Marriott Memories
In any other country, the word “Marriott” conjures up images of yet another mid-range hotel option. In Cairo, the Marriott Zamalek has become architectural subtext for intrigue, power and betrayal.
Reading Marina Petrillo’s haunting essay on her stay at the Marriott Zamalek hotel in Cairo triggered a stream of disjointed memories of my own visits to the hotel in 2011 and 2014. There’s no point in weaving them together; they are what they are.
The German shepherd — or was it a Belgian malinois? Arriving at the hotel for the first time, my taxi driver refused to pull into the security gate, dropping me off about 20 years in front of it. Pneumatic barriers raised and lowered as guards searched trunks for weapons and used mirrors to look for bombs under the chassis of cars. As I walked pass them with my luggage, I greeted them with a half-hearted sabahkhair. The guards stared at me, unblinking, one of them holding the mirror pole as if it had a trigger set to safety. Their German shepherd, ostensibly present to intimidate would-be attackers, tilted his head and wagged his tail at me. No, he was a malinois. I’m sure of it — I think.
The metal detector. To enter the hotel itself, everyone had to go through the metal detector. Emptying your pockets of actual metal objects, though, seemed optional, depending on how engrossed in conversation its operators were at the moment — or if they were curious about the latest mobile phone model you happened to be carrying.
The glances. Every receptionist I encountered at the hotel was a carbon copy of each other. Tall, handsome, fit, intelligent. Yet for some reason, each time I checked in, they needed 30 minutes to go back and forth behind the back counter, consulting with colleagues in hushed tones, all collectively flipping through the pages of my worn-out passport. And every few moments, they would glance back at me, say “one moment,” and go back to interrogating my passport.
The breakfast buffet. A lovely breakfast, suitable for western and local tastes alike. In 2011, bearded Muslim Brothers with dark prayer bruises on their foreheads would meet there for hours, spending most of the time drinking bottomless cups of tea and talking on their cellphones. In 2014, they were all gone. All suits, no beards. The breakfast remained lovely, though.
The knocking. Since I often had work to do during my visits, I usually kept a “do not disturb” sign on my door. Clearly this was deemed optional by the staff, as each day I was paid a routine visit every few hours. Knock, knock — would you like your bed changed? Knock, knock — are you enjoying your stay? Knock, knock — may I confirm your checkout date? Knock, knock — can I get you some bottled water? They were gracious; I was gracious. They tried to lean in the door and poke their head around; I made myself large and conspicuous like an animal protecting its layer, though without any hissing or threatening canines. “Sorry to bother you,” they would conclude before departing, no doubt to plan their next reconnaissance visit.
The garden. The Marriott Zamalek has a lovely interior garden with a pool and several restaurants. Even if you’re not a guest, I’d recommend a visit, especially in the evening. Each nights hundreds of patrons would jam the tables, drinking Stella beer, smoking double-apple shishas and talking on their cell phones. When I met friends there, the people surrounding me would keep their phones pressed to their ears, but spent little time talking. Just listening. It was approaching midnight yet they wore sunglasses. No doubt it was the bright lights from the bar. Another double-apple and Stella, please.
The shower. The first time I was ever teargassed was in Cairo. A melee had broken out in Tahrir Square, the streets so crowded with police cordons it was next to impossible to advance any further. Yet teargas knows no cordon, and was more than happy to come to us, tricking my brain into thinking I had just finished cutting a bushel of onions and was now snorting wasabi. Back at the Marriott, which happened to be windward that night, the air was free of gas, clouded only with the usual Cairo smog — a relative blessing. And yet somehow I forgot that one should never take a hot shower after being teargassed, turning my bathroom into a sauna where heat, humidity and 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile managed to get the last laugh.
The balcony. It’s amazing how much things can change even when the view’s the same. In 2011, my view of the Nile and, somewhere beyond it, Tahrir Square, evoked romantic visions of hope, youth, promise and opportunity. By May 2014, during my second visit, the only thing that hadn’t changed was the cityscape. Many of the protesters I’d met three years earlier were now in jail. An Egyptian friend who was one of the few people I knew who remained hopeful about the country had been buried two days earlier after falling from his unfinished balcony; tomorrow I’d attend a memorial for him at his family’s local mosque. Later that morning, the Al Jazeera Three would be court, facing an indifferent judge — also sporting sunglasses — on trumped-up charges. And according to the calendar, it was World Press Freedom Day.
I stood on the balcony, looked 10 floors down and shuddered.
