“I am Egyptian.”
My colleague offered this as an explanation for refusing to relinquish the bill for our ice cream. After an off-campus meeting in Old Cairo, we’d walked through the island neighborhood of Manya so as to happen by Jockey, an unassuming shop boasting “the best ice cream in Egypt,” according to my flatmate. I tested mango and mocha before settling on raspberry and caramel, double scoop. We had to lick rapidly to stop the ice cream from dripping down our wrists—it’s still around eighty degrees fahrenheit at midday—but we stood on the bridge to eat, enjoying the Nile on our left if not the characteristic Cairo traffic to our right.
All together, our three cones were about $2.50, so I didn’t feel terrible allowing Nermine to pick up the tab. But the moment seems an apt symbol of Egyptian hospitality, which in this case meant refusing to let me pay for my ice cream, and in most cases means refusing to let me stop eating. And if someone asks you what you’d like to drink, “nothing” is not an acceptable answer. If you say this, you will still get tea. Probably with three spoonfuls of sugar, in a glass mug only slightly larger than a shot glass. In Egypt, “food is love,” and eating what you’re given is also love. There’s a rhythm to every social gathering—the greeting, the beverages, the refreshments. It’s remarkably structured for a country that lacks coherent systems or things like reliable electricity and non-toxic water. The power may go out four times a day in the summer, but we’ve got a gas stove, so we can still have tea.
There are some things about Egyptian hospitality customs that I find confusing, or a bit odious. Already uncomfortable small-talking with acquaintances, I now find myself having to do this in Arabic, while panicking—do we kiss cheeks? Do we shake hands? Do we do that hug/cheek kiss thing? Do we kiss cheeks even though we don’t know each other because she kissed cheeks with the third party, a mutual friend? Often this waffling turns into a heinously awkward and hesitant “mwah,” and, once, a cheek-to-cheek side-hug when we were facing the same direction, which I tried to rectify by turning my head around mid-gesture. Between cultural gaffes, broken Arabic, and my markedly non-Egyptian physical characteristics (i.e. being slightly taller than the average man), it is very difficult to feel inconspicuous.
That may be the point, actually. The customs honor each person in turn, giving particular recognition to newcomers in a manner that reflects an earnest pride in “our beloved country Egypt,” and a desire to share it. Which is one meaning of hospitality, I suppose, and a very human impulse. We want other people to love what we love, to enjoy what we enjoy, to care about causes we care about. So I’ve received many enthusiastic initiations into Egyptian culture, from cheek kisses to sticky sweet tea to enormous platters of cheesy pastry or crumbly cakes. What at home would be an imposition is, in Egypt, a gesture of goodwill—I would never allow a new friend to make me sandwiches or buy me chips for the road, but our host in Luxor looked almost disappointed when I suggested that we weren’t hungry. And it would be weird for a stranger to ask for a picture of my family, but I’ve found myself pulling up a graduation photo of my parents to show the policemen escorting us around Sohag.
I’m unfailingly awkward in these interactions, but I’m practicing the part of hospitality that is accepting the welcome of others. I must offer some of myself with which to forge a connection, and sometimes that offering is drinking tea I didn’t ask for, or eating until my stomach is bursting, or going in for the cheek kiss even when I’m not entirely confident that the situation requires it. Which is not a bad deal for me—I’ve eaten the best ice cream in Egypt, and gotten three dinners’ worth of calories in one sitting, and warmed my fingers with well-timed scalding tea when the air conditioning is a touch too cool. I can’t say I’m Egyptian, but I’m glad to be a temporary resident.
Katie is a doctoral student in English and education at the University of Michigan. She loves the New York Times crossword puzzle, advice columns, oceans, and dogs of all kinds.
