Parlor Tricks: Why I Haven't Written

So, three days is apparently a long time to be silent in the so-called "blogosphere." Big Brother detected a large drop in readership. The only explanation I have to offer is this: I'm hungry. And when I'm not hungry, I'm eating.

In solidarity with the majority of Egypt, I made the decision to observe the first week of Ramadan and fast (albeit a slightly adjusted fast which allows coffee and cough drops) while the sun is shining. FYI: Strict observant Muslims will not brush their teeth during daylight hours to prevent the accidental swallowing of toothpaste. So I'm basically a heathen.

Hunger is an all-consuming sense; not only do I have the attention span of a Ritalin-dependent child who is bored even by a violent episode of the Power Rangers, but all feelings of compassion, happiness, and anger are consumed (it's a pun!) by my ravenousness, which is apparently apathetic. It would probably be better if I awoke at 4 AM to eat breakfast (or, rather, begin-fast), but I have yet to wake up to the ringing of the alarm of my roommate, who has devoutly pledged to fast the entire month and has thus taken the precaution of eating more than once a day.

Ah, but those thirty minutes of gorging are almost indescribable. The food continues to slide onto my plate, almost like its propelled by some invisible conveyor belt, and soon I will have consumed half a roasted chicken (my vegetarian past screams from its recently-dug grave--but I anticipate resurrecting its empty shell upon my return to the United States), a plate of rice, a pint of tahini and baba ganoush, 43 olives, a handful of dried dates and figs, five or six pieces of pita bread, and, of course, copious amounts of apricot pudding and a baklava-like shredded wheat dessert coated in honey.

Though I haven't given it justice, the experience is almost spiritual. Especially because it is in tandem with 100s of others, many of them more experienced at breaking fast as indicated by their use of extra large silverware to maximize the energy spent lifting the spoon to one's mouth. The prelude to this glut of nourishment is pseudo-religious as well (for me; I'm sure it's actually religious to many); while grumpily look at our watches, my dorm floor collaboratively fantasizes about the impending feast and listens to chanted hymns emanate from Mecca (though through the medium of satellite television). The official breaking of the fast is signified by none else than the firing of a cannon, though to me it sounds more like the song of the Sirens'.

Writing about this is leaving me uncomfortably hungry. Only five hours and 17 minutes until sunset, or rather, joy. So I'll just show you some pictures from a previous jaunt to Islamic Cairo for iftar.