Standing in Line

I dodge parked and moving traffic and sidewalk-sitters, and squint through the noonday sun in an attempt to distinguish the line in front of Shuruq from the surrounding crowds of men. Damn. I am in for it.

My use of the term “line” here is meant in bitter jest, of course. There is never a “line” at Shuruq, or any establishment of its kind. Instead, the patrons heave themselves into a squirming mass of limbs, pressing against the counter and waving pounds in the faces of the adroit but constantly swamped sandwich artists, shouting “Mohammad! Mohammad (the Egyptian equivalent of “Hey you!”)!” Only the most aggressive and persistent will receive sandwiches. Knowledge of this requirement brings out the most aggressive and persistent in all of the patrons; having shuffled off the coil of manners and personal space, each clambers over the others as if groping for the one lifesaver tossed to a score of men overboard. The workers intercept their cries for help in the order they overhear them, and sandwich descriptions echo down the line: “Wahid ta‘amiyya, itnayn ful bi bid! Talat ta‘amiyya wahid baba!” For a girl with clear notions about what she wants and doesn’t want in her sandwich, this raucous telephone system poses a formidable challenge. I have taken to repeating the words to myself on the way, in hopes of pronouncing them with confidence and clarity at the crucial moment: “Wahid sandwich ta‘amiyya bi baba ghanou wi salata. Wahid sandwich ta‘amiyya bi baba ghanou wi salata.” Of course, the overwhelming pressure of the described context usually trips me up and I botch it, or they misunderstand and give me two sandwiches, one with ta‘amiyya and one with baba ghanoush. In short, you have to really want that sandwich to brave Shuruq. And if you succeed, your efforts are rewarded with a delicious pouch wrapped in a piece of scratch paper (often still with names and dates scribbled on it), costing you between half and one Egyptian pound or about fifteen cents. It is worth it. I live on those things.

Still, usually I go to Shuruq with Aaron and let him brave the mosh pit. He has the advantage, besides being male, of standing at least a head taller than most Egyptians, which enables him to stretch his handful of guineas right to the source even from the margins. But this time I face the trial alone, and begin to doubt immediately that I will be able to acquire a sandwich. I do not want to crush my body in there the way they are doing because that would be haraam. The unusual presence of a foreign woman at such close range has already attracted its due attention. Like a row of dominoes, heads swivel, abandoning momentarily their mission to catch the eye of the foremost sandwich-maker in order to ogle me. One submits me to such a flagrant mental undressing that I ball up my fist and almost say something unpleasant, but then realize that the ranks have closed in behind me and there is no telling how long we will have to remain in this proximity. If I make a scene, chances are at least some of the men will take my side; but it would push my much-needed sandwich even farther into the uncertain future as the current brawl transformed into a different kind of brawl. “Wel-cohm in Eeegypt,” the creep purrs with a big smile. I press my lips together and look at the ground. Asshole. Stop staring at me. I can’t keep averting my eyes forever or I will not get a sandwich.

Fortunately, my faithful patronage of Shuruq has not been for nothing. One of the employees picks me out of the crowd (not that doing so can have been very difficult) and catches my eye. “‘Ayyiza eh?” he calls through the din. I muster my assertiveness.
“Wahid sandwich ta‘amiyya bi baba ghanou wi salata.”
“Wahid sandwich ta‘amiyya bi baba ghanou wi salata.” He repeats it back to me, then shouts it behind him and turns to the next customer. Now comes the faith-based part of the process, in which you trust that somewhere amidst the relentless contrapuntal litany of orders, yours has lodged in the mental list of at least one of the employees, who will eventually reach it through his unobvious logic and make it like he always done. I wait. The men ogle. The sun bears down. The boy who originally took my order tells me “Da’i’a wahida,” which translates literally as “one minute” and pragmatically as “uh oh, still have to deal with that girl.” I force a smile and stretch a guinea to him through the bodies.

I wonder if the workers ever get afraid back there; after all, the entire enterprise takes place within the confines of a hallway-shaped room full of steaming pots and pans. What if the counter gave way and unleashed the seething heap of men upon them? I can picture it now: the tumble of bodies against the makeshift countertop sends platters of shakshouka and baba ghanoush splatting onto the floor and the fallen, that fat guy in front of me will whack the formidable steel vat of ful (an Egyptian specialty: a paste of fava beans cooked to a mud-like consistency in huge, jug-like pots) on his way down and knock it askew, thus overturning its steaming, muddy contents into the fray. Someone’s cigarette, flicked free of its consumer, will land in the bag of papers attached to the wall and catch flame. “Allaallallalllah!” the writhing victims of poor organization will shout, shoving to break free of the cess pool of ful. That’ll teach ‘em to stand in a line, eh? However, imagining this scene does not bring me the hoped-for vindicitive diversion, as I realize that in fact it does not constitute such a far cry from reality. So why don’t I just go to one of the many establishments on the block adjacent to the American University that cater to Westerners? Western environments seem to inspire Western behavior, and so far Aaron’s hypothesis that the presence of a cash register inspires line-formation has held true. Not only do the customers stand in lines, but also they belong to both genders, and eat pretty salads and sandwiches on plates delivered by obsequious waiters who are happy to beguile you with the few phrases they imagine are English. So what if it costs thirty times as much? Had I not just concluded that week that the best way not to get angry over inexorable cultural differences is to avoid the situation altogether? To this effect I have even started wearing headphones in all public places, a practice I have always ridiculed, simply to drown out the constant hissing of my uncouth admirers. You invest in your sanity.

At last my sandwich appears at the end of a disembodied hand reaching through the tangle. I grab it, seized with the instinctual fear that one of these fellow feeders might get it first, and disentangle myself. The package feels heavy. I open it and sure enough, there are two sandwiches. I do not scream on the outside, but register the unladylike observation, “You’d think after all that they could get my FUCKING order right, those CRAZY, OBNOXIOUS, DISRESPECTFUL....” and so on. I slump into a chair, resigned to eating the separated contents of the sandwich I had ordered. I peek into the first one. Ta‘amiyya and baba ghanous. I peek into the second. The same. “Mohammad” had not messed up. Mohammad had given me two sandwiches just to be nice. He felt sorry for me. He empathized with me, an American girl in a too-short skirt, carrying her laptop and asking for an abnormal sandwich in the hostile and homogeneous territory of working-class Egyptian men. I taste my remorse in every bite.