Without fail, as I stand on my balcony sizing up the day with a cup of tea or coffee in hand, a man walks by on the street below rolling his wooden cart and annoncing his presence to the neighborhood. “Hot biscuits! Hot biscuits!” he shouts. The man’s a tease—ok, maybe he isn’t, but the sound of whatever he is yelling in Arabic is nothing other than “hot biscuits” in English. Imagine my excitement the first time I heard him yell “hot biscuits.” I thought I had it made. “Wonderful!” I thought. “Someone selling fresh baked goods first thing in the morning that will roll right up to the door of my building. Who could ask for more?” Well, evidently I could. It is at moments like that that I must remind myself that I live in an Arabic speaking country and that my biscuit man is not, in fact, roaming the streets shouting “hot biscuits!” every morning. I still haven’t quite figured out what he is selling/collecting, but it sure ain’t hot biscuits.
