Awkward declarations of love

1. On the phone:

Me: "Okay, so we'll have our next lesson on Monday?"
Teacher: "Perfect, Habibti. See you then. "
Me: "Ma salaama"
Teacher: "Bye bye! I love you!"
Me: "Um, yeah, ok, sure. See you Monday. Bye!"

2. At local hair salon:
Hair salon owner (middle aged Egyptian man): "You like your hair?" (smile)
Me: (enthusiastically swishing my new do around) "Yes! I love it!"
He looks down and then looks back up, raising his eyebrow: "And I love YOU." (meaningful pause) "Really."
Me: "Um (nervous laugh) yes well, thank you again. Bye!"

World famous

Me, last night, in a cab, heading downtown along the Corniche:

Me: "Lau-samaht (Excuse me) could you please close the window?"
Taxi driver: "Eh?"
Me: "Min fadluck (please) can you close the window and turn on the air conditioning" (insert pantomime of me, rolling up window and pointing to the a/c button)
TD: "Eh?"
Me: "Takeef (air conditioning)"
TD: "Ahhhh -- takeef "(nodding, acknowledging that he understands what I am saying)
Me: "Moomkin, takeef ON?"
TD: "Why?"
I point to the many many many cars that surround us and plug my nose: "The air outside is not nice."
TD: "Not NICE?! (he takes his hands off the wheel and turns around to me gesturing wildly) People come from all over the world to drive here, on the banks of the Nile. (He sticks his head out the window and takes a deep breath) Ahh, nice! Nice nice air, Nile, nice."
I point to the distant banks of the river, barely visible that time of night: "Nile nice, yes. But look, hundreds of cars here. Nile far away. Cars and pollution close. See?"
He looks at me thoughtfully.
He rolls up my window and says: "Hmmm. No takeef. I don't have the electricity for takeef. I close your window. I keep mine open. But look, see? Nile, it is world famous."

And the crowd goes wild

Canada just won Olympic gold in men's hockey, defeating Team USA 3-2 in overtime. I can practically smell that unmistakable mix of hockey rink aromas: hot chocolate, ice, metal, rubber -- and now VICTORY!

I almost never miss home (sorry home) but I cannot find words to express how much I wish I was in Canada at the moment celebrating this medal.

Here are the details:
We are the champions of the world Buuuuuyah

Does Fatafeat eat babies?

I love Food TV. Be it the Food Network, BBC Lifestyle, or even the annoying Rachel Ray. If there's cooking on it, I'll watch it. I may be aging myself here but I think it all started with this low budget cooking show from my childhood called "Wok with Yan". I never have made anything he did (which can be said about most of the cooking shows I watch to this day) but the possibility was there that I could. If I followed the recipe and did what he said, I would be guaranteed success in a half hour. Mmm-mm, yummy food made with colourful ingredients under flattering studio lighting. What's not compelling about that?

As I grew up, it became obvious that I was a serious foodie and I've spent most of my disposable income on dining out and cooking ever since.

I lived in London when Conran brought dining as entertainment back into fashion and the phenomenon of Celebrity chefs gathered pace. I ate at places like Quaglinos, Meza, Cantina, and the Bluebird restaurant and then started stalking Chefs like Marco Pierre White. I wouldn't dream of spending £20 on clothes but I didn't once look at the bill when we went for dinner. It was food, afterall. It was experience and it was worth every penny.

When I moved to New York, the food madness continued. My salary had increased and so had the number of restaurants from which to choose. I became less of a name-chaser and found my own favorite spots like Raouls on Prince street, Casimir in Alphabet City and old faithful, Calle Ocho on the Upper West. I still went to all the trendy places as they cropped up but my tastes matured and I ate at spots I loved regardless of what people were saying about them.

I joined my husband here in Cairo three months after he started his job. I arrived late at night and he had already left for work when I got up. I was a little disoriented and woke up wondering what the hell I'd done, crossing the world to live in a country I knew nothing about. There was a lovely breakfast set out for me on the dining table with the remote control and a note: "The Food Channel is number 8." Sigh. It was going to be alright afterall. As long as I had Giada, Jamie Oliver and the Chairman, I could face anything.

The channel is called: Fatafeat. And it is great. All my favorites are on there: Iron Chef, Everyday Italian, The Naked Chef, Barefoot Contessa and Nigella-I'm-too-sexy-for-this-show Lawson. I've even discovered a few new favorites: Andrew who makes Philly Cheese Steaks in Arabic and Dania who doesn't really cook but travels around the world translating as others do.

The only thing that disturbs me and leaves me quite puzzled is that all the promos are shots of little babies smiling into the camera, drooling, giggling, lying alone on a blanket and being bathed. Why are they featuring babies alone? Are they preparing them for something? If any of you out there have an in with Fatafeat, please let me know. I am prepared to go to their HQ and get to the bottom of this: are you showing us babies in your promos because you want us to eat them? It is the only conclusion I can reach. What else are babies doing on a Food channel? They can't cook, so they must be part of the menu....

Happy New Year - Part 1: Kerala without a Houseboat

We just returned from a three-week trip to Southern India. We arrived in Fort Kochi, Kerala on New Year's day. We stayed in a great hotel by the ancient Chinese fishing nets, first installed on the coast by the grandson of Gengis Khan. It was hot. And it was humid. And the mosquitos were the size of small children. So, instead of cruising the backwaters on a houseboat as planned, we got into an Ambassador and travelled up the mountains to spend a few days in a guest house on the Madupatty tea estate in the Kanan Devan Hills Plantation. It was breathtaking. Rolling hills of sharp, bright green as far as the eye could see. The air was clean and crisp. The mist rolled around the mountain tops and the wild flowers that lined the roads were like vibrant firecrackers. The people were sweet and hospitable, without exception. We had Kerala breakfasts every morning (featuring all the coconut chutney I could eat. Yum!) and masala chai every afternoon.

We (ok: I) decided to go for an "authentic ayurvedic massage" - more like let me slather you in oil and ask you questions about your trip. My husband kept pointing out to me that there was nothing "authentic" about the place we were going. Notice, he pointed out, that there are no brown people on any of the adverts. There are no locals in the waiting room, just wide-eyed foriegners. It had all the hallmarks of a classic tourist trap. But I didn't care. When in Kerala, I insisted. My hair is still a little greasy and the smell of the ayurvedic "herbs" linger in my nostrils...I am sure that there is genuine ayurveda in Kerala. But where we went wasn't it...

Our trip up the mountain coincided with the morning bath of local temple elephants. We saw three: one 40-year-old female and two little 5 and 6 year olds. They were so close to us and completely tame, having lived in the temple all their lives. After watching fearless little kids approach them, I too gathered the courage to get close, touch their skin and say hello.

I've included this picture with the Uncle in the jaunty white suit and healthy moustache because he managed to get into every one of my elephant shots. That's the thing about India, if there is something interesting happening, there's little to no chance that you'll be experiencing it on your own. But then again, there is so much happening you don't mind sharing it. More to come on our trip - stay tuned.

Message to the lady at our hotel in Dahab

Hey there lady.

Why did you take my photograph at breakfast?

I saw you do it.

Me:"Excuse me, did you just take my picture?"

I know you heard me. But you just looked at me sideways and then pretended to be busy with your toast.

So I asked you again. Maybe you didn't realise I was talking to you. There was no one else at breakfast. And there were only three tables, less than a foot apart. But I am Canadian, so I gave you the benefit of the doubt.

I cleared my throat and asked again: "Did you just take my picture?"

Weird French lady from Israel on vacation alone in Dahab: "Um. Yes."

Me: "Well, I would rather you didn't. Take my picture, that is."

WFLfIoVAiD: "Why?"

Me: "Because I don't know you."

You looked like this was new information that you could not understand. So I tried to elaborate: "And I don't know where that photo is going to go."

You looked confused.

WFLfIoViD: "But I want to keep it for my memories."

Which would have been fine if we had ever spoken. But we never did. Not even once.

Me: "Well, I think it is just common courtesy to ask before you take someone's photo."

You were right to put your camera into your bag and scurry off to your room. Could you see in my eyes that I was planning to grab it and erase my photo from your memory stick? In the process, the camera might have been knocked out of your hands. We would have watched helplessly as it smashed into a million pieces on the terracotta floor.

But you were too quick for me.

I wonder what you will say to your friends when you go back home and show them my photo. Will you say that we had breakfast together? Because that would be really sad. And untrue. I might feel sorry for you, weird French lady who now lives in Israel, but I'm still mad that you took my photo without asking me first. That was rude.

Stuff I would never see in Canada:

1. One Petrified lizard. This morning I found a dead lizard, shrivelled and hardened by the sun, lying on our balcony. I buried it in the soil of our potted plant and observed a moment of silence. Rest in peace, little buddy.
2. Eggs wearing a feather boa. Making breakfast the other morning, I opened the egg carton and reached for one to crack open. I looked down and the egg of my choice was entirely enveloped by light brown feathers. Gross.