Where the Path Goes

Little, green lizards dash across the red clay ground dodging under the scrubby evergreen bushes to avoid my crunching feet as I chug and puff up the mountainside. I have no idea where I am, but I can see the tall-steepled church far down the valley Qadisha, so I know where I need to be in two hours to catch my bus. The Americans (one of which had been on my plane to Beirut) I met on the road said take a right when I got to a “Y.” So naturally, when it looked as though the road would split up ahead I veered sharp left up through some orchards, heading for a peak a half kilometer up.

It is not that I am bad at following directions, I just have trouble staying on paths. Off the path has so many more lizards, and cool rocks, and things to jump off of, over, between, through, under. Of course, if I stay on the path I will see something beautiful or interesting or spectacular, that everyone before me has seen. And, if I leave the path I may not see these things—if there was something beautiful or interesting or spectacular off the path chances are someone would have made a path to it. But how can I know for sure. How can I know what the pictures do not show, what the guide books do not describe, what the reviews do not rate.

Much of the time, when I finally reach a place that sells a ticket or has an entrance it is fascinating and has things to jump off of, or climb, and I regret wasting time taking the roundabout route, but at least I know what I am regretting. At least I know the roundabout route and know what it holds—and after all, the entrance with its ticket booth is clearly marked on the map; I can always come back.

A Story That Was Not

A young man stands motionless outside the bar, staring through the well polished glass front designed to show to the world exactly how much more fun it could be having if it did but push through that two way swinging door.  He pulls down hard on the front of his gray-green fedora further obscuring his mundane features and rubs his arms against the 2:00 AM chill.  A white, three-fourths-sleeve thermal clings to his torso, and even in the dim streetlamp light his nipples can be seen through the thin fabric.  A few ill-behaved chest hairs poke embarrassingly through, and while normally he would tug the shirt forward dislodging them, at present his attention is focused steadily deep inside the plate-glass windows, past the animated manikins of glamour and eligibility, through the throngs of flirtation to an unseen, unoccupied, round table with seating for two. 

There is no such unoccupied, round table at the back of the bar and if there were it would not go unoccupied for long, but still he sees it.  And as he watches the small round table a contemplative, young, fedora-ed man in a clinging white shirt pushes through the dark and blurry crowd and sits in the closer chair his back to the muted giggles and conversation that hangs in the room.  A soft blue light illuminates him melodramatically like the contrived moment of anticipation just before the lead actor launches into a sad but inspiring soliloquy, as the first notes of the pit band spill into the audience.  He sits stoically nursing his gin and tonic, or some such scripted drink. 

Before long, another character materializes out of the shadows.  She flows in from behind him brushing his arm, but he does not turn.  He does not need to.  Her dark wavy hair gives off the smell of lilac and basement mold.  She sits in the seat that had always been reserved for her.  She does not look at the contemplative, young, fedora-ed man who now shares his soft blue sheen, but instead stares impassively at the crowd behind.  In contrast, the young man stares directly at her, scrutinizing her eyebrows, scouring her skin, scanning her eyes for even a flicker in his direction.  It is not that she is ignoring him—she is deftly aware of the young man through a sense of acknowledged although never realized history—it is simply that eye contact is at once unnecessary and beneath her.  I minute goes by before she speaks.  Her Lebanese accent is rich and exotic.  She says what he knew she would say, and still he laughs in earnest.  Although her exterior is soft and graceful when she opens her lips her sharpness shows.  It is not that she is piercing or biting.  There is nothing aggressive in her attitude; it has simply been worked to a fine edge.  Be careful, if you get to close the slightest bumble or most momentary trip could result in a severed limb.  The young man is aware of his unworthiness, but navigates the woman keenly, and she is grateful that for once it is not her responsibility alone to keep another from injury.  She can relax.  She can breathe. 

They talk, and laugh.  Sometimes she fakes it, and he does not care.  Sometimes he stares and she does not care.  Both are flattered.  The closer forward he leans, the further down the fedora is pulled until finally shadow covers all but his slightly cracked lips and unshaven jaw.  Both know where this conversation leads, and before half an hour has passed they are pushing through the crowd, his hand on the small of her back guiding her.  He tells himself he is guiding her.  As they pass through the glass door they see a young man across the street, leaning against a lamp post.  This young man wears a clinging white shirt and a fedora pulled so far down that the top has begun to crinkle out of shape.  As they pass by they smile, but the young man just stands there not moving a muscle.  

The pair reaches the intersection and turns right heading into the shadow and daze of a long street of neon and glint.  The young man leaning against the lamppost watches the young man with the flowing, dark Lebanese woman by his side.  There is no jealousy in his gaze, at least none worth noting.  The young man walking away down the street is not him, and the young woman in the young man’s arms is not a part of his life.   He has no desire to be walking down the neon and glint street, a dream in his arms, at least no desire worth noting.

The young man looks one last time through the well polished glass, nods almost imperceptibly as if in agreement with some line of thought he has been following, and walks to the intersection.  He glances right and turns left striding resolutely into the ever growing blue glow of the night. Hamra is a forty-five minute walk away.  He can make it by 3:30.  He will sleep, and tomorrow he will go to church.

A Dangerous Game

It is an interesting and slightly awkward sensation to know that you are that crazy, absurd happening that people will tell their spouse or kids about when they go home at the end of a long day. Well, for about six weeks, before I hacked off my mop of three-fourths-formed dreads, while sliding semi-gracefully in and out of honking traffic, this was my lot. Now that the mop is missing I find it a smidgen easier to skateboard inconspicuously in Cairo, although even now it creates a bit of a stir and tends to raise questions, to which I usually replay “Ok, so I have a death wish.”

I am not sure if I should be proud or disturbed that I am growing much more comfortable skateboarding in Cairo. With my knee still on the mend, I can only take out the board about once a week, and I use it almost solely for transportation. I think I would have to give serious thought to giving it up if it were not such a great way to meet people. It is far better than a baby or a puppy; of course the type—um, that is sex—of people that it attracts in Cairo is a little different.

My first real experience with the social qualities of skating occurred outside a bank I pass on my way home form school. The bank has an ATM that actually works with my card and a block long stretch of the smoothest sidewalk I have found in Cairo. As I slid up to the small set of stairs leading to the ATM, bouncing slightly along with the System of a Down beating in my head, I noticed a group of middle aged businessmen watching me. This is not uncommon, however when the three started to approach me I wondered if I was about to get chastised for skating on the bank’s busy sidewalk.

The man in front pointed at the board with sandpaper on one side and wheels on the other that he saw me holding in place with my right foot and said “Eh da?”

“Da… um… skateboard.” Even if I had known the word in Arabic it would have served me little. Most people in Egypt have never seen a skateboard before.

“Skataburd,” the men repeated to each other a few times, at once committing the word to memory and making a previously fantastical concept into a concrete object. Then all of a sudden one of the men grabbed the board, dropped it to the sidewalk and hopped on. He made it about three feet, at least his long, leather, pointy-toed feet did. His upper buddy stayed resolutely in place, went rigid with shock, donned an almost blissful expression of surprise, and then thumped to the ground. As he picked himself up and brushed dust off his navy blue suit his buddies expressed their concern by laughing uproariously and acting out his two seconds of grandeur. This did not dissolve the man’s resolve, and after fishing the board out from under the car where it had lodged itself he tried again. This time he placed one ridiculous dress shoe on the board and tried to push himself along with the other. Unfortunately, he was now too cautious to actually commit his weight to the leg on the board so instead of gliding or even rolling along, he propelled himself with an ungainly, bobbing hop that produced a pleasingly birdlike effect.

For the next twenty minutes I sat around and chatted about school, the weather, where I live, and what I thought of Egypt (four of the only topics to which I can contribute in Arabic) with whichever two men were not currently trying their hand, or I suppose feet, at skateboarding. Eventually, the level of their bruising and my need to start on homework found an equilibrium, and we said our good byes.

I have a similar ongoing relationship with some of the guys on the market street by our apartment. They generally yell and wave to me when I go past and sometimes I stop and they play with the board for a while. Most of them have given up trying to stand on it and content themselves by sitting while one of their friends pushes them at whatever car or busy intersection or group of giggling girls is closest.

One of the more interesting encounters was a time that I was actually stopped by one of the military guards at a street corner in the embassies neighborhood of Garden City (near downtown Cairo). In the USA there is a certain traditional relationship that pervades between skateboarders and the authorities. With this in mind I was immediately worried that I was about to get yelled at. Then after a moments thought, I decided that actually I felt pretty cool. Clearly this was part of my initiation into becoming an actual skateboarder. However, I quickly discovered that like the men at the bank, the guard simply wanted a turn on the odd, wield apparatus.

Now, I use my skating times more for relaxation than fun. And currently relaxation is something I need for more than social interaction. I have started to avoid some of these more encounter-full locations—the bank, the market street—or I put on some loud music and try to block out the cat calls and kids who jump out in front of me to see if I will swerve and hit a car. I have started building up the courage to skitch, grabbing the bumper of a car as it passes and letting it pull me for a block. But the cars move slow, traffic moves slow, everything is if not pedestrian friendly at least pedestrian wary, and I always leave me music just low enough that I can hear a warning hunk from behind. Honestly, just between you and me, none of this is really as cool or dangerous as it might sound—and I am not just saying that for my parents.

“We are servile and will accept insults and humiliation rather than lose a post or make a protest.”

(From an analysis of Egyptians by Lufti al-Sayyid (1872-1963) portrayed in Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, pg. 175)

Eulogy to an Action Unfulfilled

(To be read after “The April 6 Strikes” below)

And then the rain began.

Late last night the weather turned blustery. Chairs, cardboard and bits of broken tables were thrown across our roof in such unceasing abundance that I began to wonder just how many chairs, pieces of cardboard and broken tables we had amassed. Doors banged. Shutters Crashed. And, unknown objects of glass that would never be found shattered.

And all day it had been overcast.

When I awoke it was still reasonably cold. The sky outside was thick yellow with sand. As I slipped into my black carhartts and pulled my black long-sleeve T-shirt over my hair I imagined the barren streets and roll-down-metal-wall shut shops that must lie below me.

And this fog of anticipation hung in the air.

Yet, when the lift reached the ground floor and I emerged onto the street, life seemed to be bustling, shoving and honking as normal. Perhaps it was a bit quieter. Perhaps a bit more nervous. But, shops sold and people bought. The vegetable and fruit sellers got in my way and heads disappeared down into the metro. No one looked at me especially oddly in my all black outfit with Egyptian flag sticking out of my backpack. I tried not to meet peoples’ eyes, afraid that if I did I might look accusingly at them. Why do your windows clearly display candle holders and knives for me to buy? Why do your tomatoes glisten and tempt today? Why are you filling your bag with these glistening tempting tomatoes? They are over ripe and dirty. They will be here tomorrow. And then I immediately felt guilty. This was exciting to me. It was a livelihood to them.

And police with neck padding and black bludgeons lined every corner.

As I approached Tahrir square the level of security increased. However, I could not help but notice that it was still far less than what a simple ride through town by Mubarak receives. By about 10:00 AM I reached Tahrir. I went straight to the center in front of the big Mugammaa government building and no one stopped me. It was not until I sat down to read, and wait, that a man with a big belly inflating his button-up shirt, wearing a mustache and walkie-talkie told me that I wasn’t welcome here and had to keep moving. It was too dangerous.

And, whether for the protests or against, I felt people wanted to believe that it was real.

Even though Tahrir was no more crowded than usual, the guards that I passed in front of campus looked stern, and resolved, and expectant. At the gate to campus the guards confiscated the Egyptian flag in my backpack. An Egyptian flag, in Egypt, this was a threat. I contemplated pointing out the silliness of this, but when they gave me back my backpack they looked so disapproving that I did not argue. I made my way to the roof of the science building which overlooks Tahrir. A guard stopped me and said I had to go down, but I played ‘dumb American’ and sat down on a ledge away from the square and started reading. Eventually he got sick of watching me and left. I packed up my bag and moved to the far edge of the roof.

And I wanted it to be real.

And there I was, on roof. As the rain spattered down around me I watched the square. I watched the rows of guards standing to attention. I watched the smattering of people looking for direction. Every so often I would check my watch, review in my head the email that had said, “groups will rally around 11:00, and start marching on Tahrir Square between 1-3,” and tell myself that at any moment a ripple would go through the people below. Heads would turn. People would run and push in the direction that everyone was staring, and out of a side street would come a throng of chanting workers. I was too expectant to study, and eventually looking at my watch lost its appeal. So, when I noticed some people I recognized below in the square I rushed down to join them. On my way out of campus I asked the guards for my flag. They huddled briefly and then I was approached by a tall man in a gray suit. He asked me if I was really an AUC student. I said, “tabaan” of course and he demanded my ID. He went over to the security shed next to the gate and wrote down my personal info on a clipboard. Then he returned my flag and ID and I joined the group in the square.

We chatted for a while. One of the kids had been doing work in Palestine a couple weeks ago and was beat up and deported to the USA. He hopped on the next flight for Cairo. A couple of the others worked for NGOs in Cairo. Eventually it was decided that we should head to the press syndicate where more might be happening. Nothing was happening. On the way back we passed a group of Egyptians in civilian clothes but standing in tight formation at the end of Tahrir. One of the guys we were with referred to them as the karate squad. Apparently they are slightly infamous. We hung out around the square for a while talking with some of the Egyptians, students and workers, who were amassing. One of my friends joked that there were more police than potential protesters. Another commented that the only thing the protests had rallied was westerners with cameras.

When the group I was with decided to go to a café and wait I split off with another friend to keep surveying. We drifted around the square. Every five minutes a man with sunglasses and a walkie-talkie would tell us we had to leave. We would move a few yards away and start surveying again. Eventually, I started wandering again. At one point some people started yelling and clamoring towards one of the street radiating from the square. A woman ran by me dragging her two small sons. On of them tripped and fell. She yelled something and slapped him across the back, pulled him up and kept running. I let myself be carried by the throng but by the time we reached the street all that could be seen were police directing traffic around a small knot of activity where a couple people seemed to be getting arrested. I continued down the street following the sent of energy. A minibus had stopped alongside a line of four, green, personal transport semis. People were slamming shut the windows and on the other side a few people were being pulled out of the door. A surge seemed to be welling up in the crowd surrounding me, but at that moment, from somewhere above us, a large bucket of water was dumped on the crowd. Then the minibus was off and traffic began flowing down the street again.

I circuitously made my way to my first class. But the anticipation and need to be elsewhere was too powerful, and when the class (it was only a handful of us) let out I forsook economics, grabbed one of my friends and took to roofs. From main campus, three stories up, we had a clear view of the entire square. It was only 3:00 o’clock and already the crowd had dispersed significantly. In the place where only five hours before I had been told to keep moving because it was too dangerous a toddler now played in the grass doing summersaults and headstands. Behind me on the athletic court a girl scored a goal and the cheer from the meager audience was louder than anything I had heard all day.

Later, on my way home I ran into one of the friends I had seen earlier. The sun had set and it was still dusty but the world no longer throbbed yellow. As he waited for the sandwich he had ordered I asked him how his day went. I asked him if it had turned out interesting. I asked what stories he would tell. He said he had saved two girls from being arrested. I tried to raise my eyebrow inquiringly, and he elaborated. Apparently, a group of Egyptian girls had been in the process of being arrested and he, with his digital SLR and khawaga image, had convinced the police that he was western press. The officers were embarrassed and did not want to look bad so they said the girls could go. I said, “That’s crazy man. That’s frickin’ awesome.” He said his day had been full of these strange little incidents. I agreed that yes, it certainly was a strange day.

And that is exactly what is so interesting and in a way disheartening about the whole affair. I do not know how the April 6 strikes will be remembered by Egyptians, but for me and a certain group outsiders, we will remember a strange day filled with interesting little incidents. We will have stories of these interesting incidents and accounts within and around this strange day. But we will not remember an event, a unified mass, a cohesive occasion. We will never say to a jealous friend or curious child, “I was there. We were there!” And beyond this, because we have our stories and our accounts, we may not even fully recognize that there was a larger event, a frame to our story, to be forgotten.

I have heard from a friend that there were successful protests all around Egypt today and that it was mainly the Tahrir activity that was dismantled by government threats and rampant arrests. I would like to believe that this is true. I would like to believe that they were real. But sitting here in front of my monitor, worrying about tomorrows exam, it all seems so distant, so surreal, like something you here about in the news. It doesn’t feel at all like something that I, in some small way, experienced and took part in. In my head I read the words, “That is great that it was a partial success,” but I glean no sense of passion from this knowledge. I siphon no solidarity or reckless optimism from these abstract and distant activities. My foundations remain firm, my sides stable, my shingles unshaken. I hope it is just me.

The wind is gone. The rain has long since dried, and tomorrow I will awake later than I had planned and wonder, now why didn’t I spend more time yesterday studying for my exam.

The April 6 Strikes

I do not know if this will make the news in the USA, so I have decided to take a moment to tell you about the united strikes and protest that will begin tomorrow in Cairo. I suppose it is not entirely accurate to say that it will begin tomorrow. The roots of tomorrow’s action stretch back about a year and entwine a series of other strikes, protests and demonstrations that have been cropping up since the Mahalla el-Kobra strike. In September 2007, twenty-seven thousand workers at Egypt’s largest textiles factory (and large public sector factory), located in the Nile Delta, went on strike over low and unpaid wages. This momentous display of dissent caught the Government and work force alike by surprise, threatening and alarming the former and inspiring and empowering the latter.

Tomorrows strikes have added halting recent prices hikes; poor quality health, transport, and educational services; combating corruption; and ending arbitrary detention and police brutality to the original agenda.

The main and inciting issue to the April 6 strikes is the rising prices, and the government has preemptively reduced prices and removed excess taxes on key goods. The government has also said it will take “immediate and firm measures against any attempt to demonstrate, disrupt road traffic or the running of public establishments and against all attempts to incite such acts.”

However neither of these responses by the government are being taken very seriously, or at least not as sufficient deterrents, and the strikes—which have been organized and promoted largely through technological means like text messaging and facebook—will go ahead as planned.

Strikers and supporters are asked to refrain from going to work (except for key professions like medicine), buying any good especially bread*, and using public transportation. Protesters around the city will rally tomorrow morning, and when individual groups grow larger than around 50 they will march on Tahrir Square located at the heart of Cairo (and incidentally right alongside the current AUC campus). People are instructed to wear black and display Egyptian flags in support of the cause.

Recently the pro-democracy, oppositional party Kifaya (Enough!) and the Muslim Brotherhood have both voiced their support for the April 6 strikes.

So what is your semi-faithful author’s role in all this? Well, foreigners are strictly forbidden, by both the American University in Cairo and the Egyptian government, from participating in any political activism, under threat of expulsion by the one and imprisonment by the other. So, you will likely see no pictures of me carrying a crudely crafted sign, surrender by stern-looking steel workers, circulating the internet. But, my fridge has been filled with food and my black garb is beside my bed. My camera is charged and my alarm is set. And tomorrow, my intention is to rise early and take to the roofs. I will let you know how it goes.

*Bread to the Egyptians is like corn to the Maya. In 1977 attempts by the Sadat government to remove subsidize on bread triggered massive, violent riots.

Blogship

I feel that bobbing about on the high seas of the Internet there must be hundreds, nay thousands of abandoned blogs.  Blogs that at one time were manned by great captains who ferried passengers from one end of a narrative to the other.  Blogs that at one time were packed so full of valuable and exotic content that water threatened to slip over the sides and trips became ever longer and more arduous.  But at some point the captain gets a real job, that pays real money, or finds herself too busy with day to day responsibilities, or perhaps the voyage for which the blog was built—a road trip around Europe, a semester of development work in Senegal, a particularly interesting election year—comes to an end, and so the blog is left to float free. 

In my case it is simply a matter of being busy.  Since I arrived back in Egypt I have started a handful of entries.  One began

A word to the sensitive, this entry may contain mention of the existence of sex… oh don’t worry, not messy, count the toes and divide by ten kind, just sex as in male/female, but I figure I should still give warning because around here you never know what might offend.

It was all about the trouble we had with having guys and girls living in the same apartment in a conservative neighborhood in Cairo. 

Another started

There are a lot of things that are a bad idea to do with a recovering knee injury, and then there are a few things that are a really bad idea to do with a recovering knee injury.

and it was all about an adventurous walk that Sam and I went on that climaxed in us crawling a mile through an old Ottoman aqueduct three stories over Cairo’s busy streets during the semi finals of the African Cup.

A third began “Today was a good day,” and right now I can’t really remember what warranted this beginning.   

I had intended to write about snapping my key off in the lock when I first arrived back in Cairo, and spending till 6:00AM breaking into my own apartment.  I was going to write a whole entry describing our amazing and giant 5 bedroom apartment with a roof top attached that doubles its size, and another describing some of the interesting new acquaintances I have made this semester.  I was going to tell you all about the old bike I found and got halfway through fixing up before some workers stole it off our roof.  And of course there was the trip to the Siwa Oasis which lies in the middle of a sea of giant rolling dunes almost all the way to Lybia, and the cherished visit with my friend Essraa and her family which resulted in one of the most amazing and honoring experiences I have had during my time in Egypt, and there was the Punk Party, and phone I got from my friend Chris whose number is still tied to half a dozen fast-food restaurants around Cairo which call me at 3:00AM to say that they are very sorry but they are out of chocolate ice cream (I have started changing or adding things to his orders when this happens), and so much more…

Unfortunately, shortly into the life of each of these entries they were guillotined by whichever extracurricular junta has most recently wrestled control of my schedule.  Sometimes it was the Law Students Association (I have now designed their logo, their letterhead, the poster for almost every event and I recently finished their banner).  Other times it was Model United Nation. (The conference that takes place at AUC is the second biggest MUN in the world after the one held in New York.  Our council had students from Greece and two schools in the US.  It was a week and a half ago and lasted 4 days from 9:00AM to 6:00PM.  My partner Mariam and I were awarded best delegation in our council of 60 for our representation of Russia.  It is not near as cool as it might sound.)  Yet other times it was simply writing to many of you on a more individual basis.  Currently it is African Human Rights Moot Court Competition 2008 in Pretoria, South Africa.   A couple weeks ago slipped out of my engineering lab, ran the 6 blocks to the law department, tried out and was accepted into this competition.  I mainly did it for the free trip to South Africa.  I am neither a grad student nor a law student and it is a lot of work, but one needs a good challenge every now and then.  OK, arguable during the second half (midterms, finals and papers) of an already busy semester, when one is also taking 6 classes is not the best now or then, but hell I thought what a great opportunity.  The competition is a week long with a couple-days-long Human Rights Law conference in the middle.  Students come from about a 150 schools all over Africa, and it is also the 100 year anniversary of the University of Pretoria were the African Moot Court was founded. 

All this is way so much time has past without new words or pictures tagging the walls of this blog.  Unfortunately, after this much time I find myself in something of a viscous circle.  I am guessing that most of my old readers rarely if ever check this blog because they have observed that I rarely if ever add any thing new, and I in turn rarely if ever add anything new because I assume that no one really checks this blog anymore.   

I will make the effort to start loading up the old blog from time to time and taking it out for a short sail, if I know that there are those out there who would climb aboard.  What I would like from you is a few people to say “Yes Cole! We still check this ol’ blog when work is slow, and we curse you for not posting anything.”  Second, always feel free to ask question or make requests for things you would like to know more about.  My internet is too slow to post pictures with any consistency, but I will try to get a few up when I can.  

Knowing Moments

There was an Egyptian on the bus.  He glanced out the window from time to time, but mainly chatted devotedly with his mobile like a true Egyptian should.  Across from the Egyptian sat a young man. Although he probably shared more in common with the Italians around him, the young man felt a sense of kinship towards the Egyptian.  After a parting “Tayyib, maashi, boi boi,” the Egyptian hung up and glanced at a BMW speeding by in the opposite direction. Using the pause, the young man leaned into the isle and with nervous excitement asked, “Inta Masri?” Are you Egyptian? The man looked surprised and said that he was.  He apologized for only speaking Arabic and asked what the other was doing in Milan.  The young man stumbled over something about visiting… one day only but got stuck at ‘ridiculously long layover.’ He explained that he attended university in Cairo.  The Egyptian looked pleased, and his eyes beckoned for more.  The young man opened his mouth to speak but there were no words to wet his tongue.  He searched his brain, scouring its gloom, pushing aside dusty piles of Spanish and peering under tomes of math, and reached Arabic just in time to see the last of his words trickling down the back of his throat and close behind them flowed his sense of solidarity.   What had he been thinking?  Just because he could exchange pleasantries in Arabic and rattle off a few prepackaged proclamations didn’t make him this man’s peer.  He fumbled with an apology laced goodbye, humbly passing it to the Egyptian where it disintegrated into ash dropping in his lap or blowing out the window, and then turned back to gazing out the window trying hard not to look at the Egyptian in the reflection and patting himself reassuringly on the back for making the effort. 

The girl screams.  The Middle Eastern man with corn in his hand swipes at the pigeons on her outstretched arm.  The pigeons squawk, flutter, weigh the odds, and return to the arm to look for more corn.  The girl in the black felt jacket and knee-high, wool-lined boots screams again.  Sitting beneath the statue-adorned monument at the center of the pigeon-adorned Piazza del Duomo, a fedora-sporting young man and a white-haired gentleman reading a newspaper glance at each other to see if anyone else has witnessed the scene.  Caught in the mutual glance, both look embarrassed and than smile knowingly.  The smile hangs in the air between them and then turns into a silent chuckle.  Both return to their reading but not before sneaking a peak back at the girl to confirm that the show is over.

There will be a Communist named Giuseppe handing out leaflets along Via Dante.  As a young American passes him on his way to Castello Sforzesco the Communist will invite the American to a conference about ‘The War.’ The Communist named Giuseppe will ask if the American thinks it is a war worth fighting to which the American will reply that No, frankly he is not in support of the war.  The communist will look surprised causing the American in turn to feel surprised.  The American will rationalize the look as stemming from the Communist’s assumption that all Americans would be in favor of the war in Iraq.  Later the American will feel dissatisfied with this conclusion.  He will wonder if his misdiagnosis stemmed from an assumption that all Italian communist would be preoccupied with the war in Iraq.  Perhaps ‘The War’ was referring to the war against capitalist exploitation and the communist was surprised that any young man could fail to support this struggle.