Adventures with Saeed, or, How Not to Get Religion, Drunk or Stoned

His name was Saeed. First impression? Old, stately guy in a big, blue button-up sweater, a scar on his weathered face. Walked with a bit of a limp.

“Taxi,” he told me, giving himself permission to not only tell me the story of the fateful traffic encounter, but educate me on the danger of headstrong drivers in a headlong rush.

I had known him for three minutes.

He had asked the time, and found out I was American. In a rush, we bonded in a love for WWE wrestling. Now don’t get me wrong; I don’t actually love the soap opera episodes inherent in the onscreen lives of angry, tight-wearing sweaty men. I just know a bit about it all, enough to carry on a conversation about Brock Lesnar versus The Undertaker.

Oh - Lesnar, all the way, right?

A casual conversation led into a long afternoon smoking sheesha and drinking tea and talking about life. Mostly him talking, though - in the broken English he said he learned from watching wrestling and listening to the BBC.

Eventually he ran out of English and I ran out of Arabic. We sat in companionable silence, watching the flow of the street – donkey carts and 1960s-era taxis jostling for position; The occasional traffic cop, worthless as they often tend to be in Cairo, casually gesturing for no-one to go anywhere.

After several hours, he took me close by to his neighborhood mosque. The imam and I looked at each other, both a bit confused, I think. But Saeed knew what was going on: He wanted to tell me about Islam, and what it should mean to me.

His English fell flat. I got it, regardless: his passion signaled in the way he squeezed my hand, the zeal shining in his eyes. The pleading in his voice.

“This is how you get to Heaven,” he said, handing me a mosque copy of the Koran. “Praise god, praise god, praise god,” he said in Arabic - with fervency so familiar to me from my youth spent in revivals, special meetings, Wednesday night Bible studies and Sunday school.

We sat for awhile. Soon, I left for class – but not until we arranged for him to come over to my apartment the next day to cook fish. “GOOD fish,” he said.

It took about a day to change my mind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it: Was I leery of inviting a stranger I barely knew into a home I shared with two girls? Was I a coward, afraid of too much unknown in my zone of comfort?

The next day, he showed up and instead of fish at my place, I took him out. Or rather, he took ME out, to a bar – across from a mosque – like a good Muslim. “Are you happy?” He asked. Sure, I’m happy, Saeed. (But was it disappointment I felt? What was I expecting? What exactly was I doing? Why did I feel so strange deep in my gut? Why was I checking for my wallet?)

Then, off to a restaurant a few blocks from his house for some cheap grilled meat, bread and salad. Afterward we went a block down to drink some tea and look at more traffic. “We should buy hashish,” he said, conspiratorially.

I wasn’t smoking hash, I didn’t want beer, and I didn’t want to become a Muslim. The feeling in the pit of my stomach grew even stronger.

I said goodbye. He seemed sorry and sad, although I’m not sure why. In my mind, I pretended it was because we had shared good times and good conversation, not because he was disappointed I didn’t want to get religious, drunk or stoned.

I was sick all night. The next day, I spent hours in the bathroom, vomiting.

I still tell myself it was the salad.