Side Trip

From the Canadian Street
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Back at the hotel, unable to sleep, I ventured into the bar for a beer. It was set up like a Bedouin tent, characteristic black and white hangings delineating the outer walls, the booths hung with red, brightly embroidered blankets. (An example of these can be seen behind Nazeeh in the picture of him seated in the tent where we smoked shisha.) Artfully placed brass coffee pots enlivened the floor space and two large cages held a collection of strange birds that whistled and shrieked at ear-splitting volume.

Striving to ignore the din, I ordered my beer and leafed through the lavishly illustrated Guide to the Egyptian Museum I picked up in Cairo. A young man approached and began feeding sunflower seeds to the birds in the cage just beside me.

“Excuse me,” he said suddenly, “Are you reading an Egyptian tour guide?”

“I nodded. “For the Egyptian Museum actually.”

“That’s wonderful! I am Egyptian,” he declared, and we exchanged a few pleasantries about the glorious Mother of the World.

Before I relate what happened next, I’m going to take a little detour, launch a discourse about the Canadian character, or What it Means to be Canadian, using three short tales.

The first comes from local history and concerns Victoria’s Empress Hotel, a turreted and ivy-covered edifice, standing proudly at the head of our harbour, named for Queen Victoria and long considered one of the final bastions of the British Empire. High Tea is still served amongst the potted palms in its hushed lobby and it reeks of faded elegance and quiet dignity.

One day a man intent on armed robbery entered the hallowed precincts and made his way to the Garden Cafe. He waved his gun about and yelled, “This is a stick up!” No one paid him the least attention, just continued eating their meals.

He approached the cashier. “Give me all the money in the till!” he ordered, pointing the gun at her.

She didn’t bat an eye. Giving him a look of stern reproval, she said, “Young man, this sort of thing just isn’t done at the Empress.”

The man looked wildly about, discharged his firearm into the ceiling and fled. The diners continued eating placidly and a neatly garbed lackey appeared with a broom and dustpan to sweep up the bits of ceiling plaster that had drifted down to sully the pristine floor.

End of episode.

The second story occurred in Paris. I was there with 29 teenagers, the rash and harried leader of a Spring Break ”field trip.” Late one nascent spring day, I was crammed into the metro cheek by jowl with ten of my students and about half the city’s work force. We stood patiently, clinging to metal poles as the train clattered through station after station.

Suddenly a woman shrieked, “Voleur! Voleur!” and lunged towards a man standing innocuously beside me. A look of alarm crossed his face and he darted out the doors just as they whooshed shut. I managed to jab him with my elbow as he passed.

“That man was trying to pick your pocket,” the woman told me indignantly.

I had my coat tied around my waist as it was hot underground. I checked the pockets which had contained only some loose change and my teaching credentials. Nothing was missing.

Out on the street, I asked the students if they’d noticed anything.

“Oh yes,” said one particularly sweet girl, “That man kept putting his hand in your pocket. Every time he did, I just took it out again. I was starting to get a bit scared.”

I gazed at her in astonishment. “Why didn’t you say something?”

She gazed back at me in equal astonishment. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

The third story takes place in the Ontario hinterlands and involved my other brother, the one who isn’t a musician. We’ll call him Toy. My parents do, so why not?

Many years ago, when his twins were tiny, Toy and his wife lived in a cottage that had a summer kitchen. These rooms are found off the main kitchen and aren’t well enough insulated for year-round use. They tend to become storage areas and usually have a locking door that separates them from the house proper.

One morning my sister-in-law, Syl, came toodling out to start breakfast. She whisked up the blind in the window of the door leading to the summer kitchen and what to her horror-struck eyes did appear but a villainous looking male body lying on the floor amongst a heap of croquet mallets.

“Toy!” she called. “Come out here right away.”

Toy dutifully presented himself and peered through the window at the body, which was now starting to stir ominously.

“You have to do something,” said Syl, “Before the babies wake up.”

Now, if Toy had been American, he would have fetched the family gun, taken aim and blown the intruder’s brains out. Being Canadian, he opened the door cautiously, tip-toed across the summer kitchen, bent down and gently tapped the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me,” he asked. “Can I help you?”

The man opened bleary eyes. “Huh?” he intoned, obviously sunk far into his cups.
Toy solicitously helped him to his feet and out to the street where he stumbled to the neighbour’s lawn and collapsed once more. I’m told he lay there till noon, alternately sleeping and belting out slurred renditions of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, fortified by cups of coffee trotted out to him by anxious local residents.

These anecdotes should serve to illustrate why, when Bird Feeder Guy at the Bedouin Bar in Aqaba turned to me and said, “May I join you?” my automatic response was, “Of course.” I didn’t want him at my table and had no desire for further conversation with him but – well, the poor guy must have been exhausted after attending to all those birds and was probably too weak to make his way to an adjoining table. Either that or he wanted to practise his English.

To my relief, however, he sat down for only few brief moments then got up and left the hotel. The happy feeling of release warmed the cockles of my heart and I carried on with my awe-struck perusal of King Tut’s treasures.

Ten minutes later, BFG returned.

“I invite you,” he said, “to Happy Hour – special drinks – in special hotel across the street.”

“No, thank you,” I said coldly and with a deep inward sigh.

“Why not?” he demanded, very assertive now.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“But why? We have good time. Very nice place.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to go. And I won’t.”

“Why not? I am your Egyptian friend. I take good care of you.”

This distressing exchange continued for several minutes, BFG now verging on the belligerent. Unfortunately, the shrieks of the birds muffled our words so I couldn’t look to the bar staff for rescue. Finally I summoned what Piglet used to call my Teacher Look.

“You will go away,” I said sternly and with authority. “You will go NOW and not bother me any more. If you do not, I will start to scream. Do you understand?”

A few shreds of argument threatened to dribble from his lips.

“NOW,” I repeated.

He went.

Even in Jordan, I thought, even in Jordan.