If you can’t stand the heat… Stay out of Egypt.

Going back to Egypt was decidedly smoother than the first trip. Logistically speaking, anyway, I had an apartment lined up and all it took was a whisking-away from the airport upon arrival (OK so I did have to go through a swine flu “screening” and I did stand in customs for two hours because there were only two customs officers to clear a jumbo-jet’s worth of people). But, baggage and sweetheart awaiting me, I inched toward the sliding glass doors… and back to the desert.

Despite a few weeks’ pre-departure anxiety to blow off, there’s little drama to report; still, after two weeks down, everything I do requires a moment of silence for how things are “back home.” What to wear walking down the street requires an extra moment for a “skin exposure” evaluation, and my independence and anonymity are two primary points of recalibration. Not that I have to do anything a certain way, but to be frank, I’m more comfortable thinking people don’t assume I’m a prostitute. On the surviving/not surviving continuum, life’s an enchanted kingdom full of surprises and familiarity.

The living quarters are always charming here; New Ma’adi, my new neighborhood, is quiet; a drastic improvement from Downtown where the noise only abates on Friday mornings, before the Noon prayer. There are trees and I have two wonderful windows to welcome the evening breezes.

I’m terrible with time-changes so I’m lucky to be without agenda; just the clock within for now, which barely wakes me to meet morning and only tells me when to start cooking. Which brings me… to the kitchen.

An Egyptian kitchen is not always a subtle reminder of my whereabouts. Even in late-September, the tap water runs more-than-warm after the sun has been up for a few hours. The dishes may need to be rinsed even from the cupboards, as a light dusting of greasy sand settles after a couple days without use. The pre-WWII (OK, probably only 10 years-old) tin-box stove top is punctured with no-pilot-light gas burners, which afford the opportunity for a prayer not to singe more than I bargained for. My oven sadly has no notches or markings to indicate the temperature. 250 degrees? 475 degrees? Eh… give or take, right?

My boyfriend stocked the fridge ever so thoughtfully and hilariously, as one would expect from a man who has never cooked more than eggs and fuul (beans) for himself. But he does slap together a mean mezze (think antipasto): ripe with cheeses; meats; olives; pickled onions; fresh cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers. How very European of him.

I’ve made a few adjustments; pushed the mystery meats far enough into the freezer than we both may forget their existence, reminded lovingly that I just can’t drink whole milk by the glass, propped up rosemary and thyme to dry by the window (also apparently listening to Simon and Garfunkel), created an account on Epicurious to save recipes and for the next time I’m greeted at the door by a bag of something he doesn’t know the name for in English (we Google, it works out)… I’m happy to say, my father would be proud.

Robots on the brain.

This is going to be a short-but-sweet one. As most of you know, I'm at Georgetown getting a degree in international security--you know, war, peace, ridiculous fighter jets with lasers on them, that kind of stuff. One of my current courses is a crisis decision-making simulation. In short, the class comes up with some outrageous international crisis scenario, usually interstate war, and then we crowd 40 to 50 folks into a room, assign them each roles (as countries, leaders, etc.), and see how the scenario plays out in light of their actions.

While the goal is to create a fairly plausible scenario, people were throwing out some ridiculous ideas--I won't get into them, because they all seem to encompass something like fifty years of shifty foreign relations. I decided to throw my hat into the ring:

"How about a robot invasion?"

Most awkward class silence ever. I think they thought I was for real.
(Which I was, because robots are 100% for real, serious business.)

2 Cents from Jared 2.0 (Robbins, not Hawkley)

I've thought a lot about 826michigan since leaving Ann Arbor in the Fall of 2008. It's one of the topics I'm proud to talk about when it comes to recapping my vagabond-ish existence over the last two years.

A vestigial 826 Monsters t-shirt (from before the Robot takeover), one of my all-time best thrift store finds, is in my weekly rotation and I've worn it in at least 8 different countries (including Bolivia and Norway) since staking out into the world and doing an incredible job of avoiding a consistent life.

Yesterday I was on a plane home from England and the woman sitting beside me was reading the new Dave Eggers' book. I told her about 826. She was impressed. Then I watched an episode of 30 Rock and Tina Fey reminded me of Amy.

826 Monsters (reprezentin' as faculty at the Global Young Leaders Conference in DC)

Welcome!

Hello, and welcome to, at long last, the 826michigan Alum Adventure blog! We have been talking about doing this for YEARS, and now it has finally come to pass!

826michigan alum: we MISS you. We still TALK about you, all the time. We want to know what's going on with you! Please post as often as you like about what you're up to, funny anecdotes, or whatever else you feel like sharing.

Please also feel free to add administrators! I'm sure there are a slew of volunteers I'm leaving out: feel free to invite them!

Can't wait to hear from you all. :)