One of my earliest coherent memories of Cairo was when Mom and I were living in Bab-el-Louq in 1977. We lived on the third floor of a beautiful building built in the 1930s. The stairs were all marble and forged iron latticework, but I digress.
One day, my mother bought some sparklers, which we lit on the balcony. As the first sparkler neared its end (and my hand), I, frightened, threw it away from me out into the street. The sparkler landed on the roof of a live poultry shop where the butcher would prepare live chickens, turkeys, ducks, pigeons, and rabbits for customers. As with most roofs in Cairo, the roof was used as a storage area, and this one was used to store some very flammable palm-branch chicken cages that, of course, immediately burst into flames.
My mother, in panic, immediately ran into the kitchen and filled our largest pot with water and dumped it onto the low roof of the shop. The first pot landed squarely on the head of the shop's owner; not a drop hit the fire. The man was so tickled by the whole situation that he burst into gales of laughter and breathlessly asked her to continue. She did, and her efforts successfully quenched the fire. We and that butcher became close friends for the duration we lived there.
My mother loved to tell this story, and now I have told it to you.
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