Hi Boston

You would think that our world is immune to certain things by now. Then some events happen where you see the bad guys unapologetically, shamelessly, & loudly challenge what we thought to have morally agreed upon regardless of our multitude of differences. What is more puzzling is how some previously loud voices suddenly turn silent, in a display of moral incoherence, which to me is immoral. Like the German national football team (and many supporters) taking a stance against the World Cup in Qatar contesting about human rights while remaining forever silent when it comes to the Gaza-issue. Most of us are morally naked. This is somehow my answer to the question “Why are you going to the United States, while Trump is the president?”
A 10-day trip, mainly to attend my friend Amr’s wedding in Boston. Amr is a bright Egyptian doctor that went to the States to get his PhD and recently finished his medical residency and training as an epileptologist, which is a few things we have in common. I thought I would combine the trip with a short visit to Miami, which would be my second time after my lovely visit in 2022.

Landing in Boston and crossing the border was a breeze. I took the public transportation to my Couchsurfing host, Steve, a 67-year-old gentleman. It has been a while since I couchsurfed, having only hosted travelers in the last few years. I was looking forward to refreshing my “traveler’s nomadic soul” and stretching my arms wide to the serendipity of the universe. As I approached Steve’s house, I found the Ukrainian and Palestinian flags hanging outside. I now knew we were up to some good conversations. Steve welcomed me into his home where he lives with his foster child and two cats. He has been fostering children for a couple of years, giving them a roof and providing for them in his retirement. Steve insisted that I use his bedroom while he slept on the couch. A remarkable generosity.

During our conversation over his prepared breakfast and our long walk in the Arboretum that belongs to Harvard University, I got an unexpected glimpse into Steve’s life. His inspiring resistance to the government in different periods, joining protests and refusing to pay taxes to object to how the money is used by the government. He would declare his tax money and put it in an escrow account and tell the government “Here is the money that I don’t want to pay to support you.” He is not even keeping the money for himself. Counting the consequences that followed, I was more inspired to know that he started doing the same thing last year to object against the Gaza genocide. I bet Steve looks in the mirror and feels true to himself.
After our walk, Steve had to leave for some appointments, among them his piano lesson. I prepared myself for Amr’s wedding, picked up the rental car, picked up Anna, one of Amr’s friends, and we drove to the wedding at a venue on the lake.


Amr’s bride is American, the wedding had a majority of American guests and some Egyptians from Amr’s side. The ceremony started in joyous and classy fashion. My heart melted to the words of their vows and I truly wish them a prosperous life with never-ending love. I mingled with other invitees and introduced myself randomly. “The world is too small,” I said when I met Sayed, another Egyptian doctor who used to live in the same building as my late grandmother!
I was seated at a table with other epileptologists from Amr’s department in Harvard’s Brigham and Women’s Hospital. Eating, socialising, and dancing to Western and Egyptian songs concluded the beautiful event.


The next day Steve had to leave early for a sewing lesson. It is impressive how many things this man is still learning. I had my breakfast in a nearby café, then decided to visit the Museum of Science. A big building full of creative scientific experiences that would delight the most apathetic child. I roamed around avoiding stepping on the thousands of children that filled the museum with their accompanying adults and felt slightly overwhelmed with inspiration. Ideas for art projects that include scientific principles always excite me, knowing that I will only manage to realise a few of them in my lifetime 🙁
I grabbed a bite and decided spontaneously to attend an improv theatre show. Improv theatre is one of my favourite hobbies from many years ago and is again a place that never disappoints for some laughs and creativity. During the show, the actors asked which guest thought he came from the furthest. Egypt (or even Switzerland) was obviously further than New Jersey. They asked me a few questions about Egypt and I shared with them that Victoria’s Secret has many branches in Cairo since a few decades ago. They used my answer to generate a hilariously improvised show including King Tut wearing lingerie and an actress who had a bra branded “King Tit” hehehehe.
After the show, Steve and I went to a free jazz concert in a nearby local church. It featured a mix of Black and white artists. Steve mentioned that this is not very common, and that the music scene in Boston is unfortunately often segregated. Steve offered to host me for two extra nights since we got along very well. I was thankful for his generosity and company.

With a neuron in Boston Museum of Science

I had no plans for Sunday. So I joined Steve and his friend Linda at an estate sale — which is practically when a family is leaving a house and selling everything: furniture, books, etc. Everything has a price tag, and you roam around and buy what you want. I went to the book section and bought a couple of books from the intriguing collection of what seemed to me to be a remarkable family. “The Lost Art of Healing” was written by Nobel Prize winner Dr. Bernard Lown, the man who invented the cardiac defibrillator.
Steve and Linda dropped me near Harvard Square where I visited the Harvard Art Museums and roamed around different Harvard buildings. It felt somehow surreal to be there, where some of the greatest minds on the planet existed/exist. I wondered how it is to live here. What kind of interactions do you have with people in the bakery or in the canteen? What kind of conversations do you start or overhear in a bar? A kind of self-sufficient and auto-stimulating environment?
I went for the famous lobster sandwich and oysters for lunch, then took my newly acquired book and went to a Harvard common area, sat among students and scientists, and hungrily devoured the pages; learning, being inspired, and thinking about the chain of events that led me to this moment. The butterfly effect. Was it deciding to Couchsurf? Or contacting Steve? Or deciding to join the estate sale? Has another sequence of events, in a parallel universe, led to an even more enriching experience?
Steve went to donate platelets (would he please stop making me feel useless to society??) and afterward we met at an Egyptian restaurant where I introduced him to Koshari, Mahshi, Hawawshi and other typical Egyptian dishes. We split again so he could go with a friend to another jazz concert, while I intended to go to a bachata party — only to be overpowered by the sweet tiredness of jet lag.

from “The Lost Art of Healing”

On Monday morning I put on my suit and went to Brigham Hospital to spend the morning in the Epileptology Department. I had agreed with Barbara, the head of the department, to shadow there and see how things are done. I wanted to get a feeling of how things are done in a Harvard hospital. I attended a consultation with a patient with her, a meeting about functional neurological disorders (she is the president of the International Society of Functional Neurological Disorders), and exchanged a few questions about how epilepsy is diagnosed and our corresponding institutions. Another interesting episode in my Boston chronicle, and I have to say — how we do things in Zürich is not bad, it is not bad at all.
Probably one thing that caught my attention was a wall with “Best Teacher of the Month,” where some doctor was awarded this title for his teaching activities. This reminded me of that rewarding American work culture that is almost absent in German-speaking countries. In Germany and Switzerland you only get letters of warning and lists of shame, listing doctors who are late in delivering patient reports, while good doctors (or other workers, for that matter) never get any recognition.
So this is a shout-out to anyone who managed to read until this line: please use positive feedback at least as often as you use negative feedback, whether in work or in a relationship. We need a stronger positive-feedback culture.
I grabbed a quick lunch, went to Steve’s place, picked up my stuff, and headed to the airport where I would fly to Miami. I’m done with this Boston cold weather.

In Miami, I won’t be Couchsurfing. Instead, I will try HomeExchange.com for the first time. I learned about it at the end of last year, and another encounter a couple of weeks ago refreshed this knowledge. So I decided to let some people stay at my place during my trip. This gave me some “points” that I can use to stay at other people’s places around the world. I used these points to book an apartment in Miami for five nights. This has already saved me a few hundred dollars (if you wonder how I can travel so often 🙂 ).
I will be joined in Miami by Mohamed, a Syrian epileptologist who, after finishing his training in Germany, decided to go to the United States and re-do his training, currently living in Texas. He saw my posts on Instagram and happened to have holidays he was undecided about. He decided to fly to Miami to join me. Sweet serendipity.

Ü80-Rollator-Marathon

1…
2…
3…
Looos!

Dieses Mal muss ich gewinnen!
Du wirst mich nicht überholen…
Nicht beim Ü80-Rollator-Marathon!

Ich erinnere mich an unsere erste Begegnung,
vor etwa fünf Jahren.
Du hattest mir geholfen, mit meinem Rollator in den Zug zu steigen.
Ich dachte: “Was für ein süsser Gentleman!”
Deine grauen, feinen Haare und deine silber-blaue Krawatte
liessen meine Gedanken 60 Jahre jünger werden,
und meine Emotionen standen in Flammen!
Du hattest nach meiner Nummer gefragt,
und der Rest… war Geschichte.

Ich erinnere mich an unser erstes Date.
Hattest du damals wirklich einen Rollator,
oder hast du nur so getan,
damit wir uns auf Augenhöhe begegnen?
Wie oft bekommt eine Frau über 80 noch eine Rose?
Wir sprachen über unser langes Leben,
während wir einen unglaublich langsamen Spaziergang machten.
Ich liebe es, wie albern du sein kannst,
wie du mir zuzwinkerst.
In deinen Augenfalten sehe ich Welten,
tausend Geschichten,
die sich dort erzählen.
Ü80 bist du,
aber mit Ü800 Leben,
und Ü8000 Liebe.

Nein!
Jetzt bist du schon hinter mir im Rennen!
Ich bin mir nicht ganz sicher…
Hast du dich etwa gedopt?!
Schieeeedsrichterrrr!
Mein Mann ist ein Doperrrrr!

Du streckst mir die Zunge raus,
als du mich überholst.
Am Ende waren wir beide auf den letzten beiden Plätzen —
die grössten Loser.
Während Gebrselassie seine zweite Rollator-Marathon-Goldmedaille holt,
feierst du deinen „Erfolg“.
Deine Illusionen kennen fast kein Ende.
Aber komm, lass uns zusammen feiern.

Herr Doper,
hast du für heute Nacht eine blaue Pille?

10 Kisses

Curiosity was the force
That drew us closer,
In your darkened room.
A ray of light sneaked through the window,
To land on half of your face.
I thanked God
For allowing me to see your lowered gaze,
I could see the cracks of your dry lips,
That I was about to moisture.

Our breaths touched before we did,
Like messengers..
I don’t see that ray of light now,
But I feel you,
Your lips
For the very first time.

I am not myself anymore,
And neither are you, you.
The two people who have just kissed,
as they were,
Are gone.
Now, there is me plus your kiss,
And you plus mine.
I 2.0 and You 2.0.
A new encounter.
A new mission.

And it was not curiosity that brought us to the second kiss.
I was on an expansion mission.
You sought confirmation.
You tilted your head slightly
This one was longer.
More energy was exchanged,
second law of thermodynamics.
or an action and a reaction:
Newton’s third law
… of intimacy.

We are now closer than ever.
Not quite the same lovers,
two kisses ago.
I liked this new “You” a bit more,
And I hoped you felt the same.

Perhaps the “Me” from the last kiss
Would align even better with you.
You silenced my thoughts with your initiative:
The third encounter.
This time, you were driven by passion.
I surrendered, to receive.
New roles in our evolving dialogue:
You, the hunter.
Me, the gazelle.

I didn’t know this Me.
Neither did you.
A spark in your eye gave your secret away,
And I stored it gently
In a drawer within my hippocampus.

The fourth kiss was mutual,
Like sharing an afternoon cake
in a Parisian bakery.
A decrescendo of tempo,
Silence,
Review of the balance.

Excuse me, dear reader—
Our imaginary observer.
I must draw the curtains now,
Lay down my pen.

For the next five kisses
Took place in heaven.
where the angels have lined
at the doors of Eden,
You said they seemed familiar;
I feared they might claim you back.

I felt an urgent need—
To seal this chapter,
To mark the moment,
one last kiss,
A full stop.
a cherry on the top,
a pinch of salt by Nusret.

Who are we now, my darling?
Ten kisses later,
And a hundred possible “Us”

Kintsugi Heart

Kintsugi (Japanese: 金継ぎ, lit. ‘golden joinery’), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.

Wikipedia


My thoughts were scattered,
Among the remains of my heart.

They said it was shattered,
When our paths drifted apart.

They asked me:
“what happened?”

I sang your name,
I praised your manners.

I tried, but in vain,
to clarify these matters.

Then I told them what happened:

The fire in my heart,
That you came and lit,

Was put off at once
With no ashes left.

I was by myself,
In my darkest of moments.

Your shoulder was missing,
When I cried and wept.

So no, my friends.
I have no regret.
It wasn’t her words
Nor that what she did.

It was what was not.

This curse is much older,
She was just one bit.
I am now getting wiser
I, now, can admit.

I gathered my pieces
And welded with gold.

My cracks are my stories,
And eager to be told.

Your cracks are your secrets,
That call me to unfold.

It may once more be shattered
I may once more weld
I may never surrender
More cracks is more gold!

Moonlight in Lausanne

It drizzled on that French-speaking city,
You sipped the wine and called me unlucky,
Curiosity crowned your head like a halo,
And empathy sneaked into your eyes.

How do I feel?
I spoke of new days,
And of my plan to build a lighthouse,
You dismissed my altruism,
Proposed I embrace the ego,
And I said yes.
You promised to remember me.

Oppressed by my ideas,
Almost freed by your promise,
I left you and rushed into the night,
With the moon, full, witnessing.

Between both lands,
My heart does sway.
A conscious mind,
Yet I yearn to play.
Rooted in heaven,
But the soul breaks away.

Let’s not long ponder
Over disparities of the facade.
Leave the magic within,
Colorful in the shade.

Under the Jealous Stars


It was dusk by the lake.
We sat on an unremarkable bench,
shaded by trees, hiding us from some jealous stars.
The Alps on the horizon,
covered with stracciatella snow,
and the quicksilver surface of the lake,
reflecting the fancy lights of this elegant city.

His green eyes gazed at the horizon.
His frown-wrinkles seemed to dissolve in the evening,
and I saw him place his heart on the bench beside him.
He handed me a Cuban cigar and a matchbox from Manuel’s.
A couple of hours of co-solitude,
in the center of the city, or the universe,
but very far from all.
He unleashed his mind with a hurricane of passion,
for creating footsteps,
for changing things,
and for glory.

I lent him my attention,
thankful for all the butterflies
that had led to this effect.
I felt richer and wiser,
and far from the center.
Thankful for the clarity of the moment,
and the purity of the bond.

After exchanging gratitude,
we embraced a comfortable silence.
The noise of streetcars,
mixed with nearby salsa tunes.
We promised more than just words.
“See you on Wednesday,” he said softly,
Our journey was just beginning.


Mugged in Bogotá

Sometimes I consider myself the luckiest person on earth. But if you follow my blog, you also know that my life is full of “events”. A few hours ago, I found myself in another situation that made me think, “That might be it.”

I am now in Bogotá, Colombia. I have been traveling this beautiful for exactly 5 weeks now. During this time, I heard about various tourists being robbed and one being stabbed on a street where I spent a lot of time. So, there’s some context to the story.

Today at 3:00 am, after a nice party, I wanted to head home. My friends from the party have successfully booked a taxi after a long waiting time. Out on the street when I walked them to their taxi, the streets were packed with taxis and other cars. Just a regular busy Saturday night. I found a vacant taxi and jumped in after he offered a reasonable price.

He drove off, I followed the trip on Google Maps to make sure that the path was right. He took small side streets, so I felt a bit dubious. Soon enough, he slowed down on a ramp, where I thought the car might be a bit too weak, suddenly two young thugs jumped into the car, sandwiching me in the back seat, waving knives, and shouting at me in Spanish, including the driver. It was clear, I was being mugged.

I used my basic Spanish to tell them that I would give them everything. No time for bravery in a small taxi with three thugs in a dark street in Bogotá. They took my phone, watch, the cash I had, and my wallet. I had around 4 bank cards! I usually don’t carry all the cards with me, but today was my lucky day, I guess. They asked me which one had money, so I pointed at the one debit card that had the least amount (around 400 Euros). They somehow believed me and forced me to unlock my phone and open my banking app. They put a cap on my head and kept saying “close eyes” so that I don’t see them and I don’t see the road etc. I kept my head down.

While all of this was happening, the complicit driver was driving around. Then they pulled over where another car came and they exchanged one member of the gang. The one with my credit cards went in the other car, and a new thug came in to help watch me. Then we started driving the streets in what, I assume, was in circles until the other guy withdrew the cash from my card. They communicated back and forth discussing the amount that they would make and which ATM machine would have the least limit on cash withdrawal. They asked me many questions and sometimes with Google Translate when I didn’t understand.

I was there, with a dry mouth, thinking about all the possibilities. I had zero chance of overtaking the three in the taxi with their knives. They can have the money. I just hoped I wouldn’t be harmed. I was trying to prepare to fight if they attempted any physical violence. They drove to a quiet place, where someone started to wash the car. Here, a thousand other scenarios started playing in my head. Will they color the car? Was it a fake taxi? Just a yellow car that I didn’t notice? Is this escalating to a bigger crime? Will they kill me? Stab me? What are the possible lives I could be living? If any.

I kept myself together and stayed mostly calm. I cracked a few jokes, hoping that making them laugh would earn me a few credits of survival. I told them that I was an Egyptian dancer and that they could keep the watch because it was a gift from my Ex. They laughed and even put on one of my favorite songs. I was not sure if this was a good sign or if they were sarcastic. One comforting thing was that they insisted that I look down and don’t see their faces. I hoped it was because they would release me later. One of them told me, “Sleep if you’d like, we will release you in a bit”. They were waiting for the guy who had my debit card to squeeze all that was inside.

After a while, they drove to a dark road and told me that they would release me, and if I looked back, they would stab me. I told them that I understood and that I was not stupid enough to do this. Released in the random darkness of Bogotá, I ran away from that spot. I stopped another taxi (I had nothing more to lose), and went to my hostel, and immediately called the other banks to block the cards. Afterward, I went to the nearest small police station where they said that they couldn’t help me. I should make a report online.

It was a long night. I have lost some material things, but I am glad that I am unharmed. Now, don’t wonder if I am not reachable for the next couple of weeks. I still have access to my Instagram and WhatsApp, but I am not sure how long the WhatsApp on the computer will continue working. I wrote this to share with you my experience, partly because of emotions, but also so that you avoid making my mistake.

Later, while writing this post in the lobby of the hostel, an American girl came crying because she was robbed a couple of weeks ago and her only remaining credit card was blocked, and has no money for food or to go to the airport. She sat beside me and we exchanged stories, and later found solutions to our financial crises, thanks to great family and friends.

I still love Colombia 🙂

Teenage Boy Brandishing Knife And Wearing HoodieNote to inspector:Image shot before Sept 2009

Invisible, Intangible, Unfelt

You, Love!
Inside the walls you’ve built,
So tight,
Impermeably sealed.

Occasionally,
you climb to take fleeting peeks at those without,
then retreat,
far and deep.

A dance: now seen, now concealed,
now claiming a heart, or two, in your sweep,
Only to abandon, unfulfilled, and unhealed.

You withdraw, timid and untouched,
into a realm where light pervades yet smothers.

What purpose do you serve, Love?
If your flame lights no path?
It merely consumes your essence, entirely.

5000 Dreams, Whispered to the Wind

This land is mine,
my vibrant playground.

With the other ten thousand children of the neighbourhood,
We used to run about.

We’d tease Mr. Ali at his old shop,
He’d pretend to chase us with a broom.
We had no fear.

School was fun, with friends and games,
Our teacher Fatima knew all our names.

Chalk, and dreams,
of a world beyond conflict,
beyond the suffering and screams.

Today, the sky was sunny,
I was on the balcony admiring our olive tree.
But in a flash,
the sky roared.

I felt really scared.

I have already lost half of my friends.
Maryam, Peter and Mahmoud.
Under the rubbles of their homes.

Maryam, the little artist, with colors in her heart,
Her canvas remains blank, torn apart.

Peter, was going to be the next priest,
of our 800 years old church, now he lies under the altar.

Mahmoud, the future doctor, who promised to heal,
now, is just remains.

Maryam is killed.
Peter is killed.
Mahmoud is killed,
The olive tree is killed,
and the church is shattered.
It was all just too much.

Now I am also gone.

Five thousand dreams,
now whisper in the wind.
In what world is this fine?

Why don’t they care about me?
Peter was actually blond,
They say his great-grandmother was French,
with sky-blue eyes.
Would it have helped,
if we had shown the world Peter’s face,
instead of mine?

I guess it is too late now.
We are all playing in heaven.

Mom, it is so nice here.
Serene, no cries.
Nobody hates us for no reason,
and nobody is discriminated.
We are all loved and cared for.
Equally.