On The Nile

Have you ever sat down and had a conversation with a belly dancer after their belly dancing shift was over?  Me either…

I exhausted a couple of days in Secaucus, New Jersey last week on business.  I had never been and was excited to see somewhere new.  I’m not sure what I expected from the “Garden State” so I can’t say I was disappointed.  I didn’t see so much as a blade of grass though while I was there much less a “garden” – not sure what genius coined that moniker.  Suffice to say that barring a gun being shoved in my mouth, I do not anticipate a return visit.   If you ever have a chance to go, I suggest that you do not.

I flew into Newark and that was outstanding.  I fail to understand airline flight paths but was pleased to find that we flew past Newark to the north, took a hard right and skipped down the entire western edge of Manhattan – what an amazing view of NYC from above.  As the day wore on, I began to realize that the brief detour I enjoyed was going to be the highlight of this excursion. 

The hotel was less than even by my primitive standards and had apparently (thoughtfully) morphed into an (8) floor walk-up due to lack of elevator maintenance just that morning.  As my travel companion and I trudged up the dark slender stairwell, my only contemplation was I hope this dump has a bar.  My GC buddy obviously shared the same design and we agreed to meet in the lobby in (15).  As expected, there was no bar – a fact that I found (and find) perplexing.  How can a hotel of any value exist successfully without a bar?  Even some Hampton Inns I’ve lodged fake a bar with a washtub of iced Miller. Nevertheless we were encouraged by the Indian gent behind the front desk to venture down the hill to a Mediterranean restaurant that had been stapled and duct taped to the end of this sad block…The Nile, you will like sir. 

My first clue should have probably been the appearance of the front door, but I was parched and in desperate need of a rounding-off-of-edges-before-dinner libation.  The stained glass and teak entrance was shuttered with what can only be described as a big-ass log chain (thanks to my Mississippi up-bringing) and a colossal corroded pad lock.  The flickering gas-light lanterns did little to assure me that this was a good idea.  Despite my initial apprehension, we walked right on down the alley to the (back) front door.  No chains, no locks, no lights…not even a door handle – just a door. 

Inside there was a skeletal layer of hookah smoke seemingly eternally suspended in stale air and the elastic jangle of Nubian folk melodies crackling through yesterday’s sound system.  Candle flames flirted and danced with their reflections in dirty mirrors and died inside the tarnished patina of the punched tin ceiling tile.  The dappled fading sunlight flitted through the tattered folds of the red velvet drapes chaotically drawn on every pane and settled down among the chunky fibers of the threadbare rugs, exhausted from its journey.  I posted up in an overstuffed leather and pine barstool, ordered a Budweiser and enjoyed sub-titled CNN.

The proprietor of this fine establishment was a gracefully aging fellow named Mustapha.  He had emigrated from Egypt with his brother Ahmed (10) years prior and opened The Nile shortly thereafter.  I’m a sucker for this story every time and they regaled me with their tales of trial, tribulation and finally success in America for the whole of the time I was there.  Alas, I had a dinner reservation and couldn’t stay but flippantly said I would see them later as I ascended the steps to the alleyway.

Dinner with my team was the fiasco it always is on these interview gigs – a bunch of middle-aged, middle-class white men trying desperately to convince the other of how important and successful they are.  The glad-handing, back-slapping confirmation of their perceived station in life is as important to them (if not more than) the very air they breathe.  My state school pedigree almost always draws a chuckle.  I hate developer deals man, but that’s the job sometimes. They're probably all great guys: we just have nothing in common.  I consoled myself with the knowledge that as intolerable as this collective debacle was it wasn’t half as bad as the 1,000 dollar suit broker douche bag bullshit interrogation I would have to endure the following morning.  As per the norm, I nodded and smiled at their elitist Republican jokes, chugged overpriced wine and choked down forgettable fish.  In the perfect solitary fortress of my mind I forced myself into my Zen place – my dogs, my garden, my home…but I secretly lamented the tiny death of another piece of my soul at the same time.  But hey, there was an incredible view of lower Manhattan from our table, right? 

I remain continually pissed off about the necessary evil business side of my business.  It makes me question my path some days.

Back at the hotel, I parted ways with my eclectic group seeking nothing more than the anonymous company of strangers in the quiet nothing of the residue of the day.  As soon as I walked back into the Nile I knew I had missed it.  I wasn’t sure what it was, but it had most definitely just taken place.  The builder’s grade ceramic dance floor I had barely noticed before was a minefield of empty cups and cigarette butts.  I could barely see through the smoke to the dusty blue neon bar where Mustapha was holding court with a reserve of remnant revelers.  The music had switched to Wu Tang and DMX and I felt a wave of peace sweep over me. 

(30) minutes later, the kitchen and wait staff had been dismissed.  The stragglers had dispersed.  The TV above the bar had been changed to I Love Lucy re-runs.  Frank Sinatra was being looped on the juke box.  I sat on one side of the bar with Mustapha and his son Vlad and a past-her-prime belly dancer named Shondra and Ahmed sat on the other side with a bucket of ice, a bottle of some swill and a constant supply of fresh glasses. I thought to myself, maybe Thursdays aren’t so bad.

I sat there listening to my newfound crew discuss topics as disparate as health care reform to Kim Kardashian’s ass for what seemed like hours.  As the evening waned I realized that Mus and Ahmi were struggling through walking Sambuca induced comas and young Vlad was increasingly speaking with a Hispanic accent about Formula 1 racing and Shondra hadn’t said a single word the entire time.  It began to dawn on me that this is what every Thursday night is like at the Nile.  As I watched it unfold I became more and more depressed.  They all seemed so happy but there was barely a cogent thought shared among the four.  At some point, I began to realize (or imagine) that my gang had stopped speaking broken English and were back in their native.  I don’t speak Masri and I think my white American paranoia got the better of me. One of these things is not like the other Sesame Street logic crept into my psyche.  When silent stoic Shondra suddenly smiled, laughed and pushed away from the bar I was abruptly anxious. 

Have you ever sat down and had a conversation with a belly dancer after their belly dancing shift was over?  As it turns out, they are not much for conversation.  I get it; I don’t really want to talk about my day after my day is done either.  I asked her how she had enjoyed the day thus far and then it hit me like a ton of bricks.  When she laughed and stood up, I knew exactly what was about to happen.  I’ve seen enough movies to know that she was about to walk to and lock the door and the rest of the boys were totally about to slice me open and harvest my organs!  Having little desire to wake up in the ridiculous streets of Secaucus bleeding to death with feral felines fighting over my intestines I threw a wad of cash down on the bar and bounced with a quickness.  Undoubtedly, my imagination was working overtime but one can never be too careful, eh?

Safe in my lumpy hotel bed, I regrouped and tried to summon the wherewithal to face the following day.  The next day was as rip-off as everything else about New Jersey had been.  The interview was a bust – we didn’t land the deal.  Packed between sweaty fat man (1) and (2) on the flight back to Atlanta I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.  I spend so much time inside of my own head that everything outside of it seems preposterous to me.  I laughed all the way back to the A…in much the same way as a crazy person might.  (I wonder what that says about me.)

Touching down, I summed up the futility of the previous (48) hours in a single sentence: I’ve never been to Egypt, but I have been On The Nile.   

Anything else I might say would be pointless.