I’d never cycled in Cairo before. I learned how to ride a bike when we were away on vacation.
And I only cycled during vacations. But I decided I was going to buy a bike and use it to get around in Maadi.
It was 10:00 am in Zamalek. I was at Al-Sawy Cultural Wheel, near the corniche.
I’d been waiting an hour and a half for my turn to ride a bicycle. We were a large group, and they had divided us into smaller groups.
Group one started at 8:00 am, and group two, my group, were going to start at 10:00 am.

It was finally the second group’s turn. We started riding around Zamalek. We moved in groups. I felt really happy.
We rode against the wind, and I felt like I was soaring. After a while, I fell behind the rest of the group.
A parking valet smiled at me. “You can do it, ma’am” he said.
I wasn’t bothered by this and returned his smile.

All of a sudden, a car closed in on me, and I fell off my bike.
One of my knees hurt. I decided to walk back to the starting point.
I left the bike with them and turned back.

That’s when the comments started.
“You fell down, sweetheart? I wish I were that bike.”
Ptui!
This was the first time I managed to gather my courage and spit at a harasser.
That’d show him my disgust, and at the same time not drag me into a fight.

“Ptui at you and your family, you whore.”
I kept my face expressionless.

“I wish I were that bike.”
Poker face.

“Whore.”
Poker face.

“I wish I were that ground.”

“No, I wish I were that bike seat.”

“Mmm I wish those tits of yours were on me.”
Poker face.

“Sex on legs.”

“You’re walking pretty slowly.”

“Why are you so upset?”

“Whore.”

All this happened while I was walking down the sidewalk.
And he, or them—I couldn’t tell if it was one guy or two at the time—were walking along the opposite side of the street.
When I passed by the parking valet again, the two guys quieted down, and he asked me:
“Where did the bike go?”
I tried to smile and told him, “I fell, so I left it.”
“It’s okay madam. Are you a madam or a mademoiselle?”
I said, trying to keep my smile intact, “What is it to you? Does it make a difference?”
At that moment, I found a cab, and instead of walking those 10 minutes back, I took the cab and barely managed to tell him where to drop me off.

I then burst into tears.
As I was crying, I could only think of one thing: Did those guys know that those words—words they had said laughingly— had made me burst into tears?
And that I will probably never ride a bike again?