Cairo: and a tale of the man with {maybe} two or three wives, Part 5

(This is a continuation of the tale:  Cairo: and a tale of a man with {maybe} 2 or 3 wives.  If you haven't already, read Part 1 of the tale here, Part 2 here , Part 3 here, and Part 4 here.)

I was in Cairo, and we were driving, of course, when Ahmed said, Egyptian General Sissi is just like my dead brother.

How so? I asked.

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General Sissi’s a sweet talker, Ahmed replied. Strong but a sweet talker. Egyptian women love General Sissi. It was the same way with my brother. You should have seen the way his three wives loved him, all at the same time. He had a way with them.

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Really? I asked. Like what?

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A smile crossed Ahmed's face and his voice changed when he imitated his brother’s baritone. He explained, This is how it went.  When wife #1 walked in, my brother would say, “Darling! Come sit here, right here, yes, right next to me -- not a centimeter away or I couldn't bear it!” Ahmed's hand tapped the steering wheel for emphasis.

Ahmed continued, Then five minutes later when wife #2 walked in my brother would practically shout “My beauty! I am such a lucky man! Such a very very lucky man!” and then he'd kiss her hand. 

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I laughed.

Ahmed went on. Of course when wife #3 walked in, five minutes after that, my brother would say, “Oh my love! That lunch you made…..it was so tasty! I doubt even in heaven lunch is more tasty! Every man is jealous of me!”

Looking at Ahmed's belly, I couldn’t help myself from saying, Well, I think you share your dead brother’s opinion about wife #3, Fouzia. I know how you like her cooking.

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Yes, Ahmed said.  In fact, I’m heading down to Ismaliya to check on Fouzia this weekend.  I need to check on all my dead brother's wives, of course -- it's my duty.  So anyway, Fouzia has been calling me every day to tell me what her plans are for Saturday lunch. Did I tell you that she raises chickens? Chickens, chickens, everywhere! Fouzia’s planning on taking one and stuffing it with rice, just for me! Ahmed swallowed hard in anticipation.

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I see, I said.  Smiling I added, And will you tell Fouzia that you doubt that even in heaven lunch is so tasty?

Ahmed laughed.  Well, you know, maybe I learned a thing or two from my dead brother.  Then he added,  Now if only I were as handsome as General Sissi.

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Marrakech: and a tale of Moroccan kilim cushions & poufs

I remember when I went to the Mousem of Tan Tan -- the largest annual gathering of  bedouins and nomads. I remember their beautiful peaked tribal tents.  Within the tents, the furniture was kept deliberately minimal.   Instead, they were furnished with Moroccan tribal carpets and Moroccan striped blankets.  Of course, there was the ubiquitous smattering of Moroccan kilim carpet cushions and colorful Moroccan carpet poufs.  

It was a setting meant for lounging in the original sense of the word:  ie half sitting, half reclining, a glass of Moroccan mint tea in hand, casually chatting and laughing, a game or two played.  It all seemed so relaxed.  

I remember thinking to myself, these could be my people.  Or perhaps, these are the people I wish I could be.

Now I'm thinking that these could be your people, too.  Or at least their stylish  tribal design sense.

Now for sale in Red Thread Souk......piles of one-of-a-kind Moroccan carpet cushions.  Such ethnic chic.  Many of the backs are entirely different than the front, getting you two great built in options.

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Oh, and see my gorgeous black sequinned wedding blanket cushions - just the right modern day Moroccan touch -- on their own or as a counterfoil to the Moroccan kilim cushions.

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And of course the Moroccan carpet poufs....such a graphic statement in pairs........

 

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More, please, more.....

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PS Now if only I had a beautiful Moroccan tribal tent that I could also pack up and strap to my camel...... Now come to think of it, if I only had a camel........ 

The Marrakech Marathon: and a sort-of tale of running

When I met him, he had run a marathon and was training for a triathalon. And after we got married, he continued to run despite knee surgery and a bad back.  Nothing serious, nothing dependable.  Just on and off  -- the same way he played basketball and baseball, and the same way he golfed, skiied, climbed, rode and surfed.  It was all now and again.  He was sporty but he wasn't consistent.  Life got in the way and he did less and less.

And then a friends husband, in his 40s, had a heart attack.  Just (with a snap of the fingers} like that.  And it was months later, my husband began to run again.  Not a lot but routinely.  Another friend's husband also in his late 40s, began to run, too.  

You both should run a 10 k, I said, excitedly.   Maybe we will, they replied.    

My son watched his sister -- a girl who tried out for every sport and made every team.  A girl who rode a horse year-round.  With his headphones on, my son mostly looked away.  A little surfing, some skateboard camp, a week or two of track.  But that was it, really.  

Three days before the Marrakech Marathon was to begin, my husband and his friend registered to run the half-marathon.  

The night before the Marrakech Marathon was to begin, my son said, I'm going to run it, too

And so they showed up that morning with thousands of others.

My husband and his friend ran.  They ran fast.

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 My son, wearing sweatpants and fake Converse shoes ran too.  And he finished, too, ahead of hundreds of others.

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I think that there's a lesson here --- a lesson for you and me.  Remember the key word for the New Year? No?  Remember it here again, then.  Foncez!

Kabul: and a tale of remembering yet again

It's so easy not to look.  It's so easy to stay in our own little worlds where dramas revolve around broken appliances and children with the flu, and alarm clocks that don't go off.  It's so easy to live in a way that's safe and sanitized, away from the Syrias, away from the refugees, away from the child soldiers.  

We can pretend that it's not happening.  We can sweep it under the carpet.  We can turn off the nightly news.  We have those choices.  Lucky, lucky, aren't we?

I wrote this blog post from the restaurant that was just bombed in Kabul Afghanistan.  How ironic that I was writing about remembering a different war when I was there.  And now I will remember this restaurant and this war  and ponder the inexplicable nature of inexplicable things.  

Terrible. So so terrible.

I will also try to remember that when small things go wrong that seem so very tiresome in my own little world, to snap my own fingers in front of my own face and snap out of it.  I've disappointed myself in that department lately.

And so to mourn this sad event in Kabul, let these words be my own moment of silence without the silence.  And let them also be a reminder to me to do better at doing better.  

PS I'll leave you with the series I did on finding beauty in Kabul:

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of music

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of the miniaturists

Kabul and the quest for beauty: the tale of the woodcarvers

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of Zarif Design

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of the Afghan jewelers

Kabul and a tale of beauty's uncertain future