Staggering toward a new campus
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I got to know Chris over the summer, and I wouldn’t say we were particularly close, but we were as good friends as two people can be having known each other only three months. Chris had studied abroad in London early in his university career and developed quite a taste for drinking. There were nights when we had to carry the freshly turned 21-year-old home on the subway and even more nights when he staggered and babbled incoherently at passer-by. I was sure that one day he would meet his death at the bottom of a bottle, despite his enthusiasm for life and his sparkling disposition.
Sometime in January he was found dead in his apartment. His heart had failed him, but it wasn’t the drink that did him in, it was his low blood pressure. It came as a shock to everyone.
The last time I communicated with Chris was over email. He had sent me a short message asking how Cairo was treating me, when I expected to be back and when we could grab a drink. He said he was thinking about studying abroad again and asked my advice. The last, and only, thing I said to Chris was, “don’t come to Cairo.”
Now, I hate to beat a topic to death, but it’s the new campus. That’s why I told Chris to steer clear of Egypt. That is why I would tell anyone to go anywhere else. Sure, some may be excited by the sprawling campus, the tree-lined walks and the open expanse of a real American campus for an American school, but the loss is far greater than the gain.
I spent last semester nuzzled away in the tall green trees of Zamalek and buried my face in books at Cilantro, Coffee Bean and Costa. I spent far more time in various apartments above the Metro supermarket than I did exploring Cairo. I spent my nights fighting to chatter about anything but what my fellow study-abroads missed most about the States, and fought even harder to resist the temptation to chime in. I miss Mexican food, I miss cracking a book on the beach in San Diego, I miss stumbling through the streets of New York babbling incoherently at passer-by.
This semester, I live downtown. I walk four minutes to class and haven’t spent more than a few hours in any of the gaudy, modernized and sterile coffee shops. Architecture and history loom over the streets here, and the chatter of my largely American group of friends circles around the intimate and the authentic sights and sounds the city has to offer, what we love about Cairo and what we’ll miss about Egypt. All of it is within a touch; all of it surrounds us each day.
Next year, students coming to study in Cairo – students like Chris might have been – will find a lovely new home, a campus oasis stretched across the desert, pristine and sparkling establishments serving up all makes of marketable and manufactured treats, lattes and cappuccinos, burgers and bagels – comfort and class. With luck, students will make the commute back to the city to wander around a bit. With luck, they won’t be sucked into the lifestyle many already trap themselves into living in Zamalek. When I think about the new campus, the decision to move AUC, I see Chris, staggering and babbling ridiculousness: “Hey man, I got a great idea,” he might mumble, “Let’s put the campus way over there.”
