Back when I lived in Washington, DC, I had a job working as a paralegal for a prestigious law firm. I was assigned to big case that went to trial in San Francisco, so I flew back and forth pretty often -- always on TWA. After a couple of years, I had racked up a pile of frequent flyer miles.
My girlfriend, Sue, was traveling in Europe that summer. She and I had planned to meet up in Paris, so I went down to the TWA travel agency to cash in my miles. I asked the agent if I had enough for a ticket to Paris and two tickets back home. Turns out I had more than enough. In fact, I had enough miles for two round-trip tickets to anywhere in the world -- including an open-ended stopover in Paris.
Anywhere in the world!
Where do you go when you can go anywhere in the world? I looked at a map showing every TWA destination. Hong Kong was the furthest. Bombay sounded exotic. There were so many others: Rome, Athens, Istanbul, Bangkok, Moscow. I wanted to see them all. But the one that I finally picked was Cairo.
I flew to Paris and met Sue, surprising her with the news that we were going to Cairo. She was thrilled. We stayed in Paris for a few days, then rented a car to tour through France, Switzerland and Italy for a couple of weeks. It was an amazing adventure, but the best was yet to come.
We planned our trip to Cairo using the Let's Go guide that had become our bible, with its listings of low-budget accommodations and must-see sights. We chose a cheap hotel in the center of Cairo, just off Tahrir Square, close to the Egyptian Museum, the Nile Hilton and the bus terminal. The shuttle from the airport dropped us off by the Hilton, so we had to walk across Tahrir Square and down a few blocks to the hotel. We lugged our bags along the crowded, narrow sidewalk, teeming with pedestrians and vendors. The street was jammed with cars, mostly taxis, every one of which was honking its horn in a seemingly random yet endless pattern. It was insane.
A spidery-looking man with a big smile appeared in front of us and offered to assist us with our bags. We were only about a block from the hotel, and I really didn't feel like handing over my bags to some crazy foreigner, so I politely told him we didn't require his assistance, but thanks anyway. He insisted. Again, I politely declined. He wouldn't give up. By now we were in sight of the hotel. He was getting a bit obnoxious at this point, so I asked him to please leave us alone. He stopped, his eyes widening into a furious glare as he sputtered: "You go to hell!"
Welcome to Cairo.
The "hotel" took up the top three floors of an old office building, reached by a rickety, claustrophobic elevator. I assumed it was hooked up to a pair of donkeys somewhere in the basement, but I was afraid to ask. The room was nice enough -- hell, for twelve bucks a night it was a palace. It had the distinction of having a western-style "shower" in the bathroom -- basically a pipe sticking out of the wall. We were informed that it was a good idea to turn on the "shower" well in advance of our ablutions, to give the water time to work its way up the pipes.
The windows looked out over the street, which, as I said, was filled with hundreds of horn-honking cars. Nonstop. The windows were open, it being August, and the sound of the car horns provided a constant cacophonous soundtrack, punctuated only by the periodic 'call to prayer' broadcast by loudspeaker from a nearby minaret.
Welcome to Cairo.
In the morning, we took breakfast on the rooftop, where the blazing sun drove the temperature well into the nineties by eight a.m. Hard-boiled eggs, olives, biscuits and hot tea gave us the fuel we needed for the day's adventures. First stop was the Egyptian Museum, a vast collection of amazing artifacts and antiquities, kind of like the underground chamber at the end of the movie National Treasure. It was a testament to a time of true greatness and achievement, long since buried in the desert sands.
We could have spent days in there, but we only had a week in Cairo.
After the museum we walked over to the Nile Hilton to poke around, and to cool off in the shady courtyard with some good old American Coca-Cola, served ice cold. The Hilton courtyard became our favorite hangout after a long day of sightseeing. And on one particularly hot afternoon, we even managed to bribe our way into the pool for a much-needed dip.
Thanks to the Let's Go guide, we found a great restaurant near the hotel that served a dish called kushari, a mixture of rice, lentils, chickpeas, and macaroni topped with salsa. It was very tasty and belly-filling and best of all, one bowl only cost a quarter. The seating was family-style and the clientele was made up of mostly working-class locals. Not too many tourists there. Quite a change of pace from the Nile Hilton. We ate there every night.
One day we took a minibus from Tahrir Square to Giza to see the pyramids. We went on a guided tour that took us deep within the Great Pyramid of Cheops. The air inside felt like it had been preserved for five thousand years. It was like going back in time. Outside, I climbed up onto the massive stones at the base of the pyramid, which is strictly forbidden, and Sue snapped my picture. We then trudged up to the only tourist restaurant within miles for a big glass of lemonade. In that heat, they could have charged me one hundred dollars a glass and I probably would have paid it. We stayed until evening to watch the spectacular Sound and Light show, then went back to the hotel to wait for the water to come up the pipe.
The next evening, after visiting the Muhammed Ali Mosque, we decided to explore a part of the city that wasn't on any tourist map. Actually, Sue decided to explore, I wanted to take a cab back to the Nile Hilton. But she felt that we needed to mix it up with the locals a bit to get a sense of the real Cairo. She was like that -- always up for a new adventure. It was one of the things I loved about her. So, off we went into the maze of mysterious and often nameless streets. We wandered around for a while and eventually discovered a narrow lane, far from the bustling thoroughfares, where vendors sold kebabs and falafel, fruit and vegetables, and people milled about unhurriedly. We sampled some juicy mango slices and bought a couple to bring back to the hotel.
At one point, a young man walked up to us and excitedly asked, "What nationality are you?" I wasn't sure what to say, fearing a replay of our encounter on our first day in town. Given that Americans can have a bad rep in certain countries, I was tempted to say we were Canadian. But, instead I blurted out the ugly truth: "American."
He took a step back. I half-expected to see the flash of a dagger, but instead he spread his arms wide and his face broke into a huge smile. He exclaimed:
"Welcome to Cairo!"
Later, back in our room, serenaded by the car-horn symphony from the street below, we savored the wonderful mangos while we waited for the gurgle of water to come chugging its way up to our shower-pipe. I was really beginning to like Cairo, for all its contradictions and peculiarities, it was a city with an amazing history and tremendous soul. It was hard to understand how a place that had once been the pinnacle of civilization could have fallen into such disarray. I wondered if that spark of greatness still existed somewhere in the streets of Cairo.
The other day, I turned on the TV and saw an amazing sight. Tahrir Square filled with throngs of jubilant people celebrating their liberation from thirty years of oppressive martial law. It was an inspiring moment that brought tears to my eyes.
Whatever happens now, one thing is certain, the people of Cairo, and Egypt, deserve another shot at greatness. I hope their time has come.
"When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer..."When I was growing up, I used to have a bunch of cool posters on my bedroom wall. Peter Fonda on his Easy Rider Harley, Joe Namath fading back to pass, Raquel Welch in a yellow bikini...
...what was I talking about? Oh, right, the posters.
I also had an orange and purple 'day-glo' poster with the signs of the zodiac arranged around the edge of a radiant circle -- kind of like a psychedelic dartboard. Each sign was identified by name along with its astrological symbol, date range, a pictoral representation and a one-word description. I remember the poster vividly, but I only remember one of the descriptions, the one for Scorpio -- my sign.
The word used to describe Scorpio was: Temperamental.
I used to look at that word when I'd been exiled to my room for having a "bad attitude." I really didn't know what 'temperamental' meant, any more than I knew what 'bad attitude' meant. But it definitely didn't strike me as a compliment.
I never liked the idea of being categorized by my astrological sign, especially when that category seemed to be 'Pain-In-The-Ass.' I found it ridiculous that some random group of stars a billion miles away was supposed to have some kind of influence on what kind of person I was. Even more absurd was the notion that everyone who was born during the same time of year, each and every year, somehow shared the same set of personality traits.
Who comes up with this crap?
But astrology was inescapable. Because no matter how illogical or superstitious it was, there were a lot of people who took it seriously. And when I say a lot of people, I mean, specifically, females. Not that there aren't guys who believe in astrology, just that if they do, well, who cares? But many women did take it seriously, and if I wanted to date them, I had to take it seriously, too. Or at least pretend to.
But due to my temperamental nature, I could never take it too seriously. When asked what my birthday was, an obvious prelude to astrological classification, I would often give false information and wait for the equally false interpretation. Inevitably I would get a response like: "I knew it -- your such a (fill in the sign)." Then, with a sly grin, I would reveal that I was not whatever sign she "knew" I was, but, in fact, a Scorpio. This revelation was usually met with comments like: "That figures -- Scorpios are such assholes."
Eventually I realized that making women feel stupid by lying to them about my birth sign was not an effective courtship strategy. So, I decided to play along. I reluctantly surrendered the facts and waited for the dreaded judgments. "Scorpios are so possessive... too intense... jealous... demanding... defensive... manipulative... suspicious... passionate... sensual... sexy...
Huh?
Apparently, there was another side to this whole Scorpio deal. Thanks to some wacky astrology book that came out back in the seventies, Scorpios got the reputation of being Red Hot Lovers. And since this crazy book was, at one time, required reading for all women between the ages of fourteen and ninety, the word got around. I came to feel proud of being a Scorpio -- even though I still thought it was all nonsense.
It was good PR.
Recently, however, I found out that I may not be a Scorpio after all! According to some astronomer in Minnesota, due to the earth's "wobbling" around its axis, all the astrological signs are off by about a month. And that would make me a Libra.
A Libra? Really? What am I supposed to do with that? How do you go from being a Badass Scorpion to "The Scales"? It's not even a living creature -- it's a freakin' appliance!
Definitely not sexy.
So if, as I firmly believe, astrology is all a big scam anyway, then why couldn't I just make up my own sign? There are plenty of other celestial bodies to choose from. A quick check of the November sky reveals such appealing alternatives as Delphinus, "The Dolphin" -- I enjoy swimming, and everybody likes dolphins. Or perhaps Draco, "The Dragon" -- dragons are awesome and way more badass than scorpions. How about Orion, "The Hunter". Pretty cool, right? Of course, according to myth, Orion was killed by a scorpion, and that takes us right back where we started.
I appear to be having trouble letting go of my Scorpion identity.
Fortunately, as I continued to research the matter, I discovered that the tropical zodiac signs that form the basis of Western horoscopic astrology have nothing to do with the astronomic positions of the constellations for which they are named. In other words, it really is just a completely made-up system.
And that means that I'm still a Scorpio!
Not that I care one way or another.
I mean, it's not like I'm obsessing about it or anything.
I'm just saying.
Around this time of year, everybody starts thinking about change. There's a new year on the horizon, and we all get a fresh start. Everything's going to be different. Out with the old and in with the new. New calendar. New Congress. New Facebook profile. Because new means better. Change is good. Anything different is an improvement on what we already have. Right?
Not always.
Take Congress for example. We "change" Congress every two years. Has it ever improved? Not a bit. Nobody has ever said, "damn, this new Congress is way better than that crappy old Congress we used to have." And they never will. Because change is not inherently good. Sometimes the crappy Congress we have is the best one we can get. And changing it only makes it worse.
As for Facebook, they have a whole army of people working around the clock whose sole objective is to make unnecessary changes to the system. These so-called "improvements," often known as "upgrades" are actually a continuing series of useless annoyances whose only real purpose is to provide the employees of Facebook with a sense of job security. Currently they are pushing a new profile format. Why? Is there something wrong with the current format? I like my profile the way it is. Some people say "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." But at Facebook their motto is, "if it ain't broke, be patient, we'll be screwing it up shortly."
Change.
While I accept the inevitability of change, I tend to resist its implementation. Recently, at work, I was asked to relocate to another building to help out with one of our more popular shows. They were gearing up for production and needed a few extra hands on deck, as it were. Now, some might see such a change of assignment as a welcome break to the hum-drum workaday routine. Not me. Once I get settled into my daily routine, I pretty much like to stick with it. I know exactly how long the commute takes. I have my computer set up just the way I like it. Got my favorite chair. I even have a little niche in the hallway fridge for my unsweetened chocolate soy milk. Now they want me to move?
Of course I agreed. I had no choice, really, but it seemed more civilized to pretend that I did. I decided to look at it as an adventure. As it turned out, the commute to the other building wasn't all that much different, just a few minutes longer. And the people over there were nice and all. They stuck me in an editing bay with some headphones and a laptop and basically left me alone. It was pretty damn cold in there, and the chair was kind of uncomfortable. And I couldn't quite get used to the size of the keyboard on the laptop. But, I decided to make a go of it.
After a few hours, I swapped chairs with one that wasn't being used. Then I scrounged around for a full-sized keyboard. The headphones were kind of digging into my skull, but I had to put up with them. I managed to tough it out for the rest of the night. After all, it was an adventure.
The next day, I was moved to another work station with a better chair and more comfortable headphones. Still a little chilly, but I brought a sweater along just in case. I also found a fridge for my soy milk. It was kind of over-crowded, but it would do. Things were looking up. Had to leave home a few minutes early to account for the slightly longer commute, but I was handling it.
I got moved again the next day, and spent the first half-hour setting up my workspace so it was just right. Put a box under the laptop to raise the monitor to eye-level. Switched chairs with one from an empty conference room. Got hold of a new keyboard from the guy in IT. And I was now working in an editing bay that was heated to actual room temperature. There was an editor in there with me who was putting together bits and pieces of video from a vast array of clips for a segment in one of the upcoming shows. I occasionally interrupted him and asked him questions about his process. It was pretty fascinating. I was getting a little bonus OJT out of the deal. This new assignment was turning out all right after all.
By the end of the week, I had settled into my new routine quite nicely. I was making friends with the editor and learning a lot about the nuts and bolts of storytelling from his perspective. I'd learned my way around the building and even found another fridge that had plenty of room for my soy milk and other snack items. I was just beginning to feel at home there. And that's when they told me my assignment was done and I would be moving back to the main building. I was glad to be going back, but I had to admit I had kind of been enjoying my little adventure. Especially now that it was over.
The following weekend, I did a major rewrite of a screenplay I've been working on for several years. They say all good writing is rewriting, but rewriting can be a real pain in the ass. I'd been living with this story for so long, it was hard for me to imagine it any other way. But I'd gotten some pretty clear notes that what I had wasn't working and I needed to make some serious changes. I'd been putting off the rewrite for months and now the deadline was near. I was backed into a corner and the clock was ticking. I dug through the loose pile of notecards and scraps of paper where I'd scribbled some random ideas, and started piecing them together bit by bit. Much like my editor friend had done with his array of video clips. Fortunately, I was working at home, where the chair is comfortable, the monitor is just the right height, and the fridge is stocked with unsweetened chocolate soy milk. In the end, the rewrite turned out pretty damn good. Much better than I'd expected. Much better than the original.
So I guess not all change is bad. Sometimes change can even be fun.
But I'm still not switching to the new Facebook profile.
