It only takes a little Garrison Keillor to remind me of home

It's morning and I'm stealing wireless from a neighboring apartment so I can tune in to Prairie Home Companion. It's been so long and I drink my Lipton and it almost feels like a Sunday morning drinking coffee sitting in the winter sun. Nostaligic for the familiar (and the predictable perhaps), Jeremy and I have been missing home a little bit; maybe that's why I tuned in to PHC. Being together makes home more tangible especially when being abroad like this you start feeling like everything started and ended within this time frame, because all the people you meet and all the sights you see, well, you have no other reference points. Yesterday we got ourselves comfortably lost just to explore. Munching on crunchy baked goods along the way and sipping fresh-squeezed oranage juice while Jeremy tries to learn all the Arabic for the fruit hanging in the doorway. I'm not weary of turning new corners just occasionally I get these pangs of longing for "all-things American" and I get to missing that feeling you have when a place just makes sense to you (the good and the bad of it). So I call my dad and cry for a bit and though the dreary feeling stays for awhile his words start to cheer me. Oh, and after all, I am in Cairo -- here's some pics.

Here's the juice stand with the fruit hanging in the doorway. Jeremy, what's pomegranate in Arabic?

Islamic center towers.

Street in front of the American University. McDonald's is peeking around the corner.

Hopelessly scouting out the French in this town. So far I've only found remnants of the language (English won as the foreign language of choice I imagine) and most of the influence remaining seems to be in the French architecture.