Sitting in my favorite Egyptian haunt on the Cairene island of Zamalek, near the American University dorms and surrounded by Egyptian elite, American ex-pats, and those who wish to be both, I almost feel like Earnest Hemingway, without the bitterness and machisimo. In comparing myself to the writer, I began to wonder if I would ever fall into the category of Yankee ex-pat in Egypt—could I ever live here? After studying the Middle East throughout college, could I accept a job here?

Of course, it would take an adjustment. Cairo may be a beautiful city, and Egypt a beautiful country. I love walking outside at twilight, breathing in my surroundings. But as much as I value time left alone for thought, here in Cairo my contemplative walks demand a male escort—preferably several. Only women with a brazen lack of common sense walk alone when the sun starts to set. Only those with a headscarf or a heart full of daring walk alone even in broad daylight.

I loathe feeling as though I must depend on others for protection or support. Yet, as the rumors of sexual harassment and assault spread through the female dorm, I have become shameless in asking male friends to sit next to me on the train, accompany me to the bazaar, walk me to the grocery store, or sit in my hotel room while I shower: all in the interest of avoiding sexual harassment, or worse. To their credit, the American men generally respond affirmatively to requests that they act the role of pretend husband while strolling in public. Somehow this does not make asking any easier.

My status in Egypt is uncomfortable. I am close to the divine and I am an object. My personal well-being and values seem of no consideration to almost any Egyptian man I encounter. He sees no reason to hide his stare, no shame in following me with his eyes or even his whole self. To him I am viewable, but untouchable, at least as long as others can see.

This paradoxical dynamic has begotten a similarly paradoxical response: I am at once more modest and more bold. Since I stand out so obviously as a blonde, Caucasian, American woman, my shame in asking for directions or speaking English in public is almost non-existent. I am foreign and suspicious regardless of my actions, so my actions seem to matter simultaneously so much more and so much less. I never look anyone in the eye and certainly never thank anyone for a compliment. The first and only time I thanked a man for being nice, I found myself sprinting down the streets of Cairo, chased by a would-be fiancé wielding a leather belt.

Except for the rarest occasions I never retort to insults or catcalls. When I do, no holds are barred. When taxi drivers demand a price I know to be too high because they think I don’t know any better, I walk away. I used to think that bargaining involved negotiation; now I know that I pick a price, and they will eventually come to it no matter what. In my most successful transaction, I walked away four times and heard three absolute and final last prices. I used to feel guilty about haggling over one American dollar, until I realized that the price triples with the color of my hair, and one American dollar could feed me for a whole day in Cairo.

Remember, Columbus sailed “around the world” because Egyptian middlemen used to gouge European traders consistently as middle-men on the Asian spice trade. After bargaining with Egyptians for two months, I can sympathize with Spanish logic.

For all I have undergone here, Egypt and Cairo will always have a warm place in my heart. I have seen wonders beyond imagination—the pyramids perhaps least among them. There, I knew what to expect; but in Karnak, Aswan, the Citadel, or the City of the Dead, surprise and awe mixed and left me spellbound.

Though I do not enjoy playing the role of a foreign woman among them, I do appreciate Egyptians as a people. They are friendly, animated, hardnosed, and mysterious. For my many weeks here, I still never know quite what they are thinking; for this, among so many other things, they are fascinating.