Never on a Sunday


Okay, first the Intro, then, the Daily Screed.


I want to write more than whiny-ass shit about the proximal nightclub which I call here Club Doodoo. Honest I do. But, alas, when you are hitting 35C every day, and Cairo is broaching 40, there is not much I can do about it — trapped!


Yes I would like to go to Kite Beach, but a tuc-tuc back in the boiling afternoon heat? Plus I would never pay the 500 euros, anyway, to buy the kitesurfing kit and take a lesson and risk paralysis. Too bad you can’t swim there, as it looks on Gouna TV like the nicest beach here (there seem to be only 2 real “beaches” in Gouna, both payant and with red compacted dirt instead of white sand). But even if I could, some kitersurfer would probably end up decapitating me.


Perhaps I can go to the Omda Hotel some night, when it’s open mike, and check out the local talent. Maybe someone would lend me their guitar — as one of my best friends in college once did — and play some music in some impromptu mini concert.


I look forward to the time when the, yes, and sorry to harp on about this, still boilling heat will allow me not to be stuck in this apartment all day watching cable news and classics on TV like Behind Enemy lines. By the way, why do the two film feature channels mainly show violent war related movies 24×7?  It’s as if war movies r okay, but love stories and especially physical love scenes or any films with intellectual depth… kokha.


I will end the intro with this:  Viva Catalonia!!! Half a Viva 4 that brave mayor from San Juan (because she is not a Dem and spoke well of shithead Marko on CNN)! And I do so hope that Muller and his beautiful FBI people are getting ready to lay down the hammer on the miasmic orange cunt real soon.


Time’s a tickin’.




Today’s Sunday, the Christian holiday, yom el ‘Had, and I find myself, still, in the capital of Coptic Egypt; I mean, doesn’t the Gouna starfish logo look like a cross?


Despite Sunday being the day of ibtee rest, it looks like the Club Doodoo dickheads might be up to something else tonight, judging by the assiduous preparations being made.


Yesterday, as you might recall, was Yom el Sabt, the day when Club Dog Feces was supposed to take a break from shitting on the peace and quiet of anyone who actually lives on the South Side of Abu Tig marina.  After all, didn’t my real estate agent say they would?


Well, no such luck. Last night was a Farah, a wedding, and they started up with their phony paid-for entertainment — Arroussa! Arroussa! How beautiful she is, they sing, although in reality she probably looked like a fat dogfaced skank — around 11am and it was still going on at 11pm when I came back from dinner to go to sleep. I had gone to the 7 Stars — again, a creature of habit — to get my spag and meat sauce dish and this time the portion was far more generous. I toyed with getting a burger at Le Garage, but the waiters there are sullen assholes, so I passed on it. They didn’t let me sit where I wanted to two nights ago, so fuck them. After I finished the spaghetti dish, which I could have made 10 times better, for I am the Pasta Masta, I asked for El Hessab, or the check, and the waiter asked me if I was an owner. I should have lied and gotten a discount, but I didn’t.  


What the use in being honest?


So there I was back in front of the Dogpile Club and there were a number of guys outside there directing the parking of cars, or whatever, and I let them have it in Arabic about the noise, going just far enough to not cause problems for me personally, but intensely enough to make my point.


Maybe I should try to find out who owns this club from hell. Though I am not staying here long, it might be of passing interest to know this. Then again, who wants to risk the possibility of meeting some goon with a gun under his desk and two lurking henchmen as ready to take you out as say ahlan? (Note: this is all fantasy; it’s actually owned by the Hotel at the end of the street; German owned, and favored by Germans.)


Which does, indirectly, bring up a related question.


Who owns El Gouna itself?




Or is the land long-leased from the Egyptian people?


If so, what were the terms of this lease?


In particular, did the Egyptian treasury benefit, or is it all pretty much skimmed off the top by friends and friends of friends?


If you buy a house here, do you actually own the land your house is built on, or just the heytan, that is to say, the walls that comprise your house?


I am starting to know the locals.  


They tell me, in Cairo, you can own the land but not here in Gouna.


In Gouna, and I’m sure I’m wrong about this, but one gets the impression that there’s this nebulous Otherness that owns things, controls things, and sees no problem with a commercial entity such as Club Dogshit creating sonic havoc in the marina almost every night of the bloody fucking week.


When I asked the Club Doodoo security/parking guys last night when this farah was going to end, they say whenever the ones who paid for it want to.


I just walked away.


Abu tig?


Better name for it, and I am only speaking from personal experience here, would be Abu-fuck-you-6-ways-to-Sunday, affrangi.


Wait a second.


Am I playing victim, here, again, as I did in Florida for many years?


Would this have been my stance when I lived in Egypt long ago and the world was my oyster?


Or would I have done something about it, then, instead of finding excuses not to?


What about after that?


What about how I have never been a player in anything I have ever attempted, after the age of, say, 17?


How do I explain that one?


Bubble gum wisdom says you can can travel anywhere, but still have to carry your baggage wherever you go.


Unless you ditch it.


Just never on a Sunday.

leaving america


2 thoughts on “Never on a Sunday

  1. For a pleasant morning at the beach, walk over to Moods and sit under a tamrhenna parasol facing the open sea in the shade (not those facing Marina mouth). Order a coffee and drift away. Very nice. You can swim in the sea and it is very pleasant. Buy some espadrille thingies at Bestway in the Marina to relieve your feet from any rocks or that slimy feeling of the sand underneath the water.


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