Madame Abla was a legend, the Coco Chanel of the belly dancing world. Dancers would make the pilgrimage to her shop in Cairo and leave with costumes that were meticulously made especially for them. Each one was unique in design and immaculate in fit. Starting when I was fourteen, Mama and I traveled to Egypt for ten days every nine months or so. The first day, we’d go to Madame Abla’s shop on Mohammed Ali Street not far from Bab Zuweila, an ancient gate that seemed to separate modern downtown Cairo from a mystic ancient world. The narrow side streets were crowded with small shops where craftspeople made and sold musical instruments. The air was filled with laughter and music.
Madame Abla’s shop was on the second floor of a shabby old apartment building near the Museum of Islamic Art. At the top of the stairs, we’d knock on the door, and an older lady in traditional Egyptian clothing would let us in. Like stepping through the looking glass, we left the dim hallway and stepped into what might have been a Parisian salon, lavishly furnished with silk brocade sofas and embroidered ottomans. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Ornately carved bookcases held bolts of fabric and glass jars filled with every imaginable shape and size of beads and sequins. While we waited for Madame Abla, we were served ghorayebah—little Egyptian butter cookies that melt in your mouth—and mint tea in fancy cups from a brass cart.
Eventually, Madame Abla would sweep into the room and greet us, gracefully extending her arms. She wore a gracefully muted galabiyya, a traditional garment for both men and women in the Nile Valley, with her hair pulled back in a perfect bun. I wanted to contribute to the design of my costumes, so I always had a folder of sketches worked up, and Madame Abla always pored over them with great interest, gracious and encouraging. Meanwhile, I’d look through pictures of her latest designs, which were displayed in large photo albums. We’d come up with a few concepts that combined my ideas with hers, select fabric swatches and beads and thread, and then she’d stand me up and look me over, complimenting me on how nicely I’d filled out since our previous visit.
Once, I asked her, “Why don’t you ever take measurements?”
“I take measurements,” she said, tapping her temple next to her eagle eyes.
When we returned for fittings, we always found that this method was pretty accurate. It was a thrill to step out of the dressing room in one of Madame Abla’s creations. We’d never had anything tailor-made. I’d never even seen my dad get fitted for a suit. Mama and Grandma Nelly had made costumes for me, and they were good at it, but I’d never had anything on this level. Madame Abla had thoughtfully placed every detail, including an ornate appliqué on the left hip—not the right hip, as any store-bought or hand-me-down costume would have had—because I’m a lefty, and she took the time to notice that. She fine-tuned the details that made me feel polished and complete. To see myself in the mirror—a walking work of art—gave me a sense of pride and mystique that changed the way I inhabited my body and raised my dancing to a higher plane. After the fitting, she’d tell us to come back for the finished costume in a few days, “God willing.” Everything was “God willing.”
While we waited for Madame Abla to finish my costumes, Mama and I made an adventure of it. We stayed in a five-star hotel and ate exotic food from big high-end restaurants and tiny old cubbyhole places. We made a circle of Egyptian friends—dancers, musicians, and other folk artists—and I picked up quite a lot of Arabic hanging out with them. We spent our days visiting the pyramids and markets, wandering the Grand Bazaar, drinking mint tea and more mint tea, taking in the colorful sights and exotic aromas, replenishing our supplies of essential oils and the black kohl eyeliner that is better than anything else out there. Every night, we went to the hotel nightclubs to see the greatest belly dancers of the day along with the up-and-coming dancers and musicians.
In November 1989, on my third annual sixteenth birthday, I actually turned sixteen, so Daddy went to Egypt with us to celebrate. That night was a special occasion at the Sheraton El Gezirah. Lucy, one of my favorite dancers, was performing, followed by Egyptian heartthrob Amr Diab—who was starting to seriously blow up then and would go on to become the bestselling Middle Eastern recording artist of all time—so this was essentially like an evening with Paula Abdul opening for a pre–Purple Rain Prince.