I sought her, I thought I did.
Dreams of romance on Alexandrian beaches
I thought I’d wed her, to marry, I said.
Love may live, but may die, too
In situations out of our reaches.
So, as I sit now, reflecting on my day-trip to Al-Iskandaria (Alexandria, Egypt), I think now of all my intentions, and how if only—if only my intentions were for higher purposes, I may have benefitted more.
Instead of those lofty reasons and goals that people may travel for, I journeyed for a more base goal. I think now, why, why do my desires run me, ruin me, lead me to places I thought I’d never go. I hope I’m forgiven for my transgressions, and that my reflections will lessen my addictions, but the truth is…I still love, and for love I have traveled. For love, I had traveled.
If the situation were different, perhaps my joy would have bled through the words I’m transcribing…but its not. In failure, in defeat, this is my domicile now. Energy lost, money spent, time taken-never to be returned again…and yet, no love met at the end of my expenses.
For those that know me, they know the nature of my trip, they know the reasons for which I travel, they know that there is no restaurant too far, nor dish too expensive, nor taste too acquired–that isn’t worth acquiring, or at least an attempt. And so as I left what I’ll be calling ‘home’ for the next year, in search of my passion, my yearning, my love…I left with a deep desire to end that day…fulfilled.
Alhamdulillah, ala kully hal. The brothers were fun, the scene was amazing, and the city was beautiful. But where was my love? You know how in the most terrible of moments, in a place desirable to no man, when all hope is lost, and only fear, or anxiety, or shame rule…only that special love could make your worries dissipate. You know, when its cold outside, but you think, no, you know, for certain, and with no doubt–you have the month of May. That’s what I was looking for…my May.
I was told of a nice little restaurant, far from the hustle of Cairo, and bustle of the lives ones live. In a place known to the world as Alexandria, but here…its Al-Iskandaria. Tales of a spectacular dish, of fish no less, were spread after a few had journeyed once there. Stories of how it would shame the cooks of other lands, how, over there…there were no worries, only food–damn good food.
And so, I travelled.
I’d like to tell you my experience was similar, and in its enjoyment, alhamdulillah, it was. But in reality, my tastes have outgrown that of those less known to tastes of the orient, the arab, the latin, and the like. Knowing of good food is one thing, but definitely, experience is another. I have experience.
And so, as I write this, saddened by my own foolhardy trust in the tongues of others, I wonder when my naivety will sway to the cynical trust you only give to those closest, those who’ve experienced what you’ve experienced, those who know.
I wonder now, how I could have ever betrayed the one who was so good to me through all my struggles. The constant, the one who never left me with ill, but rather came to me at times of need and pleased me in times of joy. How could I have forgotten?
How could I have been so shortsighted.
Of my feeble attempts at apologies, here is my ode, to my love:
My Love | محبوبتي
انا أحبه الدجاجة
و في نفسي حاجة
محبوبتي | My Love
I love chicken
And in my soul is a yearning, a need
Thy eggs are the best of things
And thy meat is of the tastiest
-An Unknown Lover, Who Knew What Love Was