Lunch

One of the residents, a doctoral student, gave Part 2 of a 2-part talk this morning, on the Algerian Navy during the Ottoman era (about 1500s to 1830). For Saturday 10am, there were about 30, with a trickling in every 15 minutes or so right to question period. To call it the Algerian Navy is respectful; Barbary Coast privateers could otherwise be considered to have been an absolute menace that took in a million European slaves. Coastal communities were depopulated for centuries, as people either were taken or they moved inland. I begin to understand tall walls.

After the talk, the plan was to have lunch at the Hotel El Djezair, which is quite close but lunch was easier said than done.

The security portion was fine. I went by two national guards at the street, 3 hotel guards just inside, and a sort of flip-up mechanical roadblock set into the driveway that could probably resist a tank. Continued through to the back to a somewhat hidden entrance, through which I passed my bag and myself through airport-type x-ray machines. No problem.

- I'd like to have lunch here, and I heard that there is a nice place by the pool.
- Unfortunately the pool is not yet open. But you are welcome to go to the left here.

I go to the left, and pass by photographs of the various people who have stayed here.
- May I have lunch here out on the terrace?
- Unfortunately this is the bar. You will have to go to the restaurant beside.

I go back out and to the right instead. There is a woman standing just inside the doors with a badge. The place is deserted.
- May I look at a menu please?
- I'm sorry but I do not work here.

By virtue of its illustrious history and clientele, this is an absolutely renown hotel. If they need a few actors during the day to give an air of a functioning establishment, I'm sure they could make it happen.

I head to another restaurant, where I meet a semi-retired public sector banker who is from Sonoma Valley, and his young colleague from Kabylie. The former has been coming here for 10 years and brought his own pepper grinder, a thoughtful gift from his daughter. The latter speaks good English as he studied in Rochester on a Fulbright. We have an excellent lunch and at the end, I show them the study centre where I am staying.

Fun dinner tonight with "the girls." Justin Trudeau is hot, even in Saharan Algeria.