shehab’s Neighborhood

1. Grey days
2. Meeting old friends
3. Meeting new people
4. Being in new places
5. Heading towards unknown destinations
6. Feeling that I am losing
7. Not being centred
8. Wondering why I am not centred
9. Guilt
10. Feeling I don't belong
11. Not knowing where I am heading in life
12. Realising it is all pointless
13. Wondering what might have been
14. Not feeling I have endless shots at anything
15. Being reminded of my mortality
16. Wanting to go to the toilet
17. Being dehydrated
18. Feeling sweaty and dirty
19. Knowing I am not with the ones that matter
20. Being with the ones that matter and feeling it is not working the way I want
21. Coming down from a high
22. Bad coffee
23. Feeling I have stepped on people's toes by being rude
24. Admitting that I am jaded and have stopped dreaming
25. Being sick

(Outdoors at the Cafe Umbria, Pioneer Square, Seattle - waiting for the bus to Vancouver.)

At Seattle's King's Street station, the lady who sold me the ticket to Vancouver had only ever been to Vancouver once.  She is black and looked not older than 50.

Me: What did you think of Vancouver?

She: Well, sir, um, ... It was a bad day.

Me: A Vancouver bad day, or a you bad day?

She: I had my grandson with me, and he's on a wheelchair and it was just so difficult.  Just didn't feel like here.  But it was just one day, and I gotta go out there again.

Me: You have a grandchild?

She: Uh-huh.

Me: You don't look that old at all.

She: Thank you, sir. 

Me: You don't look it at all.

She: I actually have twelve grandchildren.

Me: Twelve.  Wow.  My God!

She: I have a great grandchild too.

Me: Great grandchild!

She: Yep.

Me: How do you feel?  Are you happy?

She: They're beautiful, it's just wonderful to have such lovely family.  I just can't believe they all came from me!

Me: Hahahaha.

She: Enjoy your trip to Vancouver, sir.

Why do I find scientific conferences overwhelming and uninspiring?

Talk after talk after talk of people, who are not good public speakers, reporting on what they've already done.

I first attended a scientific conference back in 1996.  12 years on, I am still sitting there befuddled, stuff going over my head, in one ear, out the other.  Now though, I have the option of sitting with my wi-fi-enabled laptop and publish my thoughts on the internet right away.

Over lunch some delegates shared humourous anectodes on previous conferences.  Did you hear the one about the Las Vegas conference?  Only the chair and the presenters were in the session, everyone else was out gambling.  Once a presenter finished, they didn't even have the courtesy to attend the other presentations.  They were out the door - find them at the roulette table.

Did you hear about the Hawaii conference?  Delegates were sitting bare-chested in shorts and flip-flops on back tables.  They wouldn't even sit on the chairs.  If a talk wasn't interesting, they went out the back door to join their families on the beach.  'I'll check again in ten minutes.'

What makes a presenter unengaging?  Is it fear?  That same person, over dinner, can explain his work to you beautifully, but in front of an audience, he turns rigid and halting.

Is it defensiveness?  One presenter was the epitome of defensive unhurriedness.  He did not even look at us.  His eyes were always looking to the side.  Ask him a question and he starts. by.  repeating.  the.  earlier.  definition.  that.  he.  gave.  Ask him another question and he misunderstands you and answers another question - you wonder if he is deliberately doing so.  Ask him again, just to clarify, and he goes: "what?" and looks at the session chair, as if to say "okay.  we have a troublemaker here.  wanna step in?"

The themes need to be focussed a lot more.  We should get more discussion forums and more 'challenges' than the reporting system we have currently.

Still, it's a holiday.

My suggested follow-up to Sleepless in Seattle: Tittle-tattle in Seattle.

This is a city clearly designed for a car.  I thought it'd be prettier in terms of infra-structure.  But it is nature that is very pretty here.  I have not seen much of Seattle yet, but whatever I've seen indicates a genteel, pretty (by nature) town.  It neither feels nor operates like a major city.

The University of Washington (Udub) is exceptionally inspiring.  It is big, green, elegant and I'd love to work here.  :-)

I do not know if saying you come from London has this effect on people, but whoever I've talked to so far is a little defensive about Seattle.  Saying you live in London often has this effect on people.  In South Africa, people would even ask: "and how do you find it here?" - with a defensive tone.  Seattle people are not as defeatist but they're not particularly enthused about their town either.

I have a nutter of a hotel receptionist and he's been filling me in on all things Seattle: "people here don't tan, they rust".  (Because of all the rain.)

I have also been struck by how not particularly friendly people are.  The bus drivers seem clueless about the other routes.  Most of them just shrug and go "I don't know" - not their problem.  One of them yelled at a fellow Japanese delegate: "do you speak English?"  (He does, but he's very shy about it.)

I am known to mangle my speech but almost everyone I have met in Seattle asks me to repeat what I've just said.  Then they stare at me.

It's a small town, really: Seattle.

Scientific conferences are some of the most boring things in the world.

The number of ways people can be turned-into-themselves, straight-down-the-line boring is remarkable.

Talks follow one pattern: here's what I'm going to say; here it is; this is what I said.  Generally, the structure is: introduction, data, methodology, results, analysis, bye bye.

I sat in the beautiful sunshine on the Udub campus among people I don't know.  The first five minutes were excruciating.  I am not the most sociable of people, I know, but I am rarely an awkward communicator.  I do not bury conversations by looking down and going quiet.

My first day in New York City was a long, sweaty introduction to lower Manhattan and downtown.  To start things off bright and early, Uncle S, who is a friend of my father's and treats me as a son, took me to breakfast at a diner: the Port Washington Diner.  Air-conditioned and shiny, its choice of meals was regular fare, but good.  You are well-served in the US: someone puts a glass of cold water right after you sit down, they top it up when needed, orange juice, unlimited coffee, ...  A similar deal in London would set you back at least £10.  At the Port Washington Diner it cost $6.

Uncle then took me down to Penn station on the LIRR service.  We passed stations named things like Great Neck, Little Neck, Bayside, Woodside and Manhasset.  

The service reminded me very much of London's South West Trains, which serves the south west suburbs of London.  The LIRR services the Long Island suburbs.  The tracks, on both services, are lined with tall trees and shrubbery.  Even the machine to buy the ticket for getting on the LIRR was similar to the newly-installed machines in London.  Is the world becoming uniform?  

That ever-so-London "Mind the Gap" announcement, I found in New York too, where it is "Watch the Gap".  (I prefer "mind" - from a linguistic point of view.)  Even the automated announcements (giving the current station and the next station) were worded like those of the London service.  The world IS becoming uniform!

Ok, fine, there are some differences.  The LIRR announcements are in a Noo Yewark accent, and the trains are air-conditioned (air-conditioning is everywhere in New York).  The seats are two sets of three-abreast without the usual islands of space I am used to on South West Trains.
 
New York is more diverse than London - no matter what everyone says.  London does not have as strong a representation of Chinese-looking and Black people as New York.  And people talk in foreign languages loudly and openly in NY.  In London, it seems less frequent - certainly not on the South West Trains service.  Americans seem to have a higher tolerance for people who speak basic English than the Brits.  I observed people in New York whose English is really poor; yet New Yorkers communicate with them as if that's a disability they pretend not to notice.

Uncle took me first to Times Square and I don't know what fell upon me but I started snapping pictures like a mad tourist.  The heights of the buildings, the hail of images that greeted me, and the bustle all combined to inspire me.  Uncle soon started to encourage me to move on. 

We took a bus down seventh avenue to the financial district.  This was an inspired idea by Uncle because it was air-conditioned!  Quite how New Yorkers handle change from street-hot to air-conditioned-cool without getting frequent colds is a mystery to me.

At the financial district we went to the memorial right across from the Statue of Liberty, close to Battery Park.  I loved that.  A dance improv company were limbering up.  People were lying on the bits of green.

Battery Park was next door, and it was nice.  Kids of all colours played in the fountain.  Tourists mixed with locals.  Entertainers put on shows.

Uncle took us on the Staten Island ferry, and back.  This meant we got really close to the Statue of Liberty.  I never thought I'd fall for that symbol, but being so close to it, I instinctively went snap-crazy.  Few people know that the French designer of the Statue of Liberty originally built it as a monument for Alexandria, Egypt.

Back on Manhattan, we went to Bowling Green (a very English part of town in my opinion) and Uncle got me to hold the Charging Bull by one of its balls (yeah, just one). 

Then, it was off to Trinity Church, Wall Street and the NYSE.  I was more impressed by the church than the other two.  The famed street and this powerhouse of a stock-exchange were nothing more to me than a dark narrow street and a building with an imposing facade.  Uncle wanted more expressions of admiration!  "I am bringing you to the world-famous Wall Street, to the New York Stock Exchange, show some enthusiasm," he prodded.

Uncle was unhappy I did not have a bigger memory flashcard for my camera.  "If you're coming to New York, you need the biggest flashcard you can find.  That's just common sense.  What are you doing reviewing your pictures and editing them on the go, I want you looking up, not down!  Come on!" 

Well, the US is famous for its cheap electronics, so I suggested to Uncle that we go buy me a flashcard.  "I've got the best shop for you.  The best in the world probably."  He took us to J&R, not too far from Wall Street.  Within minutes, I had bought a 4Gig flashcard that can carry 436 pictures in raw format, double-speed for $20 - ain't gonna get better than that.  "See?  Now you are prepared for New York," he said.

It was off to Ground Zero next.  I must admit I was not particularly keen on going; but Uncle insisted.  I guess because he knew what the area looked like before, he feels the huge gap.  But I had never seen the Twin Towers; to me Ground Zero is just a big building site surrounded by skyscrapers. 

I was now getting hot and slightly impatient.  Uncle noticed it.  He said I needed new sandals, not these bloody trainers.  "Come, I have just the shop for you."  We went to Century 21, overlooking Ground Zero - a department store that is also a landmark.  I did not buy sandals, but Uncle convinced me I needed another pair of shorts.  "White t-shirt, khakhi shorts, sandals, that's how people dress here in the summmer," he instructed me.

Then it was Fulton Market and South Street Seaport.  This is the former fish market area that has been converted into a buzzing, trendy East River chill-out spot.  Lots of people were milling about on the Seaport pier.  It was hot and humid and if people had the opportunity to take a dip in the East River, they probably would have.

I overheard a young black couple having the typical conversation of big-city dwellers: wanting to escape their jobs, the heat, wanting to go more 'exotic' places.  She wanted to go to the Dominican Republic, he to Europe.  They sure look like they have a great future together.

On the streets of Manhattan and in its shops, I noticed that big-city syndrome of impatient, unfriendly people who wish you'd get out of their way.

At this point, almost 7pm, I realised I was tired, dehydrated, and generally "off".  We went into the South Street Seaport mall and had some food in its food court.  Uncle compromised on the choice of location and type of food because he could see I was in no mood to walk any further.  But no matter what ice cream or smoothies we had afterwards, I knew he hated that cheap food - and he had good reason to.

Still, we bonded.  He told me the story of how he emigrated to the US.  In typical Egyptian style, he put the good fortune he had in his life to "barakit do3al waaledein" (the blessing of my parents' prayers for me).

Recharged, we set off in the dark to the UN headquarters and several other landmarks that Uncle pointed out and I was just shaking my head like a zombie to.  One thing that stood out was the Grand Central station.  It was arresting.

Now finally we headed home.  It was 11pm.  But the bloody LIRR service waited for half an hour at Shea Stadium station - for people coming out of the Billy Joel concert.  Okay, I had a seat and it was nice and air-conditioned, but man did I want to go home!

So I am in New York.  I have arrived.  Finally.  

New York State of Mind, baby.  New York State of Mind.

It's sunny and beautiful.  It's hot; people are carrying iced drinks everywhere.

My arrival was marred by a one hour and a half detainment - termed as 'inspection' - at the Department of Homeland Security's office in Newark Airport.  My luggage was searched fully too.  He turned my suitcase topsy turvy, said "okay, i'm done with that, i'll move on to your rucksack now", and left me to rearrange the mess.  The room they invited us to was like a large waiting room of a doctor - looking clean and hygienic; Martha Stewart was playing on day-time TV.

They asked a lot of questions, quite intrusive ones.  When I complained that of all the passengers on my flight, I had been the only one to be "inspected" and that this must relate to my name and origins, they maintained it was random and that they do not have "racial profiling".  Other passengers likewise delayed for inspection (some were white) speculated that the authorities wanted to uniquely identify our names from other similar names.  An American white woman was angry they had stopped her ("I am American.  I was born here, I lived here all my life.")  She was sorted out in five minutes.  

My dad's friend, who was waiting outside along with his wife, waited in total about two and a half hours.

My hosts thought Newark airport was beneath them.  They live in Long Island; they fly out of only JFK.  The drive from Newark, NJ to Long Island in 5pm rush traffic looked set to take up to two hours.  Aunt S alluded to the huge rise in petrol prices ($5 a gallon!)  Uncle S was keen to reassure me it was no big deal though.

Sitting in the backseat observing NJC and NYC at close quarters was a strangely familiar experience.  The Holland Tunnel, which links New Jersey to Manhattan, felt long.  Brooklyn Bridge looked good.  Chinatown was very busy and full of people.  Manhattan was choking with traffic.  

We resolved to eat out and circumvent the rush traffic.  My hosts took me to an all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant on Queen's Boulevard.  Queens Boulevard is one of those American wide roads with no soul: it is lined with car dealerships and the like.  The restaurant provided its own valet parking - very uncommon in the UK.  The restaurant was huge; it was previously a warehouse.  I had never seen something so big, food so plentiful and relatively cheap.  We ate!  "This is America: " my hosts educated me, "everything is plentiful and everybody is equal."

Driving through rundown parts of Brooklyn was an immediate introduction to the differentials that are part and parcel of USA society, and mankind in general.  My hosts (Egyptian and Chinese immigrants with basic command of English) introduced me directly to the unspoken stereotypes.  Brooklyn is a bad neighbourhood, mostly.  Don't go to Harlem!  The Village is for hippies and psychos.

The drive to Port Washington, Long Island was lovely.  Aunt S, who had been to Kingston in south west London only a couple of months ago, commented: "just like Kingston".  But the Grand Central expressway revealed a part of Long Island bigger than Kingston, and equally green and quiet.  We passed such posh parts of town as Manhasset - which has its local Prada branch.  

My near-retirement age hosts are proud of their home; this part of New York City - for them - is civil and sane.  In fact, Port Washington, though not the most expensive part of Nassau County is a highly desirable area.  45 minutes on the Long Island Railway Road (LIRR) service and you're in Penn Station.  Who can argue with that?

For no good reason, and probably as a way of escape, I have gone to see four Arabic movies in under 24 hours.

The BAFTA (British Academy of Film and Television Arts) is organising a special celebration of movies from the Arab world.

It kicked off with a gala opening night of drinks, followed by the Syrian film "Out of Coverage", followed by drinks and canapes.  The gala night was grossly over-priced (£25); but it was a good place to meet interesting people.  Among the bored journalists of major Arab media outlets were the directors and producers of some of the movies.

The opening film was the Syrian "Out of Coverage".  This was a likable and quite funny film about a put-upon chap (the typical hero in most Arabic films) who is noble enough to attempt to take care of a friend's family while the friend is in prison.  But it was not realistic; it portrayed Damascus and Syrian women in possibly too flattering light.  I was struck  (by Damascene beauty, of course) but also by how similar Damascus looks to Cairo.  Though not as crowded, it has the look and sounds of the nicer parts of Cairo.

I liked that the film lingered on the central characters and their relationships before, finally, revealing the true dilemma at hand: the hero has fallen in love with his friend's (who is in prison) wife.  It is satisfying, 45mins into a film, to discover that it has a structure and story, that it will not be a resounding disappointment afterall.  But by concentrating on humour and paying loving attention to the attractions of life in Damascus, the story was slightly degraded.

The overall feeling amongst my friends was that it was funny but forgettable.

I wondered if the director was unwittingly, or wittingly, pandering to the international festival audience in his mind.

Today morning, I watched Egyptian production "Ein Shams" directed by Ibrahim El Batout.  The movie won "top film" at one of the festivals - which is an achievement for a very understated, documentary-like film.  Again, the director shows us around his home town: Cairo.  In particular, there were many evocative sequences from Ein Shams, the suburb the film is named after.  But in contrast to "Out of Coverage", the footage is not flattering. 

The film was sentimental to a high degree.  It tackled the story of a young girl growing up to a put-upon father (another one!).  It educated us on the story of Jesus - Mary and Jesus sought refuge in Egypt at some point and were reputed to have lived briefly in today's Ein Shams.  The dialogue was real and authentic in many parts and reminded me of how easily good dialogue comes to Egyptians because we are much more expressive and emotional than most nations. 

Some shots lingered on the characters for unusual lengths of time, or they continued to be fixed even when the character has already moved out of the frame.  At many points, I silently applauded the director for not using music to influence certain sequences; but then he used music to devastating effect in other scenes.  In the Q&A, the director explained these quirks as "necessary for the rhythm of the movie".  But the overall feeling, to most tastes, was that this made the film feel weird and loose, ill-fitting.  The director's strong documentary background probably explains this style.

Ein Shams was impressive and made me feel good about Ibrahim El Batout's approach of independent-minded film-making.  His film would never succeed at a popular level.  Though the film is still pending discussion and has not been on release in Egypt, it would only attract attention because of its rather controversial sociological content.  I did not feel the humour was as deliberate as "Out of Coverage".  The good news is that the producer has already made a big profit on the film from selling it to various satellite channels.
 

The next film "Paloma Delight" was a much more conventional film.  It had a decent budget, clearly.  The story was well-put-together and the cast had a lot of eye candy.  Yet another Arab director makes a point of showing us around his town, Algiers - and educating me. 

A prostitution madame, who also does odd-job fixing, found new talent Rashida - whom she renames Paloma - and proceeds to slowly introduce her to the ways of "relieving men of their loneliness".  Except that the madame's son falls in love with Paloma. 

As ever, the film is heavy with symbolism - as the director confirmed in the Q&A.  My main problem with this film was its length and its evident symbolism - I did not like the inherent implication of longing for the past, the French past.  It was also entirely in French - although the director explained that this was necessary for funding reasons.

Nevertheless, with some genuine female beauty on display and a well-acted, well-thought-through scenario, no one came out of the theatre feeling disappointed (though perhaps frustrated).  The director proved himself an intelligent guy (speaking through a interpreter) during the Q&A.

Finally, I watched "Under the Bombs", the Lebanese production that was filmed within days of the end of the Israeli bombing of South Lebanon two years ago. 

The director got the idea three days into the bombing and proceeded to put it onto film within weeks.  So, they shot during the last days of the bombing and recorded on film, firsthand, all the destruction. 

The story is that of a wife going against all flows of traffic - TO Beirut, TO the South of Lebanon (all traffic is in the opposite direction) - in order to be together with her son, whom she left with her sister in their hometown somewhere in the south of Lebanon.  She does not find a single taxi driver willing to take her to the South, except for one resigned, dark-humoured guy called Tony.

The film intersperses documentary footage and on-location scenes.  They used a handful of actors and a lot of real people, in the field, on the spot, who were very happy to commit to film whatever they said.  They even got various media journalists to appear on the film pretending to talk to the main actress.  The film feels real.  The acting is measured.  The cutting is snappy. 

I can hardly fault the film in its first hour.  Within minutes, you are driving with Tony and 'madam' looking out for her son, and observing the destruction.  Within half an hour, you are shaken up: you are being cluster-bombed, running for cover and talking to hectic, hysterical people.  Even in the scene where some men at a mass burial site are prompted "who're you for?" and they chant back "Hezbollah", and then "who's your leader?" and they chant back "Nasrallah" ... you kind of know where they're coming from.

The film - again - showed us around a lot.  Despite the destruction scenes, when we get to the green Bekaa Valley in the south of Lebanon, I was surprised at how beautiful and lovely Lebanon can be.  Now I understand the reputation Lebanon used to have in the 1960s.  Now I understand why the crusaders set up home there; it would have reminded them of their European homes - with better weather.

The story slows down and becomes more moving, by turns, as we approach the end. 

In Nada Abou Farhat and Georges Khabbaz, I saw great actors improvising under severe real-life circumstances.  I am not surprised the film has won so many major prizes.

Expectations play a really important role in our lives.

We expect things for ourselves.

Then we get into a state of competition with ourselves to achieve the expectations.

Every so often, this competition tires us out.  It is certainly burdening; and occasionally depressing.  No doubt. 

Some of the expectations are unreasonable; we are being imiitative of other people, or we are just bending to society's norms.  

The wise (truly effective?) people ask themselves WHY they set the goal, HOW they will achieve it, (is it within their reach?), and WHAT to do if it is not achieved.

But, hey, everything happens for a reason ...

There are two sides to this cliched phrase.

If my thinking about Britain is that it sucks and I can't stand Brits, etc, and I end up punched in the face by some cockney thugs, or rejected by every British woman I date (as examples), then these unfortunate events probably happened for a reason inside of ME.  I think bad things about British people; they can tell; events happen as a result.

Sometimes you get the external event - like, I am not particularly pissed off with Britain, but apropos of nothing, a group of thugs pounce on me and I end up being punched-up.  This is where it helps to think that things happen for a reason.  Maybe these violent incidents needed publicising and I am the sacrificial lamb.  May be these thugs were going to rape a woman and instead they punched me up.  Maybe God is telling me to leave Britain ....

Actually, the "things happen for a reason" thing becomes an exercise in interpretation.  People can come up with really weird "reasons".  The simplest learnt lessons are probably the best.

We should be grateful for what we already have: alive, able to see, to smell, to walk, to run, to laugh, to have a job, to have a home, to have a family, to have food (last on my list and yet number one for all humans).

But it is all a bit tricky.  The ancient Egyptians thought they were preserving themselves for the next life (and taking their worldly possessions with them).  Thousands of years later, we found out about their ingeniousness, we collected their DNA, and even reconstructed how they looked.  So, sometimes the reason comes out thousands of years later!