Category: Travails of a Guidebook Author

Cairo: I Am Not Being Served!

Dining alone is probably the worst thing about being a travel guide writer–but _not_ dining alone turns out to be slightly worse.

After my Pyramids trail of tears, I just wanted a nice little dinner, in a spot near my hotel.

But no, apparently. I went to two separate restaurants and simply could not get served. It was the oddest thing–I talke to the maitre d’, I went over to a table and I waited for someone to bring me a menu. And waited. And waited. Now I’ve been told that these places have notoriously bad service. At the time, though, it was very hard not to take it personally.

From a guidebook-research perspective, however, it was great: I got to sit in these places for about 20 minutes, look at the food, see who came in and out, generally soak up the vibe, and then not have to pay a penny! Of course I had to slink out in shame (well, I pretended to get a cell-phone call), but I guess it was worth it.

I finally was driven into the arms of Felfela, a serviceable but unexciting tourist joint. This finally pushed me over the edge, as I was barraged with bad service English: “Bon appetit,” said the guy as he poured my much-needed beer, and it went downhill from there.

On my walk home, I passed so much more bad English, on signs, on T-shirts in windows, from random people trying to talk to me, that I was at the breaking point that only a part-time copy editor can get to.

I read a little fluent English before bed, and slept OK. Peter has since arrived, so I have good English input again. The drawback, of course, is that my Arabic is now floundering.

I realize now, as the guy at the Internet cafe is fiddling with my computer and potentially reading what I’m writing, that I’ve become the horrible tourist complaining about bad service. Let me just clarify it is 85 percent my fault that I didn’t get served in those restaurants. Next post: I complain about getting overcharged!

Cairo: Hitting the Wall

I went to the Pyramids on Tuesday, and my attitude took a turn for the worse. The tourism & antiquities council has been very proactive about cutting back on hassle at the pyramids, but has created some other ghastly issues:

1) There’s a hideous concrete wall, topped with chain-link and wire, around most of the plateau. Looking down from the plateau, you see the neighboring village backed right against it–an unfortunate architectural echo of the wall in the Palestinian Territories. I wonder if anyone in the 8,000 tour buses that trundle up there every day even notices.

2) And the whole plateau is now geared only to tour buses–the paved roads are wide enough only for one of these wheezing, lumbering air-conditioners on wheels, so if you’re on foot, you have to trudge through the sand, batting away people with made-in-China alabaster pyramids, cheap dishdashas and the perennial camels as you go. The difficulty of walking then makes you look like even more of a grump for not taking up anyone on their offers of camel and horse rides.

3) Now that the number of vendors and camel drivers on the plateau is controlled (I actually saw one of the tourism police guys giving chase to some interlopers–they on horseback, he on a camel), the line of conflict for the high-pressure horse-and-camel-ride sales has just moved farther out from the Pyramids. So you’re sitting in traffic at a light, and some guy comes up and tells you the road is closed ahead, and it’s better to take a horse…which he conveniently has. Fortunately, I know how to say “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” in Arabic.

4) The tourism police guy I talked to essentially admitted they have no control over the situation. “Yes, the official price for a horse or camel ride is EL35 per hour,” he said. “But of course you’re still expected to haggle.”

Anyway…the Pyramids. They’re still there. You kind of have to go, because they’re a wonder of the world. I had to go, because it’s my job. But with all the heat, buses and horse hassles, it’s a little hard to have fun.

I wonder–has anyone gone to the Pyramids and come away saying, “What a great day!” instead of, “Oh sweet Jesus, I just want to get into bed with a cold compress and a gin-and-tonic!”?

Please let me know… It will make me feel like I’m doing this for a reason.

Cairo: City of Contrasts

In the back of my head, I’m already writing drafts of the Cairo chapter introduction. One cliche I cannot bear in travel writing is that “fascinating clash of ancient and modern, limousines next to donkey carts, etc.” routine. Yes, it’s true, but it’s true of pretty much everywhere in the world aside from the US, Canada and Australia. If you have more than a couple hundred years of history, you automatically inspire lazy writers to tote up all the thrilling contrasts.

So there I was in the mobile phone shop at 11.30pm (take that, “city that never sleeps”!) and in walks an Upper Egyptian straight out of central casting. Which is to say, a super-rural guy whose look, in Egypt, epitomizes “not in step with the modern world,” right down to the poofy blue turban thing and the big ol’ mustache and the rubber flip-flops.

And then of course he whips out the blinkiest flashiest cell phone ever. Even the shop worker was laughing. And then the Upper Egyptian guy says to the shop guy in Arabic, “Tell her, ‘Welcome to Egypt.'”

Hmm. This is going to be tricky.

Cairo: Great Expectations

The handy thing about imagining the worst is nothing is ever as bad as you think. Cairo is nowhere near as crowded as I remember–although I haven’t yet ventured downtown or into the medieval section in the middle of the day. The trees are actually green, rather than brown–which might be due to recent rain that washed them off a little, but I’m not complaining. No one has said or done anything sleazy to me. And when I say ‘No, thanks,’ people actually leave me alone.

This is all a little weird, frankly. And I’m sure I’ll wind up completely reversing these statements within the week, but in the meantime, I’m enjoying being pleasantly surprised.

Last night I had the good luck of seeing the Famous Ali in his natural habitat–if not his native Alexandria, then at least here in Cairo, schmoozing with the waiters, chatting up the shisha-coal kid, etc. Just like home, really, but in Arabic. One more thing to add to my list of pleasant surprises–when we were out at 1am on what’s basically Sunday night, I was not at all the only woman hanging out smoking shisha. I’d like to say times have changed, but it occurs to me that when I lived here, I never went downtown on a Sunday night, so how the hell would I know? l guess l shouldn’t be surprised that it’s much more fun to be a tourist here than a depressed grad student.

What’s the Arabic for “way-back machine”?

Saturday night I went to Ali’s Kabab Cafe for dinner, by myself. It feels like it’s been a while since I’ve been there. There was something about being alone, and for once not seeing anyone else I knew, that reminded me of when I first moved to New York, and Astoria. I just sat there and read a little, and occasionally stared mistily into space, thinking of…geez, nearly a decade ago.

Back in 1998–or maybe it was 1999 by the time I got to Kabab Cafe for the first time–Ali’s felt like a little airlock between New York and Egypt. Not that I missed Egypt exactly (here’s one reason why), but I still felt a little out of step with glossy, consumer-y NYC, and I needed a little more dim lighting, hot tea and weepy Umm Kulthum music in my life. In those early days, going to Kabab Cafe felt like I was visiting a foreign country again, one whose GDP was based on nostalgia, atmosphere and clouds of sheesha smoke.

Now I know half the other regulars, Ali and I are friends, and he doesn’t smoke the water pipe in his place anymore. Almost nine years have slipped by since I was in Cairo–and now I’m set to go back again, in less than a month.

Last time, I was there for a year doing the Center for Arabic Study Abroad (CASA). Not only was Arabic irrelevant to Americans back then, pre-9/11, but the social shenanigans of twenty wacky students in the pressure-cooker of Cairo were utterly wasted, because reality TV hadn’t been invented. This would’ve been ratings gold: mix medievalists up with political wonks, throw in a few Mormons, shack us up in grand, decrepit apartments with dusty chandeliers, and make us all sit in class together for eight hours a day. Weirdly, I am still friends with a good portion of these people.

This time, I’m going to update a guidebook to Egypt—a job I’m now feeling like the 25-year-old me should have done. In my preparation for the research trip, I’m finding it very difficult to brush away all the emotional associations and remember the details that might be relevant to a traveler who’s not sucked into a yearlong process of ego destruction via high-school-style social snubs, recurring illness and failure to grasp the infinite subtleties of Arabic grammar and vocabulary.

Such as: Men will harass you like crazy on the street. (Mental note: Buy more sports bras. Breasts must be locked down.)

And the gauntlet of cab drivers at the airport—it’s like the paparazzi, but not. Know where you’re going, and how much you’ll pay.

And it’ll probably already be crazy hot. And pack Kleenex—the smog makes your snot run black at the end of the day. And be careful crossing the street (especially careful this time, with my now-blind eye).

As you can see, I’ve been slowly building up to a full panic. It’s a very specific version of a broader pre-trip anxiety that always seizes me, no matter where I’m going (this Thursday: New Orleans, where I will certainly miss Jim and Daphne’s wedding because I will have been mugged and shot and left in the middle of a potholed street).

I’m trying hard to think positive. Normally I would do that by thinking about food.

But Cairo is a difficult place, food-wise. Not only is it not exactly bursting with deliciousness, but my gut flora were so traumatized by my decade-ago visit that my stomach still lurches a little when I think of, say, tabbouleh on a hot summer night. (Why did I eat that? No sane Cairene eats parsley salad in the summer.)

So I think it was my solo visit to Ali’s that warmed my heart a little, and created room for the barest flutterings of excitement as I was flipping through guidebooks today: al-Tabei, that place with the super-garlicky marinated tomatoes; Fatatri al-Tahrir, where you can get a flaky “pizza” topped with jam and coconut and nuts; kushari, the lentils-n-rice topped with a zingy vinegar-tomato sauce; even those 20-cent mashed-potato sandwiches with the crunchy bits of cilantro; and the chicken livers and French fries at the Odeon bar.

After that, I run a little dry in the restaurant department, but now, in my reverie, I’m on to bars and clubs (Atlas in 1992, my first trip, now that was a scene, and that upstairs joint where the Sudanese prostitutes hung out) and then, most important, my salvation in Cairo: grocery shopping.

The shiny-clean milk store. The corner shop where I realized, after months, that I could buy eggs in any number I wanted, rather than base 12. The master orange-juicer down the street. The neighbor greengroceress who heckled me for not being a regular customer. The creak of donkey carts laden with cactus fruit and mangos rolling past my window.

There’s plenty more. But no one wants to read Zora’s Proustian Guide to Cairo. I’m glad I’ve arranged a long visit—the whole first week will likely be spent getting all those Masri madeleines out of my system.

And then the next week, I’ll be back to beating off the street lechers with a stick, fighting with cab drivers, stomping up stairwells to fleabag hotel after fleabag hotel and cringing in horror every time I blow my nose.

Yallah—off we go.

“The saving grace is the food.”

Peter found this review of Aces yesterday. Utterly slams the place, and then says:

The saving grace is the food.

Uh. Thank goodness, considering it’s a restaurant. For all the space aliens reading, that’s a place where you go to eat food.

This does point to a fundamental schism in the world of restaurant customers. On the one hand, you have people who look at a restaurant as a whole event, with items like maitre d’s attitude, choice of flatware and music all weighted evenly with what is on the plate and in what form. These people tend to write most of the world’s restaurant reviews, and also include my former roommate Aaron, who’s willing to blackball a place for good if the servers seem uppity.

On the other hand, you have people for whom the food takes up 90 percent of the scorecard, if not 99 percent. Again, for the benefit of the space aliens, these people tend to call themselves “chowhounds.”

Incredibly, this isn’t all working toward how this latter category is vastly superior, because of course I’m in this category.

For one thing, the chowhounds tend to develop this dangerously martyrlike and even competitive tendency to avoid atmosphere in favor of flavor: The place that sells 89 cent noodles in a literal hole-in-the-wall just behind where the Chinatown bus backs in and lets its engine idle–now that’s the ultimate restaurant! You might die of carbon monoxide poisoning, but, dude, those noodles are just like they make ’em in Peking–and I do mean Peking, because that’s how old-school I am!

Whatever.

I learned my lesson about atmosphere vs. food several years ago, when a passing Spanish acquaintance was in town. We decided he should come to Astoria for dinner, just to get another perspective on the city. His other New York friend wanted to take him to Uncle George’s, the 24-hour greasy-spoon par excellence that hasn’t been good since the eponymous uncle died, probably four decades ago now. I argued strenuously against, and instead dragged them to S’agapo, because it had “interesting things you don’t see on a lot of Greek menus.”

BFD, I realized, as we ate some cheese pies dipped in honey…in total silence. There was no one else in the restaurant, and all the tastiness in the world, and the general niceness of the staff, didn’t make up for the fact that this place was not exuding the energy that I love about Astoria.

Later, I walked past Uncle George’s–it was packed with people, barely visible through the steamed-up windows, but I could tell they were good, New York-y looking people, talking loud and generally creating a vibe that would’ve made a Spaniard really see what Astoria was all about. He wouldn’t have noticed the oven potatoes were mealy, or that the gigantes probably came from a can.

I’ve been in this exact same position when I’m on vacation. Sure, I try to find the hardcore chow, practically peering under the wheels of the second-class bus to see if some overlooked street vendor is workin’ his magic down there. But some of my most memorable meals haven’t been about the food at all, but about the energy and vibrancy and the people all around me, where I felt at once in the middle of everything and outside, witnessing a foreign culture at work. (Perversely, bad food can even enhance this thrilling feeling of foreignness…except maybe in Cuba, where it’s just depressing.)

And of course I think of this every time I write a travel guide. When I get too chow-y, I have to actively remind myself that many tourists will not be pleased if they walk 20 blocks to reach the Casa de Unrecognized Taco Genius, where an arrogant bastard dishes out superlative tongue tacos–honest, try ’em, you’ll love ’em!

In fact, the Uncle George’s Dilemma came up again just last year, when I was finishing the Rough Guide to New York City. I’d done all the outer-borough restaurant reviews, a great opportunity to boost all my beloved haunts, and carefully put “author’s pick” stars next to my very, very favorites. Turns out there’d been some miscommunication, and some other author also updated the outer-borough restaurants–he barely touched the existing listings, but he did star his own favorites.

When I got the chapter back to proof, Uncle George’s was all aglow with a big fat “author’s pick.”

I immediately wrote a huffy email about what dreck the place churned out, and how I couldn’t bear to see the Queens dining list–and by extension my very own reputation as a food critic!–cheapened and dragged through the gutter in this way.

And then 20 minutes later, after recalling the Night of the Visiting Spaniard, I wrote an apology.

The saving grace of Uncle George’s is the atmosphere–and that’s a valid line in a restaurant review.

The Road to Punta Allen: the evidence

Since I just wrote my acknowledgments for The Rough Guide to Mexico, which included a shout-out to the extremely kind and helpful staff at Budget Rent-a-Car at the Cancun airport, I also remembered I had this photo. Here’s what the road to/from Hell looks like:
punta allen road
Pretty, huh? Don’t be deceived. Ignore the palm trees and the blue, blue sky. That is a vast, muddy lake spreading up and around the bend in front of the truck for, oh, ten miles, give or take. It’s Hell, my friends, HELL. (If you have no idea what this is all about, read this post from November.)

Sunland Peanuts: Free Samples Work!

In December, I was in Portales, New Mexico. In case you don’t know, Portales is The Peanut Basin of the Southwest. (If I could do that in “reverb” font, I would.)

peanutI discovered this not through Portales’s excellent marketing machine, but through my own research, when a friend in high school went there for college. Frankly, I’d barely even heard of Portales. This visit in December was the second in my entire life, and during that trip I learned that while Portales produces less than 10 percent of the nation’s peanut crop, it produces the large majority of its Valencia peanuts. These little guys are known for their exceptional flavor, and their lovely red skins.

Doing my duty to guidebook research, I stopped in the chamber of commerce offices downtown. A woman asked me if I wanted “the usual info pack.” Why, yes. And did I want peanuts? Why, yes!

Those Valencia peanuts, super-salty and often four to a pod, were super-delicious, and I apologize to the Days Inn Roswell housekeeping staff who had to vacuum up the shells from the carpeting.

I managed to save some peanuts till I got home. Peter was equally enamored. Soon I was perusing the Sunland Peanuts website. And soon thereafter, more peanuts–as well as some peanut butter–were winging their way to us from the Peanut Basin of the Southwest.

I have to admit, there was a little letdown. Peter had inadvertently ordered five pounds of unsalted peanuts. But even those were surprisingly good.

And today Peter opened the first jar of peanut butter. Holy shit! So amazingly fresh-tasting. It’s like each little individual peanut soul is expiring right then and there in my mouth. Nothing in it but peanuts. Not even salt. And if I’m saying something with no salt is delicious, then you know it’s got to be good. If you like peanuts, you owe it to yourself to taste the goods from Portales.

A few tips on ordering from the mega-clunky (but awful cute) website: You want the “old fashion peanut butter,” without the hydrogenation, etc. Somewhere else on the site, they sell the processed stuff, and you don’t want that. And you probably wanted salted peanuts, rather than just plain ol’ roasted. [UPDATE: The site has been redesigned! It looks much nicer, but you can’t order online now/yet. Better to talk to a person anyway, to get the details right.]

gutFinally, you’ll want to bone up on the peanut butter diet, just in case you’re feeling a little dodgy about having 25 pounds of good-and-greasy legumes delivered to your doorstep. One look at those rock-hard abs, and I am pretty convinced. One bite of that Valencia peanut butter, and I am never lookin’ back!

Orphan towns

As part of my research for the forthcoming Moon New Mexico guide, I end up reading all those glossy visitors guides that are always in your motel room, usually with a coffee ring on the cover left by the previous tenant.

Every sad little town has one, written with varying degrees of cogency and featuring more or less faded photos. The most desperate ones–which combine tourist info with data on why you might want to invest in this particular exit off I-40, for instance–always make me depressed. Like seeing the ugly puppy left at the pet store in the mall. Sad. But I’m not going to help it either.

The worst part is when the reach so clearly exceeds the grasp, as in this kicker from–well, it seems too mean to name the chronically windy town of 5,000-and-shrinking-every-day:

It has been said that living well is the best revenge, and […] has all the ingredients to make that dream a reality.

I wish them all the best. I really do. It’s just that I can’t help. I’m sorry. (Turning away. No eye contact. Stepping on the gas…)

Better Late than Never

As usual, I failed to make Christmas cards. I even failed to write this very post in time for the holidays. So, think of this as a little way to make the season last a little longer–I know I’ve got some eggnog left to drink, and some chocolates to eat.

kesh-mish

Merry Kesh-Mish from the Navajo Nation.

(Shiprock, to be precise. Where, incidentally, the KFC serves mutton stew.)