The Journey South, a Gauntlet and a Colonial Retreat

Luxor, Egypt

It is expected that tourists take the overnight train between Luxor and Cairo. In typical Egyptian fashion, the rules are somewhat interpretive. It is not possible for a tourist to purchase tickets for a daytime journey, but they are allowed to ride the rails during the day if they have a ticket. We had someone from the hotel purchase tickets for us so that we could actually obtain them. The man behind the counter made a big deal about how big a favour he was doing for us, breaking the rules and all, but we were unconvinced of his personal risk. First of all, we had learned pretty quickly the average Egyptian was not big on following rules. From the concept of lining up to traffic signals, there was very little evidence of agreed-upon parametres.  We probably paid too much money, and Eric was a little frustrated at the hotel staff’s shenanigans, but all in all it was worth the effort.

The ten-hour train ride from Cairo to Luxor is worth the time for the experience of seeing how modern Egypt functions. Instead of going on a tour, you sit in your seats and the tour comes to you!

We started off with a frantic search for the correct car, then we had to find our seats. Using our knowledge of Arabic numbers we determined that someone had taken one of our places hoping nobody would notice. Our research warned us that this was common and instructed us to be confident as we approached the person to ask him to move on. We did this. I while tapping him on his shoulder so he had to look up from his phone and Eric waving him off in a firm and polite manner. He looked up at us in confusion, looked at his seat number, and then regarded us with confusion. We did the “You are in our seat, buddy. No matter but you gotta find another place to squat” mime routine to which he responded with a shaking of his head, a pointing to his ticket, and some vague pointing towards the other end of the car.

At this point we started to waiver. Eric looked at his ticket again while I confidently opened up the curtain to regard the sign above the window. As I frowned at the unhelpfulness of my bold, confident actions Eric groaned and shook his head. We had the numbers backwards. We were disturbing an innocent man. After apologizing in a profuse and completely wavering and not-at-all bold manner to our friend, who was gracious in his response, we made our way to our seats and sat down heavily.

As the day progressed, we watched the events unfold. We witnessed a number of people being told to leave the first-class coach and make their way back to either second or third class. These occurrences were usually done without incident with the staff member moving on and the passenger shrugging and leaving. Two young people were caught without a ticket and the staff person was so upset that he called the armed security guard to come. It became so heated at one point that one of them shut the door to the coach so that they could proceed in private between the cars. This was not effective as we could still hear everything. The incident had been unfolding for about fifteen minutes when the two young men calmly walked back to their seats. This set off another passenger and the two staff members and then it all began again. In the end, the two boys were kicked out at the next stop and they glared at the departing train from the platform. 

Commuters left from Cairo and disembarked along the first three or four stops, university students, at home for the recent long weekend, returned to their studies at various spots along the way, and families large and small paraded past us. All the while the landscape zipped by. Small villages with children on donkeys and old men with canes walking slowly along dusty tracks. Larger communities with tuk-tuks careening everywhere carrying loads of packages, bags of produce and many, many passengers. Cities with rushing people in suits and jeans and galabias. Fields with workers baling and chafing and driving loads overfull with sugar cane. And the one constant, winking in and out of sight along the whole route, the Nile. Herodotus called Egypt ‘The Gift of the Nile’. This country, these people, this trip; none of this would not be save for the existence of the Nile River. If she is not within site, one of the canals feeding from her is. She is everywhere. In everything. In every action.

It was complicated organising our way onto this first-class train as tourists, but it was worth it. Not for the luxury that first-class implies. Simply put, there is no luxury to be found. At all. But for the human experience. It was chance for us to see the modern Egyptian on home soil. In their comfort zone. We were the visible minority. Used to our white privilege, it was good for us to not be able to rely upon it. We were the visitor. We were the minority. We were the others. We felt it. It was not always comfortable. But it was important.

It was a tsunami of people that met us at the train station exit. Offers for taxis swarmed all around us as we tried desperately to get through. We had been at the receiving end of insistent, even desperate, attempts to offer services or receive money, but the crowds waiting for us to disembark was like nothing we’d experience thus far. Some were quite aggressive, standing in our way and refusing to let us pass until we forcefully moved around them.

We made it through the crowd and made our way down the main street. I took the lead and looked a big and as decisive as I could. Eric trailed behind doing his best to make the rolling suitcase work on what could only be loosely interpreted as a sidewalk. Eventually, we abandoned the sidewalk and ventured forth on the side of the road with the rest of the pedestrians. Soon we found ourselves in the largest collection of horse drawn carriages we have ever seen. There must have been more than fifty in our immediate area. Of course, every single one of them had the best horse, the best carriage, the best driver that money could buy. They were as insistent as our greeters at the road, but they could not stray too far from their horses.

It was while I was gesturing for a man to move away, that standing in front of me with his arms up would not convince me to take a ride, that I first saw the Temple of Luxor. Unlike other temples in Egypt, this one was not built for a specific god, but to celebrate the eternal power of pharaoh. Many think it was the traditional place for coronations for many years. Alexander the Great claimed to have been coronated here even though it is highly unlikely that he stepped much further south in Egypt than what is present day Cairo.

The noise, the clamour, the waving arms of the man in front of me all disappeared for a moment. I mentioned in a previous blog that while I was impressed with the pyramids, they were not representative of my most treasured connection with ancient Egypt. Luxor was. Truth be told, most of my interest is based in the immediate geography of this place. Built over the ancient capital of Thebes on the east bank and the nestling up against the necropolis on the west bank, I was now in the focal point of the New Kingdom which has held my heart for over forty years.

The moment was brief. The temple was located within a busy portion of downtown Luxor and traffic, vendors, and time all hastened me to our next hotel.

The Old Winter Palace Hotel was our home in Luxor. We would be here for four days before we left for Aswan. We would then return again for another stay. This was not by accident. While Eric and I went back and forth about hotel choices in other cities, the Winter Palace was a guarantee. Past guests include King Farouk and Winston Churchill. Agatha Christie stayed at this hotel while she was in Egypt writing Death on the Nile. And Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon announced the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamon here. And, if that weren’t enough, it is featured in the 1981 movie Sphinx!

It is a Victorian bastion of colonial influence in Egypt, and in this spirit it is a quiet refuge from the very hectic and tumultuous outside. This is a blessing and a curse. While it is air conditioned and quiet and safe from the constant requests for money, it is also insular, privileged, and not a little self important. The clients. Not the staff. It is surprisingly lacking in British patrons. Instead, the French seem to have taken prominence here. This is reflected in the menus of the restaurant and the fluent French of the staff. Eric tells me that the phrase I am really searching for is the French “pète plus haut que le trou” which, translated literally, means “farting above your asshole”. I believe this is an adequate descriptor.

When I entered the lobby none of these thoughts were present. Instead I looked about the lobby, saw the information display on the hotel’s history and wandered around staring up the grand staircase and at the large chandelier. I was in Luxor. I was where I wished to be.

We had a late dinner, walked to the river and watched the many boats floating and bobbing among the piers, and wandered through the entire hotel looking at each of the historic photos. When we finally went to bed we were exhausted. It had been a fulsome day yet again. And the next day held great promise. Eric, as usual, was asleep soon after he laid down. I stared in the darkness for awhile and thought about the journey so far. Aside from the occasional honking of a horn the night was quiet. Quiet, at least, in Cairo terms. I realised I was beginning to settle into the rhythm of this place.  Eric’s steady breathing comforted me as I rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.

Pyramids, The Sun Disc, and The Forgotten Capital

Pyramids, The Sun Disc, and The Forgotten Capital

Cairo, Egypt

The approach to the pyramids is not as grand as you would expect. At least not at the beginning. After driving at breakneck speeds racing against heavily modified VW vans (i.e. no windows or doors either present or in working order) ferrying passengers up and down the boulevard, you pass a building and behind it emerges a pyramid. You are more surprised than awe-struck, like finally finding your keys where they should have been all along.

After that, they never leave your line of sight. As we approached the UNESCO site I was transfixed. Once, when I glanced his way, Eric jokingly asked me to resist bursting into tears. That was not going to happen. Not to say that the structures did not impress me, they did, but my main interests in ancient Egypt lay elsewhere. If I was to burst into any tears, it was going to happen in Luxor.  With that said, however, do not underestimate the grandeur and timelessness of the pyramids of Egypt.

Like many grand structures, the closer you get to these man-made mountains the larger they seem. When faced up against one, all you see is the flat terrain of stone ending at a blue horizon. The very blocks it is built with are about four feet high and when you line up to enter the great pyramid, you are dwarfed by the sheer immensity of this place.

Not that I had any intention to entering the pyramid. I found the Leaning Tower of Pisa to be a disturbing experience (the passageway and the end of the winding corridor leading immediately up to the roof is quite narrow) so there was no convincing me of entering a place that requires an adult to crawl for the sole purpose of finding an empty, unadorned room. I’d rather eat a live scarab beetle while he was still pushing his ball of dung.

While Eric waited in line, Mahamoud, our guide for the day, and I sat and talked. It was a comfortable morning. As predicted, the temperatures of northern Egypt remained in the twenty to twenty-two degrees area with a brisk wind that sometimes begged for a light jacket while in the shade. I was grateful for this, for I knew that while we were still in the late winter months, it was still going to be hot in Luxor and Aswan.

Mahamoud eventually asked me why a Canadian would be so interested in ancient Egypt. We discussed what it took to be become and Egyptologist and how far along the path I went before my poor talent in languages eventually encouraged me to choose another path. His path was very different. I lot less academic and much more practical. This is not to say that he did not know his stuff, he certainly did. But, like in Greece and Italy and other countries, a licensed guide is required to maintain his or her credentials in order to work. They need to keep up with the latest information and developments and they must be able to prove their knowledge and competencies every five years in order to renew their license.  His education was Egyptology to know, understand, and teach knowledge rather than to explore concepts and deduce the human passions behind historical events. Not better, not worse, just different.

By the time Eric returned, I could tell Mahamoud was still somewhat befuddled by my interest, but he was too polite to push for more information. We wandered the Giza plateau ignoring the vendors and camel rides and marvels at the 5000 year old structures. Mahamoud was thorough in his descriptions and his relaying of how and why these structures came to be.

At one point, when we stopped at the “panorama view” spot where you can see all three with the desert behind them, I stared at the only survivor of the seven wonders of the ancient world and finally felt the realisation that I was, indeed, in Egypt. It wasn’t an emotional moment. In fact, I felt quite separate from the reality, like I was outside the experience and looking on from a distance. I suspect I was overwhelmed at the thought. It took me a long time to get here. Now that I’m here, now what?

We moved on to Dashur where most people do not visit because they are unaware of it. This is too bad as I find it much more interesting than Giza. It is also less crowded. In fact, we were almost the only ones there. Dashur is home to three pyramids. The brick pyramid, a first attempt at a pyramid structure made of mud bricks that simply could not survive under its own weight. The bent pyramid is, well, bent. When it was determined that the angle of the structure was too sharp, it was decided to complete the top half of the pyramid with a more direct route to the apex.  I feel it gives it a bit of character. When the bent pyramid proved to be insufficient, the red pyramid was constructed. It’s names comes from the colour of the brick used in its construction.

I really love this site. When you stand in the mostly empty parking lot among these buildings you are witness to the human mind calculating and recalculating the specific requirements to bring reality to spiritual thoughts. The trial and error of our ancestors have been preserved for five thousand years in this place. You look around you and you see the development of the famous pyramid form we all see at Giza. This is the drawing board of the ancient Egyptian Old Kingdom. And most people don’t know about it.

After a stop at the ancient capital of Memphis, or Menofer, in which we saw the colossal statue of Ramses II, we made our way to the Step Pyramid. With this final visit we have completed our backwards journey of the development of the pyramid in Egypt. From Giza to Dashur to Saqqara we can backwards trace the line of thought behind the eternal houses of the Old Kingdom pharaoh. Designed by Imhotep, a man so revered he is the only know non-royal individual to be worshipped as a god, the first pyramid of Egypt is a staircase to the heavens. It is an expansion of the flat platforms called mastabas that covered the shaft graves of the nobility at the time. The High Vizier would receive one platform, so Pharaoh would receive five. It is the oldest monumental structure built by man on earth and it is spectacular. Being a part of the usual Giza tour package, it is well attended, but it is a part of a larger historic site consisting of eleven points of interest. I was to visit one other.

The Serapeum is a complex structure underground that housed many bulls sacred to the god Apis, or Serapis. I presented my ticket and I was welcomed as an old friend. Before I knew it I was being led down the corridor and presented in dramatic fashion the glories of the archaeological site. The problem was that this site was quite simple in its design. It was magnificent, to be sure, but it really consisted of a long and short corridor connected by a short passageway and room after room of giant sarcophagi. There were no elaborate carvings on the wall. No statuary. Nothing.

Nevertheless, my new-found brother would have none of my cynicism. I once watched Jack Layton work up a room full of loyal followers into such a lather that he could have been auctioning off air and stale farts and would have made a bundle in fundraising. This “guide” was in that calibre. When he offered me a secret, tell-no-one, just-this-time entry past the barricade and into one of the chambers holding a sarcophagus I hesitated. He would definitely want a tip after this. I sighed and lifted myself up and over the barrier. I did get to examine that chamber thoroughly, but I wouldn’t be making any contributions to the latest issue of Archaeology Magazine.

As we left, I gave him some Egyptian pounds. Not a lot, but not too little either. He wanted American money. This was not going to happen. First of all, I only had twenties in American. While I was grateful for the opportunity to feel like the plunderer Belzoni for five minutes, it’s not like he opened the door to the Ark of the Covenant for me.  I had given him a decent tip, but he wanted more.  He kept insisting and I began to ignore him. He never touched me. He was never angry. But it was more aggressive than I had yet experienced. As we left and I had stopped speaking to him, our guide gave him a tip that seemed to appease him somewhat.

Our next day was a day trip to see the ancient capital city of Akhetaten. Located at Tel El Amarna, just next to El Minya, this was the chosen location of the pharaoh Akhenaten. After undermining the power of the priests of Amon-Re for years, the decision was made to move the capital and institute a monotheistic religion by replacing all of the ancient gods with the sun disk Aten. Akhenaten was a radical in many respects. He was a proponent of peace, a perplexing and threatening concept to many of his subjects. He let the strict stylization of art relax, allowing artists to create works of art within a span of less than two decades that are rare in their intimacy and charm. Few of these pieces survive, being  a mere spark in three thousand years of Egyptian history, but they are compelling in their ability to help us find ourselves within the intimacy of our daily interactions with each other, the living out of our daily lives, and the passions that drive us. You will see charming intimacy between Tutankhaten and his Queen Akhsenpaaten on the back of his small throne. Akhenaten, instead of an imposing figure towering over everyone, is pictured with his wife Nefertiti and their daughters climbing over them in a charming family portrait. And, of course, there is the mesmerising bust of Nefertiti that is now in the British Museum.

Our first stop was in at Beni Hasan where tombs of the nobles were located. Walking in and seeing Amarna art on the walks was jarring for me. Like everything else in Egypt, I have seen many photos of many things many times. Seeing these objects and places in real life is surreal for me.  It takes my brain a moment to process. But Amarna art is different. For me it is special because, while I enjoy all of ancient Egyptian history, my main love has always been between Hatshepsut and Akhenaten. Tutankhamon was my first introduction, but these two figures have always spoken to me. I believe now it is because they were boldly going against the norm. They were subversive, rebellious, and confident in their differences. There, of course, many ways to read their actions; political, personal, spiritual. But for the young boy growing into manhood with an innated and unnameable understanding that he is different that his peers, that he somehow looks at the world around him in a way that his peers do not, this was very appealing.

For Akhenaten the dream was short lived. This is reflected in the tombs we visited as they were unfinished and abandoned. While Aten may have been universal, his prophet pharaoh was not. Nothing makes this profound than the state of his capital city. Aside from a few stones restored into some semblance of a brief structure there is nothing but some tombs and a vast desert.

It wasn’t hot. In fact, the cool winds of winter still blew around us keeping the temperatures around the twenty degree mark. But looking about at the wasteland, Eric and I could feel the desolation. The city was destroyed thoroughly and completely after Akhenaten’s death and the place was abandoned. There are stories of the land having been salted, a dramatic demonstration of condemnation in a desert country. Looking around I believe it. We are in the valley, not the rocky foothills where the tombs are, and there is nothing growing. The rebuke of Aten and his follower remains.

As we drove back to Cairo I sat back and listened to our guide and our driver chat in Arabic to each other. Eric was on his phone already posting some pictures on social media. I looked out the window and thought of Akhenaten. While some Nile cruises stop at Beni Hasan, very few come to the capital city of his dream. To be sure, tourists were not even allowed here until recently. For the most part, this place has been forgotten. This saddens me. Sometimes, when you are the bold outlier like Hastshepsut, you will surpass your failings and achieve recognition for your tenacity. But if you are Akhenaton, your wish to change the status quo, your radical new way of looking at the world, results in personal destruction and your erasure from history.

A risk I believe that kid in Kamloops, with his early thoughts and explorations of who he really was, was, deep down, already aware.

Freedom Square, New Cuisine, and a Mother's Purse

Cairo, Egypt

Our first day was an easy day. I figured I had waited over forty years to see the pyramids I could probably wait another day. We had an quiet first morning, mostly lounging in our room and organising ourselves. Our sleep had been fitful from travel, late night food, and, in my part at least, a busy brain constantly going over the details of our upcoming days.

In the early afternoon we made our way to our rendezvous point for our first tour. Our hotel is across the river from Tahrir Square and The Cairo Museum. It is about a ten minute walk involving crossing a bridge. Crosswalks, like traffic lights, are a rare whimsy on the streets of this city, so you walk when you can. With purpose. With incredible awareness of time, space, and your frail body.

We were to meet with our tour guides at Tahrir Square by the Hardees fast food chain (they assured us that this was not one of our stops!) and watched the world go buy. This afforded us our first opportunity to see the city around us. Being very obviously tourists, we had been approached by people since the moment we left the hotel lobby. They were not rude, or aggressive, but they were persistent. And they were constant. I friendly comment about me walking like an Egyptian because I crossed the street without stopping led to a sales pitch involving an art gallery, his need to give us his card, and a commentary about how much he loved Canadians.

But as we stood there, looking busy and making sure we kept up our conversation, nobody approached us.  We were free to watch the bustle around us. Being one of the most populous cities in the world, it is no surprise that the streets are busy. Especially Tahrir Square. It was here that the riots occurred. It was here that Christians circled the protestors to protect them. It was here that many died, some bodies having never been identified. We have all heard the stories of the people of Cairo live tweeting and using YouTube to record the events. We regarded the Cairo Museum across the way and remembered how a human chain surrounded the building to protect the artifacts from looters. The story of the revolution is compelling and we were reminded of it on this tour as we passed the American University in Cairo with its memorial painted on its wall.

But today it was calm. Well, calm for Cairo. Our hosts met us and, after a brief introduction, took us on a walking tour that introduced us to Egyptian food.

We began in a little shop, barely twenty feet squared, where we sat at a small table halfway out onto the sidewalk. We were given little metal cup with a cold drink with leaves floating in it. Muyyet Salata, or Salad Water, is like a dressing and salad all in a single shot glass. Vinegar, oil, lemon, dill, salt, pepper, garlic and chilli powder are mixed in with bits of greens to create a concoction that is refreshing, punchy, and ending with a bit of a kick. “This is to wake up your palate. To prepare you for your feast” Leila, our guide, tells us. I feel the spice slide down my throat, starting to burn a little just as it begins to dissipate. Not being one for spicy foods, I am surprised how pleasant this is.

I suddenly worried about the water. I was warned continuously about the state of water in Egypt and I worried I had already screwed up. Leila smiled and assured me the water had been boiled before.

Next came Koshari. Leila pointed out the macaroni, spaghetti, and vermicelli mixed in with lentils, rice, whole hummus, and onions. She then poured some tomato and garlic sauces over the whole thing and asked us to mix it. This is the national dish of Egypt. It is filling and wholesome and every Egyptian apparently has an aunt, a mother or someone else who makes the best version. It is the favoured comfort food when eating out even though it can easily be made at home.

This was a great way to start the tour. The familiar flavours mixed in a new way was interesting. Eric and I agreed that each of the ingredients are items we enjoy at home. It reminded me of some casseroles I have made in order to use up the small amounts of pasta left in the pantry. We had a discussion of how pasta ended up in an Egyptian dish and our first of many reminders of western bias came under scrutiny. We have often been told the story of how Marco Polo brought pasta to Italy, but the focus of this tale is to explain why noodles play such an important role in Italian cuisine. Just because Italy discovered pasta did not mean other parts of the world were not already using it. Marco Polo was following a trade route after all.

Our next stop was a very tiny shop that specialised in Arabic coffee. Having had my fair share of Greek and Turkish coffee during my years studying Classical Studies in university and travelling to Greece and Turkey, I was surprised to find out that Arabic coffee is dramatically different. Instead of the thick, dark mix I would expect, we were served a brew that was almost like tea. A light colour with a matching taste that still was undeniably coffee. We were given a tour of the making of the coffee and learned that the beans were very lightly roasted, almost green, and ground with cardamom. We drank it without cream or sugar, which was considered the proper way.

As we drank our brew on what looked like the sidewalk in front of the shop, we had to keep avoiding motorcycles whose riders were using the space to make u-turns.  The distinction between the street and the sidewalks are intangible here. Sidewalks come to abrupt endings, people walk along the street and even within the traffic without any stress. Drivers honk to let you know they are coming and people make way or they do not, depending on which direction is most acceptable.

And even when the sidewalk is most decidedly for pedestrians you must keep your wits about you. Sometimes I found myself having to alternate between pushing against traffic and going with the flow on a constant basis. When walking between stops I often found myself in front of Eric and our guide and having to stop and wait for them to pass so I could follow only to find myself in front again.

No matter what, Cairo worked around me, at me, or despite me. Shopkeepers never gave up trying to convince me to buy something, children watched us with interest for a brief moment until their daily lives swept them away, and the traffic swirled around in its noisy, busy, frantic, organic pandemonium way. At one point, while behind Eric and our guide, a woman passed us by going the same way while her very young son kept annoying her. So much so that, in her frustration she yelled at the boy  and swung her large bag to smack him on the head. She was clearly a practice shot, but the boy was swift and light and managed to avoid the impact.

I, however, did not. She clocked me right on the side of my head. The boy, who thought this was quite funny, actually stopped at the spectacle of me trying to keep my glasses on. This allow the mother to grab him by the arm and pull him to her. She looked at me and apologised in English and raised her had to me. Before I could reassure her that I was okay and no harm done, she and the boy were gone.

Meanwhile, Eric and Leila carried on walking, unaware of the whole episode.

Leila decided it was time to hydrate, so we stopped off at another tiny shop that specialised in juices. We were given a variety of samples each in their own shot glasses. It was hard to determine our favourite between the sugar cane, the tangerine, the hibiscus, the coconut milk, and the tamarind. Again, it was a startling array of tastes and textures. Despite this different it was easily understood how each of these drinks would be refreshing in the dessert heat.

Our next stop had us enter a slightly larger restaurant that was unadorned for the most part. Leila informed us how this ended up in the tour. “I asked one of my male friends where he liked to go to eat when his mother was away and he said this place. I tried it for the tour and now it is one of my favourite places to eat.” We could clearly understand why. This place was popular for the locals because it tasted like everything was homemade. No razzle dazzle, just food. The plates came wet. So wet she had to dry them a little as she reassured us again about the water. The metal plates were cleaned in hot water and steamed dry in a dishwasher, but the water assured the guest that the plates were not dirty and fit for guests to eat off of.

Slow cooked vegetables simmered in tomato sauce and cardamom until everything is soft served over rice and finished off with lemon and mint is a common dish in Egypt. Exchange the tomato sauce with a garlic and spice-based stock and use okra and you have Molkhia.

The legend behind this latter dish is as charming as the tradition it began. A young woman, worried about being cast out of her home impressed the king with her Molokhia and he saved her from his fate. She was so surprised that she gasped. ( I am not doing this story justice. I suggest you look it up for yourself. I do not think you will be disappointed.) As a result of this legend, tradition has it that the woman, in order to make this soup properly, must gasp as she cooks it. Leila told us that when she heard her grandmother gasping in the kitchen she was excited because she knew they would be having Molokhia. Also, brides to be traditionally had to make this soup for the husband’s family successfully in order to be deemd acceptable as a wife for their son. No pressure at all.

Aish Baladi, an Egyptian pita that has a slightly moist interior, is amazing. This is a standard part of any dish in Egypt and is mostly used a means to deliver the taste of the many dips you can have. Tahina, babaganoug (yes, with a harder sound at the end rather than the softer babaganoush). It is also quite useful with the vegetables we were having as well.

We then made our way to a restaurant that has a number of outlets throughout Cairo due to its popularity. My understating is that we visited the original. Located in an alleyway between two buildings, Felfela is beautiful. With it intimate atmosphere, multi-coloured glass ceiling and wholesome food you would be hard pressed to not be charmed. He we enjoyed a lentil soup with a squeeze of lime and some fava-based dishes. Fava beans are plentiful in Egypt and they are a staple. This is a good thing as it has led to the creation of the Egyptian Falafel. This version is made with fava beans instead of chickpeas and I am very disappointed that I have only just now had the pleasure of tasting it. It is difficult to recreate elsewhere in the world, but I think people should try hard. These falafels were flatter but this shape had not been consistent elsewhere. Other fava dishes were Basara, a green paste for dipping and Tamiyya which is made with fresh coriander. We also had Betengen Ma’ll which is sliced eggplant deep fried and seasoned with spicy salsa consisting of tomatos, chillis, and garlic called Da’aa.

By this time we were pretty full. But desert was our next stop so we persevered. Basbousa and Zalabya reminded me of different variations of Baklava with is sugar syrup and ghee. Kunafa, with its creamy centre, was our favourite. So much so that our host graciously gave us an extra piece each.

Our final stop was a simple peppermint tea on a rooftop patio in another part of Cairo while watching the sun set. We were full, we were enjoying our company, and we were feeling content. The day before had been so long, but this moment on a rooftop in Cairo not only introduced us to local cuisine, it set a good tone for the beginning of our time here in Egypt.

Across the street lay the shell of what was once a large cinema. Before it showed films it clearly hosted live performances. After a recent fire, the remains of the building was being taken down to make way for a new structure. As I looked down at the broken structure of a once-proud building, I thought that it was an appropriate way to end our tour. This city, with its decay and broken infrastructure, is also home to a vibrant culture that embraces the sensual aspects of our existence. Taste, smell, texture. All of these things that are so infused in the cuisine can be found in the immediacy of the existence that is living in Cairo. From crossing the street to avoiding an irate mother’s purse, you must be present. If you do not adapt, you will fade.

Shock, Awe, and Arrival

Cairo, Egypt

My first impression of Cairo was one of surprise. The warnings of smell, of intense heat, the crush of people, none of those were present. In their place was chaos. Eric and I stumbled out of the airplane as everyone pressed forward without any sense of order. The very same people who calmly entered the aircraft in London were now clamouring out with the urgency of water breaking a dam.

Eric and I smiled at each other and shrugged our shoulders. We are not in Canada now.

The airport maintained the them of pandemonium and I was glad we had decided to not take any checked baggage. It was one less ordeal. When we entered the main reception the cacophony was overwhelming at first. As tour guides, taxi drivers, and other individuals whose role I could not determine all blocked our way and called out to us. We kept close together; afraid we would lose each other in the deluge of activity. We eventually found our driver and we weaved through the melee and found our car. I sat in the back seat and sighed in relief. It was short-lived relief.

I have been told the legendary tales of Cairo traffic. I knew there would be speed and crazy driving. But I figured living seven years in Montreal would account for something. We took off onto the main highway and I was pretty sure we looked like the starship Enterprise in the opening credits of Star Trek. To best describe the experience you need to envision a cross between the chariot race in Ben Hur, the movie Death Race 2000, Mad Max: Fury Road, The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, and a ballet consisting of thirty-eight ten year olds hopped up on sugar trying to do a ballet that is a combination of Swan Lake, the climactic scene of the original Star Wars, and an episode of Dora the Explorer.

At one point, around the 130km per hour mark, I noticed through the haze of fear that the highways had large iron walls on each side. I figured this was a way in which we could not actually see how time was slowing down as a result of our speed. Also, it kept the carnage on the road.

As we careened, then plowed, then careened some more towards our destination, I began breathing again out of necessity. Our car pulled up to the front of the Novotel Hotel El Borg and Eric and I stumbled out of the back seat, spilling out on either side of the car. We tipped the driver, thanked him for not killing us and walked in.

We were both exhausted from our flights, but the ride in managed to get our blood pumping. So, we dropped off our luggage and made our way up to the rooftop café. It was well into night and the moon hung heavy over Cairo. A stiff wind blew through the restaurant, causing napkins and tablecloths to flutter. Cairo was busy and dynamic and vast while the Nile snaked her way through the city, a dark line meandering among the lights.

We were cold. We were early in the shoulder season of winter where lower Egypt is not yet oppressively hot and the sun was long gone. I went back to the room to change into a long sleeved shirt but did not wear it long as we ate quickly and returned to our room within the hour.

Our window had a direct view of the Cairo Tower. It reminded me of the many towers throughout the city of Rome, but with a distinct Arabic flavour. I stared at it for a long while, trying to process that I was in Egypt at long last.  But I was too tired and went to bed.

The Louvre, The Tower, and the Passage of Time

Dear Sofie,

It is almost 2am in the morning of the day we return home. You and Eric are asleep and I am hearing the noises of Paris closing down for the night after hours of revelry. The music in the nearby cafes have stopped and I hear the voices of the staff as they move furniture in to the building. I believe our neighbours, for the most part, are settling in for the night. I am alone in the living room of our flat and I feel tired, happy, melancholy and relieved. I am tired because I believe that Paris, with its stairs and cobblestones and cobblestones with stairs, is actually trying to kill me. I am happy because we are safe and we have spent some amazing time together as a trio. I am relieved because Eric and I have not accidentally killed you with peanuts.

That was our biggest stress to be sure. We have been researching on the web for months for advice and direction about how to handle a peanut allergy in Paris and the best we could really come up with was a general tone of “Good luck. But you’re screwed!”. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. Eric’s firm warning about the need for diligence supported by my hairy eyeball probably helped a bit, but it was your leadership about it that made it happen. It was easier to feed you than I thought it would be. And you’re not dead. A total win-win!

Yesterday we went to the Louvre. You were a little gobsmacked by the size of the building for sure. And you loved the inverted pyramid in the reception area. I can’t wait until you see the move The Da Vinci Code.

We hoofed our way to the Mona Lisa immediately upon entry, passing many annoyed visitors who wondered if we were insane. As we zoomed by the statue of Nike of Samothrace on the top of a stair case I frantically waved my arms towards yelling out something like “That’sWIngedVictoryandsheistheinspriationfortheNikeswooshonrunningshoesbutmoreonthatlaterohlookpaintingsbyTitian!” God love your blessed little butt as you kept up the pace.

We reached the room with the Mona Lisa and the crowds still hadn’t become too large so you were able to find a spot for your photo. I am not a fan of this painting. I think what really makes it famous today is that it is famous. I believe it is a masterpiece, but no more that countless other masterpieces that deserve more air time. But you were thrilled. So much so that I kind of liked old Mona a little more than  I used to. She is still over exposed in pop culture, but she makes you happy. So that makes her okay in my book.

We spent the next three hours or so exploring Italian masters, ancient Greek and Roman sculpture and ancient Egyptian artifacts. We talked of Caravaggio and his penchant for controversy and why picturing the Virgin Mary as a fat dead corpse was an issue for the Church at the time, we discussed the poignancy of Eros and Psyche as a symbol of the heart and brain being a union that produces harmony, and how viewing a mummy may be educational, but it is also important to remember that this was a human being who loved and was loved just like us. You recognised your old friend David and his foe Goliath and you made connections between paintings, common elements, all on your own. We agreed that you were already well versed in the fundamentals of art.

After the Louvre we walked over to Cathedral Notre Dame. We walked over because Eric insisted that it was in the neighbourhood. It was not. Unless a neighbourhood is defined by an hour walk at a brisk pace. After our Death March we found ourselves at the great cathedral and you were clearly awestruck. As we waited in line I was considering a lecture on flying buttresses and the development of the arch but decided against it. When I was beginning my favourite discussion about earth and sky and balance back at the Louvre your eyes glazed over and drifted away to another painting whereupon you pointed and said “Oh look! A pooch!”. Clearly my skills as an educator were only required in a limited capacity.

You were quiet in the church. So much so that we thought you were uncomfortable or bored. But you assured us that you were just soaking it all in. When Eric indicated he was going up to light a candle for his grandmother you asked why. He explained that doing this was important to her so it was important to him. You reached into your purse and took out some coins “I want to help pay the two Euros for the candle. I want to be a good person. Besides, l like grandmothers.”

After Notre Dame we took the metro to Angelina’s, a restaurant in the style of the 17^th century salons that specializes in chocolate. And it is completely nut free. We ate Madeleines and drank warm drinking chocolate and I thought my nose bleed all over the table cloth. It was awesome. You were thrilled at the possibilities but I believe you were a little overwhelmed at the rich taste of these items.

Watching you at the table, Eric and I knew you were enjoying your trip. But we also knew you were almost completely done. I sure a heck knew I was completely done. We postponed our visit to the Eiffel Tower and decided to go home and have an early night. When you enthusiastically agreed we knew we had made the right decision.

That night you made us a dinner of butter shrimp and pasta with cherry tomatos which we ate with gusto. Then we called you folks and talked for a while.

The three of us lounging on that couch in that small flat was a moment I will never forget. When you are with the ones you love, it is easy to make any strange apartment a home.

Your last full day in Paris was a bit more easygoing. We spent some time in our neighbourhood of Montmartre to do some shopping and to have a casual lunch. Then we headed over to the Eiffel Tower while the weather held out for us.

To say that you were excited to finally see the Eiffel Tower, the one thing you spoke most of regarding Paris, is a gross understatement. I have never seen anyone hop up and down in a line like you did. And I accompanied Eric when he went to Dollywood!

We contacted your folks and we had a brief chat while waiting. It passed the time and it managed to focus you. I could tell that you were so happy to share this event with your parents. Then we showed you Duran Duran’s music video of A View To A Kill which features the Eiffel Tower. You were not impressed. Although you did like Grace Jones jumping off the tower and parachuting away.

By the time we got to the front of the line the summit of the tower was closed so we had to settle for the elevator ride up halfway. We enjoyed a beautiful view of the city and simply wandered in a giant circle enjoying ourselves on the tower. By the time we made our way down the stairs the skies had opened up and the rains poured forth. We took a cab to where we wanted to have dinner, but realised we had no cash. Thanks for the loan there, Sofie. We appreciate your help, but we cannot help but feel that this may have been a moment of parental failure.

We had fancy pizza in a fancy restaurant and you tried a whole bunch of different things because you are brave. You protested, constantly, the fact that you had to use a knife and fork for your pizza because you are twelve. Nevertheless you rallied and ate most of your food. Eric and I were really impressed. Then we spent the remainder of the night in the Latin Quarter walking through old, narrow streets and by revelers enjoying various foods, piano bars and jazz clubs. We checked around for last minute souvenirs and then we went home to pack.

There was so much more we wanted to show you, Sofie. There was Wall of Love, the Opera House and a true fromagerie. We wanted you to see remains of a Roman arena that dated back to the time when Paris was still called Lutetia. We would have liked to have shown you the Catacombs and Pere Lachaisse  and the biggest and oldest English bookstore in Paris. We wanted to show you the site of the Bastille and explain to you its relevance. We wanted you to spend more time on patios watching Parisiens live and love in their city of lights.

Ah time. Sofie, you seem to have so much of it now, but it is fleeting. One minute you are watching a new born child focus on a dining room light because its bright and shiny, the next moment you are watching this same child teeter on the edge of adulthood as she determines how we are going to travel through the metro today.

We have tried to teach you to read the universal signs found in all subway maps. We have also tried to help you learn how to use a money belt, stay aware and secure but not afraid, to read the language of paintings, to appreciate the value in old things, and to eat fancy pizza in a fancy restaurant. I hope we weren’t too much…too bothersome…too…teachy.

But, Sofie, you should know this. We learned from you too. You taught us to trust you when it came to your knowledge about your health and safety. You taught us that you are patient and will let us know when you are becoming too tired. You also taught us that just because you look away and point at things, it doesn’t always mean you aren’t listening. Finally, you taught us that the girl you have been is slowing stepping back to let the young woman emerge.

I find this last lesson a hard one. I am not ready to fully release the little girl in you. I know you aren’t ready yet either so all is okay, for now. But the time is coming. I know this. And, Sofie, I am not ready. I never will be. But I promise you this at least: I will welcome the young woman as fully and as wholly as I welcomed the new born. With all of my heart.

In the meantime, as we return home to Canada I will look forward to a few more years of counting pigeons and welcoming new things with the gentle soul of innocence.

Art, Arch and the Seine

Dear Sofie,

Your first breakfast in Paris consisted of two croissants and a variety of macaroons. I am pretty sure this is considered a parenting fail, but whatever. We managed to find a nearby bakery that promised a peanut free environment. I was dubious, but you seemed comfortable with the odds, and I was told to trust you, so off you went. I believe your biggest thrill was paying in coins with the machine in front of the cashier. You carefully inserted your payment and squealed a tiny bit when the change came pouring out.

“Cool!”

You were on your second macaroon before we were ten metres away. I asked, in as casual a voice as I could muster, how long it usually took you to react when dealing with peanuts.

“Almost immediately,” you shrugged. Then you walked towards the entrance to the metro. I decided not to insist on bringing out the epi pen.

Your first art stop was L’Orangerie to visit the famous Monet installation. The building itself was designed to protect an orange grove, but the trees are long gone now and in its place is a gift to a World War I weary city in need of a place of quiet reflection. Monet was inspired by his garden and we worked diligently on this piece as his eyes continued to fail him. We can see the approaching darkness in the work. You would later recall how the work was unfinished in places, the canvass laid bare for all to see.

We journeyed next to the Museé D’Orsay and you were immediately enthralled by the massive space and beautiful architecture of the place. We explained at how it used to be a train station and you said you could recognise it as such. But you were totally taken aback at the amount of work and effort was put into “just a train station”. We explained about the first impressions a city wants to make on visitors; about point of pride and a demonstration of grandeur. But this was a foreign concept to you. You were baffled that so much art and love could be found in a public building.

We walked through the forest of sculptures and I introduced you to David and Goliath and Artemis and Acteon and wise old blind Oedipus and his daughter Elektra. We looked at paintings with rich, deep tones and imagery born of old stories. You compared the brush strokes of Van Gogh with those of Monet that you saw earlier in the day.

But throughout the visit you kept your eye on the large clock that dominated the building. You were clearly enamoured with it. You spoke of its beauty and its immensity and wondered how one would wind it.

After a lunch in which you were introduced to escargots still in the shell and the origin of the snotty French waiter concept, we went to the Arc du Triumph. After climbing the stairs to the top I knew I had done some damage almost immediately. I am too old and too fat for this kind of experience! We must have been up there for about an hour looking around at the city. As we looked down at the Champs Elysees we spoke about Hitler and du Gaul and the wealthy and visual connection between this site and the Louvre and the financial district .

And we watched the frenetic traffic below as the cars encircled us and miraculously nobody was killed.

On our way home you helped us find groceries for dinner and worked the machine that pressed fresh oranges for us for juice in the morning.  We arrived back in the flat and I cooked you a creamy salmon dish and we ate around that tiny counter perched upon those impossibly high chairs. The three of us, tired from our journey, ate and spoke quietly.

I suppose I should tell you this secret now, Sofie. Eric and I have been told we are quite generous to bring you to this wonderful city. But the truth of it all is this: it is actually quite selfish of us. The universe unfolded in such a way that we were not able to have our own children. This is a painful and sad story that can be told another day in the far future. But suffice to say we were disappointed. Luckily for us, your parent had you and your sister. And twelve years later  we cannot imagine our lives without you two. It’s like you been with us forever. This trip, was our opportunity to show you the world, not only as a traveler, but as we see it as travelers. The generous ones were not us, my dear. It was your parents for allowing us the honour and opportunity to take you.

Watching you today and seeing your eyes light up was pure gold for us.

We ended the day with an evening cruise on the Seine where you saw many of the highlights of the city. We met some friends of Eric and they joined us. I was impressed with how easy going you were. You engaged in conversation willingly and made a real effort to make them feel welcome in our little group. This is further proof that you are no longer a child.

We came home really late after a post-tour coffee with our friends and the longest flight of stairs in metro history. Also, we had to stop for another drink so you could use the bathroom. At 1pm we insisted you call home and you told your parents everything that had happened since.

I felt bad for your folks being so far away from you. But I also felt grateful to them for letting us spirit you away on this adventure. As you went to bed to sleep the sleep of the innocent I felt happy. But I also felt a little sad because the day we would return you to the arms of your parents was approaching fast.

The Return to Paris, The Safe Space, and The New Traveler

Dear Sofie,

A few years ago you were asked to express a situation that would reduce your anxiety; a scenario that would bring you a sense of safety. You answered: “Being in Paris with my uncles.” As we were not present with you at this moment, and had never discussed travelling, France or Paris with you in any real sense, we, along with your parents, thought that this was both lovely and interesting. But it was also the beginning of this journey.

Paris is a beautiful city, with its halls of art and its winding streets full of bustling cars and old boxes nailed to a wall following the shore of the Seine full of used books. It is gracious in its old age, even as it strained under the pressure of volatile politics and urban decay. It has unidentifiable smells that assault your senses that are mingled with cigarette smoke and wafts of baking brioche. Paris is harsh as well as genteel; aggressive while maintaining a suave regard for it inhabitants. Paris is a passionate city that presents itself to you with the understanding that you must feel gratitude for her gifts.

And you do.

This is not our first trip to Paris. We first came here for a short trip in 2006 for our honeymoon. I have returned once with students for a week-long stay and Eric has led groups here twice with three weeks to discover the city. While I am aware of the many things to see and experience here, Eric is the expert when it comes to directions and navigating the labyrinthine tunnels of the Metropolitaine.  Oh, we have both seen Paris and experienced her challenges and gifts, but we have never travelled with a young person before. This was a whole new game for your uncles, my dear Sofie. Our comfort with travelling was compromised. Our easy way of being travelling companions, long established and perfected, has been compromised. I admit, it is both exciting and daunting.

We are staying in Montmartre. Our immediate neighbourhood, nestled within the shadow of Cathedrale Sacre Coeur, is relatively quiet and hilly. Our flat is too flights up and very small. But we have two distinct rooms and a kitchen with a stove and a fridge. We are blessed even though our bathroom is right off the kitchen and seems to amplify any natural noises that occur when participating in typical bathroom activities.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” you state quietly, “But we’re all friends here, I guess.”

Our first day we force you to stay awake so that you can readjust to the new time zone. You don’t complain, but we watch you wilt as the day progresses. We are not far behind you. I am ready to fall over. We take you to Sacre Coeur and its surrounding streets lined with artists and souvenir shops. We hint at the artists and their paints ready to take our portrait together, but you are uninterested. Instead you count pigeons, poke around shops, and take delight in the funicular and the ancient carousel. We offer you a ride and you shyly refuse. Eric and I look at each other. We will need to adapt our expectations as you negotiate childhood delight and a growing sense of self. It makes me sad to see you refuse abandon, but I understand the drive to move toward what you think adulthood should look and feel like.

We find a store with macaroons and we ask if it is safe for you to have them with your peanut allergy. No. We ask another place to the same question with the same answer. And then another. And another. As you remain philosophical, I get annoyed and speak against an uncaring world while Eric determines it to be his mission to find you a macaroon that won’t kill you. We are your defenders! And I believe that you are amused by us even as you skip along the cobblestone streets and count pigeons.