So - on Thursday night, following waves of panic regarding what the hell to wear and whether or not to eat dinner (first-world problems putting us in the right midset for the evening) we head to the British Consulate office, which is located in a somewhat richer and prettier area of town - a quiet, whitewashed oasis surrounded by sprawling, narrow streets where washing lines criss-cross overhead and cats dodge between unmoving cars. We cross an empty square and hand our invitations (and cameras) over before going inside.
The reception is in the back garden, with a few guests already milling around and fairy lights wound around the trees. When we go hunting for the toilet we discover the inside of the building looks and noticeably smells like a sixth-form college - apart from the posters on what to do on discovering explosives. Aside from a five-minute speech detailing a few of the upcoming events in the city we are left to our own devices, and get to know a few students from SOAS and Durham who are studying at the main university. Some have bought wedding rings and planned stories so as to live in mixed groups during their time here, though most are only staying for three months due to studying Arabic, Russian and Chinese. I feel a little inadequate and in true Leeds style (and along with the rest of our contingent I might add), hit the free bar.
Drinking in a Middle Eastern country feels very, very weird. Despite having been assured by a new friend - will call him Y because of the upcoming post - that a lot of Egyptian Muslims do drink, and despite the gin being Gordon's and the tonic Schweppes and the first branded alcohol we've seen so far, minds and stomachs alike are quick to communicate that there's something wrong. I blame a combination of near-constant dehydration and an almost entirely dry September for a number of us feeling quite sick - and more to the point, it doesn't mix well with shisha.
Following the two hours at the consulate we make our way to the confusingly-named 'Portuguese bar', where a woman (originally from Leeds!) explains in a jovial but businesslike manner that this is a 'haven for expats' we'll probably end up frequenting. I remain unconvinced; between the sheets of drink tokens reminiscent of a grimy all-inclusive holiday, the club anthems we tried so hard to escape from at Leeds blasting in the empty 'disco room' upstairs and the fact that we receive more eyeball-undressing from the beer-soaked bald men playing pool here than we have in a month in Alexandria, I think I'd rather stay honorary Arab for the year. Sorry.
Our feelings as a flat are cemented the following evening when we go out with Riham and her friends, this time to a restaurant on the very outskirts of Alexandria, bordering on the desert itself. The drive is around half an hour and takes you past the industrial zone of ACL and Merghem, into an endless flat land surrounded by still, silent marshes. Rows of expansive and identical villas border the main road, complete with gardens and swimming pools and blissfully free of rubbish.
We spend an hour or so in a very quiet restaurant by the side of the road, sat on moth-eaten mats and eating with our hands Egyptian-style; the shisha here is thick and the tea served in thimble-sized glasses, like expresso shots. We then move to a cafe on an 'island' of wooden boards where we drink mango juice and have our fusha Arabic ridiculed - again. It transpires that fusha is the equivalent of Shakespearean English and is used only in newspapers and some official documents; ironically Egyptian Arabic is far easier but for the sake of not getting confused, I've elected to learn the bare minimum this year and get by talking like I'm in a time warp. On this topic, we also discovered that the first week we were here we consistently got Riham's name wrong, calling her Rahim, which means uterus.
On the way back Hossam's friend, who spent a long time in Kuwait, laments the lack of organisation in Egyptian driving - the white lines on the road, he says, were a waste of paint as most people aren't aware they hold any function apart from decoration. He likens both driving and crossing to playing a video game; for pedestrians, as we have also discovered, it's a matter of shutting down, ceasing to think and moving by instinct alone between safe zones lest you lose a life. For the drivers it's more like Grand Theft Aut. Need I say more. He also mentions the huge goth and metalhead community in Alexandria, who regularly gather at the library for gigs. I've already noticed the first Evanescence album playing in more than one ordinary restaurant alongside Amr Diab and am pretty sure curiosity will get the better of me at some point.
Overall we have a cool and animated but shattering evening in true British-abroad style, followed a genuinely lovely one with our Arab friends. I'm sure the time will come when all we want to do is flick soggy pub mats across a table at one another through a cigarette fug with football blaring in the background... but it's not yet. Nowhere near.
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