Issue No. 601
Living
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29 August - 4 Sept. 2002 Issue No. 601 Living |
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 | Recommend this page | ||
Mood Swings
Love carved in stone
An American friend of mine has been frequenting Cairo for business for a few years. She was bragging to me about how well she knows Cairo now; the shops Downtown, the short cuts in and out. "That is great," I said, "but did you ever stop to look up at the buildings? Say Midan Talaat Harb, Mustafa Kamel, or Qasr Al-Nil Street?" She stared at me for a while as if not sure that we were talking about the same place.
About six month or so later, Jill called, and was screaming "I did it! I did it!" I thought she had gotten married or something. But no, she told me, "I stopped and looked up at the buildings, it was amazing; I felt I was looking at Cairo for the first time. The details on some of those buildings are magnificent!" She had no idea that a different, graceful world existed above the hustle and bustle of the city streets.
Looking, beholding, gazing at one's love is not only romantic, or flattering, it is the most basic form of love. It creates a strong sense of belonging that seeps, and weaves into the fiber of our existence. Just look at the face of a baby as it beholds its mother's face in a crowd, and you will understand how innate this feeling is. Perhaps this is how I looked at the city as a child, on the daily drives back from school in Zamalek, across Abul-Ela Bridge, through Boulaq, to home Downtown.
A love affair with the city, grew, like most affairs, unexpectedly. The circumstances that led to it did not seem, at first, significant or even happy. I had started 7th grade at a new school, and had to walk to school leaving the shelter of cars, and school buses. I was alone with Cairo for what felt like the first time, and was lured by its sensuality and mystique.
The school I attended was a converted palace, called Ali Abdel-Latif, and at that time you could still see traces of old paintings at the top of the walls, and on the ceilings of the classrooms. I also remember a couple of majestic staircases: a marble one, which certainly was the main entrance to the palace; the second was an elaborate wooden staircase that descended, from the private quarters upstairs to the parquet floor of the grand foyer, like the tail of a Spanish dancer's dress. It was befitting that this school, palace, stood on the quaint square of Simone Bolivar at the gate to Garden City. At that time the late Semiramis Hotel was still alive and standing across the street.
The walk through the winding streets of Garden City, back when sidewalks were designated for pedestrians, was an architectural feast to the eye. All seemed to flow in harmony, the façades of the buildings, the laced black lines of the forged iron balconies as they disappeared in the curves of the streets, the lack of shops, the trees, even the names of the streets: Houd Al-Labban.
On most days, I had to go to my father's photography studio at 3, Al-Mobtadian Street, in Al-Sayeda Zeinab, to study after school under his supervision. These of course were the days when child psychology, and learning theories suggested that repeated pounding on a child's head guaranteed retention of information until the final bell of the final exam. My father subscribed to this theory. I passed the exams, with no permanent deformations. None physical at least. I mention this because it relates to something I read years later, by the French writer Jean Genet, who said that the source of all beauty is the single wound. Whether the statement is arguable or not, I found it true to my own experience.
Of all thoughts I had in my head walking down Khayrat Street at the time, I am left now with the memory of how beautiful the yellowish apartment buildings looked in the late afternoon sun, even with their flimsy balconies, and green shutters missing ranks like the teeth of the Fez maker around the corner, or the cobble stones underneath the tracks of the old tramway. Al-Saneya School marked the end of this journey, as I turned on Al- Mobtadian Street to enter the arena of my nightly torment, serenaded by the voice of Umm Kulthoum, her laments coming over loud speakers from everywhere. It will be dark before I return to our apartment at the end of Champollion Street, Downtown.
Between evenings in Al-Sayeda, and weekends at the Gezira Club, between family visits to the old churches in old Cairo with Graeco-Roman marble columns, and field trips with Dr Shahira Mehrez to kuttabs, madrasas, and sabils in Islamic Cairo, are centuries of buildings, architectural styles as varied as the life styles they contain. All reconciled in one body.
That is the beauty of growing up with the one you love, you see past the wrinkles, and the cracks that time brings on. You look into their eyes, and see yourself from the core, ageless. After all, these buildings are alive, silent as they may seem, they stand there waiting and watching. There is the building where I had my first kiss, the building where I confessed love, and the building where childhood ended, and adulthood began. To these buildings, I surrendered my secrets, joy, and chagrin and in return, they surrendered their beauty.
* This week's contributor is an Egyptian expatriate living in New York.
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