The Christmas Tree Ballet

Spice, hydrocarbons, grilling meats, women's perfume and men's cologne, frying falafel, sweat, baked goods, urine, and garbage; these comprise the usual melange that is the all-pervasive miasma of Cairo.

In early December, however, certain areas of Cairo, such as the island district of Zamalek, acquire a strong, festive, aroma of fresh pine sap. This, you see, is when the local florists put hundreds upon hundreds of Christmas trees on display. The sidewalks become forests overnight, obscuring all store fronts within hailing distance of any given florist, who typically leaves only a small gap for customers to enter shops whose displays they cannot see. To walk on these sidewalks during the Christmas season is to walk on narrow paths between the trees.

This is the setting for mom's annual pilgrimage to the Zamalek florists to select the perfect Christmas tree. Mom had rituals for the process; first, she would insist on seeing every tree the florist had on display. Then she would insist that the florist's staff bring to her the "special" trees that they had set away for the better-tipping customers. The workers knew her well and, instead of avoiding her and her tedious demands, they would vie to be the ones who perform this annual ballet for her. This, I believe, is not only due to the fact that she tipped extravagantly, regardless of whether their efforts resulted in a sale or not, but also to the fact that she was so charming and fun to argue with! If she did not find the specific tree she was looking for, she would tip the workers, and on we would go to the next florist.

This performance was so much fun for me that I honestly looked forward to it as much as I did opening the presents, except that the presents sometimes disappointed, but buying the tree never did.

When I was strong enough to do so, I would ask the workers to prepare the tree for me so that I could carry it the five or six blocks home, and up three or four flights of stairs, my nose filled with the sweet aroma of Christmas pine.

That is why mom immediately comes to mind when I smell pine sap. There is no sadness associated with this recollection, only a wistful and nostalgic joy as I am transported in my mind to the streets of Cairo. In my mind, I am thirteen again. I am beside myself with barely-contained excitement, and I am promising myself that, this year, I will not drop the tree on our way home.