Empty talks from my small taka'ybah in Oslo.

Me: A7a!
W.: Men ana? (Who, me?)
Me: no, not you!  The Post-structuralism!

W. is my Egyptian colleague. Everyday we send each other an email around twelve saying: Sigara sawa?(sigarette together?) and we organize our Egyptian coffehouse in the university courtyard.
He brings me coffee and offers me his red Malboros and we spend our time on the bench, chatting, laughing, recounting our days in Cairo and the new life in Norway. Sometimes we have guests, so we spend even more time.
Actually in those days we were dreaming of our next week in Paris: shopping in the duty free and in the city centre, sightseeing and...sleeping during the conference talks. Wa ana maly bel structuralism, yani! (I don't give a damn about structuralism!)
But yesterday he told me: I was told I have to comment about A.'s paper, something about Japanese religion.

Ahahahahah, i told him. While I'll be enjoying the view from the Eiffel Tower. 

Today I opened my mail and i found a message sent by our research coordinator in which she says that...
I have to prepare a 10 minute comment on the use of Post-structural literary theory in a presentation about "science fiction in Indian Literature". I have no clue about structuralism, imagine about post-structuralism! And since when Indians have been writing literature, and science fiction!!!! (joking, joking!)

Me: A7a, a2ollohom eh, yani?(What am I going to say, then?)
W.: Ayye kalam, wa ana a2ol sa7 wa asaf! (Anything, and I say that you're right and I clap!)...
From the top of the Eiffel Tower!!!

[Della serie, "chi sfott riman sfuttut." ]

In un giorno come questo

Stanotte ho sognato Enrico. Il suo viso zoommato, come dietro la lente di una macchina fotografica. Mostrava un enorme sorriso. Poi ho sognato un piumone bianco e un abbraccio. Everything as it used to be.
Era un sogno, quindi ovviamente un illusione. Non ho una macchina fotografica e il mio piumone e' a strisce bianche e nere. Ma quando ho aperto gli occhi, gia sorridevo e avevo il coraggio di tirarmi giu dal letto e affrontare un nuovo giorno, nonostante fossero le otto e fuori fosse ancora buio.

Non voglio che Clara - In un giorno come questo

Quante altre volte avrai chiesto in un giorno come questo dopo tante delusioni aspettare fino a maggio e non avere poi i coglioni. e pensa a quante volte abbiamo chiesto per un giorno come questo dove è tardi ma fa niente ti avvicini lentamente poi mi prendi per la mano e insieme non sappiamo dove andare non sappiamo come fare.

On manhood. . دلع دلع آه دلعني

Dear women, there seems to be a very different concept of genders in this country.
If you were imagining Norwegian men to be more or less like Europeans (only wearing more jackets), forget it. If you like the romantic Italian guy carrying flowers, or the macho latino dancing salsa or the passionate Arab rolling hash for you, then you should not look for locals.  
In Norway the woman is the strongest in the couple. My Egyptian colleague says that he loves Norwegian women because they decide and control everything, so he likes not having any responsability in the couple. But my Austrian landlord claims that the 90% of foreign men married to Norwegian woman get divorced because after a while they feel completely dis-empowered.
You, woman, should be so strong that if you want to date someone, you have to ask for the phone number and inviting him to go out. And don't get disappointed if you get the door smashed in your face because the man who entered before you does not even think of holding the door for you. Or if the man who is talking with you, stares at the wall. (like the Muslim brothers!).Those innocent acts of courtesy might be intended as  flirting, actually.
At a concert an handsome guy starts talking to me offering me a beer. Mashaallah! That is a miracle! My fancy silk skirt looks sexy even here in Norway!!!? And he is even a painter, and teaches art to a disabled guy. And he made graffitis in Napoli Central Station. Half an hour talking together, for him is definitely enough to start hugging me and talking at 2cm from my lips. Sorry, not enough for me.  "I have to look for my friends, I'll be right back.", I say. But that sounds as such a bad refusal for him and he must feel so ashamed. When I'm back, he clearly avoides me and runs to the opposite side of the bar.

What is the solution, then? How people get marry and have children?
Drinking a lot, of course. 
But also, there is a social network, incredibly popular among Norwegians, where you can choose your favourite partner from his profile picture, interests or his favourite sexual toys (!!) and invite him to go out.(I received smart tips on how choosing your photo and write your profile description). 
Does it not remind you of the Gulf countries?(except for the sexual toys!)
With the difference that Arab guys can tell you poetry, and sing, and make you feel as a princess. But they don't have the opportunity to meet a girl personally.
Here: wonderful landscapes, white snow, the river, the desert islands, loads of bars...but very little romanticism.

لو ماكنتش انت تدلعني مين حيدلعني
مين حيدلعنيلو ماكنتش انت تمتعني مين حيمتعني
(Hakim)
 

For this post I have been paid by Norwegian Ministry of Tourism

This weekend I have had some Italian friends coming over and I had a chance to visit Oslo with them. Of course the pleasant company and the sunny weather have been influential, but I realized that Oslo is such a nice city. All the museums are free in winter (and Munch museum is really worth of notice), there are beautiful parks, and all the harbour area is packed with cozy restaurants, luxury boats and nice buildings. You can sit at the Opera house open cafè, directly on the sea, with the seagulls flying over you, and drinking your coffee in a relaxing silence. You can experience hippy and freak atmophere in Grünerløkka and bump into a Sunday second-hand market. Or you can take a ferry and in 5 minutes you can reach a desert island, where you can walk in the wood and lie on a rocky beach. You can choose one of the many trendy bars in downtown and go to dance. (If you choose to dance salsa, you could end up to be surrounded by Latin American prostitutes and old creepy Norwegians) And finally, you can ride a night bus, surrounded by drunk blonde girls sleeping in the corridors wearing minishirts and short sleeve shirts and get back home. Any more reason to come and visit me?

Bayny wa..bayny. Between me and...myself.

The problem is not being alone. I am getting to know people, going out to dance, cinema, and other social events. The problem is being with myself. I have too many things in my mind to deal with.
And now I realize that until now I have just avoided to being with myself. Running out of my bedroom, eagerly scrolling down the contact list of my mobile, trying to find new exciting things to do every night, getting easily attached to people were only ways of escaping. You have to face them, not to run away. This is not the solution, my mother used to tell me when I was trying to avoid family gatherings at Christmas time. As now I have to face myself.

The other problem is talking about myself. Sincerely, I mean. Not forced and formal talks. I still can't open my heart to anyone. Also, I don't have the proper linguistic skills to do it. Norwegian, I can only imitate its accent. (I listen to Norwegian radio every day and I can't understand a single word but I can reproduce the accent perfectly). As for English, I have always felt it is far from my feelings. (But it's more or less familiar to anyone, that's why I use it to write this blog) 

I am sure that once I  get over these two issues, I'll become an adult. I will get used to work routine, to going back home, preparing my dinner and plunge myself in my readings or in my films. If you can't do it peacefully on your own, you are not adult enough to share this routine with any partner.

There is a nice kind of routine, as making your coffee in the morning and lighting up your first cigarette with your partner, someone used to tell me. Exactly like the couple living in front of me, that I enjoy watching every morning. They sit in front of each other, drink their coffee and smoke next to the window, not saying any word. I mean, I don't see their lips moving. She just assumes very sexy postures and keeps staring at him. And he keeps staring at her. They look very boring to me.
But then, from their window, every evening they could watch me talking and making passionate gestures in front of my monitor. I must look very childish, then.

بيني وبينك إيه .. شغلت بالي ليه
شغلوني وفاتوني .. بين همي وظنوني
بيني وبينك إيه .. شغلت بالي ليه

What is there between us?
Why did you occupy my thoughts?
Troubling me and leaving me
between my worries and concerns
What is there between us?
Why did you occupy my thoughts?
(Abdel Halim Hafez)

Geographic identity crisis

In the past years I've been living in a country situated in what we "superdeveloped, globalized western  people" usually call "the south of the world", or "the third world". Thus, every time I mentioned that I am from Italy, local people used to open their mouth and their eyes wide, then to praise the beauty of my country, to claim how culturally close we are, and finally they used to tell me: "how I wish I could move to Italy and live all my life there!".
Just because my country is situated a little bit more northern, some people used to feel "under" in every aspect. That is something that could have influenced friendhsip, love, food shopping, sharing the sit on the train. That' why, every time, I had to crush their expectations, explaining that in my country there is no real democracy, that my grandfather used to work in the countryside, that my mother doesn't allow me to sleep in my bedroom with a guy, that streets are dirty and crowded. I managed to convince them so well that in the end they believed that I was born in Shubra or Imbaba. (the most local and overcrowded areas in Cairo).

This time I took the opposite direction. Norway, the further North. Every time I say I am from Italy and Napoli, local people start to laugh. The first thing they ask me is if Gomorra is a fantasy movie. When I tell them that it is a documentary, they reply: "I feel so sorry for you". They know about the garbage problem, Berlusconi's escorts, that Cicciolina was a porno actress and is now member of the Parliament, that the typical Italian man stays with his mother until his late thirties. They usually say: "I can't understand how Italy is so messed up and  people still go on normally" or "You have a beautiful history but a miserable present" or "It must be a beautiful country but I would never live there.". I  feel so embarassed, as if I'm carrying all the shit produced by my government. I have to say something to defend my country, so I tell them about the sun, the food, the beaches, the museums. I manage to convince them so well that in the end they say: "Yes, I might go to Rome for a couple of days in the summer."

One more example: today I took part to a critical mass in Oslo. (mass protest on the bike). In my home town we used to do it to protest against the local governement, the school reform, the unemployment. That was for global warming. Global, and I say global, warming.

Conclusion: The more northern you go, the more you feel low-down.

Kteer 7elw! (So nice!)

Calm and cool. That's how I feel.
Nothing manages to panic or stress me.
Belaaks. Many small things relax me and make me smile.

Like running with my bike on the downhill, with the wind in my face and Natacha in my headphones.
Hearing Cairo noises disturbing our conversations on the phone. 
Meeting a guy on the tram and being surprised that he is so polite to take me around in downtown to return me the hospitality that he received in Portugal. But then he suddenly leaves me as soon as I look in his eyes. (one more tip about Norwegian social behaviour ).
Sitting on the swing in the courtyard, with my legs up and down, sipping my tea, and watching all the house interiors from outside. Two candels on the kitchen table still lighten up, photos on the fridge and the bedroom door closed.
Hearing my professor knocking on my office door to invite me for an informal coffee in his place with the other "Internet" colleagues.
Receiving an email by an Italian public school offering me to teach English for 15 days, and realizing that I had handed my application "only" 2 years ago.
Fixing nails in wall while listening to Sha3aby music at full volume in my sound-proof apartment.
Meeting Rana, my Lebanese office mate, with her pregnant belly, rose cheeks and never-ending will of talking and laughing. Hearing her deep breath while she sleeps under the blanket on the sofa located behind my chair. Kteer 7elw, the last word she said today before falling asleep.
.

"Khallek fee 7alak" or better "Stay in your status"

One of the scuptures of Vigeland Park, very suggestive in a rainy day. 

Some practical tips about social behaviors in Oslo. 

First one: never wear a t-shirt on which is written Khallek fee 7alak (en. keep to yourself, it. stai al tuo posto) in an Arab context. Friday night I was at a concert of Maghrebian funk, and the band was mostly composed of Moroccans and Algerians living in Oslo for long time. The audience was not really wide and I was sitting directly in front of the stage, so my t-shirt definitely attracted the band's attention. After the concert, they all ended up commenting on the sentence and pretending to be offended, but still staring at my boobs with no shame. Because Arabs are "passionate" everywhere, even in the coldest place in the world. .

   

Second one: avoid making direct personal questions to Norwegian people. They are very shy regarding some subjects. Questions or claims like "Where do you live", "Do you live alone" or "I can marry you even tomorrow if you take with you a BMW and a bottle of wine", inevitably force them to look at the floor.  But more than a cultural problem, I would say that not all people get impudent like me after several glasses of Araki. .

Third one: Norwegians never ask your mobile number. Even if they take you home by taxi and hug you quite warmly (that was caused by alcohol of course). So, definitely forget your huge list of contacts of your Egyptian or Italian mobile card. .

I have got a bike. My long-standing dream of going out or to work cycling can now be realized. The only problem is the heavy drizzle rain that cut your cheeks. Oslo is starting to reveal its Nordic aspects. But my Mediterranean soul is ready to face the challenge.  


   

Welcome to the Norwegian wood.

Norway and Oslo welcomed me with a shining but cold sun. Everything around is green, there are lots of apple trees and you can see a villa every 100 metres. There are beautiful gardens and parks with swings (3ala shan el dunya zay el murge7a fee norweeg bardo) and jumping mattresses, and everybody goes cycling, and the air is so clean that you hear your lungs swearing against you for all the cigarettes smoked so far.
But there is an embarassing silence. Streets are empty and the few people that you can see are not talking loudly or better not talking at all. It so silent that you can hear the bycycle wheels and the leaves moved by the wind. That is why I always need music in my headphones. It is like when you are with someone who you are not familiar with and you try to say anything to avoid the embarassment of the silence.

I've settled in my flat. Tommy, the owner's best friend, took me there. He works as a wine-taster and I felt he considers me a bit exotic as he kept asking me about Italian words and customs.
There is a nice courtyard outside the building with children games, tables and wooden houses on the trees. The ones that we have always seen in television and always dreamt when we were children and then all that we got was the cement pavement outside our 10 floor building.
In the flat there is a massive kitchen equipped with all you can imagine. Christoph, the owner, is a researcher in Asian Studies and loves cooking, so the cupboards are filled with every kind of spices, mugs, pots and more. I thought it is quite a stereotype to travel with "Norwegian wood" by Murakami in my bag, but then is the first book I've seen in his kitchen bookshelf.
My room is nice but is completely white. I've soon hanged up my Egyptian decorations (the string of  flowers, Sisi and the golden traycloth) but they look a bit out of place in the IKEA-white background. There is a massive window giving on the street and...a sink. Yes, a sink, like the ones you have in the bathroom. But just in the middle of the bedroom. Because I could get thirsty at night, I was said.  
But there other typical Norwegian details in the house that i can't still understand. Such as: showers have no shower tray (I thought that was more an Egyptian peculiarity). Also, you have to switch on the kitchen stoves with a touch pad, as a laptop, but then I guess my finger is either too violent or too gentle, because until now I've vehemently called Jesus Christ several times only to make a coffee. But the strangest thing, wallahi, is that the washing machine is in common with rest of the building tenats, downstairs in the cellar and you have to book it some days before. That means that washing  my underwear and my clothes would become a particular occasion for me, like birthdays or job-interviews, the ones you have to write on your agenda.

At university I've been given an office with a computer, and a bookshelf. I'll soon receive a new laptop and an anti-depressing lamp which artificially reproduces the day light, to be used in the months in which it will be always dark. I was making fun of this thing yesterday, while I was having dinner in a friend's flat, with some Norwegians, but those Norwegians were not laughing, rather, one of them told me: "Those anti-depressing lamps prevent suicide in winter. I think you will seriously need it in November". Brrr.

I'm spending lots of time alone. Ma3a nafsy. At home. In my office. Or walking. But I still feel ok with it. Mainly because I feel that all my "family of friends" is emotionally with me. And then because I need to realize what happened in the last few months.

And when I awoke, I was alone
This bird has flown
So I lit a fire
Isn't it good Norwegian wood?
(Norwegian wood, The Beatles)