I had a nice day, ate a huge hamburger and french fries and a chocolate sundae…I almost punched an Egyptian behind the cash register in the nose, all smiles telling me one price then over charging me by £2, I got back to the apartment before realizing, anger and frustration had been building up for a variety of reasons, I went back and started screaming at him in Arabic...I challenged him to fight and he backed down but I was still smoking, another separated us and paid me back what he owed…honestly I was ready to kill the kid, but the question remains, How to let off steam in this city? I am simply a prisoner of Cairo.
-Letter Home, October 11, 1978
Wow. The Fall semester had just started and already I was practicing my Jussive and Imperative and Indicative Moods- Would that I F※※※ Your Mother, F※※※ Your Mother!, Your Mother is a F※※※. I apologize to him now for not instead quoting execration poetry from the Court of Harūn al-Rashīd in Arabic’s Golden Age, or at least a verse of more recent vintage- Your works have proven ugly, Your face is darkest black, And we will yet set fire To your bottom and your back [translation not mine, much cleaner than original]- but getting ripped off and getting mad about it is not the time for a lesson in literary history.