History
Family
Personal narrative
Personal
Historical
Opinion
Family History
Emotional Journey
Cultural Reflection
The building was once owned by my grandfather, who purchased it soon after it was constructed in the late 1930s or early 1940s. My mother and her younger brother Sergio grew up on the fifth (top) floor. As an adventurous 21-year-old, Mom left for Canada alone.
Soon after, Grandpa died. In the 1960s, Granny sold this building (and another one) to some shifty real estate parvenu because she couldn’t deal with the headache of looking after buildings. But she and Uncle Sergio remained as tenants.
I remember visiting them in the summers as a small child. My brother & I loved going up and down the rickety elevator, pulling up the fool & taameya basket from the balcony or playing with the cats on the rooftop. There was a very kind old bawwab who slept under the stairwell.
Years later I returned as a 17 year old with my best friend. We made new memories there. We’d go out at nights with friends, return late and knock on the door to be greeted by a fidgety Uncle Sergio, unaccustomed to teenagers’ antics, fretting about the noise we were making.
I remember the antique gas stove on which my uncle would make the most delicious grilled feta cheese sandwiches in baladi bread. I remember the antique piano on which he and my mother learned to play. He wouldn’t let anybody touch it!
There were good times & bad times behind this door. Some of the building’s other residents became like family. My uncle died here alone 5 years ago. It was his home, and he never wanted to leave it. My life circumstances at the time made it impossible for me to travel there then.
It took me five years to have the emotional fortitude to visit this place. It was a trip back in time when the rickety elevator was a symbol of modernity! But it was also a trip down memory lane, to reconnect in some way with beloved family members now long gone.
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