Ten Insights From My First Two Months in Cairo

I chose Cairo as the first place to work full-time in my 24 years of life. I am a Lebanese-American journalist, born and raised in the latter. The past two months, my first two months of life in Cairo, have rewritten my DNA. Naturally, by virtue of my profession or perhaps just my nature, I have been taking note of everything I’ve learned about this city—the details that have become routine to those born and raised here, but that are sparkly, and perhaps shocking, to me. 1. It is not raining - that is AC backwash. Avoid wet spots on the sidewalk if you don’t want to take another shower today. I have learned how to dodge what was once mysterious liquid on the sidewalks of Zamalek. Even better, I have learned that most people don’t walk on the sidewalks, but in the middle of the street sandwiched between cars and motorcycles. 2. On that note, if you want to cross the street, no number of high-speed vehicles barreling in your direction should be a consideration. Crossing the street is not a line from point A to B, but rather that of an erratic stock market, as you weave between, in front of, and behind cars while they move. 3. The best way to get around is an Uber scooter. Mom, stop reading here. I am not taking motorcycles to (and from) work, I swear. This is just what I’ve heard from the people around me… I think I have the same relationship with scooters as others do with cigarettes. I choose the marginally cheaper Uber scooter option knowing the risks, but hitting ‘confirm trip’ anyway. I promise myself I will quit one day, but each safe arrival at my destination is evidence that it will be okay next time, however illogical. I do not want to be a bad influence, but everyone must try it once. And you must do it in cowboy boots, blasting Shabjdeed under noise cancelling headphones, in your most badass vintage sunglasses. The headphones serve two purposes: romanticising your life and acting as a barrier between you and your curious captain. Another great buffer: putting your bag between you and the driver, not wrapping your arms around his waist as he will request, but instead leaning back on to the luggage bar behind you. This is not your European lover showing you his hometown in the Italian mountains on summer vacation. Not that at all. Some women even sit with their legs to the side. I tried that once when I was wearing a dress and nearly fell with every turn. 4. I am Arab, I swear. I never imagined that the deepest insecurities I have about how Arab I am would be publicly debated on an Instagram account with nearly 800k followers. I learned that people online will always have something to say. “She can’t be Egyptian, she looks so foreign!” one comment read. Another, defending me, “But look, her necklace says her name in Arabic.” I also never anticipated that people would take the time to send me dozens of voice messages over DM telling me that no matter how ‘ethnic’ my name sounds, I am—in the words of one man with no profile picture and one single follower—‘WHITE! WHITE! WHITE!’ Yes, this is not news to me. I am white. I am aware. But so are a lot of Arabs. Arab is an ethnicity, not a race. I join the ranks of many Lebanese women in their paleness. But with the funny comments also come the kind ones. It is funny to be recognised at flea markets and parties as the ‘CairoScene girl.’ Someone even thought I was AI, which I didn’t know if I should take as a compliment or an insult? 5. It is more difficult to switch your ج from ‘ja’ to ‘ga’ than you might think. But in doing so, I am already halfway to speaking in an Egyptian Arabic accent. It took a few weeks for my ears to acclimatise to the inverted sentences and words like ba'a and keda that have 20 meanings minimum. I’ve started asking my coworkers to speak to me in Arabic, a bid to overcome my shyness. This is why I took an entire year to learn the language in Amman, I tell myself, so that I could use it in my day-to-day life and at work. 6. Ta'ameya is not falafel. It is made of fava beans instead of chickpeas, and it does something crazy to your stomach. 7. Yes, “Egypt is so cheap”. But not if you treat yourself to a daily matcha in Zamalek and make runs to the kushk (corner store) morning, evening, and night. Also, not if you’re making your salary in Egyptian pounds. 8. The traffic is no joke. I was warned, even by people who have never even lived in Cairo. But no warning could have prepared me. On my way back to Zamalek from New Cairo last week, I was stuck in traffic for two hours. And not stuck like we were moving slowly—no—fully stopped in a taxi with AC that blew lighter than the breath it takes to extinguish a candle. At one point, people started getting out of their cars, men sharing cigarettes in exhaust-filled crevices between vehicles. I started feeling lightheaded. “Hamdilleh!” My taxi driver yelled after an hour, jolting me out of my trance as the blockade lifted up ahead. Everyone started shouting and running back to their cars in throngs between lanes. I couldn’t help but laugh—how did drivers just leave their cars running and unmanned like that? 9. Cairo is humongous. On top of the traffic, it takes years to get anywhere in general. Coming from Jordan, where it takes 30 minutes maximum to arrive at any destination, guided by the easily navigable eight-du’ar (roundabout) system, I was stunned. I get in taxis and lock in for a good hour just to see a friend for dinner. It limits how much you can do every week, and how much you want to do. People live all over the place, too. I learned that you need a local squad who lives near you that you can see on the daily, and then on the weekends, you get everyone else in the mix. I can’t go to New Cairo or even Maadi more than once a week. That is also a result of working a full-time job. There just isn’t as much time to kiki. 10. You need to become a beer girl to survive here. I was never a fan of beer before moving to Cairo—mostly because I didn’t have to be. But the lack of imported alcohol necessitates a newfound love for Stella for which I have replaced my trademark glass of Jordan River Red. People say, and I can attest, that you already feel hungover as you drink the local Egyptian wine, specifically Omar Khayyam. All in all, I am obsessed with my life here. It is exactly the chaos I wanted to grow into, a daily test that I mostly pass, occasionally fail miserably, and, every once in a while, ace with flying colours.