My time in Egypt through the auspices of the Fulbright-Hays Seminars Abroad allowed for many smaller-scale experiences that augmented the wonderful lectures and visits to cultural/religious institutions we shared as a group. But throughout these many travels and lectures, we kept hearing words along the lines of “You have not eaten falafel until you have it in Alexandria!” or, “Cairene falafel is the best!” Cairo was the first City of our six weeks abroad, and Alexandria would be the last, so we had much falafel to taste before then… along with rabbit stew (Molokhia), seeming metric tonnes of hummus, fava bean stew (Fuul), and the amazing combination of pasta, chickpeas, lentils, and fried onions known as Koshari.
The falafel in Cairo and, indeed, of most of the regions of Egypt we visited, was reminiscent of that I have eaten many times at home in New York City: round, fried balls of chickpeas and herbs. Palatable, sometimes delicious, but not “different” in any remarkable way. Nothing to complain or rave about.
Upon arriving in Alexandria, many of my peers sought the relaxation of the beaches. While I have not experienced Alexandrian beaches, I have enjoyed others and thought there were more, and more important, things to see in this City. I sought the backroads and struck out on my own, with perhaps five basic phrases of Arabic, three litres of water, no map but with a general sense of the direction to the corniche (the six-lane highway surrounding the City) and the beach, and proceeded to walk nearly eleven kilometres in about 101 degrees Fahrenheit through the real Alexandria of everyday people shopping for everyday needs and going about their work day.
Soon into my walk, a group of Egyptian teens I passed began singing the theme song for an American wrestler named “The Big Show” (I was then a large man of nearly 380 pounds). I proceeded to laugh out loud, turned back, and asked them who was their favourite wrestler (luckily, one spoke enough English for us to communicate). Finally, I was asked: “Where are you going! There’s nothing that way!”
I told him a truth that seemed so very strange to him: “That is exactly why I am going!”
So I wandered along dirt roads.
And saw a hand-cranked, twelve-foot diameter carousel filled with laughing children.
Seamstresses hard at work.
Fruiterers carefully stacking their provisions to make the ideal displays to draw passers-by.
Leather workers manipulating sheets of material into goods for sale.
Fisherman gutting their catches and placing the goods on ice in large wooden cases, loaded onto hand trucks, presumably for restaurants
And, after about one hour of such walking and seeing, a small outdoor café called to me where I ordered a mint tea- naturally poured from on-high- and an order of pita and hummus. But no falafel, yet.
I relaxed under the umbrella of that café table, briefly read my Kindle but was distracted by all I had and was experiencing and so put it away, and reviewed some of the shots on my camera to reinforce my memories. An Egyptian gentleman sitting two tables away struck up a light-hearted conversation that, again, centred around “What was I doing in that part of Alexandria?!” And my answer was the same. He asked to see my camera and review its shots, perhaps to see if I was photographing women (which is considered unkind or forbidden) or just out of curiosity of my interests. As I stood to leave to resume my walk, I asked for the check only to find that the gentleman had already paid for me. Had I passed the “camera test?” I gave him a bow and offered an “Al fi Shukr,” roughly translated as “My thanks to you.”
I zig-zagged through the now-paved streets that grew more narrow as the buildings grew taller and more jammed together, still aiming roughly for the corniche and the beach. The narrowness offered some relief from the direct hit of sunlight, but not the heat and humidity.
Towards the end of this hot and long walk, a group of three thirty-ish adults- two men and one woman- offered me a chair to rest outside their shop. I gladly took it as I had by then become a sopping mess, downed their offered water, and enjoyed amazingly candid and humorous conversation regarding the actions and personalities of our respective Presidents. They wanted to “see” my passport, and the men laughingly proposed a marriage between the young lady and myself to which I responded in kind “My thanks and apologies: I cannot afford her dowry.”
We also discussed, at my prompting, the then-pending change in Cairo which would standardize the calls to prayer via a centralized loudspeaker system and a single muezzin. They were in favour of this reform saying that the “noise” of conflicting muezzin from block-to-block was disturbing to them when they travelled to Cairo. I suggested that, at least to this non-Muslim, the multiple calls to prayer are quite beautiful and made daily walks through that city’s streets even more memorable.
And then, finally, the falafel.
The trio ordered sandwiches for all of us and refused any payment from me, even the offer to pay for everyone. A fourth act of generosity on this walk for this stranger- tea, pita, and hummus; bottled water; falafel; hearty conversations.
I noted that Alexandrian falafel was disc-shaped and not round. Curious. The pita into which it was stuffed was thicker and more pillowy than elsewhere. The toppings of tahini and light yoghurt sauce and the vegetables seemed similar to others.
And then the first bite.
The disc shape allowed for greater crispiness to the falafel, which were more herbaceous than their cousins I had eaten elsewhere in the country. The thicker pita offered more of a “bite” than its cousins and was far from the blandness that most pita conveys. The crispiness and extra flavour in this falafel, and the difference in the pita, made for a unique eating experience.
Winner of The Great Falafel War of Egypt: Alexandria, by Knockout.
What made this victory even greater was that it was spontaneous, inspired by my wandering and the mutual conviviality of strangers.
I raved about the falafel to my new friends, and they simply stared at my wonder before saying, “But… of course, it is better!” as if this were an established fact which, indeed, it seemed to be to everyone except non-Alexandrians.
Finally, after such rest, repast, respect and laughter, and gratitude I told my friends that I would like to get to the beach by sundown. They asked if I knew the way, and I abstractly pointed in the direction my inner compass still told me to follow. They did not correct me, and I set off.
More zags and zigs, taller buildings, more traffic and related noise and then I faced the corniche. Six lanes, three in each direction. No traffic lights which, to be fair, were only “suggestions” to drivers throughout Egypt anyway. The cars zoomed by and the only way to safely cross was an overhead walkway about half a mile away from where I was standing. After such a long, hot wandering that walkway seemed far more distant and unforgiving.
The beach and the Mediterranean Sea shone just across the concrete lanes, and I am from New York City where traffic lights were also just suggestions… to pedestrians. My 380 pounds stepped over a median and my head turned left, looking for a gap among the cars I might run into and then do the same through yet two more lanes. I felt like Frogger from the old video game where a frog had to jump onto logs, dodge insects and rocks and cars, in order to cross to safety on the other side. Now I zigged and zagged very quickly and awkwardly, accompanied by the sound of car horns and the occasional squeal of brakes. First three lanes crossed, exhausted but somehow exhilarated.
From the general safety of the centre median, my head turned right to spy the onrush of cars from that direction knowing that these final three lanes were a make-or-break; from the middle, I had no choice but to cross backwards or forward and forward was the only way to go. Stepping fully over that median, watching the speeding cars, I tried to once again focus my gaze narrowly on gaps in the traffic flow into which I might leap. For some reason, the traffic on these three lanes seemed faster and more tightly spaced; I could not tell if it was my tiredness or reality, but that did not matter.
Suddenly, I heard an ambulance siren and saw it weaving through the slowed-down traffic and cars that had to shoulder the road to allow it passage. That ambulance was my lifesaver and I leapt into the lanes, the ambulance passing, with the cars beginning to realign and roar. One red SUV surged through the third lane, careening towards me as I made my way through, I froze- briefly- at the sight of this particular vehicle before stepping over the final median into freedom and heavy panting.
I heard a round of applause somewhere nearby, and rose from my crouched position to see a small group of locals who had stood and watched my entire journey from the beginnings of the beach. I exaggeratedly bowed, said thank you, and then pointed to myself and proclaimed “Stupid American!” to which we all laughed. Except I was not really kidding.
I stepped onto the sand and just took in the expanse of water so very close by. Glittering diamonds dappled the waves, cliché or not. It was indeed closer to sunset. Noticing a beachset café closer to the shore, I trundled over to a folding chair, planted myself in it, wiped myself with my bandana, and drank the last of my water. A server came over to ask what I would like.
My answer? A hookah, water and a virgin pina colada, and- of course- another falafel sandwich.
