Memphis in the Meantime

I first arrived in Memphis in July of 2006. Other than the good folks at Lausanne Collegiate School who had hired me in March, I did not know a soul in Memphis; no friends, no family. Just me and two small pieces of luggage. The rest of my stuff was packed into three cardboard boxes and was in route from London (that is another story for another time). I remember walking off the jetway and into Memphis International for the first time. Nice, neat airport. The smell of coffee and bagels. A very proper, male voice over the sound system welcoming me to Memphis International, telling me that I can smoke in Maggie O'Sheas. I remember an inward chuckle, thinking that the man's voice was about as un-Southern as a voice could get. After a very long wait for my luggage (why?!) and a rambling search for a taxi, I recall being struck by two pressing thoughts: 1) I did not know anyone in this city, and 2) having made rental property arrangements entirely on-line, I could not help the taxi-guy out when he asked me to direct him to a particular section of Mt. Moriah Road. I had never been to Memphis. I had no idea where Mt. Moriah actually was.

In the days and months that followed, I began to really discover Memphis. Where pilgrimages to Graceland are made. W.C. Handy fathered the blues here. Humble Memphis recording studios launched the careers of Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Howlin' Wolf, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, B.B. King, Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Jerry Lee Lewis, and still stand proudly. On an April evening long ago, the great beacon of hope, Dr. Martin Luther King, was forever extinguished here. The Lorraine Motel where Dr. King fell still pays tribute to his death just as the National Civil Rights Museum that has grown up around the Lorraine pays tribute to his life and works. 

Memphis. Where bluesy chords still reverberate from cramped honky-tonks down on Beale Street. Where narrow shotgun shacks and stone mansions are parts of the same neighborhood. Soul food and the world's best barbecue are served in Memphis kitchens. Where majestic parks are integral parts of the urban landscape, now connected by a series of paths for runners, walkers and cyclists. Where children's hospitals work for cures and where Fedex ships to a myriad of global destinations. And all the while, the mighty Mississippi flows past the city's bluffs.

I met the woman who would be my wife in Memphis, and it is here that we were married and have established a home. It is here that I enjoyed the great fortune of working alongside dedicated and inspiring individuals. I have been doubly-blessed in that many of these talented individuals have become good friends. I have hiked this city's sidewalks and pathways, and I have cycled the labyrinths of her streets. I have rejoiced in Memphis gospel, and I have found comfort in her blues. It is here that I have witnessed an astonishingly progressive and civic minded ethos take shape and transform the city. I have sat on dusty Memphis riverbanks, lost in silent reverie and watching the river run by.

Fast forward. It is December, 2013; 1:30 in the morning. Ours is the final commercial flight into Memphis International tonight; or perhaps the very first of the day, depending upon perspective. There is no guy with a sign to meet us, no waft of coffee or bagels. No welcoming baritone over the PA system. Still, through the gauzy mist that is my consciousness after 30-plus hours of travel, I feel a strong sense of homecoming. In the span of a few, short years, this city has become my home.

A couple of days later, Dana and I have recovered from our jet lag. We have rented a bungalow in Midtown for the holidays. Renting a home beats living out of a suitcase in a hotel. Almost as a bonus, the Midtown bungalow puts us in a central location. As the neighborhood narrative goes, "Midtown is Memphis." Although I think this is a rather narrow definition of all that Memphis is, I like Midtown; it's Bohemian atmosphere and its confluence of cultures and lifestyles. 

Dana and I decide to go for a morning walk in the Cooper-Young district, the heart of Midtown. We are heading to the local Easy Way, a Memphis food store founded in the 1930s that specializes in local produce and products. Easy Way stores are like overgrown, orange-painted, highway fruit stands but located in the heart of Memphis. With low overhead, wonderful produce and some of the nicest, most knowledgeable grocers in the area, Easy Way is a great, inexpensive alternative to places like Whole Foods or Fresh Market.

About halfway through our walk to the market, we approach an office building being remodeled. Up ahead, in the center of the walkway not far from a work truck parked by the curb, a man is working at a portable table saw. He is dressed in heavy jeans, work boots and a couple of layers of heavy-gauge sweatshirt. He is covered in saw dust. Sensing us, he stops cutting and looks up. We are surprised see a familiar, beaming face. 

We worked with Chris years ago at Lausanne. He is what we call, "good people." He always wears a smile, and he is as genuine as they come. When we last saw Chris a few years ago, we was working in the corporate, PR side of a health care outfit. Seeing that he belonged to the truck and the saw, we ask him what he has been up to.

"Well, I have always been a wood-worker. It had been a hobby of mine; something different than my day job. I have always enjoyed it, though. A couple years back, I got so that I was making wood furniture and toys for friends and then local shops. I kept getting more and more requests. One day I was at my desk at work and I asked myself, "what are you doing." I went home and talked it over with my wife, and she was real supportive. So I put my notice in at work and started this wood-working business. So now, I'm livin' the dream. I'm down here working on a custom interior. C'mon in, and I'll show ya' if ya'll got a couple of minutes."

"We sure do. Absolutely!"

Chris shows us the interior wall he is working on at he moment. He has carefully and creatively joined wide lath pieces of different colors and grains to create a natural but yet very modern look. He is visibly proud of his work, and he should be.

He tells us that the working for himself is not always easy, and that he and his family are having to "make do" with less. He jokes that his children are doing their bit by not complaining about a nightly, mac-n-cheese menu. Apparently he has just this week become something of a superhero to his children, the result of having added bits of hot dog to the mac-n-cheese. He is however, finding the work far more rewarding.

"You just cannot really put a price tag on doing something that you are passionate about."

We chat a little while longer and then say our goodbyes. What Chris is doing now strikes me as part of what I love about Memphis and the people of this community. The re-focus on simplicity after having taking complicated paths. The idea of finding a richness in doing something that is not necessarily financially lucrative. The focus on something real, tangible, practical and grounded. The ability to appreciate the beauty in rolled-up sleeves and dirty hands. The desire to make a better place while taking a different route in doing so.

We leave Chris to his saws and his passion, a passion that is now his livelihood. I am feeling inspired by our friend's journey just as I am inspired and impressed by the community in which he lives. 

I am also more than just a tad bit envious.

Trading sandals for blue suede shoes

United Airlines flight 9025 leaves Cairo at an ungodly hour; 3:00 am. It lands in Frankfort, Germany five hours later. Dana and I will be on board. Six and one-half hours later, United Airlines fight 8878 departs Frankfort for Denver. This is a ten and one-half hour deal, and Dana and I will be on this one, too. Five and one-half hours later, United Airlines flight 4090, a little shuttle, departs for Memphis. One and one-half hours later, Dana and I will touch down in the land of the Delta Blues, twenty-nine hours after having left Cairo. Ain't gonna be pretty. I understand now why Elvis bought the jet.

I wish I could blame some other idiot on these less-than-ideal flight arrangements. I cannot. The idiot is me; sort of. You see, this series of flights was born one year ago. Dana and I had just found out that my high school (grades 9-12) principal position was transforming into an upper school (grades 6-12) principal position. The change meant that I would be competing for this newy-created job along with the sitting middle school principal. I might be successful in getting the job or I might not. Not being in a place financially to be able to possibly take a year off, Dana and I had to go recruiting for new jobs given that one of us - me - might not be gainfully employed for the upcoming year. So we made arrangements to attend a educational recruitment fair in San Francisco. As fortune would have it, we secured good jobs in Cairo (bless you, Skype) ahead of the fair. 

So we had this flight ticket. We cancelled, and according to airline policy, we had one year to change the ticket into something else. That "something else" started out as a one-stop, round-trip excursion. Then there was a flight cancellation and a reshuffling of tickets. One stop turned into two stops. Then there was a rescheduled flight; and then another. All of a sudden we are facing the 29 hour marathon that I outlined earlier; and that is IF all goes according to schedule.

In some respects, our transitory flight schedule resembles our five months in Egypt. We took jobs expecting certain situations to occur. Some did and some did not. Example .... when we signed our contracts back in February, we signed on for a two-year stint as an assistant principal and as a lower school counselor. That has not changed. But back when we signed our contracts, Mohammed Morsi was still President of Egypt. Morsi had not yet begun to tinker around with the constitution. The protests that avalached as a result of Morsi's actions had yet to transpire. 1500 or so Egyptians souls, forever departed in the wake of the violence that that has been Egyptian politics since, were still very much alive in February. Our school's enrollment last February was a bouyant 1300. It is now 900 including 75, non-fee-paying, faculty children. Dana and I had yet to dodge groups of protestors, hundreds strong. We had yet to hear the chants. We had yet to walk by the tanks. We had yet to be stopped at the checkpoints. We had yet to see the trucks of security forces, the scared faces of the young men about to be deployed, putting themselves in harm's way.

Samples of 'khayameya" in the Khan El Khalili

Like our flight arrangements, there have been surprises, albeit many pleasant ones. We have seen struggling people offer charity and hope to other people struggling even more. We have seen taxi drivers greet us warmly every morning, even though we have never ridden in their cabs. We have experienced the spectacles of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings. We have walked in the steps of St. Antoni and conversed with eccentric Coptic monks. We have purchased a khayameya from a tent-maker in Cairo's Khan El Khalili; a tent-maker who also sells his beautiful pieces in Paducah, Kentucky. We have dipped our toes in the Red Sea. We have visited the City of the Dead, and we have met the recycled goods vendors who live and work in Garbage City. We have dined in the palace of King Farouk. We have sailed the Nile. We have stood atop mountains to see the broad expanse of the Sahara open at our feet. 

But now our feet are weary. Our sandals have become worn and dusty. Our venturing spirits long for the comforts that we know Memphis can provide. Being with family and friends. Walking down Summer and Beale. Eating the best "down-home" cooking in the world. Living among Tigers and Grizzlies. Watching as the mighty Mississippi flows gently down to the Gulf. Longing to be home. 

We are on our way.

Beale Street, Memphis

The Mermaid

Our little portion of Cairo is called Ma'adi. Ma'adi is a large "suburb" of Cairo situated to the south of the city proper and on the eastern bank of the Nile. Cross the Nile from Ma'adi, and you are in the tangle of urban clusters and farming communities that make up Giza. Stand on a third-floor of a Ma'adi balcony, and you can see the Pyramids (on a clear day). Ma'adi has been a wealthy enclave of Cairo ever since "ever-since." Ottoman "pashas" lived here during the days of the Ottoman rule of Egypt. After the Ottomans left their grand homes, embassies moved in, and they are still here. During World War II, Eisenhower and Montgomery used Ma'adi residences during their brief stays in Egypt. Today, Ma'adi is home for many of Cairo's million-strong, ex-patriot families. When Egyptians in faraway places like Luxor and Hurghada ask us where we live, we say that we live in Cairo. Curious, they ask where in Cairo. We respond that we live in Ma'adi. They always, and I mean always, smile and sigh as if recollecting their own wonderful, past trip to Ma'adi. Ma'adi is a lovely, verdant oasis amidst Cairo's dusty, urban bazaars.

One of Ma'adi's main thoroughfares is "Road 9," and it is a stone's throw away from our flat. Road 9 is one of Ma'adi's main shopping streets. It is reminiscent of a small Floridian seaside town before the hyper-development began. Narrow one, two, and three story buildings, each sharing a common wall with the adjacent buildings, line either side of the roughly paved street. Here and there, a few of the older Ottoman dwellings, still proudly standing and framed by massive, well-tended desert palms, break up the links of small boutiques, fruit stalls, carpentry workshops, bistros, and cafes. It is here on Road 9 that old intersects with new, local mixes with ex-pat, and laboring melds with idle-rich; all in a delightfully Bohemian social fabric.

Set among a jumble of fruit stalls, carpentry shops, cafes and small lamp stores is "The Mermaid." The Mermaid is one of the older eateries on Road 9. Established in 1981, The Mermaid was one of the original, western-style, small restaurants that opened during the early portion of the Mubarak investment boom in Egypt. Despite all of the changes since, The Mermaid has remained relatively unaltered. Her wooden, one-story facade is a curious mixture of dusty saloon and weathered nautical. The restaurant name is carefully scripted in red neon, a prominent fixture in one of the tall, story-high, bay windows in front. At night, the front of the restaurant looks like something from an old Genesis album cover. 

Open the door and some kind of music from the 70s or 80s is playing. As we come in this evening, Boston's "More Than a Feeling" is blaring. Like the facade, the decor inside is a curious mix. Imagine a cross between your grandparents' favorite steak house and 70s porn. I half expect to see Ron Jeremy, Snoop Lion and their respective entourages sprawled out at a corner table, sharing a blunt over a couple of cans of Shlitz.

{Rod Stewart, "Young Turks"}

The restaurant is divided into two smallish, dimly lit sections; one side for smokers and one for non-smokers. With no ventilation fans, there is little difference, and whisps of blue-gray cigarette smoke hover and drift just below the ceiling. There are perhaps 20 booths and tables in total. The chairs are ancient relics, faded brown leather thrones from a bygone era. The tables are hulking slabs of granite and dark wrought iron. Generations of young Egyptians and expats have left their mark, Arabic and English script scrawled in the wood-paneled walls. Lamps suspended from the ceiling float above every table, each one muted with a beige, gauzy lampshade. Suspended pieces of flat sculpture that look like purplish, fallen chess piece adorn both main walls, punctuated by black-and-white photos of the restaurant's past regulars. 

{Michael Jackson, "Thriller"}

One of the wait staff motions us to a table by one of the bay windows. We sit. I am more than a little afraid of sticking to the chair. We wait. And wait.

{Eddie Money, "Two Tickets to Paradise"}

{Carly Simon, You're So Vain}

Finally the menus arrive, and our drink order is taken. Dana has a Stella, and I have a lemon-mint juice. More waiting ensues.

{Hall & Oates, "Private Eyes"}

The drinks finally come, and the waiter is about to return to the back when we tell him that we are ready to order. He seems genuinely surprised. Clearly we are two rare customers that do not have four or five hours to lounge about in The Mermaid. I order a Greek salad and a meat calzone. Dana takes a bit of a risk with the fettuccine and a white, mushroom sauce. More waiting.

{Thin Lizzy, "Whisky in the Jar"}

{Kool & the Gang, "Get Down on It"}

{Wham, "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"}

By now the soundtrack is so good that we don't really care how long the food takes to get to the table. It takes a long time by the way, but it is worth the wait; for me, at least. Dana's fettuccine is passable, but her order was a risk in the first place. My Greek salad comes a bowl the size of small washtub, and it is excellent. The calzone is as big as a football, and is a lovely hunk of meaty, crusty goodness. We split the salad and the calzone, and life is all good. A couple of Stellas and mint-lemons later, accompanied by Hendrix and Janice, and we are stuffed. We have also enjoyed a couple of hours of a delightful soundtrack and some great conversation; just like it used to be back in the day. Back before we had more important shit to do.

Then it happens. Just when I thought the evening was finished, and that the soundtrack could not get any better, the impossible occurs. Marvin Gaye, "Let's Get It On." This is amazing. Surely we are in some cool, funky diner orbiting Neptune. Surely St. Marvin himself has descended from above to christen our little evening out, blessing us with a big send-off and ensuring that the wait staff are left with a big-ass tip. They are, and we depart.

Bless you, St. Marvin, and bless you, too, Ms. Mermaid. When next we have a few hours to while away, strolling down amnesia lane and stuffing our faces full of calzone, we will be back for more.