Egypt, Day 10 part 2: Safely into Port

We pull into Nuweiba and the driver takes me to the port to buy my ticket for the ferry. I'm only slightly surprised by the industrial nature of the area - it's obviously mainly used for import/export of produce, not tourists, and I am surrounded by enormous trucks and metal sheds shimmering in the glaring heat. I buy my ticket, but the agent doesn't tell me when the ferry is leaving, just that I should go over there now. I get my bags scanned in an ancient commercial type scanner, built more for giant flats of vegetables or fabrics than for my single bookbag. I find my way to another metal shed, where I offer up my passport for stamping. I then realize that I'm rather hungry, so I ask if I can go back and get some food? I buy a few things, and spend a few moments in conversation with the salesman, confusing him with my use of Amiyya then trying to switch into FusHa but using Amiyya verb conjugation and so only confusing him more.

I go back and enter the waiting area, more than slightly nervous. It's an old warehouse building, packed with migrant Egyptian workers. It seems I'm either late or early or at the wrong location. I look for any signs of tourists or Westerners, finally spotting a white guy with a large packpacking outfit. I walk towards him and find a bench that's empty. I sit and eat my date-filled biscuits and drink some water; finally spotting an officer, I approach him and ask in Arabic if this is the right building and here's my ticket, when do I leave? He motions silently outside to a bus that has just pulled up. I clamber inside and put my bag beside me, blocking anyone from sitting there. I spot the western man again - the bus is nearly full and I haven't seen any women yet. I remove my bag and he sits beside me, a little surprised, I think at my Caucasian face. We sat silently until the bus stopped and we stood in the snaking line, with the hundreds of migrant workers filling up the belly of the ship. While waiting, the man asked me about my trip in Egypt and I found out he was a Frenchman heading to Amman for a day or two before traveling further to Beirut. In the crush of people, I lost sight of him as I worked my way slowly up the steps. It reminded me a bit of the ferry boats I had been on in Disney world; the same worn carpet, metal stairs, and wear-polished brass railing knobs. My passport was examined yet again, and I was told to go upstairs to get it stamped. I wandered through two decks before finally finding the tiny office. Being the only woman in the place, I was kindly waved to the font of the line and my passport stamped. I meandered out to the top deck to find a good place. The upper deck with its benches and good view was mainly filled with men, but I found a group of obvious tourists and stationed myself on an empty bench near them. They, however, appalled me with their ridiculous clothing and behavior. I, on the other hand, shocked them by speaking perfect English and telling them where to get their passports stamped. There was an older couple of an Australian man and his South Korean wife to whom I enjoyed talking, comparing prices in Egypt and talking about the situation in Syria. I found out that my 5LE cab rides were nothing compared to their minimum 20LE cab rides and food that I got for the posted price cost them a pretty penny….a little bit of Arabic and hijab go a long way, I guess. They wanted to cross the border at Ramtha into Syria, but I told them that when I had left, the border was closed. I wonder if they ended up flying there.

The Frenchman wandered up on deck and spotted me. I offered my guidebook for him to pick out a hotel and then spent the next two hours giving him a run down on Jordan in general and Amman in particular. I told him about the taxi and bus system, and I told him I would help him get a bus back to the city from Aqabah. After getting some snack food (I bought my own, thank you very much for your suspicions), we spent the next hour discussing French identity and its role in intercultural relations. A sudden rain storm broke out, and in the melee that resulted I lost sight of him. In seeking shelter, I decided that the best thing I could do would be follow the natives – which I did, into a comfortable movie theatre. I waited there until the rain died down, and then wandered onto deck. I found a nice looking younger woman and stationed myself beside her.

“Salaam alaykum,” I greeted her.

“Wa alaykum es-salaam,” she replied. In the next few minutes, we established names, homes, and general backgrounds and that I was a Christian but wearing the abeya and hijab for several reasons. My Arabic had pretty much run its course, so I smiled and went back to watching the sea.

She, however, did not think this was satisfactory. She started the conversation again, doing her best to convert me to Islam. Given my limited Arabic skills, this was difficult, but I got the general idea. It was frustrating to me to not be able to answer her questions: “Who made the world? Look at it all about us. God made it, of course,” to which I agreed. “How could God come as a man? Jesus was born, yes?” Yes. “He ate like us, drank like us, slept like us, yes?” Yes. “How could God do this? God is high, and holy. How could God become a man?”

Yes, indeed. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That when we didn’t deserve it, the eternal Christ was made flesh, born of the Virgin Mary, and was crucified under Pontius Pilate and rose again on the third day according to the Scriptures – and is now seated at the right hand of the Father whence he shall come to judge both the quick and the dead.

My grasp of Arabic, however, could not explain all that, so the most I could do was hold to orthodoxy, re-iterating “There is one God, only one, and Christ is God. God*is* great, yes.” It rather takes your breath away, though, to hear the flat out denial, “Christ is not God. Christ was only a man.” It’s easy to pussy-foot around the matter, and be a good person, and go to church, and believe in God – but don’t the devils also believe in a god – and doing so, don’t they tremble? But the crux of the matter, of all the world, of all life, comes to rest upon Christ.

By this time, the boat had nearly pulled into port. She left me with strong injunctions to read the quran in Arabic – I told her I had read in in English (which I have) – she told me how when she read it, her heart lit up, and she rejoiced. It made her to sleep in peace and on a bed of ease was, I think, the general expression. I did my best to explain my Book did the same for me, but she was at a distinct advantage in the Arabic department. By this time, we had drawn enough stares from the other third class passengers surrounding us, and the ferry was in port. We parted with a hug and go in peace. And I pray she finds that true peace.

I went back inside and found the Australian couple and “Jacques” standing and talking. Joining them, we waited, contemplating how long it would take for us to be able to disembark. Well, it ended up taking 2 hours from the time we came to port to the time we disembarked. It might have been due to the pouring rain, but I rather doubt it. By the time we got to land, it was around 9 in the evening.

Some confusion later, and we got through customs. I sailed through easily, with my Jordanian residency card, and enjoyed talking with a few of the customs officers about UJ and Jordan, getting hearty “welcome-backs”; and, in many ways, it felt very much like a home coming.

We wondered out to the parking lot and split off from the Australian couple, who got a taxi to their hotel in Aqaba. I found a private bus going to Amman, and took Jacques with me. We waited at the bus (a large minivan, really), as one of the “controllers” went to find more passengers from the migrant workers. We waited for about 15 minutes, and another passenger showed up, an elderly man who was simply addressed by the term Hajj, out of respect for his pilgrimage. 15 more minutes or so of waiting – which I didn’t mind, because I was busy really enjoying listening to the conversation between the Hajj and one of the other “controllers” because I could understand nearly all of it because it was in the Jordanian and not in the Egyptian dialect. Jacques offered some dates around to everyone; I had told him their name was “belaH,” however, the big Palestinian controller gave them another name. The Hajj, however, backed me up; so, it seems, there are multiple dialect names for dates, perhaps depending on the variety.

After the 30-45 minute wait, the van was finally crammed full, and off we went. I called my host parents, telling them that I expected to be in around 1:30 am, since it’s a 4 hour trip back to Amman. This, however, was short sighted. First, I didn’t add in the time it took to stop to buy a brief meal for the driver (there was a driver and two controllers), or the time for a food/restroom stop later for the passengers, or the time for the check-point stop in which all the workers had to get out and the guards go through their belongings. I also didn’t take into account the fact that the Hajj lived in Tafileh, which is in the Ghor (Jordan Valley), which is a considerable distance from Amman. He insisted that he could be dropped off at such and such a place, but the drivers insisted right back; and so it was that I came to be riding at 1:30 am through the Ghor in a minivan with 9 Palestinians and a Frenchman. He started to ask me if I had been to Israel, and then I got to lecture him on the Arab-Israeli conflict. We encountered no problems, however, and the Hajj and the controllers were especially nice after I answered their questions by showing them my ring and informed them that Jacques and I were engaged (and then politely responding to the Hajj’s blessing of many children upon us). I also was careful to inform them that I was going home and that Jacques would be staying at a hotel. When you are a single lady traveling at night with a man, you are engaged, I informed Jacques, who was a little surprised when I answered his question of “what just happened?” This brought on another lecture about Middle Eastern culture and my general views on honesty. I spent a few more moments translating the general ideas of the conversation between the shebaab and the Hajj – they were talking, of course, about the doings in Syria and how it compared to Jordan, and what they thought it meant for the Palestinian state – before leaning forward over my bookbag and trying to get some sleep.

We arrived in Amman around 4am and got dropped off at the University of Jordan. The driver had earlier asked Jacques, at our food stop, if he was Christian or Muslim? Expecting, of course, the answer to be Muslim, because otherwise what is he doing with a Muslim woman late at night? Jacques answered Christian, of course, which nonplussed the driver – but Jacques not speaking any Arabic and no one else any English, the thing couldn’t go any further. Just before we left, however, the driver asked Christian or Muslim? I told him Christian and gave him a quick rundown of the reasons – it’s pretty, I’m a modest person, and out of respect to the culture. He smiled at me and gave me his quranic prayer book, inspired, I think, by the Hajj out of whose mouth came “Masha allah” (behold what God has done) every other word or so.

A taxi finally came along and I negotiated with the driver and told him to get me home and Jacques to his hotel. We had a nice ride, in which we had the typical conversation covering my life story and Jacques’ in my broken Amiyya. I got dropped off at home and Jacques continued on to his hotel.

I made a quick call home and was just as quickly asleep. I think my guardian angels need a vacation after my vacation.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea, indeed.

Egypt, Day 10 part 1: Returning Home

We were finally on our way back down, again passing all of the refreshment huts run by the Bedouins. From Wadi Rum to Petra to the Pyramids, Karnak and Luxor, to Saint Catherine's Monastery, each place was run by the Bedouins with their coffee stands and beaded necklaces. Should I journey to the world's edge, I should think I would there be greeted by the familiar "Welcome, welcome, cheap price!"

On the way back, though, the guide told me his story, if you can believe it. His father had two wives; he has one brother from his own mother and four sisters from his father's other wife. He said he does not care for his half-sisters, for what should they be to him? His brother (the oldest) has a college degree of some sort, but he himself (the guide) hadn't gone to school. He had grown up shifting among the various Bedu endeavors, working all over the Sinai peninsula as a cook for tour groups or working with sheep, or anywhere else that might hire him. To get a better job, he taught himself English and Russian, practicing speaking with all the tourists in the area.

The trip down was more enjoyable than the trip up. We saw the way we came, looking ever so much like the path leading to Mordor. Finally reaching the Monastery guest house, the Romanis were exhausted. We had a brief lunch together, and then they retired to their rooms with the understanding that they would knock on my door in 20 minutes or so, because they wanted to visit the Monastery proper.

Twenty minutes or so passed, and I did hear a knock on my door. Just Mrs. Romani stood there as her her husband remained in bed, feeling rather sore. I don't know how Mrs. Romani did it, quite frankly. At any rate, I guided her towards the Monastery which was crammed with people, a long line snaking out the front door. She spoke no English, but was rather insistent that the line wasn't for the Monastery, but for something else. We went over to another large gate and entered a construction area and I apologized to the workers. I finally guided her back to the first entrance and got us into the Monastery. We spent some time in the basilica and then went on the hunt. There is, it seems, a shrine to Mary somewhere on the premises that has special significance to the Georgians for some reason or another and stubborn Mrs. Romani was going to say mass there, whether the curators liked it or not. In the meanwhile, we went and saw the icon museum where I did my best to stop her from taking illicit pictures of the icons. She did get permission to get a photo of one particular picture of Christ's ascension, which thrilled her. We talked to the curators at the museum, doing our best to find out how she could get to that St. Mary's shrine. This was amusing to many people, I am sure, because she spoke very little English, just Russian, I spoke English and very little Arabic and she is a very religious Eastern Orthodox Christian, a little old Eastern European lady and I am an American wearing jelbaab and hijab. They do not come across this every day. The curators spoke mainly Arabic and so would tell me, basically, that it's not permitted and only the 20 remaining monks or so get to pray there and she can't - but maybe if she talks to such and such a person? Of course, we can't find that person and we go back and I try to talk with various people between my very little bit of Arabic and my English - and goodness, I might have tried Spanish and French, too, for all I know. Finally, somehow, a young Russian man appears on the scene and Mrs. Romani accosts him and emotionally spills out her story. He nods and nods and nods and is very polite to her - he speaks some English and is able to find someone to explain that there will be a mass at noon at the basilica. It's not what she wants, but it will have to do. I need to go, however, because I had made arrangements to get a taxi ride to Nuweiba in order to get the ferry today; spending the extra day in Iskandria with Fatima had set me a day behind. So, I tell her good by and thank the young man for his help, feeling slightly bad about leaving him with her. He would have his hands full, I'm sure.

I returned to my room to gather my things, and stop off and say goodbye to Mr. Romani. We exchange addresses - he invites me again to contact them if I ever want to get a visa to go to Georgia, because he works at the Georgian embassy in Egypt and I might have mentioned at a previous meal that I had been looking into going to Azerbaijan and Georgia for spring break following the revolution that disrupted my Syrian travel plans but that it's impossible to get said visas to near east countries without having personal contacts of family/friends inside or being part of a special tourist group. I run outside to meet my taxi, and away we go.

The big white van motors through the protectorate, and, as the only passenger I slide around a bit on the large benches. It's a bit of a drive, and I'm looking forward to three hours of awkward silence. At the crossroads, however, a woman joins us; the driver asks if I mind. No, of course not; I'm actually rather glad not to be the only passenger. The woman explains to the driver that her young daughter was ill - I think, actually, she had a mental problem, but my Arabic wasn't good enough for all the details - and that she was going to see her but ran out of money for transportation. We drive with her for two hours or so, and let her go at a small village. The taxi driver thanks me for letting her come and asks if I understood the conversation? I said, oh, about her daughter and the money? Yes, I think so. We continue on for a few minutes, and then see another person looking for a ride. This time, it's a police officer standing along the side of the road; of course, we pull over and pick him up, taking him to Nuweiba. I chuckle to myself at how I haven't really been traveling alone: from the good taxi driver in Luxor, to Fatima, to the Romanis, to these two passengers, I've been well surrounded. I can only look forward to who is awaiting me on the ferry.

Egypt, Day 9: Climbing Mt. Sinai

Part of the perks of staying at an actual, legitimate hotel involve the food. Now, I have had some pretty good breakfasts at the other establishments I've stayed at in Egypt - but when I'm paying 3times as much as I normally would for a hotel room, I expect a nice breakfast. It was very good - not amazingly excellent, but more than sufficient. There was plenty of sweet bread, coffee, cereal, milk, and good jams.

Gathering my things, I (or rather, the doorman) got a taxi and away I went to Cairo Gateway. I purchased my ticket to Saint Katherine's monastery (Ad-Deir Sant Katreen). Being very unsure of when the bus to the monastery would leave that day - if it would leave at all - I had arrived by 8 am; the bus, I found out, was running at would leave at 11 am. That gave me three hours to wait in the giant bus station and mall. The first storey/entrance consists of the ticket windows, lots of elevators, stairs, and escalators, and a food court; the upper floors are a shopping mall; and the ground/basement floor is filled with curved metal seats for waiting for the buses that pull up just outside the sliding glass doors. I waited for a good two hours and then went to ask which gate my bus would be leaving from. Some confusion (and some help from a nice English speaking young man) later, and I was waiting by the correct gate. I saw a primly dressed elderly Western couple waiting as well. I smiled at them, and they came to site beside me.

"Where...are you going?" The man asked.

"Saint Katherine's," I replied.

"Which....?" he motioned to the doors.

I pointed out the gate. There was very little conversation as the man spoke very little English, and his wife none at all. However, we smiled and I determined that I would make sure they got to the monastery with me with no problems.

We boarded the bus and I got them to their seats, just across from mine. The bus driver's son was taking up various front seats, kicked in and out of them as passengers arrived. He ended up in the seat beside me and away we went.

The bus lurched along the familiar path I had just traveled to Iskandria; at the final small bus-stop, we picked up a few passengers, including a new seat mate for me, a middle-aged woman "Farah." She and I talked a little bit, but again my lack of substantial Arabic prevented our saying much beyond our general histories.

Again, the bus played the quranic chanting. Loudly. For seven hours. Straight. Across the Sinai desert. Combined with the same smell of stale incense, sweat, and bad cologne, it was an experience I will not soon forget. The scenery was beautiful, if barren - and there was a lot of it, as we traveled from Cairo to the very tip of the Sinai peninsula.

We made 1 major stop, about 4 hours into the journey, at a tiny rest-stop in a tiny town. I assisted my seatmate and my new friends the "Romanis" in finding restrooms and food. I bought a package of biscuits to try to share with my seatmate; Farah had brought sandwiches that she had forced on me earlier. When you are traveling, you have to bring food to share; and you have to be prepared to partake of other people's food. I have never yet been on a bus ride in which (when it was long enough and the other person brought food), I didn't at least have food offered me if not thrust into my hands. Farah would not, however, take any of my tea biscuits despite my doing my best to make her take them. She merely smiled and bought me a glass of tea. I don't know why it would be rude for me to refuse the tea but not for her to refuse my tea biscuits, but it made sense to her.

More driving - have I mentioned, seven hours of it? - across the Sinai desert. (With the quran blasting and the incense wafting.) The bus driver, at least, was enjoying himself as he meandered across the road, driving down the middle just as he pleased. The sights - beyond the beautiful desert itself - were interesting, as we passed a few small towns, some crumbling resorts, and many Bedouin villages located in oases. We passed one hospital, located among these small settlements, and I could not help but wonder what kinds of doctors practiced there; what brought them? I'm assuming it was a government hospital, possibly military.

We finally arrived on the Saint Katherine's protectorate, and Farah disembarked on one of the small settlements within the nature reserve. I had some nervousness as to when I should actually disembark to get to the monastery itself. I spoke with the bus driver in Arabic, and got the idea that it would be farther down, and then at the stop we'd get a taxi - which we did. It was the final stop when we disembarked; I helped the Romanis with their things, making sure we all got a taxi. I spoke for a brief moment with the bus driver - this time in English, which he spoke very well (why he had let me meander on in Arabic before, I don't know). He had used to work in Jordan, it turns out, and we spent a few moments doing the "Oh, really? Do you know such and such a place?" game, which is always such fun to play.

We arrived at the monastery guest house, and I got a room for myself and my friends; we then went to dinner, which was absolutely amazing - rice and meat and salad and bread and oh! gustatory delight. Now, the purpose of coming to St. Katherine's is to climb Mt. Sinai and see the sunrise from it. So, I spent the better part of the evening in one of the most frustrating exchanges of my life - all in Arabic, mind you - trying to arrange a guide/flashlight situation with one of the guesthouse managers for myself and the Romanis. The problem was, I wanted to go up one way ("The Stairs of Repentence") by myself with just a flashlight around 3am. The Romanis, however, I was sure needed a guide. I just wasn't sure if I wanted to go with them or not. So there was considerable confusion. Finally, however, I thought we had it straight, and I went to get a few hours of sleep.

I arose again in the cold silence of the night, just before 2, and knocked on the Romanis' door, making sure they were awake. I took them over to the place where the manager had said there would be guides waiting, told them this is where they could get their guide, then went back to my room for a few minutes before I was going to set out alone. A few minutes later, however, there was a knock at my door, with the poor guides looking rather confused and frustrated. Now, it's a good long hike to the top of the mountain and the Romanis weren't young. However, they wanted to go with a "group" of some sort - to this day, I don't know what they wanted. I think Mrs. Romani had this idea of going up with candles, singing hymns and praying with a Russian Orthodox Group. However, there were none. I then spent the next 20 minutes trying to convince them to take a guide and go up - if there was a group coming after them, the group would catch up. They were having none of it. Finally, one of the guides realized they spoke Russian, which he also spoke. He was able to get through to them much better; still, however, Mrs. Romani stubbornly insisted that they would wait for a group. About half an hour after getting up, a few other people showed up and Mrs. Romani was finally convinced to start on the way. She refused a guide, insisting on going with the group; since they weren't officially with the other tourists (who were from Britain), they weren't waiting for her. Deciding they needed a guide, I hired the one who spoke Russian and English, and we set off on our way.

Climbing slowly, we rounded the curves of the path. To one side or another, growling and bellowing emanated from the dark. Gurgling noises and foul stenches met us as we passed the camels waiting for passengers. It felt as though we were passing colonies of Balrogs and other monstrous beasts.

I won't describe the climb in all its gory details - but suffice it to say that it was very long. Very cold, and the Romanis were very stubborn. We stopped at various Bedouin-run coffee huts along the way to regain our breath and get warm. Twenty minutes or so before sunrise, we finally reached the small plateau where our path met the other path of the Stairs of Repentance. I enjoyed meeting another guide who spoke Russian, Arabic, and German.....he and our guide spoke in Arabic, talked with the Romanis in Russian, and then asked me questions in German to which I would reply in Arabic. At this point, the path became all stairs, and neither the guide nor I thought Mrs. Romani could make it to the top. So, I took off alone, going as quickly as I could up to see the sun rise over the mountains. Coming back, I met the guide who had brought the Romanis camera with him to take pictures for them. We continued back together - where we met the Romanis struggling up. Our guide took me to one of the coffee huts, put me in back and instructed me not to talk to anyone, then went out to lead the Romanis up to the top.

Coming back, Mrs. Romani really wanted to take the Stairs of Repentance, and it took all of my, the guides, and her husband's persuasive power that walking down 3400 stone steps was not a wise decision. Down we came, the way we had already come, but it looked so different in the daylight!

Egypt, Day 8: Going to the Library!

Of course, my being me (whom else could I be?) the highlight and focus of any trip to Egypt must include the Library of Alexandria. Even if it's not the original one, it's still world-famous and any world-famous library is worth seeing. I just didn't expect to see it by being taken around by a lovely, little, older, Egyptian lady.

I awoke in the morning, somewhat unsure of myself - do I try to take a shower, or just brush my teeth? Do I get up before her or what exactly is the protocol for when you wake up in a stranger's house and don't really speak the language?

I ended up awake a few hours before my hostess and straightened the room, got my belongings together, and got dressed, just brushing my teeth and washing my face. Fatima, however, decided I needed a shower; and in truth, I really did. I did my best, though, to clean the black rivulets of grime off her shower once I was finished and I think I was half successful.

She fixed breakfast of bread, eggs, and a tahini hummus dip that we ate while watching Al-Jazeera. We got a cab, which she told to go to the Roman museum - I had told her earlier that I had wanted to see it, but that I was pretty certain that it was closed for renovations, since my guidebook said it was closed in 2009 and I didn't expect anything to have happened too quickly. I was correct.

It was enjoyable driving about the city with a native Iskandrian; for one, she knew how much we should pay for cab fare. It was also fun to see normal life in Egypt, and not be running around as a tourist; she and the taxi driver talked pleasantly as the driver dropped off his other fare. In Egypt (at least, Iskandria), unlike Jordan, more than one person can hail a cab and the other passenger will be picked up if the destinations are near each other.

The day was wet and rainy and getting to the library was a relief, however. Fatima and I wandered about on our own, for a bit, but then she decided that a proper tour was necessary. We ended up with a group of shebaab - that is, there was a group (a school or other youth group, I'm sure) of teenage boys that were going through the library with a tour guide, and we appended ourselves to them. Although the tour guide was official, I'm still not sure if it was an "official" guide or a school guide. However, it was fun to tour with them; the tour guide would physically drag one or two of the young men away to make sure that Fatima and I got in the front row to hear his talk or to look at the surroundings, but the guys were all very well behaved. Unfortunately, however, the guide was of course speaking in Arabic, so my understanding of the presentation was a bit limited. Oh, I got the main idea of the history of the library, how it was founded and how much it cost to build the modern library -and look at those stairs there, and so and so paid this much money for that - but I certainly didn't understand the details. My ability to fake understanding, however, has dramatically increased.

The tour was also lovely because we got to see some parts of the museum that we would've otherwise had to pay an entrance fee for: we saw the history of Alexandria in art and then a room full of things from some movie that a guy from Alexandria made. It was really cool!

There were also several displays of modern art and one of traditional Egyptian/Levant clothing - very beautiful! We then got to tour the Anwar Sadat museum display, which was awesome. It had many of his personal effects, letters to and from him (including several from various U.S. presidents and dignitaries), all his personal office effects, and the clothing he was wearing on the day of his assassination. I was thankful I had taken my History of Jordan class and so was fairly familiar with Sadat's role in the history of the region. Furthermore, it was really cool to be touring it with an elderly Egyptian lady, to whom he was a hero, and given the current political situation in Egypt.

We toured the rest of the library, and then went out to brave the rain. Following a jaunt to the train station to buy my ticket, we returned home for a rest. My time with Fatima was concluded with a trip to KFC, where we ate American style fried chicken and watched haram music videos on their flat-screen while we killed time waiting for the train.

Finally, Fatima decided it was time for us to go to the bus station; I had been doing my best to assure her that I could manage alone, but I don't think she believed me. She accompanied me to the train station, where we sat together, waiting for my train. I enjoyed watching the people pass me by; most of the trains were the third class carriages, which consist of hordes of people crammed together without seats. Fatima explained that the women passing by with the very large bundles on their heads were women returning home from the market.

Just before the train's arrival we said our goodbye's - they were pretty sappy, not going to lie. My Arabic may be limited, but what it lacks in extensive vocabulary, I can definitely make up for in imagination. I pretended I was one of the characters from Calormen in my poetical effusions. At last, the engine groaned into the station and Fatima physically took me by the hand and half ran and half pushed our way through the crowd, making sure I got on safely.

I found my seat, after entering the wrong compartment, and settled into the comfort of the oversized chair to enjoy the 3 hour ride back to Cairo.

We pulled into Ramses Station around 9 that evening; I was thankful I had been there earlier and so knew the lay of the land. Very hungry, I found a tiny koshary stand/restaurant. I scanned the menu quickly and saw "koshary" with all the options of various dressings and sauces. Unsure of myself, I looked around for what I should do. There was a glass counter, with men standing behind it, serving out the dishes; there was a man sitting on a high stool behind an ancient computer, and there was a table or two half-cleared of the previous diner's leavings. I approached the man behind the computer. "Koshary?" I ordered. He gave an amused smile and motioned to a table. A waiter came around to give it a quick swipe and take my order of a small bowl of koshary.

It was a bit cold and dry, but it was edible. I finished it quickly and went to pay. I asked how much it was.

"Thalath genay."

I paused. I had never heard these words before. I blinked at him. "Again?" I asked in Arabic.

He said it slowly. "Thalath genay."

Something clicked in my brain. "Oooooh! Talata genay!" I said, realizing he had said "3 guineas."

He gave another amused smile. An obvious foreigner who doensn't understand simple Arabic is correcting his pronunciation? (I wasn't, of course; it's just that one, I was expecting to hear "lira" for the Egyptian pound, not the genay; two, I'm still not accustomed to the use of "guh" instead of "zhu"; and three, in Jordan, it's generally pronounced "talata" and not thalath, although it is spelled thalath. Anyway.)

I handed him my money, as he asked about where I was from, what my religion was, and why, if I was a Christian, I was wearing abeya. I did my best to answer, but, as we have established, my FusHa is lacking and my Egyptian colloquial is even less. Oh, well. I think I amused him, at any rate.

I wandered about the square, looking for a taxi to take me to my hotel. I had been wanting to stay at a hostel very near the Cairo Gateway where I'd have to go the following day, but decided to please my parents by opting for the much more expensive hotel because the guidebook description of the hostel said that "the approach borders on the post-apocalyptic." And post-apocalyptic is not a street decorating style that I want to encounter at 10pm in the evening alone in Egypt.

After seeing how the taxi worked in Iskandria, and how short of a drive it was from the square to my hotel, I did my best to only pay the driver 3LE instead of the 5 he demanded. I finally gave in, however, again figuring my parents didn't want me arguing about the equivalent of 25 US cents late at night while alone in Egypt. I also figured that my case wasn't really helped by the fact that it was actually a nice hotel and he figured that I could afford it. Grrrr.

I entered the hotel - the architecture from the outside was the same pollution stained beige, but inside it was beautiful - and got my room. He mentioned the price in Euros (really, there are very few American tourists in the ME) and I paused, slightly scared. I didn't have any Euros with me.

"Um, could I pay in Egyptian pounds?" I asked, hesitating. I've never been to a hotel where the price is first given in another currency other than the one of the country.

The attendant gave me an amused smile. "Of course." I guess it was just my night for amusing people.

The bellhop showed me to my room. I amused myself by watching television - most of the channels were in German, which I could understand about as well as Arabic. I then took a shower and nearly met my death.

Now, I've never thought the way I'd die would be death by bathtub; in Egypt, at least, I expected a traffic accident or martyrdom or something a bit more exciting than falling in the tub, but honestly, I think taking that shower was the most dangerous thing I had done in my trip to Egypt. The tub was small, with a severe slope in the back for sitting upon. Somehow, I reached for the soap, slipped on the slope, got my big toe stuck in the round drain, and knocked my head against the wall and slamming my body down against the slope and back of the tiny tub. I'm pretty sure those bruises might be the most permanent souvenir from my trip.

Exhausted and bruised - but finally clean - I retired to fully enjoy my comfortable bed.

Egypt, Day 7: Entertaining Angels

The conductor knocked on my door a few moments after I awoke. Getting ready in a flash, I took my breakfast tray and enjoyed the bread, cheese, and took the orange for later. Consulting my maps, I had a difficult time deciding which Cairo station to get off at, Ramses or Giza. I told the conductor Giza, but ended getting off at Ramses. From there, I took the subway to the station nearest Cairo Gateway, Cairo's main bus station. Finding the bus station from the subway, however, was a little bit more difficult. It took asking for directions from the information window at the subway, and two traffic policemen as well as crossing multiple lanes of Cairo traffic.

I walked towards the station, lamenting the decided lack of street sign names. Finally finding something that looked like a large bus station, I walked towards what I thought was an entrance. It was an entrance - just not for people.

Getting some directions from the mechanics there, I found the main entrance and entered the plaza, easily buying my ticket. I boarded the tour bus with a large group of men, standing out a bit as the only female on board.

The bus made its way through the Cairo traffic, making a few stops: once, for the driver to get off, talk with a friend of his, and make a few small purchases; once, for two or three passengers to be picked up from a random street; and once and finally at another bus station, this one very small. Another woman got on and settled herself beside me; of course, the bus tickets are sold for seats segregated by gender (there are some really nice things about living in a predominantly Muslim country; one of which is that I rarely, rarely ever have to sit by a man on any sort of public transport).

She was a lovely older woman; we had what conversation we could, establishing who I was, who she was, and all about our families. We were hampered, of course, by my rather lack of substantial Arabic. After my "I am a student, studying at the University of Jordan," spiel, my ability to make spontaneous conversation rather degenerates.

The trip to Iskandria (Alexandria) only lasted about three hours; however, it seemed much longer. I did my best to nod off once or twice, but the awful chanting of the quran - loudly - the entire bus ride did not permit it. Neither did the horrible odor of stale incense, sweat, and bad men's cologne.

We came closer to Iskandria, and "Fatima" asked me about my plans. I told her I planned to stay at a hotel; this, however, was not good enough for her. Now, I had the hotel name with me, and I had its phone number; but the street name was in the fold of my paper and had been obliterated. My plan was to call the hotel and ask them the street name and if that didn't work, I had a list of 5 other hotels, their phone numbers and their street names - but Fatima wasn't having this. We arrived at the bus stop, and I was surprised at the lack of a bus station: it was only a gravel parking lot with lots of buses and taxi drivers hovering about the doors as soon as the bus stopped. Fatima took my by the arm and nearly dragged me through the small crowd. It may have looked like I was being the considerate young lady helping her grandmother along, but believe me, she was taking me hostage.

She flagged a taxi from the street and gave him directions, taking me back to her house. Once there, she showed me to her room and did her best to convince me to stay with her. She told me how she was all alone - her husband dead; her daughter a doctor and her son a pilot. She told me it would be much better for me to stay with her, much better indeed. I agreed to stay.

We talked for a while in her salon, as I tried to establish a little of my family history. The conversation quickly petered out, however, and we went to watch Al-Jazeera for a while. Now, I had planned to spend that day in Alexandria going to the library and to a coffee shop or two as well as a museum. Fatima decided she would come with me - rather, she would take me to the library. However, we first needed to take lunch. The fish she had ordered - her daughter had prepared them for her, I believe, according to the phone conversation I heard - took a long time coming, though, and Fatima was tired after her trip to Cairo, where she had taken care of an ill family member. So, we ate when the fish finally arrived - and they were the best fish I have every eaten! - and then laid down around 4 and went to bed.

By this time, of course, everything was closed; so after our naps, there was just enough time to watch more al-Jazeera, eat a light snack, and then turn into bed early that evening following a brief phone call home.

No pictures of the day, but really, I think it was one of the most memorable.

Egypt, Day 6: Luxorious tombs

My friend left early in the morning to catch her train back to Cairo, and my first day in Egypt alone began.

I went down and inquired about breakfast, establishing that I'd be back in about fifteen minutes. I went outside and wandered about the city streets, enjoying walking through the back-alley markets filled with ancient women in their sooty abeyas, selling their snow colored pigeons for the day's dinner. I was pleasantly surprised at the utter lack of harassment; Luxor had been anything but peaceful, but in the calm of the morning in the streets where no tourists probably ever wandered, it was calm and I meandered without the constant, "Welcome! Welcome! Special price, just for you!"

I returned to the hotel and had a wonderful breakfast on the roof, overlooking a school yard, where the children were already fast at work and fast at play. (The breakfast, if you care to know, was yoghurt, bread, jam and cheese, an omelette and tea. Included in the room bill.) I sipped my "shai" listening to the contemporary American music they were playing, while in the distance the school children shouted.

Finishing breakfast and coming back out to the main street, I saw a lone woman window shopping. Knowing that I was now traveling alone - and that my jelbaab was too hot to wear all day in most places - I debated approaching her with my limited Arabic about where I could buy an abeya. Rehearsing my lines to myself, I went up to her and told her that I wanted to buy an abeya, but I didn't know where. Could she tell me the name of a street where I could find a store selling abeyas?

She stared at me. I don't think she had many American tourists approaching her, asking in broken Arabic where they might be able to purchase an abeya. I doubt it. She looked me up and down. She said something, and motioned for me to come with her. We went down a few store fronts and she pointed to a store. I smiled and thanked her, and she went on her way. I hurried back to the street where I had arranged to meet the driver from the previous night.

I saw him and got in. I had originally been planning just to use him to drive me around the city in the morning - I needed to stop at a bank - and then just over the bridge, where I could get a bike to go to Valley of the Kings. However, he made a good offer of a price that included driving me around in the morning and in the afternoon, taking me to the train. I was surprised; it was actually on par with what the guidebook said a ride should be, after one had bargained the driver down. Deciding that he was trustworthy enough - he had, after all been very good about finding our hotel the night before and not asking for extra because of the time it took, and then had quoted a fair price for the day's tour - I went ahead and agreed to having a driver for the day.

And I was glad I did. The weather was far too hot for comfort and I think I would've just laid down and died if I had to bike the few miles to get to the Valley of the Kings. Once there, I entered the site, doing my best to fend off the touts. I got my tickets, and had nearly escaped unscathed, when one of them peddling a book about the tombs attached himself to me like a leech and would not go away. I walked from the entrance quite a distance without acknowledging him, and then finally only spoke to him in Arabic. He started selling his book for 50LE and brought it down to 30. I told him no, no, and kept walking; he brought it down to 20, then to 15, saying he had change if I needed. Frustrated, I paused and was planning to offer him five. Now, I keep my change well divided upon my person; a certain amount in each of my pockets and other certain amounts in various compartments in my purse. It lessens the risks of being robbed entirely blind, and when bargaining, it's very helpful to reach into one pocket or to do a thorough "search" of your purse and only be able to come up with a 5 or 10LE note. Unfortunately, it doesn't work so well when you make a rookie mistake, like I did. Reaching into the wrong pocket, I pulled out a 20. He pounced on it eagerly, and I bought myself a guide book to the tombs for 15LE (about 3USD). He then invited me to a party that afternoon. Yeah, me and who else?

However, I absolutely loved looking at all the tomb paintings; they were absolutely gorgeous. Unfortunately, no pictures allowed.

Coming back, another boy attached himself to my side. This one, however, wasn't too bad and merely talked as we walked towards the taxi, keeping his fellow touts from harassing me, for which I was thankful.

From Valley of the Kings to Deir al-Medina; its entrance price was much cheaper, but at each of the tomb sites there was, of course, a guide whom you are expected to tip, so the entrance ticket ended up costing about the same as that to Valley of the Kings. However, the paintings in the small tombs were excellent and very well preserved. I was also very happy for the chance to practice my Arabic; one of the guides conducted his spiel in very slow FusHa for me, and combined with the images and his gestures, I was very happy to find that I could understand it all quite well.

From the tombs, I went out to explore around to the side, accidentally going up towards an archaeological excavation in progress....some shouting and pointing later, and I made my way towards the temple. There was a nice tour guide there, , and a fat old man who showed me an old cistern, but who really wanted to sell me some broken old pieces of pottery for an outrageous and exorbitant price. This time, I escaped with most of my pocket money intact.

Back to the car, and all I really wanted to do was be done with the hot and miserable town of Luxor. The car driver wanted to suggest a restaurant and take me to a bazaar....both places where, if I bought something, he would get a commission. He wasn't pushy about it, however, and I did end up eating at the restaurant....getting the cheapest item on the menu, babaghanouj, which I just happen to love.

I then walked through the town, pausing in the tourist souq, enjoying looking at a few items without the hassle that comes in the evening when all the touts and tourists are out and about. Having time to kill, I nearly walked my feet off in the town, making several circles about the Corniche and Television street. I stopped at a supermarket where they actually had a scanner and I was able to buy bottles of water for much less than the 5LE many stores try to make Westerners pay. I returned there twice in the day: to get water and then for food for supper and a snack.

Killing more time, I finally found another main street, one with more shopping as I was still trying to find a nice abeya. I went in and found a store. One of the girls attendant approached me and fixed my hijab with two of her own pins as I explained my situation. Their selection was very nice, but a little expensive. I told them my limit, however, and they did find one on the clearance rack that I could get. I tried it on, and they arranged the scarf; they did in in a way, however, that I swear made me look like the flying nun. I thanked them, gathered my things and left.

When I got downstairs, I realized that I had lost my sunglasses. I paused to search through my belongings; within a moment or two, several female shoppers had come over to inquire if they could help, what was my name, where was I from?.....I realized I had left my sunglasses in the store, ran up and got them (alhamdulillah), and then went to spend another while walking about the town, waiting for the taxi to come and take me to the train station.

Finally, I returned to the hotel, picked up my single backpack, and confused my taxi driver a bit by my abeya-ed appearance. At the train station, I looked for my platform, embarassing myself a bit by walking towards the engineering/repairing platform that just happened to have the same number as the platform I wanted. The engineers helped me find the platform I wanted, and I plunked myself down on a bence to wait in the dark evening for a seeming eternity. There were soldiers everywhere, waiting for one of the trains to come take them to their next destination. And, in accordance with the general nature of the town of Luxor, it was the first time I got the "bbsbsbsbsbbssbbssbsbssbsbsbsbs" of a cat-call. Loudly.

I was only a bit nervous about somehow missing my train. However, I felt much comforted by the presence of a group of German tourists (foreigners are the only ones allowed on the sleeper train). I went over to them and tried to have a conversation; however, they didn't speak any English (they were all elderly), and all of my German had fled my head - every time I tried to say something, I could only think of some Arabic. I was just left with "In einem bachlein helle, da schoss in fruher eil...." which I didn't think would go over too well.

The train arrived and I got to my cabin (unfolding bed!) without problem. It was now 9 in the evening - but of course they served us dinner. They did not, however, tell us that the tea was not included in the dinner but that it was extra. *Sigh* You just can't escape it.

I fell into a delicious sleep, only to be awakened at 3am by my ringing phone. I saw it was from home, and I was immediately terrified something had happened - something bad. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," Mom or Dad - I don't remember! It was 3am - said. "But you had called us earlier and said you could talk."

"Yes, I did," I groaned. "But not at 3am."

"Okay."

"Okaythanksloveyoubye."

And with that, I rolled back over and was asleep before my phone had completely turned off.

Egypt, Day 5: Temple Tours

We left the hotel in the still darkness of the half-morning. Getting a taxi, we lugged our baggage to the train station, where we faced another confusing round of "Where do we go?" We had been told upon arrival at Aswan that we were to buy tickets on the train the following day; getting on, we chose our seats and sat down. Other people, however, came along a few minutes later and showed us their tickets; we had to find new seats. We settled in, the train grumbled to a start, and in due time the conductor in his faded uniform came along to take our money. He was confused at our lack of tickets, until we finally made him understand that we were going to Luxor - the only place, it seems, for which you buy your tickets on the train. We paid, my friend settled in to nap, and I settled in to enjoy the scenery.

It was difficult to tell on what continent or country I was: there were palms, and desert, and little villages, men on small motorbikes with huge sheaves of greens. At times it seemed like India, sometimes like the African plains, at times like Egypt always appears to one's mind. I was most fascinated by the tiny towns, all in poverty - all without Christ. It made me wonder.....

We arrived at Luxor after several false starts: although there were town names on the various station stops, we couldn't always see them from our windows. The men in the car had pity on us, continually telling us, "Not Luxor." Finally, however, it was Luxor - and we disembarked....

.....to chaos.

I was in my djelbaab and hijab, carrying only my backpack. My friend, however, looked distinctly American - from her features to her dress to the large pink duffle bag she was lugging. I was able to maneuver through the touts fairly successfully, getting hardly a second glance. She, however, was accosted and nearly held hostage by the men trying to get us to their hotels. They followed her, thrusting their cards in front of her, bragging about the hot water, the TV, the wifi, the beds. We pushed our way towards the ticket office, where we needed to buy our tickets for the following journey. I went to the sleeper-train window, while B. tried to figure out which window she needed to buy regular tickets for the following morning. Followed by a persistent tout, she finally got to the correct window, only to be told that she needed to buy tickets onboard the following morning. I came over to join her and the tout.

Incidentally, the hotel he was pushing was our second choice; were there no rooms at our first choice or if it turned out to be undesirable, we would try the other. We tried to placate the tout, and had nearly succeeded when we were joined by another insistent tout. They fed off each other, terrified now that they would lose two customers. We tried to escape; laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, I merely picked a side of the train station and started walking towards it. They followed us, backing us into a corner between the depot and the row of stores beside it. We finally got out of the corner and walked towards the main street, still followed by them. Reaching the intersection, we placated one by telling him that we promised to come see his hotel if our first one didn't work out; the second kept at us, until we finally ducked into the nearest restaurant. After lunch (babaghanoug for me!), we saw the second tout waiting for us.

"You said you would come see the hotel after you ate," he said.

Although we had never said that (we had said, "We are going to eat now and after lunch, we might come try to find the hotel"), I decided the best way to get rid of him would be to walk by the hotel and say no - it was on the way to where we wanted to go.

Carrying our bags through the street, we stopped by where the hotel was. Seeing it, we told him, "Oh, no, thank you. It's not in a good location." He pulled out another flyer - "Here, look at this. $70USD/ night, very good location. I can show you." Telling him no, firmly, and walking away finally got rid of him.

All that remained now was to find our hotel. Walking along the street, we were confident we could find it, since it was on my map. With all our bags, however, it was slow going, and my friend convinced me to hail a taxi.

Having not seen any metered taxis, we hailed a "private taxi" (one with no meter, with a baggage rack on top, with blue and white body parts, and often with shaggy carpet covering the dash). Just as the taxi pulled over, a motorike pulled up beside us.

"Are you looking for Bob Marley House?" the guy on the bike asked.

I looked at B. She looked at me. "Yes, we are."

"Okay. Here, hop on my cycle."

Our baggage, however, prevented this; getting in the taxi, we followed the man on the motorbike and found ourselves at our hotel: Bob Marley House.

We put our things in our room, went down and had some tea.

We got another taxi and made it to Luxor temple, fending off touts along the way.

We saw the temple. It was big. It was impressive. But, somehow, much less impressive than my imagination had made it in the magazines and books I had read as a child.

After Luxor temple, we got a caleche to Karnak temple. The driver was an old, fat man who did not want to believe us when we told him that we just wanted the ride going to the temple and not back.

Again, it was another temple. Big, impressive, and full of hieroglyphics.

Not yet finished with ruined things, we tried to find the mseum. It was, however, unfortunately closed.

After avoiding lots of insistent shebaab - really, the best way to get a girl to say hello to her is *not* to skid your motorbike inches from her and say, "I'm lonely" - we ducked into a restaurant we had read about. Another delicious meal of babaghanoug for me in lovely surroundings, and we decided some relaxing was in order. So, we found ourselves in a boat, floating on the Nile. It was decorated in the most amusing pink squares and decorations that may or may not have been relics from 1980. We sat and had some lovely drinks - mine was fresh guava juice - and relaxed, discussing our pity for the rich people on the Nile cruise boats passing us; clearly, they could not be having nearly as much fun as we were, avoiding shebaab, exploring temples alone, and finding hole in the wall restaurants.

Finally, it was time to go back to the hotel - being all of 8 pm. We found a taxi, but couldn't find the hotel. After a bit of driving, we finally got back to the correct street. The taxi driver offered us his card and services the following day; deciding that he had been nice and polite, I took the card and arranged to meet him the following day to get driven around the town and taken across to the opposite bank to see Valley of the Kings.

Egypt, Day 4: Day of Rest

The train compartment was anything but warm, despite the temperature outside. The air conditioning unit was a little over-zealous in performing its duties. The cold woke me early in the morning to find that our businessmen cabin mates of the previous evening had been replaced by two fat older ladies in ragged black abeya with the son of one of them.

They noticed I was awake, and we had a bit of brief conversation - my Arabic being as limited as it is and their not speaking FusHa at all, only the local dialect. Their son and I then played "Malek or Ka'aba (or maybe kitaba or kitafa)" which is "King or ka'aba (or maybe 'writing' or 'shoulder')" which is their equivalent of head or shoulders. I had a hard time flipping the coin, because it was so tiny compared to the large Jordanian coins. The women also had some food of bread and cheese and some half liters of water, orange juice, and soda which they ordered me to eat and then later my friend when she awoke. We passed the time in minor remarks and more playing with the boy (one of children's main purposes is to save adults awkward silences, I think). They invited us to get off at their stop and stay with them for a day, but we explained we already had plans to head to Aswan. Before leaving the train, however, they took a picture of us with the boy, as he mugged for the camera.

A few more hours of traveling, and then we saw a man rushing by our door. "Aswan," he said. We gathered our belongings and went out to join the general melee. The men around us smiled at us. "Where from?" they asked as we crammed into the space between the carriages. "America," we replied.

"Oh, America!" they said. "Obama good, Obama good!" they said enthusiastically, giving us big thumbs up. "Welcome to Aswan!" One of the men had a bag of dates, which he offered to us, forcing us to take them. "BelaH," he said motioning to them, "belaH," he repeated in case we didn't catch the name the first time.

We weren't bothered too much by touts, although one who foisted his help upon us finding the correct window for more train tickets really wanted us to take his taxi. We walked into the main green square to consult our map and provide a reasonable excuse for escaping the taxi driver. We walked over to a side street and eventually got a metered cab - not that he turned his meter on. However, the Keylaney Hotel was absolutely lovely and we were very impressed with it following our adventures at Nile Zamalek.

We left the hotel, walking along the Corniche, waffling between ourselves over where we should get lunch. We decided on a restaurant on the Nile, where we sat beside the river, sipping fresh juice and eating.

Following our relaxing lunch, we went to find the public dock. We were approached by a little old man, Mustafa, who directed us to it, informing us he had a felucca. He was very polite and spread himself very thick. We disembarked with him from the ferry, and he took us to see the brightly colored Nubian village from when he was. His spiel was a little excessive, but if you are trying to get customers, it's better to kill them with kindness than to hassle them to death. The village was absolutely beautiful and Elephantine Island (so named because of the huge rocks) was incredibly gorgeous.

Following the tour, we went to explore the ruins of an early settlement on the island, with a Christian tourguide. We had arranged with the old man to take a felucca ride after the tour of the village; we spent two and a half hours sailing about the Nile, relaxing in the perfect beauty.

The day, on the whole, was completely relaxing. Dinner was at the Nubian House restaurant (Mat3m Beit Nubi), where we enjoyed the view and watched a spectacular sunset among the aging European tourist set - really, though, the first place we had seen a lot of tourists. After dinner, we sipped our tea, and fended off the cats that wanted our left overs. Back to the hotel in our waiting taxi, for the calm end to a perfect day.

Egypt, Day 3: Bazaars and Hanging Churches

Forgoing breakfast at the hotel, we settled our bill for the previous evening and then asked about luggage storage for the day. The manager stared blearily at us from heavy eyes. He looked at us, then our bags, then back to us. "Okay, sure. Leave it over there," he nodded just across the way from the front desk. We agreed.

We set out for the small convenience store again to buy water for the day (after I returned to the hotel, having forgotten my money in my bag), and then took a cab to the metro station. The cab driver understood us after we said "Metro Opera" in a heavy Egyptian accent.

Riding the metro had quickly become passe; we bought our passes, and headed for the metro stop Ghamra. Once there, we exited into the madding crowd. A complicated set of overpasses met us and we walked a bit away from the chaotic crowd of buses, going down further the street where we hoped we could catch a taxi. We waited - to no avail. Finally, we turned back toward the metro station and took the stairs down to the street below us. We finally got a cab - and a metered one at that - and told him to take us to Al-Azhar mosque, which is one of the oldest mosques in Egypt and one of the oldest "universities" in the world. Driving through the streets lined by pollution-stained houses, we and the hefty taxi driver quickly ran through the required conversation: who, where from, why in Egypt, and why the hijab, which he was quick to compliment with the now familiar terms of "gameela, giddan gameela". Dropped off in a slightly confusing mass of wrought iron fences, buildings, and people, we managed to find our way pass the line of waiting taxis to an underground pedestrian tunnel.

We walked boldly into Al-Azhar - and were quickly instructed to remove our shoes in the entry. There were two men manning the shoe station, who told us a bit about the mosque and asked if we wanted a guide or to tour alone. We went in alone, crossing the large and silent open courtyard into one of the paneled rooms to the side. We explored around a bit, coming back to the entrance; the two men asked if we had seen the library. We went over to see the library; the men at the desk with the sign-in sheet pointed out another room that we hadn't seen. We went back to collect our shoes (5LE baksheesh, and an offer to see from the top of the minaret for 20LE) and then to try to find our way to Khan al-Khalili bazaar.

Certain of the direction, we decided to set off in the opposite direction because there were some buildings in that way that interested us. Passing outdoor restaurants with their tables and chairs jammed against each other, we passed into an alley of what looked like a small bazaar. Few people were out and about, which made sense considering that it was before noon. We exited, and walked around the grassy square between two other mosques and the pushy restaurateurs, finally deciding that we had found ourselves in Khan al-Khalili. Taking narrow street and narrow street, we wound among the rabbit warrens that constitute the bazaar. At first, there were few people pushing their way between the narrow building and under the lowering awnings; the metal screens were just being rolled past the shops and salesmen coming out to shout, "Egyptian! Egyptian! You look-a like Egyptian!" to us.

We meandered, trying to find a particular tea place called Fishawi's, highly recommended by my guide book. We asked a policeman and at least three different shop owners, going only a few hundred meters of so before asking directions again. Finally we found it, and sat down. A mix of locals and several tourists were already sitting outside. We ordered our pots of tea (oh, so good! I had two pots) and sat to watch the people.

The old, fat, white tourists laughed loudly and talked among themselves; they got henna from one of the sellers pushing their way around the diners. As we sat, the sellers hawked their watches and beats and shoe-shines and sunglasses and shawls and henna and scarves and anything you wanted, hardly taking no (in two languages and three dialects) for an answer.

One of the most pathetic sights I had seen was just down the alley right beside us. Fishawi's, recommended by a tour-book, was filled with laughing people. Just beside us was another tea and coffee (shai and ahwa) shop, with, I am sure, just as good tea and coffee and just as pleasant atmosphere and tables. But no one sat in the booths and its owner sat outside, looking glumly over at his neighbor's success.

Following Fishawi's and our combined three pots of tea, we went to take advantage (or be taken advantage of, the same difference) all the bazaar had to offer. We meandered through the stalls and my friend purchased her souvenirs. I only wanted to purchase a pair of sandals since mine had broken. I found one place and inquired the price; he said thirty and, as I immediately forgot the word for fifteen, I made noncommittal grunting noises and allowed my friend to go ahead and purchase a pair for herself.

More walking ensued. By this time, the bazaar was in full swing and we pushed our way through the people. At the outer edges of the bazaar near the square tour buses full of the old German came in to experience the day. Cats roamed the side streets, and trash piled up everywhere. We found the main thoroughfare of the bazaar, and shoved through the crowd. The men called out "Welcome! Egyptian? Turkish? Welcome! Good price!" and one or two came up with creative approaches "How can I take your money? Ah, funny, right - I like your smile!" I found a shoe place and inquired as to the price in Arabic. One of the men took my friend into his perfume shop and she left me to my haggling. We had a little bit of difficulty before we established that the shoes, although men's shoes, were actually for me; this was compounded by my not knowing my shoe size in European mens'. (It is, by the way, a whopping 42.) Finding a pair that looked like they would work, we set to agreeing on a price. He started at 120LE - a very good price, he said, look at the quality. Oh, yes, I replied. The quality is good, I can tell. Very nice. But, you see, I am a student - 120 is just too much. Ah, well, for you, he said, we are speaking Arabic - 90LE only. I responded and he replied again. Back and forth. I told him that I only had 20LE to spend, really. That was it. Was there anything there I could get with just 20LE? He looked doubtful. I shrugged sorrowfully and went to join my friend. Oh wait, the man said. These sandals (that we had been haggling over) - I can let them go for fifty. I looked more hopeful. Well, fifty is better - but I don't have that much money. Fifty, he stated. I sighed. Let me look in my purse. I pulled out the twenty, and made a show of scrounging about for more. Like a rookie, I pulled out another twenty. We settled on 45LE - more than I would have paid if I really were the Egyptian the sellers called out (in English) that I must be - but much less than the originally quoted 120LE. Not wanting to jinx my luck, my friend and I hustled away.

We got another cab to the Metro station, but by now the people were awake and we were treated to another real Cairo experience: traffic. Our car went through the narrow streets, barely scraping by houses. We got caught up in a main thoroughfare: all the cars had been driving down the street as though it were a one-way street and then suddenly there were cars coming from the other direction. It went from a one to two way to three way street as the vehicles going one way split into a V formation to allow the cars going the other to come through. The snarl of fume-spewing metal lumbered slowly along, barely at a crawl. Once in sight of some train tracks raised on the bridge, we hopped out. Now in physical pain from the two pots of tea and the 1.5 liters of water I had drank that morning, I hustled toward the track - only to find that an actual metro station was not in sight. We went down one direction of road, walking along and between nearly parked cars in the traffic jam, only to realize we were heading in the wrong direction. Turning around, I finally broke into a run - probably much to the amusement of all the onlookers, as I doubt that a distinctly Caucasian looking person in jelbab and hijab running with a bright blue plastic sack is a very common sight. I made my way into the metro station and then passed a rather painful few moments looking for a sign of any sort. The best I could do was find a sign for an "office" of some type, filled with men laughing and smoking. Swallowing my pride, and trusting my jelbab to protect me from looking like an impudent American, I approached and coughed politely. "Where is the bathroom?" I asked in my politest Arabic. One of the men came over and was very explicit and thorough in his instructions - so voluminous, in fact, were his words, that I only caught two of them: below and to the left. This being all I really needed to know, however, I said thank you and grabbed my ticket from my friend and passed through the turn gate. This did not satisfy him; he trailed after me, and enlisted a female train agent to assist. She, however, did not understand what I wanted and so, assuming that I wanted to go somewhere on the train, tried to tell me which direction I wanted. Following her directions, I went down and to the right - no luck. Dashing upstairs and then across the platform to the other side of the tracks, I finally found the bathrooms. However, they do not put signs outside. I can read Arabic, really, and know at least four ways that are used to indicate "women's" and there were no distinction between men's and women's. I promise. I went in and was pleased to find them in better condition that UJ's (which isn't saying much) and then exited. As I opened the door, however, I think I surprised the group of men that were just ready to walk in.

I joined my friend on the platform, and we entered the women's section of the train and made our way to Mar Ghirgis, the station stop for Coptic Cairo. One of the nice things about the metro - besides the fact that it is clean, cheap, fast, and efficient - is that there are several cars throughout reserved just for women. The only men that get on are those that sell small knicknacks in between stations, and occasionally a young boy or a husband travelling with his wife and family.

Mar Ghirghis metro stop was, to our pleasant surprise, just beside the Hanging Church, the Coptic Museum, and St. George's church. We went to the Hanging Church first and marveled at the beautiful architecture and the tourists in revealing clothes. I tried getting some good pictures (of the church!), but it was too dark and I couldn't turn on my camera-flash of course. Following the Hanging Church, we saw the gorgeous church of St. George (Greek Orthodox) and wandered about the burial grounds. Some of the tombs were badly damaged and you could see the remains within. Another quick visit to what was, I think, a church of St. Anne's (??), and I think I had the attendant really wondering as I explained the story in the icons to my friend. Not every day you get a local Muslim taking an American tourist around to visit the churches and then explain the religious significance to her, but hey, that's the way I roll.

A quick meal at the St. George's restaurant (and a friendly waiter), and then back to the metro, and to Zamalek to collect our bags that were still in the lobby, exactly as we had left them. Another metro ride and we arrived at 6pm at Giza train station whence we were to depart after having purchased tickets for the sleeper train. Now, I had checked on three websites as reputable as I could find and had my guide-book, all of which said nothing about reservations being required for this sleeper car. While I did have the phone number of the place, we had decided not to call earlier, figuring that there probably weren't hordes of tourists demanding to take the sleeper from Cairo to Aswan. Unfortunately, there apparently were. The ticket station at Giza informed us that the tickets for the sleeper train were all sold out. So, we hopped back on the metro and traveled to metro Ramses where we got out and found our way to the train station nearby. This was fun and involved our map, compass, a few police officers, crossing Cairo streets in the dark and wending our way among the plethora of street vendors. I thought it was awesome, but my friend was a little stressed - and understandably so. She was also carrying a giant pink gymbag that was an unwieldy burden. To compound matters, Ramses train station is undergoing construction (it has been since at least 2008, which is why my guidebook told us to go to Giza station): this meant finding our way through a maze of hastily erected awnings and plywood sidings to get to some sort of office. I merely followed a local.

We found some ticket windows, and I approached to ask where we might buy two seat tickets on the train to Aswan. "Fein," I started and immediately stopped. You see, 'where' in FusHa is "I-eena" and in Amiyya, it's "Wayn," but in Masry, it's "Fein." After the mental exertion required to remember which "where" I needed, my mind drew a blank. I smiled stupidly at the near-toothless old man behind the window. He grinned back at me. Gathering my wits, I tried again slowly. "Fein bnishtara al-bitaqa ila Aswan fi al qataar al-masaa? Nureed kursayn." Where do we buy a ticket to Aswan on the train this evening? We need two seats, I told the man. He grinned again and chuckled. Slowly, carefully, he spoke in English. "Platform 8. Window three." I repeated it. He nodded. "Thank you!" And off Becky and I trudged.

We went down the tunnel, and I followed my disgruntled friend to the platform. We found ourselves in another office and, after going to one or two windows, finally found the one we should be at. (Although it was really amusing: One agent told me to go to "Shobak two" I stared stupidly at him until he said "Window itnayn.") Purchasing a ticket was relatively painless, although figuring out which platform, train, seat, and time we needed required another trip to scrutinize the yellowed and minute manifest that hadn't been changed since, oh, 1643, and another little visit with the poor, tired ticket-agent.

With two hours to go, we settled ourself on a stone bench to guard our belongings and wait for the train, enjoying the people-watching.

Egypt, Day 2: Pyramid Fools

We woke early and went down around 7:30 to find the manager to rectify our situation. All we found, however, was the desk clerk sleeping behind the desk and the bellboy sleeping on a cot in the lobby. Having been promised breakfast later, we tiptoed out and went to explore the neighborhood.

Our surroundings looked much less ominous in the beautiful day: we were on a quiet street that we decided, like Jordanians, to nickname "Embassy Street" because of all the embassies located there. We strolled behind our hotel and found our "Nile View." A low wall guarded it and a small door led to some crumbling steps tumbling into the river itself. Being the intrepid adventurer I am, I decided the best thing I could do would be climb down said steps. I then decided the other best thing I could do would be actually stick my finger in the water. It was wet. And dirty.

Coming back, we wandered about our "mintaqa" (neighborhood/region/area) for what seemed like a short time. We passed the "Great Cairo Library" - closed for repairs - and more embassies than I cared to count. There were the Algerian, Jordanian, Indian, and European Union - yes, the EU has its own embassy and flag - embassies as well as an embassy for a country I had never heard of before and at least 10 others. We found several restaurants in the area we might like to try sometime as well as a tiny supermarket that was actually open at that hour in the morning. I bought some camera batteries, and was pleasantly surprised - after my careful mental calculations to determine how much I should pay in USD and JD converted to LE - to find that the supermarket had a computer with all the prices. Now, the computer was probably older than a brontosaurus - at least early nineties - and was about as fast as a dehydrated snail, but it listed fair prices and I was happy.

Back at the hotel, we accessed the wi-fi and read the email again carefully before confronting the manager. Ohh, we said painfully. The email said that all payment was upon arrival. So, shamefacedly, we approached the manager to pay. The price, however, was a good 75LE more than we were expecting. The manager explained it was because of the 12% service charge and 10% tax. We accepted it grudgingly and went to eat breakfast. The breakfast consisted of a cup of tea each; one fig jam, butter, and cheese package each; and a basket of bread.

After downing our carbohydrates, we went to catch a cab.

"We don't know the Arabic word for 'pyramids'," Becky pointed out.

"Pffft. We're tourists. We're in Egypt. Even if the cab driver knows no English, he has to know 'pyramids'!" I scoffed.

We hailed a metered cab. "We want to go to the pyramids," we tried.

"No Engleezi." He replied.

"Ureedna an nathahab ila al 'Pyramids'," we tried in FusHa.

He shook his head in confusion. We looked each other in dismay. I tried making a triangle with my hands. "Pyramids?"

He understood.

When we arrived within sight of the pyramids and the entrance, he pointed out the carriages driving by and spoke in rapid Arabic.

"No, no, we don't want one," we tried in both the Egyptian and Jordanian dialects and FusHa. We thought he had understood - but, no. No, he didn't. We soon found ourselves traveling through dirty winding streets lined by crumbling houses, decrepit stables, and starving horses. We pulled into an alley guarded by a man with his camel and two horses.

We asked in Arabic how much the far was: 30LE. We gave him a 50LE and asked for change. No change, no change, he said. We tried to conveigh that we did not want a camel; we did not want a horse. We each had two feet in very good working condition and, by golly, we could walk around those pyramids on our own. He didn't understand.

The man with the camel came over and spoke to the driver. He then spoke to us in very good English, promising us a nice ride around the pyramids on the camel for 75LE each. Becky and I looked at each other. All we wanted was change for our cab fare and to get out and go see the pyramids.

He worked on us, assuring us that the best way to see the sites was on camel or horse back and that he was a very good, respectful person - no hassling- and that it was safe and we would enjoy it and it was only 75LE for everything, and wasn't that a good deal? Worn down, with no way to get to where we wanted to go, we forked over the dough and hopped on camel back and he led us toward the entrance. We never did get our cab fare change.

At the entrance, he asked if we were students; yes, we said. He asked for our student cards and another 30LE to pay for the entrance tickets. We handed them over. He then handed them to another man who had come up and the man disappeared to get our tickets. Some time later he appeared, requesting change, since the bill we had given was too large. We switched around some monies, and the first man went off this time.

In the meantime, we waiting beneath the burning sun. We were the only Westerners there; we had seen no other tourists. Starving and maltreated horses, camels, and donkeys surrounded us; you could see their ribs and hips poking through their worn hides. Now and then, a group of boys would ride by bareback on horses, posting, or trotting, cantering, or downright galloping down the street.

Finally the man returned with our IDs and handed them to the guide, who put them in the ample pockets of his dishdash. We were taken through the entrance, and then on our tour of the land around the pyramids.

They were the pyramids. Not much to tell, really. Large pointy structures sticking out of the sand. There was the Sphinx. Rather crumbly structure, with microcephaly. Also, of course, with leosoma, but that goes without mentioning.

The camel tour finished, we disembarked. I was all for getting our IDs first, but nooo, the guide brought up payment, as I knew would happen. I was all for arguing loudly with him and calling over the tourist police; my other plan was to sweetly hold out some money, get my ID back and then run. My friend, however, quite wisely probably, paid him and we were on our way to walk on foot around the ancient structures.

There were demanding touts everywhere, but very few tourists, which made us quite the target. Still, the worst thing that happened was a man came over and started re-doing my friend's scarf. She told him, no, no, I don't have any money. He said, oh, no money. He said, come take a picture with me. No money. I reluctantly took a picture. He then demanded 5LE from her, for which she didn't have change. I came over and did my best to tell her just to leave and then I told him in Arabic to stop being a liar and a cheat, but that didn't really help things. He just ignored me completely. She finally threw 10LE at him just to get him to leave her alone. I had offered her 1LE (a coin) to actually throw at him instead of the 10LE bill, but she didn't take it.

We then went to take more pictures - without any pushy "Bedouins" in them. I laughed at the teenage boy on the camel trying to intrude himself in my pictures. "Take a picture of me! I'm a bedouin!" I rolled my eyes and walked on.

Finally tired of picture taking, we walked into the town to find a bus I had heard would run back to the center of town so we could visit the Egyptian Museum. After not finding a bus, we stopped in a tiny store to buy some drinks and get directions to the bus. They didn't have change, so the little girl ran across the street to get some from a neighboring restaurant. We only overpaid for the drink by 2 or 3 LE or so.

The restauranteur came over as a "microbus" approached. A mix of our English with some Arabic, and we were on the microbus, going to "the metro" for only 2LE/person.

This, my friends, was an experience.

It wasn't like the larger microbuses in Jordan, with a two-bench seat on one side and a single chair by the window on the other; it was an old actual bench-seated bus. We got into the back and took our ride to "the metro," the wonder of all who surveyed us. I guess American tourists don't often ride in this form of public transport.

We arrived at "the metro," in a much shorter time than we thought it should take to reach downtown Cairo from Giza. We exited the bus and sat on a retaining wall, puzzling over my map and the surroundings. Just when we thought we had it figured out, we realized that this mysterious "metro" of which everyone had been speaking was actually a "metro" like in New York - an actual tram/train to take us from place to place!

This, my friends, was a discovery.

We followed the crowds of people up to the station entrance and found a map. My amazing friend read it correctly and got up pointed in the right direction - the directions are based off the stop at the very ends. We purchased our 1LE tickets and entered the station. Without incident, we exited at Sadat Station. Above us, we could hear the roaring noise of the city. Thinking little of it, we maneuvered our way through the tunnels and finally came to an exit.

In case you didn't know, Sadat Station is located just off Midan Tahrir. "Midan" means "square." As in "Tahrir Square."

So, guess where we found ourselves Friday after prayers? Guess where, of all the places in Egypt I did *not* want to visit we got to cover in our first full day in Cairo? If you guessed Tahrir Square, you wouldn't be that far from the truth.

The full truth is, we did everything in our power to avoid Tahrir Square proper - kept our heads down, walked quickly, and did not pause to buy any of the cheap knicknacks commemorating the spirit of the place or to give our statements to any of the television cameras and reporters around. The crowd wasn't thick where we were, and we quickly got out of range of the noise and crowds and were soon enjoying a leisurely stroll along the still and tree-lined streets of Cairo. We walked tow Midan Talaat Harb, where we found a restaurant at which we wanted to eat - but it was just the noon rush, and we were waved away because they were full.

More wandering about and we eventually established that I am a terrible map reader and we eventually found our final destination: the Egyptian Museum. We had a small adventure crossing the street - but fortunately, there wasn't much vehicular traffic due to the protest.

A nice man approached us as we entered the gate. "Are you looking for the entrance to the museum? It's closed today, due to the protests. But the government bazaar and papyrus shop just across the street there is open! It's a government shop, so it's really good quality and good prices, too, you know. Here, let me show you."

My friend followed him out to the street, and I went silently protesting. I pulled her over when we reached the sidewalk and explained that it was a common scam to get people to go to the (overpriced) nearby store for which the scam artist would get a commission. We decided to go back and at least walk past the entrance. We were paused at the main gate by a group of soldiers who told us it was closed. We accepted their word for it and told them we wanted to enter just to go walk along the Corniche (street along the Nile).

We walked along the Nile, fending off the felucca owners, and crossed the 6th of October bridge onto Zamalek. Finally breaking down to my friend's please, we got a cab to take us back to the hotel for the rest of the afternoon, where we could rest for a bit before dinner.

Dinner this evening was at the amazing Abou El-Sid, which is, according to my guide book: "a sumptuous orientalist fantasy of a restaurant-bar, the uber-hip Abou El-Sid serves traditional Egyptian food to wannabe pashas amid moody and low-hanging lamps, oversized cushions and brass tables. Reservations are a must, darling. Look for the massively tall wooden doors." It was all correct, except for the necessary reservations part. It was busy, but not packed to the rafters. After wandering about for awhile (further establishing my map-reading abilities), we found the massive wooden doors - firmly closed. We waited, and then followed a group of older British looking tourists as they stepped up to the door and actually opened them.

Inside, the atmosphere was amazing. The lighting was low, and the chairs were sumptuous. I had roast pigeon - eating it presented a challenge, but I asseverate that it was the best meat I've tasted in my life. My friend had some sort of meatballs, and we shared bread and rice in a sort of green spinachy-sauce. It was delicious beyond belief and relaxing in the gorgeous restaurant was incredible.

Finding someone that would let us pay, however, was a little more difficult. After finishing, we did manage to catch the waiter's eye and he removed our dishes. However, we could not, it seemed, catch anyone's eye to allow us to pay and leave. We enjoyed waiting there, though, as we watched no fewer than four tables finish and leave without learning their secret for bidding the waiting to get the check. Finally, just before we made a final desperate dash to the door in the assumption that it was 'on the house,' I saw a waiter and I gesticulated wildly in the air, making the international "air-check writing" symbol. He understood. We were soon finally on our way back to the hotel to rest.