For me, feeling sad about food seems to be a symptom of homesickness. I experienced something similar in New Zealand, but it was easier to find familiar comfort food there.

I'm sitting in the Victoria Lounge of the Winter Palace Hotel because I've decided that I'm tired of street food, tired of cucumbers, tomatoes, tahine, and what passes for pizza in this part of the world. The Winter Palace is part of the Sofitel chain that includes some of the finest hotels in the world and I've decided that I will splurge on a dinner here.

The Winter Palace was built in 1886 to attract European nobility. King Farouk had his own apartment here and the discoverer of King Tut's tomb, Howard Carter, was staying here at the time of his discovery.

I'd wanted to spend a night in their sister property -- The Old Cataract Hotel, but they were booked so I had to settle for a drink on their balcony (that's me in my filthy shoes sitting on that fancy balcony -- we had to sneak through three layers of security, palming off baksheesh right and left in order to be allowed to sit on that balcony! Then they told us they only had warm beer, made us drink soft drinks, then promptly served beer to the snooty looking hotel guests.)

Before dinner, I realize that I've been tramping around in the dust of the west bank, so my shoes are filthy. I pay an 8 year-old kid about $0.60 to shine my shoes and then end up arguing with him over the equivalent of another $0.60. The irony of this interchange along with my dinner plans doesn't escape me. The kid tells me that he has a family to feed. I raise an eyebrow and question him....but I suspect he really is helping to support younger siblings. He's cute, but already a master manipulator and so I shake my finger at him and say "Aib!" (shame.) He asks why I'm mad at him and I point out that we'd already agreed on a price. Since my shoes are no longer on my feet, I briefly wonder if he will run off with them. But after a bit more back and forth, he returns my shoes. They don't look great, but at least they won't function as a big glaring sign that I don't belong in the fancy hotel.

I meander back to the hotel and still worry that they will spot my scruffiness and tell me to go away. A safety pin is literally holding my passport/money bag together and I think if they see it, I'm history. ;->

The incongruity of sitting in this beautiful Victorian/Moorish lounge and my less than $2.00/night hotel room is almost enough to send me into a fit of giggling. But I hang out trying to act cool and hoping my scruffiness isn't in evidence. I'm road weary and feel like I need some indulgence. Some people do the hippy traveler thing better than others.

Finally the doors to the restaurant open and I'm ushered into a palatial room that is softly lit and initially appears to be beautiful. On closer inspection, I realize that some of the candelabra covers are askew and the service is not what I would expect of a 5-star top-of-the-line hotel. I had a squab salad with wild mushrooms (that didn't look too wild to me!) that was tasty. But I'd ordered lamb for my main course and as much as I sawed at it, I could not cut it. I asked for a steak knife and was told they didn't have one. I complained that the meat was tough. They said they would cook it more. I said that I don't like my lamb overdone. I started feeling grumpy. The guy who worked downstairs said I would feel like I'd died and gone to heaven if I ate at the 1886 restaurant -- "You will feel like a princess", he said. "I only hope that I can eat there one time before I die." Instead, I felt dissatisfied, spoiled, and critical. Maybe I should have given him the $35 and told him to go buy himself a meal there.

Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I'm thinking of the 8yo kid trying to help support his family and thinking about what my waiter's life must be like and thinking that a half hour ago, I was arguing over $0.60. My food is mediocre and for about the same money in San Francisco, I think I could have had something much tastier. But I guess SF is one of the food capitals of the world and Egypt isn't exactly known for fine cuisine. I think I'm back to street food for now.

ma-salaam
Kayla (who can now say "I'm a stupid donkey" in arabic)