I'd poke for pork

The first new thing that I think of when I recall my "aventures gastronomie" is my last two days spent in Egypt. It was in Dahab, a very chilled out diver's paradise where the shopkeepers ignored the passing tourists—such a change from being pulled into one shop to another with everyone calling you friend and getting "best price" all the time.

The only times you got hassled to check out wares was passing by the many waterside restaurants (none of which stood out by the way, except with varying elements in the decor and music, which ranged chill out to reggae. Well, what did I expect from Dahab?). People in the restaurant business aren't any more chilled out either. One can and will get harassed
equally by these plate pushers.

When I first arrived, however, there were a couple of restaurants that had the folding signboards out in front working to their advantage. With advertisements for bacon and ham, I thought that I had indeed arrived at my paradise, my personal mecca. I could hardly wait for morning, when I could finally wake up and smell the pig fat a'sizzling on my plate.

At the bar that night, I met a lady who had been living there for 5 years hence, who cautioned me on the pervading adherence Dahabians had for the Laws of Islam. She told me that real friends came bearing gifts of solid chunks of pork in their suitcases, and that I would be disappointed when I sat down to breakfast.

Indeed, breakfast time rolled around, and I, hoping against hope that the restaurant that I chose was the rebellious, avant garde, risque establishment du swine, ordered an omelette.

Sigh. It was the longest 2 weeks of my life.