The Siwan Oracle and Cleopatra's Bath

The next morning, I wanted to take in some of the sites outside of town, most of which were clustered around the village of Aghurmi, five kilometers to the east of Siwa. For someone more used to the bitter cold of Brooklyn, it was way too hot to walk; and unlike the previous day, I didn't have the luxury of waiting until the late afternoon, as I had to catch the 8:00 bus back to Cairo. I would have to find some other means of transportation.

There are no traditional taxis in Siwa, or rather, there are only traditional taxis in Siwa: four-seater carts pulled by donkeys. If I had both money and a heart, I would buy every donkey in Egypt and set them all free - I would be like Moses to these poor creatures. While I couldn't afford to lead an exodus, I could at least resolve not to sit behind one of the brutalized beasts. I rented a bicycle for the day instead: a fixed-pedal, Chinese-made "victory" brand model that would have felt right at home in Williamsburg. For $2, it was a solid little ride.

The modern village of Aghurmi lies at the foot of a 35-foot high acropolis which was the location of one of the oasis' earliest fortified settlements. Inside the acropolis walls is the Temple of Amun, the home of the powerful Siwan Oracle. The oracle figures prominently in the region's ancient history. Herodotus relates the story of the Persian King Cambyses II, who in 525 B.C. sent an army of 50,000 men to capture Siwa and destroy the temple after the oracle refused to legitimize his rule of Egypt. The soldiers marched into the desert and were seen again - though a team of Italian archaeologists believe that a recently discovered cache of bones may be the King's army.

Alexander the Great, the most famous of the oracle's many visitors, traveled here in 331 BC hoping for confirmation of his divinity as a son of Amun, whom the Greeks equated with Zeus. I would have thought that this qualified as a "if you have to ask..." situation, but he evidently thought the detour was worthwhile. While Alexander never divulged exactly what he was told, we can assume that it was good news. Soon after, Alexander's mints began producing coins depicting him with ram's horns, the symbol of Amun.

Like the ruins of Troy in western Turkey, the temple is a lot more interesting for its associations than it is for its remains, which have suffered badly over the last 2500 years and have not been helped over the last ten by amateurish preservation work. Still, I liked the idea of walking where we know Alexander the Great once walked. I bought my ticket and climbed the same stairs that he and so many others had once ascended. From the ticket office behind me, I could hear the attendant and his buddies snickering while they watched pornography in their booth. Reverence for the oracle does not appear to be what it once was.

From Aghurmi, I rode to another Temple of Amun. Nothing remains except a loan section of wall and a few large stone blocks which have been defaced by grafitti. Fortunately, the wall is out of reach, because it remains in good condition. I could still just make out the original blue paint of the bas relief.

I still hadn't swam at any of the oasis' springs, and if it was going to happen, it was going to happen at the nearby called "Cleopatra's Pool," only a short ride from Amun's Temple. The spring was already choked with children (which I loathe), and I used them as an excuse to stay out of the water. I'll have to save the oasis swimming for Bahariyya.

Instead, I had a tea and chatted with the cafe owner whose name was Islam. He was appalled that I was studying FusHa and thought it was a colossal waste of time when I could be focusing on a language people actually spoke, like Ameyya. He had learned English by watching movies, listening to music, and chatting with English speakers like me. He believed that only by doing the same would I ever learn Arabic. His English was very good, and I also heard him speak German and Italian while I was there, so I was inclined to believe him.

He did admit that he never learned anything from one group of people: the Australians. He challenged me to find anyone in all of Egypt ("just one!") who could understand them. "We just nod and we smile when they talk at us," he says, "it is not English!" I sympathized with this point of view and asked him for his thoughts on the New Zealand accent. He'd never heard of the place. "They say 'iggs' when they mean 'eggs!'" I volunteered. Islam was astonished at such a people.

I rode my bike back into town, but still had hours before the bus left and nothing to do. Siwa was still deep in its Siesta and I couldn't even loiter in a cafe, so I sat in the shade of a wall and read my book. I was joined by a young man who was definitely after money and would probably force me to go somewhere else. Still, maybe this was the kind of chance to practice my Ameyya that Islam was talking about. I learned that his name was Ahmed and that he spoke almost no English. He started to ask me a series of bizarre questions:

"How much is half-a-kilo of bananas in America?"

"How big is your family?"

"What is your profession?"

I couldn't believe how helpful this was! I would never again tell a professor that I would never use a phrase like "Tomatoes cost more in Siwa than in Cairo, but olive oil costs less here in Siwa." We were covering familiar vocabulary in a useful way. I barely noticed when the conversation took a more sinister turn:

"Does a lawyer make lots of money? How much money do you make?

"How much does your mobile phone cost?"

"Please tell me what you have in your bag."

"How much money do you have with you now? Can I have it? I want you to give me your money now."

Lesson over. I had already been robbed enough by Egyptian language instructors in Cairo, I wasn't going to let it happen to me in Siwa too. I relocated to the bus station where I struck up a conversation with a Hungarian pensioner. He had spent most of his life in Germany, but now traveled nine months out of the year. He summed up his experience in Egypt like this: "I was here thirty-five years ago, and since then nothing has changed. It is still all shit!" He then catalogued Egypt's ills, which were many and grave. At the end, he did say that Easter Island is a very pleasant place. "Not as bad as you might think!"

I had found a bus that terminated in Cairo, so I could relax and watch the film without stressing about catching a connection in Alex. It was an American film called "Hard Justice." It was terrible. At the first break, the Hungarian pensioner asks "was that the Tarantino? It was very bad. Much worse than people say!" I was starting to like this guy.

The resthouse, called "Bir Nous" ("Halfway well"), was really in the middle of nowhere. The flat, featureless earth spread to the horizon in every direction. I hadn't seen stars like this in years. I was moved to buy a bag of Cheetos and some guava juice. While I ate, a cute little dog that barely looked rabid started begging me for food, so I gave him a Cheeto. He walked around it, smelled it, but finally gave up and walked away. I couldn't believe it, even a starving Egyptian dog in the middle of the desert wouldn't eat a Cheeto! This might do more to change my diet than all the good advice I've ever received.

Walking to Fantasy Island

I woke up late in the afternoon with a plan to walk to Fatnis Gezeera, which translates as "Fantasy Island." This was an ambitious name for what in reality is a short peninsula poking into a shrinking brine lake. The walk isn't any more than 6km and is well marked - at least if you can read Arabic. Learning the Arabic alphabet before traveling to Egypt isn't a bad idea, actually. It's not so difficult and is very handy in situations just like this. Of course, knowledge is its own reward: I was tickled with myself when I discovered that I could read the Arabic script for "Fanta" on a bottle of orange soda. I had to show Ms. Chadha, even though she didn't need a label to recognize a Fanta and even if she did, the English word was clearly written on the opposite side. You take baby steps when learning Arabic.

In town, the late-afternoon sun washed out what little color could be seen under the thick yellow dust that coated absolutely everything. I'd hoped for clearer skies in Siwa, but there was just enough of a breeze to kick up a haze, though nothing like what I have grown used to in Cairo. As I walked further from the town, I was startled to see how green the oasis really was - it was especially brilliant closer to the lake (called Birket Siwa) where the water kept the dust down.

At the isthmus leading to Fatnis Gezeera, water bubbles out of a spring fifteen meters deep and collects in a tiled pool before being distributed via a handful of small irrigation canals to the rest of the island. This is the first of the beautiful, refreshing oasis baths in which I didn't swim. Even if you're like me and you skip the swimming (and spend the next week trying to figure out why), the combination of water and shade makes this an ideal place to stop and rest for a while. Some clever entrepreneur had recognized this and was boiling a kettle of mint tea over a small fire of palm leaves.

I was looking for a lazy way to finish out the afternoon and the island didn't disappoint. The breeze had died over Birket Siwa leaving the water's surface so completely still that it flawlessly mirrored the mesas on the far end of the lake. I once spent three days in Essaouira learning to recognize the best places to watch sunsets and the bank of the oasis was showing all the signs. I planted myself in one of the better chairs, ordered the first of many sugary mint teas, and pulled out a book. It was good that I had claimed a seat, because over the next hour, the island began to fill with fellow sunset enthusiasts. I can respect a culture that takes time off for these things.

The haze over the Great Sand Sea blotted out the sun even before it had set over the horizon. It was getting dark quickly and the goddamn mosquitoes don't wait long. I walked back beside fences made of palm fronds which separated individual orchards from the road. Behind them I could hear children laughing and playing, but more than that, I could hear a lot of singing. Sound carries a long way in the dry desert air, and it was eery how many people I could hear but how few I could see. As it grew darker, it became easy to imagine myself in some kind of "Children of the Palms" scenario. I don't know if it was this or my innate paranoia that made me refuse every offer of a lift on the way back into town. One boy on a bike stopped, looked at me with some concern, and asked me if I needed a ride. I said that I didn't and he kept on his way. Thirty minutes later, he passed me from the other direction and again asked if I needed a ride. When I finally convinced him that I didn't, he shook his head and wished me a good evening and a safe trip. Looking back, I realize that it may actually have been a gesture born out of a real desire to be helpful. It was nice to be out of Cairo.

Siwa after sunset has nothing in common with Siwa in the afternoon. The market souq had come to life such that you probably couldn't hail a donkey-taxi unless you knew someone. The cafes were completely full with Siwan men and their teas, coffees and sheeshas. You might see people smoking sheeshas in other parts of North Africa, but in Egypt, they live with them. All of the tourists and expats congregate at a place called at Abdou's. I went there too, eventually, but the first night I went to a much quieter place just off the main square called Alexander. I don't think I made the wrong choice.

When I eat alone at a restaurant, I normally like to order a few drinks. This is simply because drinking makes everything better. Other than a few spa hotels outside of town, Siwa is dry, so I was going to have to forego alcohol for a sweet-lemonade sugar rush. This wasn't as disappointing as it might have been, because the juice in Egypt is too good for words (even though I foresee a post where I try to describe it anyway). For dinner, I ordered the shish tawooq, which is a chicken, tomato, onion, and lemon kebab marinated in yogurt and spices. At Alexander, they served it with warm bread, hummus, a chickpea and tomato salad, and some sort of spicy yogurt-based sauce. It was fantastic. I enjoyed it in the kind of way that usually means that karma will force intestinal humiliation on me to put things back on an even keel.

I've always imagined myself to be a visual person, but I'm starting to think I travel as much for the food as the sights. If only there were some way to share the tastes.

Arrival in Siwa

On the way down from the acropolis, I met a Siwan woman wearing her traditional costume. Before I could practice my Siwan "Hello! Good Morning!" with her, she lowered her head, ducked against a wall and didn't move again until I had moved further down the path. I guess I was terrifying. I'd have loved to take a picture, but besides whatever psychological damage I surely would have caused, I understand that it's taboo to photograph the Siwans. The men might grant a request, but you shouldn't even ask the women.

It's a shame, because the traditional costumes are incredible: embroidered shawls, brilliantly patterned veils and scarfs, elaborate silver jewelry. It's very cool, so long as you can put out of your head the fact that the purpose of some of these articles, however beautiful, is to remove the wearer from public life. Like Christmas lights strung over barbed wire, it's a nasty barrier no matter how you do to beautify it. That's not an entirely fair metaphor, but the lack of women in the oasis is one of the first things you notice. Actually, the absence of women recurs in other contexts here as well: the oasis is a place that has historically been tolerant of male homosexual relationships, allegedly sanctioning such marriages through the early 1940s. Increased exposure to "mainland" Egypt has driven this aspect of the culture underground, if not ended it completely. My guidebook informs me that this is another topic I shouldn't raise.

I tried to find some photos of the villagers on the web (taken by travelers less scrupulous than me) but the taboo appears to be pretty effective. The only shots I could find were of tourists trying on Siwan costumes and they tended to look like jackasses. While in the oasis, I did find a man who carried a selection of literature related to Siwan culture, including some with photocopied pictures. My favorite was an English-language pamphlet that had the unintentionally provocative title "To Go Under Her Gowns" and the undeniably perverse subtitle of "To Get Inside a Woman of Siwa." The French version didn't suggest anything nearly so racy, so I think maybe something was gained in translation. I didn't buy it because I would have embarrassed myself with all my snickering at the register, just like when I bought a biography of WWI Supreme Allied Commander Ferdinand Foch only because it was titled "Foch the Man."

There were plenty of hotels in Siwa, and if they weren't full when I arrived, they wouldn't be before the evening bus arrived, so I had time for a lazy breakfast. I dropped by the "East-West Restaurant" located just off the market square. The name alludes to the clan violence that has plagued Siwan society since the Middle Ages, when a group of Berber and Bedouin families (the "Easterners" or "The Thirty") migrated to the oasis and became neighbors of the original Berbers (the "Westerners" or "The Forty Ancestors"). I didn't let talk of factional violence put me off my breakfast though. The East West Restaurant makes an excellent omelette, which, together with fresh squeezed orange juice and a generous-sized Turkish coffee, costs less than $4.00.

While I ate, I conducted some amateur forensic genomics prompted by the number of cases of albinism I had seen in my first three hours in town. By my math, "Thirty" Easterners plus the Westerners' "Forty Ancestors" equals seventy founding Siwans. That's a pretty tight genetic bottleneck for the present population of 25,000 to squeeze through and it doesn't look like they succeeded without consequences. Imagine having Albinism in the Sahara Desert! It didn't occur to me until after I'd left the oasis that maybe this was the reason why the only sunblock available at the local pharmacy was SPF 95.

The Hotel Yousef is the cheapest place in town, but is is also the best located if you don't mind the noise from the market square. I took a bed, or rather, I took three because Yousef only had a triple room available. To get any kind of room for less than I'd pay for a burrito in Brooklyn is still a wonder, so I wasn't going to complain. Have I mentioned that Egypt is very affordable? I think I have. I'll probably keep mentioning it. I've never been so obsessed with money as I am now that I feel like I have so much of it.

It was early afternoon at this point and the heat was really starting to sap my energy. They take proper siestas in Siwa, and most shops had already closed their doors for the afternoon. I even had a hard time finding someone to sell me a bottle of water and had to buy one from a cafe that couldn't close because a bright-red Englishman had fallen asleep in the sun and the staff couldn't figure out what to do with him. By this point, the effects of twelve hours on a bus were starting to take their toll, so putting off any further exploring, I headed back to the hotel, collapsed on the nearest of my beds, and slept soundly through the hottest part of the day.

Bussing it from Cairo to Siwa

The next northbound train with available seats didn't leave until 8:00 p.m. This meant that I would miss the last bus to Siwa and would have to spend the night in Alexandria. I hadn't arranged a place to stay, so I'd wind up knocking on pension doors that had already been bolted shut for the night. I also knew that I'd feel guilty enough about waking someone that I'd probably take the first place with a bed, no matter how nasty. I knew of one place I could stay, but I wasn't sure I was ready to go back to Hossein after our history together. My plan was already coming apart.

Since I had five hours before my train and nothing to lose, I decided to put the motto that "Cairo always offers alternatives" to the test.* I would find a bus instead. I searched for, found, and waited in line at what I believe might have been the West Delta Bus Lines ticket office, but it could have just as easily been anything else. Whatever it was, the line hadn't budged after forty minutes of waiting, so I moved on. I walked a mile or so to a bus depot near the Nile hoping that I could maybe bribe a driver to let me slip on one of the group-package charter buses, but again, nothing. Things looked grim. I started my walk back when a random old man pointed at a dilapidated bus and said "al Iksanderia." I couldn't believe my luck. I tipped the guy (who may not have even been talking to me) the equivalent of the full fare and boarded. This was definitely no first-class train compartment: it was cramped, smelly and blared unnecessarily loud Egyptian music, but I was on my way! Even if I didn't make the connection to Siwa, I could at least find a bed in Alexandria before everything locked up and then try to catch the first bus the next morning.

I was feeling very good. My travel plans had almost collapsed even before I escaped Cairo, yet here I was speeding down the desert road past silhouettes of palm trees under purple skies and a crescent moon. I was going to make my connection! Not even the mildly anti-American variety show televised on the bus could bring me down (sample lyrics: Amreekee, Amreeka! Amreekookoo, koo koo!).

The bus terminated at El-Mogaf Gedida (the "New Terminal"), which despite its optimistic name, is nothing more than an unpaved parking lot on the outskirts of the Moharrem Bey district of Alexandria. With a half-hour to spare, I took my seat on the overnight bus to Siwa.** I'd normally be concerned about the noxious fumes that had begun to fill the idling bus, but they were keeping the mosquitoes away, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend and all of that, so I let myself drift off into a carbon-monoxide induced sleep

I woke up to find that the kid who had been sitting next to me at the start of the trip was now sleeping on top of me. We started a routine where I would wake him and get him back to his seat, and he would then instantly fall asleep and slump back into mine. This repeated on a fifteen second cycle for about an hour. His mother tried to intervene once on my behalf, but got such a scolding from her ten-year old son that she was effectively out of the fight. This exhausted what little sympathy I had for the disrespectful brat and I was about to elbow him onto the floor when we arrived at the half-way point of Marsah Martouh and they left. I'm very glad that I didn't try to overnight it here. It's lonely and it's cold and the only place to get food is a 24-hour LibyaOil. U.S. regulations used to prohibit me from shopping with the Libyans, but I think we're friends with Qaddafi again, so that may no longer be the case.

With the seat to myself, I fell back asleep quickly. When I woke up two hours later, I was freezing! I'd forgotten how cold nights in the desert can get, and this was truly desert. It was as flat as an asphalt parking lot and had even less vegetation. It stretched as far as the eye could see. It was relentless. I went back to sleep.

We arrived in Siwa an hour before sunrise. It was the first time I'd stepped off a bus in North Africa without instantly being swarmed by taxi drivers offering rides. The place was empty. The famous ruins of Shali, still illuminated by floodlights, loomed over the town. The only noise came from a few ambitious donkeys and roosters getting an early start on what, before the morning was over, would turn into a ridiculous cacophony of braying and crowing. For now, at least, everything was relatively quiet. I found my way through the maze of melted mud walls and towers of Shali to the top of the acropolis, where I watched the sun rise over the dunes of the Great Sand Sea and the palm fields of the oasis. I reminded myself that almost exactly one year ago, I was working in London as a corporate lawyer - a job I despised. I would say that the quality of my life has improved greatly since then.

* A more accurate motto would be "Nothing in Cairo works twice."
** For anyone trying this on their own, the Lonely Planet guidebook is out of date: the Alex to Siwa bus service is operated by West and Middle Delta Bus Company, with the last bus leaving from the New Terminal in Moharrem Bey (not from Sidi Gaber) at 10:00 p.m. Tickets cost LE 35 and the trip takes approximately nine hours.

A Walk Through Dokki

"To walk through Dokki" is a statistically improbable phrase. In fact, google is unaware of it having ever been used on the known internet. This may be because generally speaking, Egyptians don't appear to be the most ardent walkers. This is perfectly understandable given the lack of sidewalks, the insane traffic, and the high levels of pollution which give walking the same health profile as cigarette smoking.

When people do walk, they don't come here. Dokki was once an affluent suburb of Cairo, but as rural migrants moved into the district, and the government built hideous concrete towers to house them, the character of the neighborhood changed radically. There are still a number of the old villas, and not all the apartment blocks are monstrous, soviet-era constructions, but the end result of poor planning is that Dokki is not particularly convenient, visually appealing, or pedestrian friendly. Still, as suggested by this blog's title, I like to knock about, so I decided to walk from the Dokki metro stop to the ILI campus in northern Mohandiseen, a distance that is better measured by the number of deadly multi-lane roads to be crossed (three) than kilometers (four).

Despite demographic changes, Dokki and Mohandiseen (Dokki's neighbor to the north and the district in which I live) are still destinations for upscale shopping. This results in the curious juxtaposition of high-end retail with shops of a more humble nature. You might find a Mercedes dealership sandwiched between a blacksmith and a goat butchery. I passed a Bang & Olufsen store exactly like the one in our old neighborhood in Hampstead. In Mohandiseen though, before you can get in the front door to buy absurdly expensive Danish A/V equipment, you have to leap over a ditch filled with sewage, fermenting trash and packs of feral cats.

The odd mountain of garbage aside, individual shop owners (no matter who their target clientele) are fastidious in sweeping and mopping the areas directly in front of their shops; less so the further you move from the front door. To protect their work, they spray the perimeter with water to keep down the dust. Unfortunately, the water runs out into the street, where it collects in the fetid moats described above. It's a vivid demonstration of the tragedy of the commons; one that covers your shoes and gets tracked all over the apartment.

My walk took me past something my map described as a "Shooting Club." I didn't hear any gunfire, but I saw lots of well-dressed Egyptians getting in and out of expensive cars, which leads me to believe that the the Shooting Club is actually an upper-class social club. There are quite a few of these: I'm familiar with the Gezira Sporting Club on Zamalek, which was originally founded to serve the British officer class. I've also heard of a fair number of social clubs; the type in which Bertie Wooster would be comfortable. It's a sad holdover from the hyper-exclusive, hyper-wanky clubs of which a certain type of Englishman is so fond. I honestly have no idea how there's not more class warfare in Egypt.

I can't say that it was a nice walk, though there's an hour or two in the late evening where the sun lights the city's noxious pollution in a pretty way. Most of the time, you walk through urban blight until you reach a terrifyingly busy road. I've mentioned before that my strategy is to cross the street down-traffic from someone who knows what they're doing. I've since realized that this is everyone's strategy, and that in fact none of us knows what we're doing. When you're forced to rely solely on hope and luck, it's impossible to actually develop skills through experience. Actually, there's one thing I've learned that may just save the reader's life: when an oncoming car flashes his lights at you, he's not indicating that you can cross, he's saying: "I have seen you, but don't intend to slow down." He's very serious: if you cross in front of him, he will kill you.

The sunsets here really are very beautiful. I've also read that on a clear day, you can see the Pyramids of Giza by looking west on the Gamaat al-Dawal al-Arabiyya, or the "Arab League Street," which is the main commercial artery in Mohandiseen and is very close to my apartment. I'm not going to put this to the test, however, because I've promised Ms. Chadha that I'd wait until she arrived before I check out the pyramids. Only a few more weeks to go!

I realize that this entry may sounds slightly pessimistic, but I think that only means that it's time for a Cairo break. Happily for me, I've planned just that. Well, not planned so much as intend. I'm intending to go to Siwa Oasis this weekend, which is some 700 km away and is close to the Libyan border. If I leave for Alexandria directly after my 2:30 p.m. class, I could be in the oasis by Friday morning. If I don't post by Tuesday, I have died.

Security Clearances

Over the last week, I've received emails from friends and family who have recently been contacted by the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. All reports so far indicate that the officers they've spoken with have been friendly and unfailingly polite. That's great to hear, especially about representatives of the department I hope to be working with some day soon. They've already interviewed one of the contacts through whom they could probably find out everything they could possibly need to know, as we've been good friends for all of my conscious life. He has gone by the nickname "slim" in the past though, which may compromise my chances slightly.

So far, it doesn't look like there have been any surprises. Not that I'm expecting any, but still, I'm the kind of guy who gets nervous walking through the anti-theft barriers at Old Navy and who removes all metal objects from my person two days before I fly. I will be absolutely delighted when the whole thing is at an end. Poor Ms. Chadha is getting very good at interviews conducted by my government, having recently aced one at U.S. Embassy London. The reward for her performance was the issue of a K-1 Fiance Visa. I'm very pleased.

Islamic Cairo

By the time I arrived at Midan Ahmed Maher to visit the Islamic Art Museum, I was already in a bad mood. I had gotten in yet another taxi-fight. This time, by proving once and for all that non-Egyptians really should pre-negotiate the fare for any journey of significant length. I followed all the ex-pat's advice, and will say only that it did not go smoothly. I miss the efficient, inexpensive, metered cabs of Morocco (or New York for that matter - not London though, who can afford a cab in London?). My mood didn't improve when I learned that the museum had been closed for renovations since 2002.

My guidebook mentioned this possibility and suggested that I call to confirm the museum's status before going. That wasn't going to happen because I don't make phone calls, especially when I have no confidence in my language skills. Luckily for shut-ins like me, there is the internet. The museum's website seemed a little unsophisticated, but official websites in Egypt are rarely user-friendly, so I didn't think much of it. I saw later that it hadn't been updated since 2003, which still doesn't explain why it failed to mention that the museum was closed. It's strange that Egypt's tourist interface is sometimes so bad, since tourism is the country's largest source of revenue. The programming skills are certainly there: three or four times a week I rely on an awesome site where I can order delivery from one of about forty restaurants in the neighborhood. It's a little concerning (but also wonderful beyond measure) that so much of Egypt's modernization efforts appear to have centered on making it easier for me to effortlessly order fast food.

When plans go off the track, Cairo usually offers alternatives. I decided to take advantage of the great weather and walk through "Islamic Cairo," so called because of the large number of religious buildings in the district. The Bab Zwayla, which is as impressive a city gate as you're likely to see in your life, is a great starting point for any of a half-dozen walking itineraries in the area. Between the Bab Zwayla and the Northern Gates, you can enjoy an embarrassment of architectural riches. Palaces, mosques, wikalas and madrassas hem in the narrow market streets of the Khan el-Khalili; the old bazaar of Cairo. In terms of sheer density of religious architecture, I don't know if there's an equivalent anywhere else in the world. Even Rome gives it churches room to breathe.

I wasn't sure what to see. I had my guidebook, but didn't feel like flipping through the pages for recommendations. I found it much better to just visit whatever building happened to catch my eye as I wandered past. While it's sometimes a great way to get kicked out of a building, I've found that it's also a great way to discover hidden treasures and that you're much less likely to have to share them. At the newly restored Mausoleum of Al-Ghuri, for example, I was the only visitor. The lonely custodian was happy to let me climb up to the dome for some great views of the markets below. He was also happy to let me visit the cistern, where I almost got stuck because the stairs were so worn I couldn't climb back up them. The contrast between the silence of a mosque and the insanity of the street makes each more enjoyable to visit.

I found that in Rabat, visiting the souq isn't that different from visiting a shopping mall at home. I mean, there are some differences: in Rabat, you still might see a donkey packing out a new 40-inch flat screen on its back, but the thing is, in the Rabat souq, you could buy a 40-inch flat screen. Khan el-Khalili isn't anything like that. Other than Coca Cola, there is very little for sale that you couldn't have bought two hundred years ago. And while it's true that plenty of the shops trade in kitsch --ankhs, pyramids, busts of Nefertiti, charms to ward off the evil eye, sheesha pipes, genie lamps, etc.-- many others run serious businesses. In the Goldsmiths Bazaar running along the Sharia al-Muizz, little of the gold and silver jewelry (which is mostly sold by weight), is intended for tourists, who probably aren't carrying around that kind of cash.

Not having much interest in jewelry, I walked the opposite direction down the Sharia al-Muizz, through the covered Tentmakers Bazaar (who sell exactly what you'd expect), and on towards the Citadel. The streets in this part of town are most definitely not tourist oriented. You can buy crates of live rabbits, chickens, ducks or pigeons (I tried to take a picture of the rabbits but the shop-keeper's eight-year-old son wasn't having it). I saw shops that traded exclusively in offal, with racks of lungs, brains, hearts and livers for sale. I was sorry to reflect that in the last three months, I've eaten all of these things. The raw organs looked better than the fish, however, which after suffering the indignity of spending their lives in the filthy Nile, now had to gasp their last breaths from under a layer of flies so thick I can't promise you that they actually were fish. It was a world apart from the seafood stands in Essaouira.

The only time to be thankful for Cairo's horrible pollution is during sunsets and when taking photos. The haze lends added drama to the ranks of minarets and domes receding in the distance. Every photo comes out in warm sepia tones that make it look like someone's been tinkering around in photoshop. I actually came back from my walk with a warm sepia tone myself, so much so that one of my roommates who had previously noted my pastiness, commented on how much sun I got. Sadly, my nice color came from a combination of dust, car exhaust and charcoal smoke. I came out of the shower looking as sickly as ever, which makes it that much less likely that I'll ever get a reasonable deal on a taxi.

Serenity Now!

Cairo's incredible noise problem is well documented. The most frequently cited study recorded noise levels across the city over a five-year period and reported that the average noise from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. is 85 decibels, which is the equivalent of a freight train passing only 15 feet away. That's the average noise level. When it's bad, the sound is equivalent to actually being hit by a passing freight train.

I'm afraid my neighborhood is no different. As another Sunday morning begins much earlier than I'd like, I thought I'd make a list of the things that most often wake me up. This is the noise that somehow manages to rise above the constant hum; that makes its way through my window, into my apartment and into my head. This is not a list of things I like.

The Baker. Every morning, you can hear the baker call out "aish! aish!" to announce the morning's batch of bread. There's something about his voice - it just can't be imitated. That doesn't stop everyone in the apartment, including me, from trying just that every time we make a sandwich. Maybe I actually do like this one, but I'd like it a lot more if it happened around noon.

The Propane Salesman. His sales pitch doesn't really rely on the quality of his voice. He just pushes around an empty propane tank and hits it with a wrench every fifteen seconds. "Bang, bang, bang, bang. I have an empty propane tank."

The Hi-Fi Donkey Cart. Not wanting to strain his voice either, this guy uses a microphone and speakers, which a very stressed donkey pulls around in a cart. They make their way though the neighborhood and every twenty seconds or so, the man stops to make a short announcement. At first I assumed his message was political, because who else goes around with a megaphone forcing himself into everyone's heads? I learned that he's actually saying "bring me your broken electronics! I will take them away. Me and the donkey you see here? We will take your old things!" This is a useful service and is as close to recycling as Cairo gets, but the loud speaker? No! I'm very worried that someone will inadvertently give him the kind of electronics that allow him to upgrade his speaker system.

The cars. Traffic is loud in Cairo no matter where you are. It is without a doubt the city's greatest aesthetic fault. I get angry just thinking about it. Cairenes suffer from a pathological need to constantly use the horn. Cars sometimes pass me as I walk down an empty (of pedestrians) street, but they'll still honk once they've already driven past me, almost as an apology for having forgotten to senselessly honk at me earlier. I think the reason there are no stoplights in this city is because if there were, the maddened residents stuck living next to one would tear it down its first day. The Cairene response to anything that slows them down is to lay on the horn. A red light could expect the exact same treatment. They would just honk at it until it changed color. There is no "insh'allah" when it comes to driving; faith is replaced by the real world actions of a man and his horn. God, I hate the cars here.

Noises I do like

Every now and then, you'll come upon a celebration of some sort. There are moulids for the different Muslim and Christian saints, weddings, funerals (which are surprisingly upbeat affairs) and birthdays. I appreciate joyful noise. Only cranks don't appreciate joyful noise.

Sometime the call to prayer can still get me, particularly when the acoustics are such that I can distinguish one muezzin from the blended voices of a thousand other calls to prayer across the city. It really is extraordinary.

Food: Kushari

To supplement my thrice-weekly ta3miyya helpings, I've added a new evening staple which is available at a tiny hole-in-the-wall very near the school. Kushari, which is the national dish of Egypt, is easy to describe but difficult to understand. It has something from every level of the vegan food pyramid, with a foundation of rice, macaroni, spaghetti and vermicelli, followed by layers of brown lentils, chickpeas, and garlic sauce. The whole hodgepodge is then topped with crisp fried onions. At my vendor of choice, you also get three baggies of condiments: a large bag of a tomato-based sauce and a small bag each of spicy dark brown chili sauce and vinegar, though at many places, the dish will be served with the tomato sauce already added. I then mix the whole thing together and dig in.

I'm delighted that this is Egypt's national dish. It seems like something your stoner college roommate would make when he woke up in the early afternoon. You'd tease him about it, but you'd never admit that you secretly love it as well - that you sometimes ache for it. It's hardly high cuisine, and it's appropriately inexpensive. It is ordered by size; the gut-busting extra-large size costs LE 3. I've found that the two guinea size (pictured here) is more than adequate.

The orange liquid in the glass has the taste and nutritional profile of Tang, but none of its convenience. I thought it was just fruit juice, until I tried to pour some and this bright orange syrup slowly glopped into my glass. It was then that I had to break out the dictionary to see what exactly we were dealing with here. Turns out I had bought a bottle of concentrate which you are supposed to mix with water in (why not?) a 9:1 ratio. The sugar rush you get from a 6:1 mix will blow your mind and comes recommended.

Epicurious doesn't have a kushari recipe, so I've found a few recipes scattered around the web and distilled them to create something that most closely reflects what it is I'm eating every other day. I think you should make it right now.

1 lb lentils (brown or black)
A combination of at least one cup of each of the following, and five cups in aggregate of:
- rice
- elbow macaroni
- spaghetti and vermicelli, broken into two to three inch lengths
1 cup vegetable oil
1 clove of garlic, crushed
1 hot chili pepper, cleaned and chopped
3-4 ripe tomoatoes, chopped
1/2 cup of water
2 tbsp vinegar
salt (to taste)
1 onion, cut in rings

Place lentils in a large pot and cover with cold water, such that the water level is one inch above the lentils and bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until lentils are tender and water is almost completely absorbed, approximately 30 minutes. Add additional water if necessary.

While the lentils cook, prepare the rice. The sauce can be prepared while the lentils and rice cook: Heat 1/2 cup of the oil in large skillet. Sauté garlic and chili pepper for a few minutes. Add tomatoes, water, vinegar, and salt. Cook on high heat for a few minutes, then reduce heat and simmer.

While Lentils and rice are cooking and sauce is simmering, heat the remaining 1/2 cup of oil in another skillet. Sauté onion until it is deeply browned and crispy. When done, remove onion from skillet and drain on paper towels.

While lentils and rice are cooking, sauce is simmering, and onion is sautéing, prepare macaroni in normal manner.

When everything is done: Assemble each serving of kushari in a soup bowl: alternate layers of lentils, rice, and macaroni, then top it all with the fried onions and tomato sauce. Serve with bottled hot chili pepper sauce. You may also add vinegar to taste.

I can't promise it will be good - I think half the pleasure of kushari is its convenience, and all of that preparation hardly seems convenient. Let me know how it goes.

Alexandria to Cairo

The Alexandria National Museum

This museum was outside the detailed map provided in my Rough Guide, which described it as being in an "Italianate mansion." Unfortunately for me, the neighborhood had plenty of these, so I accidentally visited an IT company and a private residence before I came to the right place. Next time I'll actually pay attention to the street numbers that the book had helpfully provided.

The National Museum, particularly the ancient Egyptian, Greek and Rroman exhibitions, was a real pleasure to visit. I'm a big fan of New Kingdom art, which ranges from stark realism (most people will be familiar with the bust of Nefertiti) to caricature that appears almost modern. This head of Akhenaten, the pharaoh to whom Nefertiti was married, is a good example of the latter. I'm now that much more excited to go to the Egyptian National Museum.

The rest of the collection is Coptic and Islamic artifacts. The top floor contains a room of "treasures" which King Farouk was forced to abandon following Nasser's 1952 coup. Unless you're interested in 20th century French porcelain or English china, I'd give this room a miss.

Alexandria Library

The Bibliotheca Alexandria was conceived as a "rebirth" of the Ancient Library of Alexandria, which housed original manuscripts of Sophocles, Aeschylus and Euripides. The Austrian-Norwegian team who won the commission reflected this rebirth by designing a library in the shape of a giant discus, representing a new sun rising over the city. If there's anything I remember from my years as an architecture school flunky, it's that taking too literal an approach to a concept is a bad idea. If you're building a train station, you should resist any urge to design a building in the shape of a train. The Bibliotheca Alexandria isn't shaped like a book, but the whole "rising sun" motif is a little heavy-handed for my taste.

The library also has letters, pictographs and hieroglyphs from every alphabet carved on the stone facing of the south wall, representing the breadth of knowledge the library contains. Again, a little gimmicky, but I still found myself obsessively counting how many of the symbols I could recognize as I loitered near the reflecting pool beneath the wall. The public spaces around the library are very active and the project appears to whole thing looks like it's been very successful at serving Alexandrians. I wish I had planned ahead and attended some of the events that are scheduled every day. On a weekend trip to Ljubljana last year, Ms. Chadha arranged tickets to a modern dance performance. I've tried ever since to incorporate that kind of thing into my traveling. I'm just not as good a planner as Ms. C.

I walked back along the corniche to my hotel room, bought a bottle of wine, and read on the balcony for the rest of the night. I'm already scheming how I'll get back to Alexandria soon.

Back to Cairo

My train wasn't leaving for an hour, so I went for a walk in the neighborhood just to the south of Alexandria's Masr Station. The streets were really bustling for 9:00 on a Sunday morning, which I suppose is more equivalent to Monday morning, so perhaps really not that interesting of an observation. At a juice stand, I watched the owner feed eighteen-inch lengths of sugarcane into a wheel press, collecting the resulting milky-green liquid in a tin bucket.

I had no idea what this stuff was called, but I was able to realize a long held fantasy by going up to the bar and asking for one "sugar juice," which I hoped would get the meaning across.* It did, and he served up two mug-fulls; one for me, and another so that he could demonstrate the safety and quality of his juice by drinking some himself. He took a quick pull on it, spitting a fair bit back into his mug, and then emptied the mug's contents back into the common pot. He had just given birth to exactly the concerns he hoped to dispel. I wasn't worried though, because what kind of bacteria could possibly survive in a warm brew of pure sugar water?

I took a deep pull of the juice. I had expected something really powerful, because I'd seen a travel program once where the host was absolutely destroyed by the sweetness of a similar drink. Maybe it's testament to my self-induced hyperglycemia that I wasn't fazed in the least - just one more thing to thank the folks at Coca Cola for. Fresh juice stands are one of my favorite things in the world, my only complaint is that because the juice is served in actual glasses or mugs, you're tethered to the stand and have to drink up on the spot. Sure, there's conversation sometimes, but more often than not, people just want to do their job without being bothered. I did ask the juice-guy whether next time I could have mine "bisukr," or "with sugar," which is how I normally order my tea. He acted like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, though he must have heard variations of the same joke every day for the last twenty years.

*I've since learned that this sugarcane juice is called "3aseer asab," which might mean "cane juice."

Alexandrian Archaelogical Tour

The next morning, I slipped out before anyone else had woken up. I had planned a full day of museums and sightseeing, and I wasn't sure the Austrians would be up for that. I also knew that if I ran into them at breakfast, I wouldn't feel comfortable telling them that I wanted to spend the day alone, so I had to slink out in the early hours like a bad daddy.

Kom el-Dikka

Finding the mausoleum of Alexander the Great seems to be the only game in town for Alexandrian archaeologists. Every major site describes how it it had been discovered and excavated by teams of disappointed archaeologists who had actually been searching for the legendary tomb. This was the case at Kom el-Dikka (which literally means "mound of rubble") and though they failed to find Alexander, the site is still being excavated under the supervision of the Polish Center for Mediterranean Archaeology(?!). The tour buses hadn't arrived yet, so I shared the mound with a couple dozen laborers who, in a scene recreated a thousand times in films from Raiders of the Lost Ark to The Mummy, were carrying away piles of rubble in wicker baskets.

The Roman Theater is worth seeing as are the mosaics at the Villa of the Birds - just be sure to ask for a joint ticket at the door. Otherwise, you face a long walk back from the villa to the ticket office and the temptation will be too great to just peek at the mosaics though the window. They warrant a better look. There is also a fine selection of artifacts that have been recovered from the harbor over the last decade, which only whets my appetite to someday dive in Alexandria.

Catacombs of Kom es-Shoqafa
Contrary to common sense, everything I had read, and my own gut instinct, I had decided to follow the advice offered by an ex-pat regarding the best way to handle taxis. He suggested that negotiating taxi fare in advance was a mistake that would instantly peg me as a tourist. The thing to do was sit down, enjoy the ride, hand over the going fare at the end of the trip, and calmly walk away. I knew that the trip to the catacombs shouldn't cost more the LE 6-7, but I was more than happy to pay ten. We arrive at our stop and I suggest seven. The driver gave me a look that wasn't so much anger as fatherly concern that I hadn't learned better manners. I sheepishly passed him ten without another word, but then he told me that I owed him twenty. I wasn't having that at all, so the arguing began until I fell back on the reliable "I've lived in Cairo for a year now, I know what taxis cost" and I got away with only a light fleecing. "Fleecing" is all relative, of course, as ten pounds is only a couple of dollars, but to put it in context, I took the municipal tram back into to the center of town from the nearby Pompey's Pillar for slightly under five cents. I will have to discuss somewhere else my rationale for believing that it's important not to overpay too much for cabs. As for the ex-pat, I guess I didn't technically follow his advice exactly, so I can't quite claim that he is a complete and total fraud.

The Catacombs of Kom es-Shoqafa (which means "mound of shards" - it may be time for the Egypian Tourist Board to call in some consultants) is an amazing tomb complex that wasn't discovered until 1900, when a "donkey chariot" (sic) fell into one of the upper levels. You descend via a spiral staircase which, like the rest of the extensive rooms and halls of the catacomb, is carved directly out of the bedrock. Only two levels are accessible, as the bottom level remains under water, but the second level gives a good sense of the place. It's claustrophobic, damp, and a little creepy; all the things a catacomb should be. The decorations, if ever there were any, are mostly gone, except for a few murals visible only under UV light. The main carvings in the central tomb are a strange mixture of Roman, Greek and Egyptian themes - the most interesting being a pair of bas reliefs depicting Sobek and Anubis in Roman armor. It was too dark to get pictures on the cell phone camera, unfortunately, but the internet has gathered plenty if you're interested. Most definitely worth seeing.

On the way out, one of the security guards told be he would let me see the catacomb that was marked by a large "off limits - keep out" sign if I gave him LE 10 baksheesh. I was ready to say no, until I saw a pair of Australian tourists coming out of it giving a thumbs up. I took the money and set off down the passage. It's pretty clear that the reason the place was off limits was because it wasn't much more than a dark, dangerous, empty hole. Australians will give a thumbs up to anything.

Pompey's Pillar

A five minute walk from the catacombs is Pompey's Pillar, so named because medieval travelers were under the impression that the severed head of the Roman general Pompey, who was murdered in Alexandria some time after his defeat by Julius Ceasar in the battle of Pharsalus, was in a jar on top of the column. It is now believed that the column was actually raised by Diocletian more than 200 years later, but the thing is nearly 27 meters high, which maybe explains why it took so long before somebody bothered to disprove this whole head-in-a-jar theory. In any event, the name stuck.

The attendant at the site's ticket booth asked me in perfect English whether I wanted a ticket, to which I sensibly replied "na'am! wahid! min fadlak!" (rough translation: yes! a father! please!). Once again I was complimented on my excellent Arabic, but this time my cryptic reply had evidently impressed them (ticket attendants are never without an entourage) so much that they had to know more, so the group begin to pepper me in Arabic with questions. Where was I from? How long had I studied? Did I like Egypt? Luckily, they were all asking questions at the same time, which allowed me to answer any question I chose, even ones they hadn't asked:

"I live in the borough of Brooklyn in the city of New York."
"I studied the Arabic language in Rabat, Morocco."
"I like strawberries, but I do not like carrots a lot."
"Maybe your pen is on his desk"
"We fly in a good bird yesterday to travel from my apartment to the Cairo, Egypt. He broken!"

I was a great success, and I think the interview could have gone on for some time as long as we talked exclusively about cities I had lived or studied in, since those are the only verbs in which I have complete confidence.

Sadly, I had other plans, I was here to see the pillar! Turns out that it's not a particularly interesting site, but I suppose the Washington Monument in DC has its admirers and they're both operating under more or less the same principle. Given the relative lack of things to see at the site, I was surprised to note that the tourist infrastructure surrounding the pillar was so good, with well-kept paths, effective lighting and useful signage, much better than the other sites I had visited that morning. It looks like someone is trying to show up the Polish Center for Mediterranean Archaeology. I'll bet it's the Germans.

Evening in Alexandria

The Austrians and the pension owner, whom we will call "Hossein," delayed their trip to the duty-free shop to take me to my room. I had already agreed to take it sight unseen, so I was pleasantly surprised to see that it appeared to be clean enough. On the second night, I found a human toenail (the whole thing, not just a clipping) embedded in the blanket, so my first impression may not have been correct. I did at least recognize right away that the toilet down the hall was filthy beyond any further mentioning, but that's about par for an Egyptian pension. Paying the equivalent of a few dollars for a room, I had no right to expect anything more.

Safely settled, I tagged along to the duty-free shop. The poor Austrians weren't at all sure why they were going to the shop in the first place. They had been told that the trip was somehow related to Hossein's sister's wedding, but had no idea how, or what role they could play. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves on the ground floor of a store selling heavy appliances. As someone for whom "duty-free" is synonymous with inexpensive alcohol, I was a little disappointed. At least, that is, until I was escorted upstairs where I found a full range of beer, wine and spirits. And the prices! A bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label for less than $10 seemed to good to be true. A closer inspection of the label confirmed that it was. Too many glasses of "John Waler" makes a man go blind.

Hossein mentioned that he might want to add a thing or two to the tab. Subsidized by the Austrians' freshly issued entry visas, which allowed them to make duty-free purchases, he added nine cartons of cigarettes, eight bottles of whisky and six bottles of vodka. As soon as we walked out, he started distributing all this treasure to a crowd of men that had gathered around the shop. What Hossein's relationship to these guys was I have no idea, but I started to suspect that this might not be wedding-related shopping - or if it was, I wanted an invitation. I bought six cans of Sakara Gold because I wanted to get in on the illicit action. Unfortunately, at LE 6.5 each, the beer was no cheaper at the duty-free shop than it was anywhere else in town. My black market venture was a failure, but I could at least drink my inventory.

The Austrians and I then went out for a shawarma and a wander. I usually don't hang out with strangers - even among my friends there are only a handful of people that can stand to travel with me. There are advantages to being friendly though, in that fellow travelers may have some local knowledge that you don't, and they might lead you to try something you'd never otherwise consider. The other thing is that when you're with other people you can get ice cream. I always want ice cream, but I also think that there's nothing more creepy than a single man in his early thirties eating an ice cream cone while surrounded by children. You look like a sex offender fishing for victims.

The Austrians fit squarely into the "making me do things I wouldn't normally do" category. We walked over to the beautiful 18th century Abu al-Abbas al-Mursi mosque (would do) where we found a children's carnival (wouldn't do). The carnival spread over the streets and alleys directly to the east of the mosque and featured hand-powered rides, along with smoked yams: the Egyptian equivalent of corn dogs and cotton candy. Among the merry-go-rounds and the swings, we spotted an ancient bumper car installation. Andrea, the female half of the Austrians, was keen to try them out, and I have a hard spot in my heart that loves bumper cars, so I was game too. I chose a car with a tortoise painted on the front, which wrongly suggested both that my car was slow and that it had a hard outer shell capable of protecting the soft, vulnerable body inside. The governors seem to have been removed from the cars, because so long as you kept your foot on the pedal, you went faster. The only thing that could stop your continuous acceleration was smashing into the wall or another car. This wasn't advisable because the "bumpers" on these brightly colored death traps had long since worn away. "Bumper cars" was a misnomer for things that were really nothing other than small cars without seatbelts, and in this ride, as in real life, accidents hurt. I was done being aggressive after a couple teeth-shattering head-on collisions and the name of the game became avoidance and preservation. This was also smart because, other than the Austrians, the other drivers were all part of the under-ten set, and their parents didn't look like the type of people who were going to forgive if I knocked their kid onto the track.

Back at the apartment, we divvied up my six beers and watched a David Carradine movie that was maybe the worst thing I have ever seen in my life. I just went to IMDB to find the title, but it looks like Carradine was in so many bad movies over the years that we may never be able to single out which of them this was. Hossein, who hated the movie more than I did but wouldn't change the channel, refused to accept an entire beer for himself. He instead had a little tea glass which he would clink against your can whenever he needed a top-up. In return for the beer, he shared his sheesha. I'm not a big smoker, but waterpipes really are a gentle way to enjoy tobacco. "Gentle" was not the Hossein way, unfortunately. At one point, pretending like he wanted me to watch how to use a sheesha, he grabbed my nose and when I gasped for air (and because I was sort of shocked), he blew an enormous puff of smoke into my mouth. This did not sit well with me in any sense of the phrase, especially since almost all the smoke had gone into my stomach. About twenty second later, I kind of got a little bit sick on the floor, spoiling the party for everyone.

As I lay in bed, listening to Hossein cough and wheeze in the next room well into the next morning, I made a mental note to conduct a little research on tuberculosis transmission. I also started to think of how best to tell Ms. C that there was a very strong chance that I was going to die of consumption. I ultimately decided that it would be best to casually mention it in a blog post.

From Cairo to Alexandria

Ramses train station is chaotic, and the ticketing system seems unnecessarily complicated. There are separate ticket lines regimented by type of train, final destination, passenger nationality, and ticket class desired. The signs telling you which line is correct are exclusively in Arabic, including the numbers. It took all of my months of language training to find the correct line. It took that same training to understand that I had not actually found the correct line. Finally, it took away all of my pride to have to be led to the correct line by a patient station attendant.

Once there, I was reminded that Cairenes don't queue, they just rush. Even worse, you haven't necessarily won even after muscling your way to the ticket agent. You can be right in the middle of a transaction - actually in the process of handing over your money - and still your position isn't secure. People will still try to get ahead of you, either by insinuation or by brute force. Once you've managed to buy your ticket and make it to your seat, though, the trip to Alexandria is actually pleasant enough. Trains run regularly and usually take only between two-and-a-half and three hours. First class tickets are cheap - depending on whether you get the Turbini (LE 50) which makes one stop, or the Francese (LE 35), which makes quite a few more. I took the Turbini out and the Francese return, not by design, but because in each case that was the next thing leaving that had available seats. I also wanted one of the first class cabins which are comfortable and not much more expensive than the fairly miserable third class seats. Only a few liberal arts majors would suffer through sitting in the third class carriages and for reasons that they will articulate to you poorly.

The train stopped in Tanta, about half-way between Cairo and Alexandria, where a handful of vendors selling snacks and newspapers boarded. I had no apropriate snack money, having used the last of my reasonabe-sized currency to pay for a taxi to the train station. The vendors were nonetheless doing well with my fellow passengers. Too well, in fact, because they had only made their way half-way down the carriage when the train begin to slowly pull out of the station. Still, they continued to trade. Every additional purchase raised my blood pressure. "Get off the train!" I thought at them, "You're going to get stuck on the train!" As we gathered speed, all of them hopped off - except one, who was stuck selling sweets to a little old thing. My jaw tensed in sympathy as memories of my nine years of hard labor at Albertson's Supermarket begin to surface. I watched this little old crone insist on clawing exact change out of her bag. Our man did not have time for this. "This can't end well," I realized, "he's going to be stuck on board all the way to Alexandria." The carriage conductor wasn't going to let that happen, however, and scowled at him from next to an open carriage door, through which the landscape could be seen zipping by at an alarming speed. The nasty old lady finally passes over her money and our man makes a bolt for it. I can hardly watch. I already realize before it happens that he's going to die. He jumps from the train... he hits the ground... and nothing! He jogs it off. He doesn't even lose anything from his basket. I am ecstatic! I am breathless with excitement! I have just witnessed unbelievable acrobatics! Laws of physics have been broken! Nobody else seems to care. I realize that this same scene probably repeats itself on every hourly train that passes through Tanta.

Alexandria is freezing when I arrive. I haven't prepared for this at all and am shivering as I walk down the platform. A railway worker sees this and does what I hope was a really exaggerated version of my shivering.

"Bard!" I say. Which might mean "cold!"

"Your Arabic is very good!" he replies.

Yes, I start to think to myself, yes it is.

Alexandria may have been freezing, but the northerly winds had cleared the sky of pollution. There was a contrast between the clouds and the sky that simply doesn't exist in Cairo. I took a picture as proof, but with my cell phone instead of my adult camera. Members of my family have commented on the fact that I like to take travel photos. It's true, I do. Unfortunately, I had left my lovely Canon G10 in Cairo. My first trip out of Cairo and I'm snapping photos with a primitive cell phone camera. Gutted.

I was also struggling to find the hotel at which I had hoped to stay. Street names change as quickly as the political climate in Egypt, so it's very easy to find yourself with an outdated map. Interestingly, the streets whose names have so often changed are themselves often ancient. For example, the hotel I was looking for was just off the Sharia Nabi Daniel, which is believed to be only the most recent iteration of one of the two primary streets plotted by the architects of Alexander the Great's eponymous city. Whether the fault of my map or my navigation, I wasn't finding what I was looking for and I hate not knowing where I'm going. Or rather, I hate looking like I don't know where I'm going, mostly because the touts are a lot harder to dodge if you're genuinely confused and you show it. I did manage to shake off one guy who was trying to lure me into a pension by confidently walking off in the opposite direction. After another fruitless half-hour of combing the streets where my hotel should be, I finally decided that I'd just stay anywhere with a bed. Moments later, I ran into the same tout - actually the owner of a pension - as he dragged a young Austrian couple who were staying with him to the duty free shop. I recognized the two from the train (two of maybe six Europeans on a train of hundreds) and they let me know that the place would do, so I took a room. Now I would have to live with the embarrassment of accepting the help of someone I had taken pains to avoid only an hour before - circumstances this guy was going to go out of his way to remind me of several more times before the night is over.

My Weekend Starts on Thursday

The first of eight weeks of class is now over and I thought I'd write quickly about my fellow students. There's not a great deal to say about them as a group, as it's not easy to characterize so diverse a student body. I can that they're nearly all very young - particularly a pack of semester-abroad students from the UK who, based on my admittedly unscientific "acne dating" technique, can't be any older than sixteen. There are a few students my age, but not many. Yesterday we practiced numbers by giving the year of our birth. Other than the instructor, I was the only person in the room to give a date before 1980. That I would be sharing a classroom with someone born in the year 2000 makes me a little sick, and not only because alfeen is so much easier to say than alf-tus9umeiyya-taminniyya-wee-sab9een.

The Americans here are a very diverse group - from aid workers to missionaries to college students to a bunch of military types. As is usually the case given our schizophrenic culture, the most obnoxious and the most likable people in the program are American. I've also noticed that you'll only ever find Americans wearing the keffiyeh and that there appears to be an inverse correlation between feeling the need to parade around in a keffiyeh and the ability to successfully learn the Arabic language. I have a few theories as to why that is, but am waiting on a few more data points to come in before I release anything.

I'm surprised by the lack of New Zealanders and Australians. In most travel scenarios, you can't find a ten-bed mixed hostel without them, but I haven't seen a single one in three months. I imagine it's a combination of expense and practicality - relative to Chinese or Indonesian, there's probably just not that much emphasis placed on Arabic, and I don't suppose you're likely to make the sort of investment necessary to acquire a language like Arabic without some sort of return. This doesn't mean that my apartment is completely without kiwi charm, however. The school has inexplicably decorated my walls with pictures of New Zealand's south island. When the chaos outside seems like too much, I can turn to shots of Lake Wakatipu and the Franz Josef glacier and dream of world without either cars or their horns. I see Ms. Chadha's hand in this.

The rest of the student body is your usual mix of Europeans, with an especially good showing from the Norweigans and Swedes, really far more than makes sense unless it has something to do with escaping their miserable weather? I'd like to ask one of them to explain to me the relationship between Scandinavians and chewing Tobacco. In almost everything that really matters, like healthcare, education, and blonde hair, the Scandinavians lead the world, but I've met a fair number of Swedish and Norwegian snus junkies over the years. I can't say that I know anyone at home who touches the stuff.

Speaking of nicotine addictions, one of the guys I know here has been trying to quit smoking (in Egypt? really?). He tells me he went to the local pharmacy to ask for a nicotine patch. The pharmacist literally had no concept of what he was asking for. He just couldn't comprehend why anyone would want or need to receive nicotine through a patch - "why don't you just smoke cigarettes?" he asks. My advice to the student was that he forget the nicotine and instead get hooked on the over-the-counter muscle relaxants that are so widely available here. These including a choice between rest-of-the-world Valium and, terrifyingly, something called "Egyptian Valium." I think I'll limit my pharmaceutical intake to benadryl and DEET.

So there we are. I'm taking leave of my fellow students tomorrow and heading up to Alexandria for the weekend - or I guess I should say "down" to Alexandria. Relative direction isn't measured here in terms of north or south, but by the direction of the Nile's flow, so I guess I'm actually "going down north." I really don't have a plan as to what I'll do, where I'll stay or for how long, but I'm looking forward to it.