Early Memories Never Worded: The Subconscious Chronicles #2

 

On the first article in this newly migrated series, The Subconscious Chronicles #1, we covered The Return of the Prodigal Son and Turn The Page: From the Frozen Midwest to the Mile High Gnosis. But as mentioned, the path of the wandering seeker — who takes it as it comes — is certainly not all rainbows and unicorns. Here, we step off the cinematic train and into the raw, unromanticised grit of the same road. Plus two more memories.

The adventures continue.

I. The Unplanned Tour Across America

 

O’ the never-seen-before photos and videos I stumble upon every now and then amid the many Terabytes. There is a story behind each of them. We can say a story inside a dream inside a dreamy story — or something.

What we have in the featured photo is a minor controlled “Bleurghhhhhh” expression, one of few during this seven-months haphazard solo trip when I found myself one snowy winter in the frozen American Midwest.

On Facebook, twelve years ago, I kept it vague, saying I was “staying with people I do not know with whom I have little in common”. Out of decency if not for anything else, since I was still a guest. But as a writer, the truth demands more context today.

One of my hosts was a kind, lonely, highly medicated guy who had reached out to me over the internet and invited me into his space. Having only experienced L.A and New York before, landing in a small, isolated Illinois town following Toronto during a brutal winter was an absolute shock. Over an hour away from Chicago, I quickly realised this wasn’t a place where I could just open the door and walk to a coffee shop. It was a suburban prison, which felt like those places for Witness Protection people who must disappear. In fact, in all my days there, I never once saw a neighbour. 

Part of the culture shock was entirely transactional. I remember walking into a local liquor store — several, actually — innocently asking if they carried Rosé wine, only to be met with a completely vacant, uncomprehending stare. To bypass the confusion, I had to dumb it down: “Pink wine,” I explained, quickly adding, “and no, not the sweet one.” One of the store clerks looked at me with total earnestness and said, “Well, buddy, you can just buy a bottle of red and a bottle of white and mix them together.”

Bwaha! I stood there thinking, *Where on earth am I?*

Rocky Balboa still had to jog in the fresh air for his own sanity. 
Made the young housemate capture this photo because he knew one day 
he’d be telling it like it is 

It is worth noting that during one of my two visits there, the host wasn’t in the house for several days. I was left entirely alone with this twenty-year-old housemate, which was when we bonded. There was also when the mother was visiting.  

The video below shows me walking through snow half a metre deep just to reach the closest gas station a mile away. It also shows thousand of Canada Geese resting on a frozen lake during their migration. What glorious sight. It was one rare day where being outdoors kind of made sense. Well, I tweaked the vibrancy of the footage, why it seems illuminated and sunny.  

Other than that, during those days alone, I frequently drove a van belonging to this young guy. He had a DUI on his record from back in Jersey, meaning he had a vehicle sitting there that only I could drive. I would use the van to take him to and from college about half an hour away, using the commute to explore these vast, empty lands — camera in hands. I also drove him to a local animal shelter where he had to check in a few times a week for his brush with the law.

Another time, we took his van to White Castle for those tiny “slider” burgers I had only ever heard of from stoner movies; apparently, they’ve been around since 1921! So yes, there were things to do, but after a mere week, you naturally find yourself contemplating your next move.

But honestly, in all of this, worse than the weather outside was the psychological claustrophobia inside the house. The Facebook fan was battling OCD and agoraphobia — as it turned out. He had projected a whole fantasy onto me based purely on my writings — he likely invited me there as a “healer,” someone who would somehow fix his life or somehow add him with certain emotional stability. It was my very first taste of the heavy “image-making” trap I would later have to deal with constantly in L.A, especially with women. This was life on the Razor’s Edge — navigating the volatile sanity of a stranger in the middle of a frozen wasteland. To add to the gloomy energy of the house, he casually confessed to me that his company’s previous financial guy had recently taken his own life. Oufff.

Because there was nothing to do, he actually drove me an hour away through the brutal weather one day just to show me the Facebook data vaults where his company rented a single drawer. Seriously! We had to surrender our phones, hand over my passport to high-level security, just to go look at a corporate server. It was mind-numbingly boring, depressing too. But I guess he was trying to entertain me the only way he knows. 

Going to the supermarket was another outing, and I would make a daily egg breakfast and sometimes cook dinner. But the food in the Midwest as a whole was somewhat tasteless, especially the fresh produce. Most of what people eat is processed food, the restaurants served gigantic portions, and most people were overweight. That was another heavy reality to come across. 

The man and I are still connected online, and we actually met a few times afterward. Looking back, I still like to think that my stay was deeply educational for both of us.

That brings us directly to the featured photo. That lunch was spent with him and his newly hired financial guy. The conversation was so dry, so corporate, and so profoundly not me that my face simply couldn’t hide it anymore. When I excused myself to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and realised my expression perfectly captured the existential dread of the moment.

I was stuck there in the middle of nowhere with no car, no American phone, a fragile stranger looking at me to save him, and corporate tech drawers as entertainment. For someone who enjoys solitude and who isn’t used to sharing a house with a mere stranger, it was a massive leap outside of my comfort zone.

Man, while the very act of leaving the comfort zone along with all the “known” towards the unknown catalyses growth and rejuvenation and liberation like nothing else, the experience of coddiwompling on the road without a known home can still be overwhelming and is often even romanticised. Yes, it is the epitome of freedom and non-attachment unlike anything else; but it’s not really all rainbows and unicorns, which IS part of it; the challenge is not for the faint of heart either, especially when all alone. There are such occasional moments amid the journey when you must self-inquire: “What. Are. You. Doing?”

A bit of context first. As shared in The Return of the Prodigal Son, after Canada the new recalibrated me had nothing much to do back in Egypt while still having two years left in the U.S visa. So after a short visit to Cairo to see my family for the first time in three years I ventured to do what I had always dreamed of doing: Tour the U.S of A — away from California and New York. You know, go on a quest to explore the real America.

As such, when life somehow led to that point I took the opportunity and wrote a public post on Facebook to share the idea, thereby asking anyone who could provide accommodation. And some kind ones actually responded. I gratefully ended up sharing homes with cousins, friends, friends of friends, people met through F.B, as well as total strangers.

Not knowing what to expect throughout this impromptu journey, it was a whole new endeavour which offered a much needed doze of novelty and inspiration to keep on keeping on. Towards what or where exactly? I truly had no idea. There was neither destination nor fixed plan in mind. I just trusted myself along with the uncertainty and maybe also “fate” to carry me through it — whatever that “IT” was.

Speaking of being on the road, when one day my Michigan cousin got me in touch with two young women friends to show me around Detroit we came to meet few other people. One of them then asked where I live, so I said I’m roaming around. And they all looked at me with a certain compassion spelling “Oh he’s homeless” — something completely normal throughout the country as a whole. Uhm, I kind of wanted to say I’m not American, I’m an explorer. But just didn’t and enjoyed the compassion. Ha. Technically then and there I was indeed homeless, I just happened to embrace it all.

Little did I know that the city of Detroit had filed for bankruptcy months earlier on July of 2013. What? In the mighty Land of the Free, how could that be possible, you wonder. But it is the stark reality that becomes apparent once you visit.

The closest anything

Now back to the featured photo: Looking at myself in that bathroom mirror while enjoying a brief me-time away from the heavy energy of that house, I felt sort of stuck for a moment. But, it had been my decision all along, so riding the adventure seemed like the only sane thing to do, embracing it too despite the apparent challenges. A visionary part of me then clicked on the shutter to document the momentary frustration, knowing that one day I’ll get to share the story behind it and hopefully have a chuckle remembering the daring adventure. Maybe there would also be a lesson or two learned from the experience. And here we are more than a decade later.

Few months following the tour after settling in Venice Beach, the humorous list-photo-article Things I Couldn’t Quite Understand After Being On The Road For Seven Months [with Photos] was conjured. It was the first in the lighthearted Chronicling The Journey series on One Lucky Soul, which ended up including 20-something further articles.

Also, “On The Road” became the title of a photography exhibition I later had in Cairo where a variety of photos taken in North America were shown, some of which are in the video.

What an eventful and educational ten-year trip that was. Grateful for it all. 

Onward Forward.

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.”
― Aldous Huxley

— ☙ ❊ ❧ —

 II. The “Foreigner Complex” From Saudi Arabia to South of France — aka [ عقدة الخواجة ] “Okdat el Khawaga”

First thing first, a “Foreigner Complex” describes a societal tendency, particularly in post-colonial contexts like Egypt, to view foreign things and people as inherently superior while preferring foreign goods over local ones. It’s a mixed bag of admiration, dependence, insecurity, and an inferiority-slash-superiority complex stemming from historical domination and cultural clashes. It affects everything from consumer choices to national identity.

Now, the first three years of my life were spent in Cairo before the following two were spent in Alexandria. Then, it was back to Cairo to live with my maternal grandmother and start my formal education, while parents and baby sister lived in Saudi Arabia for another two years.

During this time, I would visit them in Al Madinah where we resided in the “management” compound adjacent to the hotel. Sometimes we would all go to Al Taif as well as Makkah — where non-Muslims are strictly prohibited from entering. Whaaa, why? 

Do note that this is 1982-1983; and the country couldn’t have been more strict and the system more atavistic. Outside the house, my mother had to cover her hair and could only wear a black 3abaya, the traditional garment for women, and she obviously wasn’t allowed to drive. It was so segregated, in fact, I don’t recall seeing a single woman’s face during the trips.

For a five-year old, these Sharia laws and societal rules seemed unusual and unnatural, to say the least. But somehow, I only began to pay attention when noticing how women riding the planes with us from Saudi Arabia to Cairo or France would disappear into the bathroom just before landing, only to emerge wearing normal clothes with uncovered hair — Saudi women included. Hm. The exact same stark contrast could be seen in reverse on the flights back. Can you imagine how weird that looks to an observing child who has no real conception of how the world works?

While my second and eleventh borndays were spent in California visiting my aunt, it was the travels to the South of France in between that opened up my mind to more questions and confusion.

Contrarily, in Sainte-Maxime, where the family visited several summers in a row in the mid 1980s, there were plenty of nudists on the beaches. Yep, and cheeky uncles would ask us kids to pose in certain areas, pretending to film us using father’s oversized video camera, only to capture Les Gros Nénés behind us. Ha! Once back in Egypt, family and friends would gather to watch these fun home videos together. Six Nails for My Double-Fractured Arm in Sainte-Maxime is a fun tale from those very summers. 

As a curious kid, you try not to stare at the nude people, but at that age — and going to an all-boys school — it was certainly fun to casually come across naked women. Ahh, no complexes. I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy the scenery?

So, who was right then? And what is right? For women to be free to do what they want, like get naked on a beach, or to be subdued by men and forced to cover themselves from head to toe like some piece of property or owned furniture? I would subliminally wonder.

But even as a child, it was clear that religion had a whole lot to do with controlling people in general — culture and traditions as well. Poverty and illiteracy seem to fuel the submission.

Another thing to note is that children tend to process reality in dualistic terms, as in Black-and-White Thinking, through which nuances and complexities are often missed or misunderstood. So naturally, I was attempting to compare two distinct modes of existences: The Western or European in general, and the Eastern — where I was born.

Five-year-old with Grandfather in the Ihram attire — Sheraton Al Madinah, 1982

Following the summers on the French Riviera, I’d go back to Les Jésuites Catholic school in Cairo for another year. That left plenty of time to try to make sense of the contrasting state of the world and the gender roles along with it. But Egypt is neither Saudi Arabia nor France; my mother could still wear whatever she wanted and drive like a normal adult — rightly so. Women can likewise go to the beach and the pool to swim and sunbathe. Alcohol is legal, yet nude beaches are not.

With that, the existence of the concept of moderation and shading began to formulate in my developing mind. I somehow came to understand that things do not have to reach their extremes to be enjoyable; that it doesn’t have to be either-or, good or bad, black or white, with or without. It isn’t such a simple a categorisation. Rather, there are many shades of grey, and all the colours of the rainbow as well. We certainly do not have to contain ourselves by limiting our choices to only two.

Even though these unworded reflections took years to develop, and even more years to articulate, I was still just a child back then. There was a sort of compulsion to solve this self-imposed conundrum. Yet, since we are conditioned to think in such a binary way, we often fail to form a realistic whole by simultaneously incorporating both positive and negative qualities in anything we look at — including ourselves. 

In psychological terms, Black-and-White thinking is called “Splitting”; in logic, it’s a fallacy called the “False Dilemma”

As such, this young boy back then felt the need to side with one mode of existence over the other — to make a choice, internally or even secretly, without ever uttering it to anyone. And I sided with the West because of the freedom, the modernity, and the open-mindedness. Not that I wanted nude beaches everywhere, but because the oppression of women and their supposed God-given domination using tools like religion somehow didn’t sit right with me. 

Another more material aspect that appealed to me was the culture itself, with its infectuous music, movies, and merchandise. It lead to a sort of immature fascination with the West. Again, remember that in early-mid 1980s Egypt, there were no cool clothes, skateboards, CDs, chocolates, or flavoured ice creams; no Nike, MTV, NBA. So, of course, the entire Western foreign culture had its own allure, especially — or perhaps exclusively — when watched from afar. All the above then fed into the Foreigner Complex, which, apparently, was no real issue in Egypt prior to the 1952 coup. 

Likewise, the young boy could tell or sense that people in more liberated countries seemed happier than those in Saudi Arabia, for instance. Life — at least from a distance — was more open, natural, social. 

“Why can’t we have the same in my own home country? Uff, how unfair; especially since we are the descendents of the golden Ancient Egyptians civilisation dating all the way back to the 4th millennium BCE,” I would often wonder throughout the years. 

Then, when the January 25 Revolution took place, some of us naively thought: “Finally, it’s time to [re]join the rest of the advanced world”. As if the process is as simple as changing a president. Pff. Good-hearted but certainly naive and inexperienced. 

As for Egypt being somewhat moderate, a part of me would still ache seeing all these millions of women covering their bodies and hair because they were told it’s the right religious thing to do to go to Heaven — God’s greatest payout for the obedient, which includes the gullible. Even though this “modesty” in clothes and appearance was more of a cultural relic from earlier nomadic times throughout the region, it seems like a petty concern given our tiny cosmic place in the universe.

The truth is, life Here and Now remains transient, yet it is also enough and can be majestic depending on how we perceive it. Again, look at the Ancient Egyptians and all the innovations they left the world. 

But then you add poverty and illiteracy to the equation, only to realise that faith tends to give unfortunate people hope — possibly that the coming afterlife will be better. It is nothing new, just talk of smoke and mirrors initially perpetuated by ancient, superstitious people who were basically afraid of death and had no good reason to know what they were talking about. 

With maturity, I further understood that the majority of women in certain parts of the world are coerced into hiding themselves, be it by family, husbands, neighbourhoods, culture, society as a whole. It is as if the human body itself is unnatural, some kind of sin to be ashamed of. It is absolutely not. Some apologists may call it “personal freedom” — sure it is, IF there is an actual choice. 

Two-year old with mother in Santa Monica, July 1979.
The same beach I would jog on in my mid 30s

In the end, it was never for me to tell others what to wear or how to lead their lives, so these sentiments were always kept to myself. But having been around the world, I can attest that the liberation and empowerment of women is a major key to a happier and more productive society. They make up half of the world’s population and can contribute much, much more than being baby factories hidden behind loose garments and closed doors. Vive Les Femmes, man!

On an interesting, related note which likewise was never worded, looking back today, this early inner conflict appears to have been directly reflected in my choice of friends. From fourth to sixth grade, I happened to befriend Ismail, who was fresh from France when Madame Mervat made him sit next to me in class to “show him the ropes”; we became fast friends soon after. Then it was Shokry, coming from England; he and I also became dear friends and neighbours. There was also Omar from Russia; he was a year younger, brought into my class after the system merged two grades together for some odd reason, and he was deliberately given the seat right next to me. It was as if I was some kind of mini-Ambassador, just like my maternal grandfather. 

As such, it seems I somehow attracted those who had seen what I had seen and had been to where I had been — generally speaking, that is. Or maybe I was attracted to the fact that we shared the fortunate, mind-opening experience of travelling abroad, which was not that common at the time, especially at such young age.

Curiously, this “Foreigner Complex” was only fully exorcised out of me decades later when I happened to live in North America — when I saw for myself that my previous views of the West as the world’s wonderland were based entirely on a shallow Hollywood-esque image. A mere deceptive facade.

There, too, amid the “civilisation”, the riches, the constant wars, narcissism, and reality TV among other Weapons of Mass Distraction, there is rampant poverty, lack of proper education, epidemics of drugs and mental health issues, and hundreds of mass shootings every year. Add to all that — wait for it — legal arms, and it becomes a ticking time bomb heading toward the possible devolution of one grand civilisation plagued by the unsustainable ideology of constant growth.

To outsiders, this modern-day physical and intellectual slavery is just better hidden behind the glitz and glam of an elaborate, curated, almost CGI’d Disney-esque appearance depicting its own perpetual greatness. Well, at least it used to be before many began seeing straight through it. 

After a decade in North America, it became quite clear that my perspective was based on an illusion conjured by an impressed child who was exposed to the Western culture while growing up yet didn’t know any better. French school, American university, and a move to Canada all helped fuel that illusion. Something learned from the experience, though, is that there is a substantial price to pay for the advertised freedom “enjoyed” by those who live there. Another is that every place has its pros and cons. 

To reverse-engineer my own conditioning, and perhaps in an attempt to redeem myself, once back to Egypt I began encouraging local talents and arts just as I encourage local products. The country has indeed come a long way since the 1980s. Another resolution was writing more in Arabic. 

What a multicultural ride. And once again before leaving you, wherever we are: Vive Les Femmes!

“A great way to learn about your country is to leave it.”
― Henry Rollins

*Collage: (T. L) Disneyland, L.A 1979
(T. R) Al Madinah Sheraton in football attire, 1983
(B. L) Booby-Cropped 😜 in Sainte-Maxime, 1986
(B. R) Universal Studios, L.A 1989

— ☙ ❊ ❧ —

III. Omar Cherif — Omar Sharif — Sharing a Name with an International Celebrity

The post about late author and hypnotherapist Dolores Cannon, whose student-run page happened to share one of my OLS Reflections, brought back vivid memories of the actor Omar Sharif. The reason is that some of her fans saw the share and immediately inquired if there was a link between us. It is a question that has constantly chased me throughout my life, probably ever since I was old enough to speak. 

While Egyptians tend to find my name incredibly easy to remember compared to just “Omar,” some foreigners find it highly amusing — especially after finding out that we actually knew each other. Not all of them, however, as we are about to see in the encounters below. This memory was first shared around the time he passed away in July of 2015, a year after Dolores. Yet, while her account is still thriving through students capitalising on her material, it is the actual creators who leave a real mark. 

Omar Sharif’s name and mine came to be intertwined. Even Google tends to have an issue whenever adding the full name with a C, asking if I mean Sharif with an S. Only when adding One Lucky Soul along with it everything comes to the surface — including my articles, photos, reflections, even Facebook posts. It is as if without OLS I remain virtually overshadowed by the departed man. Well, at least before AI.

Adding to the confusion, in Arabic his name is written Omar Al/El Sherif (عمر الشريف); with the El/Al mysteriously added. This is something I am grateful for since it is the only major difference.

For those who don’t know, the handsome man was born Michel Yusef Dimitri Chalhoub in April 1932. So it’s his screen name, perhaps because it sounds good or cool or whatever. Could it have been somehow inspired by the actual original Omar Cherif (1880 – 1946), my grandfather?

Alright, storytelling time. The coming post will include few brief and personal encounters related to the Alexandria-born international actor Omar Sharif (1932 – 2015). 

Back When Tigers Used To Smoke...

During my late teens, while living at the Cairo Sheraton where my father served as General Manager, Omar Sharif used to come stay at the hotel frequently. He and father had known each other for decades, stretching back to when they used to play snooker together alongside Roushdy Abaza and Ahmed Ramzy — the definitive, legendary playboys of Egyptian cinema from the 1950s through the 1970s.

Multiple times over those years, I received somewhat seductive phone calls intended for him. I specifically remember an older lady fan who called my room once. After telling her that I wasn’t the actor, she paused and asked, “Well, are you good-looking like him?”

Ha, well I’m just a tad younger,” was my response, chuckling. I’ve always wondered if, throughout the many years, he ever accidentally received some of my phone calls in return.  

We actually met twice, formally introduced by my father: Omar Cherif, meet Omar Sharif.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️🌀〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Years later, at 19 years old in Los Angeles, I went to buy a jacket. The girl working at the clothing store and I started chatting. She found out I was originally from Egypt and that my name was Omar. 

“Oh, like the actor Omar Sharif,” was the first thing she uttered.

“Well, I am Omar Cherif.

Get outta here,” she absolutely thought I was playing her. So, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my UCLA ID, and showed her the full name.

“OMG, Linda! This guy’s name is Omar Cherif,” she yelled, calling her equally young colleague out from the back of the store.

Apparently, those two not only knew of Omar Sharif, but they were massive fans. They gave me a 50% discount on that jacket solely because of my name. Seriously, fifty percent! That is a manifestation that does not happen too often.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️🌀〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Conversely, once in my early 30s at a Toronto Starbucks, the 18-year-old barista working the counter completely missed my name when I first said it. So, as I usually do to make things easier, I told her, “like the actor Omar Sharif.” 

She gave me a dramatically blank face.

I was still going to enthusiastically carry on: “Dr. Zhivago, you know. Lawrence of Arabia, mayhap? “A Funny Girl” with Barbra Streisand even.” 

Still blank. Then it hit me with the force of a thousand suns: This wasn’t just a massive age gap; there was a profound cultural gap at play. “It’s O.M.A.R, darling,” I spelled it out for her to make it easier on everyone.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️🌀〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Finally, several years after we left the Sheraton, my father’s former long-time assistant received a piece of mail addressed to Mr. Omar Cherif [or perhaps Sherif/Sharif]. Naturally assuming it was for me, she forwarded it over. Once I opened it, I realised it was another passionate fan letter from a woman living in Canada. 

I was initially reluctant to write her back to explain that her letter had reached the wrong Omar. But I was ultimately advised to let it go and keep her happy, letting her think it had safely reached her idol. He passed away some years later. I still have that letter today in the memory shoebox. 

So, as you can see, it was — and still is — an immense amount of fun to share a name with such a charming, timeless man of the world. May Omar Sharif Rest In Peace. 


*Handsome Omar Sharif with stunner Sophia Lauren in “More Than a Miracle”, 1967



ALSO VIEW:


Early Memories Never Worded: The Subconscious Chronicles #1

Things I Couldn’t Quite Understand After Being On The Road For Seven Months [with Photos]

A Dollar & Thirty Four Cents in Me Pocket and Feeling Fine

The Girl Who Wouldn’t Share Toilet Paper

Why Not a Bidet?

Dreaming of the Accident Before it Happened

The Bloke Who Thought I’m Too Much of an Alpha Male

The Joy of Being a Wanderer and the Credit Card Number

Tripping Through Venice Beach Art

More Tripping Through Venice Beach Art

A Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2014-’15)

Another Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2016-’17)

One More Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2017-’18)

The Phenomenal Getty Villa in Photos

The Night I Became a Stripper in Spain

Not Sleeping With a French Hooker at 14