The end of my honeymoon with Cairo
I’ve been here three weeks now, and I’m watching all of my assumptions about the way things work get dispproved. Culture shock is the most commonly understood term, but “shock” makes it seem a lot more striking and sudden than it really is. After I stopped being so infatuated with everything, it was more like I became vaguely and persistently stressed. As cliche as it seems, one source of stress has been the gender issue.
Admittedly, in the U.S. my policy of being friendly with men and never assuming it would be misinterpreted did get me into a couple of awkward situations. For the most part however, I was happily oblivious to any propriety around this and it worked.
Now let us examine the case of my fixer. Now what, you may ask, is a fixer? It is a term I stole from that “From Beiruit to Jerusalem” guy. Many foreigners who stay here long term end up befriending an Egyptian who helps them with everything and anything. These are fixers. My roommate and I each had one before we even met each other. It just happens.
Although the apartment I ended up living in I found without his help, my fixer did go on tedious rounds of looking at apartments with me. So, I invited him to see my apartment in order to thank him.
He showed up reeking of colonge with a heart-tissue paper wrapped present in hand and I immediately knew this was going to be awkward. Then, social genius that I am, I made a suggestion that could only make things better:
“Want to see my room?”
Over the course of the evening I think it became clear that I was just a crazy foreigner and not actually interested in him. I was still blushing furiously and quite uncomfortable until we smoked some sheesha. Later I talked to my roommate about it and she confirmed my suspicions.
“Juliet, you have got to stop asking men if they want to see your room.”
Then I found out from one of my instructors that it’s really strange to invite someone into a private space— like a home— and this generally only happens if the inviter wants to be more than friendly.
What surprised me about this whole thing was how deeply ashamed I felt. By my own standards I hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet isn’t it an illusion that our standards come from ourselves? I’ve even started reflecting on the way I acted in the U.S. and thinking “god, maybe I was a tart.”
Anyway, my new modus operandi is to talk ONLY to women whenever possible.
