Day-18: Money Matters

It was my second, no wait, maybe my third year of university when I fully understood the implications of my parents financially supporting me. Their money, like it very much should, had conditions.

You know, like go to class, stick to a strict sober week, and of course, don’t get pregnant.

In retrospect – they were all extremely reasonable requests.

If only I could see then what I see now.

Anyways, after a multitude of animated phone calls and a lot of comparisons to most, if not all deposed dictators, I declared my financial independence. I got a job working at a magazine and found it surprisingly easy to make ends meet. My money came with no conditions – then again it didn’t really stay with me long enough to have any influence over my decision making. My days were a routine, mostly spent in what can only be best described as a shit hole bar across the street from my university.

The place was called “Freedom”  or in Arabic “Horreya,”and was situated in the heart of Cairo. It was a drunk’s hell. Flooded with bright white neon lights and generously used wooden chairs. The tables were speckled with cigarette burns, and without fail at 3 p.m. – the time I would frequent “Freedom”, the tables would be mostly filled with very old men playing backgammon.

Omar, Gaafar, and I would walk in – we were an inseparable group of friends who shared avant guard views on the world. Or so we thought.  We would stride in with senses acute, and Hamada, one of two waiters, would animatedly greet us with close to frozen Stella beers. He would drunkenly walk us to our table, kicking anyone else that was already seated there.  And then of course, he would have a drink with us.

How this man still has a functioning liver is truly beyond me.

Knowing my weakness for chickpeas, he would always send over a bowl toppling over with them. He is/was the definition of Egyptian hospitality.

Omar, Gaafar, and I would sit for hours laughing hysterically over anything and everything and the mirth never stopped – even for bathroom breaks. They always escorted me to the female restroom, which comprised of one stall and a locked door. Only the person with a key could access the bathroom, for fear that woman would go in and someone would try to rape them.

It’s a harsh world

By seven, our very good Kenyan friends Jay and Beelo would make their entrance. Beelo didn’t drink, he was just there to watch us make asses of ourselves. And Jay, oh Jay, he was the life of the party. He was one of those rambunctious drunks who loved nothing more then to laugh while listening to Bob Marley. Yes, he would pull out his mp3 player and a small set of speakers. Gaafar was the true victim, we adored teasing him to no end. We made fun of his virginity, his naive mind set and most of all, the fact he was underage by 7 months. Hamada would join in every so often, taking shots at the poor guy whenever he could. We thought this was brilliant.

More hours would be spent gobbling chick peas and soon the table would be covered in empty bottles of beer, and that’s how I would know it was my cue to go home. Omar would help me stumble out of the bar and find a cab, once he was sure that I was in safe and sound, and the driver knew where to go, he too would find his own way back home. I would lean my head back on the seat and listen to music.

At that time of my life, there was nothing more heavenly then the angry sound of Eminem’s voice, which would be disrupted when I saw a KFC.

A girl’s gotta eat. I would drunkenly strut into the fast food chain, trying my best to maintain my balance in my heels while I confidently asked the employee for a lot of crunchy, crispy drumsticks. The key was to not let anyone know I had been drinking.

A few short minutes later, I would walk out like a super model into my cab, clutching desperately onto my drumsticks. To me there was nothing more beautiful than being in the back of a cab, holding on my KFC, listening to Eminem, with the Egyptian breeze on my face. It was always that moment in time when I would be proud of my decision, of my independence, of my “freedom.”

But then I would wake up the next morning.

To good times.


Sweet Dreams World.

P.S. It turns out the waiter’s name was actually Meemo. Wow. That’s awkward.  I guess that’s why he always looked at me funny when I called him Hamada. Thanks Gaafar for the correction. :p


Categories: Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

18 replies

  1. Everything comes with strings. The world is a cruel dictator.

  2. Ah, to be young again! In this day and age, why can’t they come up with a sure cure for a hangover? I enjoy hearing about your good times and good friends! Thanks for sharing.

  3. I remember trying to pretend I hadn’t been drinking. Financial independence is a crucial element to a happy life; beholden to none.

  4. I have to say, it’s not easy to write humorously and/or endearingly on individual levels, but you somehow manage both. Well done 🙂

  5. Ah yes I remember many nights spent in the bar with friends. We frequented there far too much when all the waitresses knew our orders and would cater specifically to us when it got busy.

    Lots of spent money, forgotten memories, and fun times.

    Sadly though it always has to end. You eventually tier of the same routine and the drinking lol. Or you have an event with knives that puts you off drinking like that ever again :p

    As always though fantastic post!

  6. Funny how it is…generations change, the country may be different, but youth is youth! 😉

  7. I think my youthful days might have been lots of fun if only I could remember them. Thankfully I am coasting out my senior years with a clear head.

  8. Too bad there’s not a love button innit?

  9. Another great read. This is where I come to escape my life, and live vicariously through yours for just a little while……. Cheers!

  10. Fast forward a couple of decades…it’s still a struggle to pretend you haven’t been drinking. I can still relate.

    But it’s your first line that caught my eye, for my college freshman daughter is mad at me right now, because my hubby stole her cell phone contract date so he could finally join the smart phone world. So she has to wait 3 weeks to upgrade her IPhone…life is so rough, haha. Thanks for pointing out that maturity kicks in on that.

  11. This is an insanely easy post to relate to. Thank you so much for bringing me back to my days before financial independence and reminding me how awesome that moment of freedom was. Absolutely brilliant!

  12. Hi. This is best post I’ve read on WordPress. I really enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing. 🙂

  13. I like Funny how it is………..

  14. Sounds so fun. Wish I was there, and there really is nothing better than being in the backseat with a good buzz, fried chicken, music, and a breeze in your face. Totally worth the next morning.

  15. I enjoyed reading your post, sounds so familiar; your Cairo to my Athens- the key to the toilet, the breeze on your face and the conditions from parents in exchange…However, it sounds so much funny and safe compared to today. Thanks for this trip back in time!

  16. Well that took me back… not to uni in Egypt but I think I learned there are some universal tenets of the college years no matter where one is from! Where did those days go? Oscar Wilde had it right when he penned “youth is wasted on the young”. What would you do with a couple years back at uni now?

  17. I just love your writing, felt like I was there 🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: