When I think back to road trips that I’ve taken in the U.S., I don’t fondly think of rest stops. More often than not, I recall dimly lit parking lots, shady-looking characters lurking by a picnic bench taking drags off slinky cigarettes, seatless toilets in malodorous bathrooms, and–if you’re lucky–there’s toilet paper. I once got stuck inside the stall of such a bathroom, and it took a good seven minutes of yelling (and trying not to breathe through my nose) before my then-boyfriend heard me and helped me escape. I’m still traumatized.
Even if you find a slightly more urban place along the highway to stop, you’re still limited to fairly predictable chain fast-food joint, a greasy diner, or a soulless gas station food mart. And while predictable can be comforting or even good, what if you could have something more…something better?
Welcome to Autogrill.
Taking our tour groups on chartered buses, I’ve visited quite a few rest stops, and the ones in Italy are impressively different than what we might know in the States. The best-known rest stops are actually a chain called Autogrill, and they’re also in France. If it’s merely for a bathroom break, we typically find a smaller one–about the standard size of a fast-food restaurant. Once you pass the turnstiles, make a beeline for the clean, toilet paper-equipped restrooms, which sometimes have an on-duty attendant (whom you could kindly tip after you’re through). Sometimes there’s even a private shower stall available for those who really need to freshen up.
Jennifer, Ferdi, and I squeeze in a little social time with our caffè macchiato.
If you fancy a quick and delicious coffee, sandwich, or pastry, saunter up to the cashier, let them know what you want, pay, and take your receipt to the behind-the-counter attendant. They’ll hook you up so you can have a little kaffe klatch with your friends or other travelers passing through. My pals and I prefer a nice little caffè macchiato–espresso “stained” with foamed milk.
At this bountiful food station–Just one of many at this massive rest stop, grilled meats and hot dishes await you.
For a lunch stop, you can find Autogrills that are so vast that they straddle the autostrada or freeway. Downstairs, you find the same set-up as the smaller rest stops. Upstairs is where you find a really cool dining experience. There are pasta stations where you can get a small platter of your favorite noodles and sauce. Can’t decide? Get a bis (two selections) or even a tris (three choices), all on one plate. How about a salad? You can choose an already-made salad or build your own. And let’s not forget that you can also have grilled meats cooked to order, roasted veggies, and other savory hot dishes to choose from. And if that’s not enough, get some fresh fruit or rich pastries for dessert. All that and some wine, juice or a soda should be enough to satiate any weary traveler.
Make sure you know which exit to take for your appropriate destination.
When you’re ready to leave, make sure you pick the correct stairs to exit, lest you end up on the wrong side of the autostrada. You don’t want to go towards Firenze when you really want to end up in Roma. Make your way downstairs and brace yourself for the veritable labyrinth of shopping you are obligated to navigate in order to get to the exit.
These fries are so “freeky”.
Rather than actually buy something, I tend to let myself just browse. I’m fascinated by the quirky products that sort of resemble convenience store fare but are particular to that country or that region. While you might want Doritos, why not try “Freeky Fries”? Kit Kat’s fine, but Loacker’s “Quadratinis” (chocolate and hazelnut wafers) are divine. And just as wine and coffee are distinguished by terroir, new trends in chocolate bars feature (sometimes questionable) packaging that show the exotic origins of the fine delicacies.
Chocolate from Peru in packaging that might not go over so well in The States.Yes, I’ve been looking for some bulbous pepper-covered cured meat. Thank goodness this rest stop has some.
And in the big rest stops as in the small ones, you can buy everything you never knew you wanted at a rest stop: books on Pope Francis, card games, wagon wheels of cheese, bulbous logs of salt-cured meats, bling-bling headphones, and trusty GPS devices. These Italian rest stops are your one-stop bathroom, shower, hot meal, snacktime, souvenir, convenience store heaven. I could spend hours in these fancy rest stops…or at least a good seven minutes.
Sure you could go for something average like cookies, but why not get a rolling pin-sized basil-infused salt mill?
A view onto Varenna from the middle of Lago di Como
It’s the start of tour season again, and this time I’m working on a Best of Italy tour. When I mention to friends that I’m going to Lake Como, they all ask me if I’m going to see George Clooney’s villa. I wish. I’m staying in Varenna–a romantic and picture-worthy town on the eastern side of Lake Como. George’s pad is in Laglio, on the southwestern side (imagine the lake in the shape of an armless person: Varenna at one hip, George’s home on the opposite knee). The chances of bumping into him are slim to none, but I’m happy to humor my friends and say, “If I do see him, I’ll be sure to tell him you said, ‘Hello.'”
Dear George Clooney, if Villa del Balbaniello were mine, you’d be invited to party with me here.
With precious little time on the lake, I didn’t even really get to know Varenna, but I’m looking for a future opportunity to do so. My one full day on the Lago di Como was spent taking a triangular-route ferry ride at what would be the crotch and thigh of the lake. First stop: Lenno (thigh on the western side). Along with some tour members, I visited Villa del Balbianello, a popular filming location that was used in Star Wars: Episode II–The Clone Wars (Natalie Portman and Hayden Christensen) and in the reboot James Bond flick, Casino Royale, starring the ever-so-sexy Daniel Craig. It was our intention to indulge in our inner-geeks (which we did), but we were pleasantly surprised with the natural beauty we encountered on the hike to the villa and the splendid views across the lake. We each imagined which villa we would live in and the fabulous galas we would have on our lake-view terraces. We all agreed that George Clooney would be invited.
Wandering one of the gardens of Villa del Balbaniello (I bet at some point, Daniel Craig must have stood where I was standing).A hot, steamy bowl of pizzocheri is the perfect dish for a rainy day in Lenno on Lago di Como.
At lunch, we ditched the sudden onslaught of rain and ducked into the only place open and what looked like, from the outside, a tourist trap ready to help unsavvy travelers exchange their Euros for mediocre food. Inside, we found locals and tourists alike. The barmaids gave heavy-handed pours of beer into liter-sized glass mugs. The menu, which was all in Italian (always a good sign), was select and hand-written (indicating a menu that changes with what’s locally fresh and available), and filled with pastas with which I was unfamiliar. Our waitress insisted that I try a local specialty called pizzocheri–offered at a relatively paltry €6.50. It’s made with fettuccini-like buckwheat pasta, cabbage, potato, sage, butter, and a local cheese from Valtellina called pizzocherini, which is similar to fontina. It arrived at the table with steam billowing out and the ivory sauce draped seductively over wavy tendrils of Saracen-hued pasta. It was the perfect dish for such a stormy day, and my tastebuds and belly will be forever grateful to that waitress.
A typical cobbled slope in Bellagio.
Our next destination was Bellagio (at the crotch of the lake). It’s nothing like its water-fountain Shangri-La counterpart in Las Vegas. While touristy, it’s also quaintly charming with its steeply stepped cobblestone streets, family-run boutiques, and gracious residents. Because the ferries were now running less frequently on the now choppy waters, our time here was cut short; but I did manage to indulge in the purchase of an exquisite silk scarf, while my new friend Robin found the perfect hand-made rings, earrings, and bracelets to match her rich, copper-colored hair. Her husband, Roy–a true southern gentleman whose heart is as big as he is tall–lusted after some fine Italian shoes. But when he inquired about trying on a pair, the saleswoman replied, “Your feet are too beeeeeg. We don’t make shoes for such beeeeeg, strrrrrrrrong mahhhhnn.”
Roy eyes some sleek Italian shoes.
Back at Varenna, the tempest persisted. And since the water seemed to be striking me sideways, my umbrella did little to prevent me from getting drenched. I changed into dry clothes, put my wet rags on the towel-warmer, and braved the relentless weather once more to find some dinner. Because so few restaurants are open on Sundays, I ran into quite a few tour members who, like me, were wandering the Varenna streets, looking for some place, any place, that would feed them.
Rivers of rain rush downhill in Varenna towards the Lago di Como.
We trudged through cobbled lanes that had swiftly become inundated with veritable unbridled rivers. Without reservations, we were all out of luck, and any place that didn’t require reservations didn’t have enough room for eight waterlogged souls. But a tempestuous torrent is an effective motivator. We persevered, and our persistence paid off.
Fresh fish from the lake, cooked in brown butter and sage.
In the warmth of the back room of a restaurant on the town’s petite piazza, we feasted on fresh lake fish, pizzocheri, grilled zucchini and peppers, and grilled meat until we were round with Botticelli bellies. Our cheeks were made rosy by the copious amounts of wine and the constant laughter generated from sharing memories of the day, personal travel tales, and irreverent, self-deprecating stories. It’s impressive how a quality meal, conviviality, and an appreciation for the Here and Now can be quick bonding agents for people who were strangers just 24 hours prior. These were the makings of what would surely be a memorable and fun-filled tour.
A convivial meal with new friends is the perfect way to wait out a stormy evening in Varenna.
We lingered until our clothes had sufficiently dried out. Geared up once more with our jackets and umbrellas, we endured the sideways rain to amble the 100 meters back to the refuge of our Varenna hotel. As we bid each other buona notte, it was easy to see that whether rain or shine, we were all looking forward to the adventures tomorrow held in store.
For the last month, I’ve been struggling over what I wanted to share regarding my experiences in Israel. While impactful and moving moments made the travel experience rich at times, I sensed a persistent tension and distrust throughout the country. It was a low-lying and lingering fog–cold, eerie, barely visible, yet permeating nearly every location, event, and aspect of life. In reflecting on my emotions and reactions to my time in this new yet historic country, I still find myself conflicted. A trip here let’s you check off lots of Life List dreams, but at the same time, this is the most uncomfortable, and sometimes unwelcome, I’ve ever felt in my travels. I’ll be processing this whole experience for a long time to come.
As with any of my articles, my perception is my own, and it may not reflect the opinions or viewpoints of others. I say that, not so much for you, the reader, but as a reminder to myself that I’m just a beginner when it comes to the complexities of Israel. I can only share my experience: what I saw, how I was treated, and how all that made me feel. But I recognize that there’s a richness and depth that I can one day better explore.
Roman ruins at Beit She’an, two hours north of Jerusalem.
Over the course of a few days–as my partner Rick and I made our way from Tel Aviv to the north, from Galilee to Golan, through the West Bank and into Jerusalem–we were inundated with multi-faceted layers of history, architecture, culture, politics, and religion. And we were struck by the physical beauty of the country, its coastal vistas, ancient architecture, Roman ruins, and lush countryside.
At the Church of the Beatitudes, Our guide Benny reads Matthew 5:-12, from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.
My inner Catholic thrived in Israel. I couldn’t anticipate how strongly I would be affected, but I was hopeful for some kind of spiritual connection to the Holy Land, and I was bountifully rewarded. In Galilee, as we sat by the waters upon which Jesus walked and where he gave the Sermon on the Mount, our guide Benny read to us from the Bible. To hear those words that I have listened to virtually every Sunday of my life in the place where those stories happened over two thousand years ago was powerful. Somehow, there, in that moment, my religion was suddenly more tangible…more real.
In this moment, I felt overwhelmed and grateful to be Christian and to be in Jerusalem.
In Jerusalem, at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher–which marks the place of the Crucifixion, I felt compelled to touch the slab of stone believed to be the location where Jesus’ dead body was prepared for the tomb. Being in that space with fellow believers, sharing that moment with my partner, appreciating how fortunate I was to be there at all, and recognizing that, according to my faith, I am saved because of what Jesus did for us all, I released my burdens in the form of countless, uncontrollable tears. I felt humbly small, unworthy of such love. And then I felt suddenly light, as though those burdens had truly been removed, freeing me to reflect the love Jesus bestowed upon me with all the world. A Christian, standing where Jesus died for our salvation, feels immensely grateful.
In the women’s section of the Western Wall, faithful Jews pray, trying to be as close as they can to what once was the Temple of Solomon, which housed the Holy of Holies.
Visiting Jewish sites like the Western Wall–the last remnant of the wall that surrounded the Temple of Solomon and now the most sacred Jewish site–intrigued and moved me, too. It’s that celebration of one-ness that I love about travel. Just as I had felt in Egypt when witnessing Muslims praying in mosques, seeing how Jews expressed their devotion and faith at this holy place convinced me once again that regardless of any differences people might have theologically, spiritually, politically, or personally, our humanity and our divinity binds us together.
Rick takes a thoughtful moment to remember victims of the Holocaust.
That’s why a place like Yad Vashem is such an important place to visit (watch Rick Steves’ video about the Children’s Memorial at Yad Vashem). As the official Israeli memorial to Holocaust victims, this place invites visitors to not only remember those who suffered at the hands of the Nazis, their collaborators, their helpers, and their rescuers, but to humanize all of them. Articles of clothing, children’s games, love letters, video testimonies made powerful testaments to lives lived, lives destroyed, and lives saved. The goal: for all of us to learn from the mistakes, atrocities, and sufferings of the past to prevent and eliminate them from our present and our future…a lesson with which our world continues to struggle.
Armed Israeli soldiers decide who can enter the section of Jerusalem that shelters the Dome of the Rock– the Muslim shrine which houses the rock from which the prophet Muhammed ascended to heaven.
However, for me, these beautiful and poignant moments were heavily shadowed by the pervasive tension I felt wherever we went. The borders between Israel and its neighbors like Lebanon and Syria are understandably well defended. But even within the country and within the walls of Old Jerusalem (a holy space where the three major monotheistic religions converge), distrust feels engrained in the society. People take circuitous routes through the city to get from point A to point B just to avoid different religious neighborhoods. Young Israeli soldiers armed with automatic weapons stand guard at an entrance near the Cotton Market to decide who can go to the Temple of the Rock (through this entrance, Muslims, yes. Jews and all others, no–presumably for their own protection and in accordance with Orthodox Jewish doctrine that forbids Jews to enter what once was the Holy of the Holies). Their colleagues do the same at multiple checkpoints for entrance into and exit out of the West Bank. The prison-like walls (graffitied with anti-Israeli settlement comments) and fences that divide Israel and the Palestinian Territories seem to be more than their mere physical defenses–they’re powerful symbols of what keeps the Israelis and Palestinians on opposite sides of the same problem. Like it or not, their fates are intertwined, and breaking down barriers instead of creating them may be a better solution than the status quo.
Graffiti on a segment of the massive wall that divides Israel and the West Bank. (photo by Rick Steves)In this Orthodox neighborhood, I felt less than welcome.
There were times when I felt unwelcome. In a strongly conservative, Orthodox neighborhood–where women are required to wear dark skirts or dresses, married women cover their hair with either cloth or a wig, and where men dress in virtually identical black suits, black hats, and beards –I felt like a scarlet-lettered harlot for wearing jeans and a ponytail in this stark, monochromatic part of town. I even got the stink eye from little seven-year-olds.
And at the airport, I spent over an hour with various security agents who escorted me from one checking station to the next to the next and to the next, meticulously examined my luggage and sorted through its contents four times, and repeatedly asked me questions about my past and future travels. Female guards felt me up two separate times while checking for “suspicious items” on my person (I almost felt like I should pay the women for such personal services). I didn’t know if this was standard procedure or if I was just special, but a taste of this raised new sympathies in me for anyone who is deemed dubious by authorities.
For the peoples who call this land home, the complex and deep-seated issues from ages past are compounded by the grim, and sometimes dangerous, complications of today. Blame and fear motor endless cycles of revenge, self-defense, attack, and more defense. And the questions raised are as old as time: what belongs to whom, who was first, who started it, who is right, who’s to blame? These spiraling questions make me think of a dog chasing its own tail or barking at its reflection in the mirror. Workable answers to the problems have eluded everyone, but I wonder whether these are even the right questions to ask. Do they bring anyone closer to a solution or do they just breed more animosity?
Shani shares some photos from her wedding celebration.
Perhaps the answers rest with future generations. One of our last experiences was joining our friend Uri and his beautiful family for an Israeli Independence Day barbecue in their home. Being welcomed so warmly and sharing in a bountiful meal with locals, Rick and I felt so blessed. Uri’s beautiful daughters–both in their 20s–openly shared stories about love, friends, work, travel, politics, and religion. The family is Jewish Israeli, but they have roots in Morocco, Libya, Turkey, and Russia. They incorporate secular and non-Jewish religious traditions from those countries into their everyday lives. The eldest daughter, Shani, was recently married and wove elements of her diverse heritage (and her husband’s) into the wedding celebrations.
When we asked Shani and her sister Adi about their hopes for the future of their country, both confidently replied that respect and understanding of the plight of Palestinians is growing in their generation. They recognize that current political “solutions” aren’t working and that a sensible alternative is not found in the extremes, but somewhere in the middle.
Uri generously offers us more of his barbecued delights.
Feeling well nourished from the abundant feast and appreciative of the time spent with this Israeli family on their country’s Independence Day, we all laughed as the father brought in yet another plate of grilled chicken for us. With happy smiles, we patted our overstuffed bellies. Uri understood our gratitude and contentment. Uri smiled back and thanked us for coming into his home to get to know his family. Looking to Rick and I, then to his daughters, he shared some fatherly wisdom–“Reaching towards each other with open palms is more productive than with closed fists.”
Rick and I will never forget spending Israeli Independence Day with this beautiful and loving family.
My newfound fondness of the Egyptian people manifests most profoundly in how I feel for their children. In them, I see goodness, love, and hope. Youth has kept them from being jaded. The nurturing love of their families has helped them remain open and engaging. Curiosity swims in their eyes. Friendliness beams in their smiles. They are as precious as the children of any nation, and they are equally deserving of the chance to be free from fear, persecution, hunger, poverty, illness and hatred. One day, these children will grow to be the leaders and caretakers of their society. I hope that we will remember that they–like all of us–were young and innocent once and are always equally treasured in the eyes of God.
In this final blog post on Egypt, I leave you with a slideshow of some of the children I met…the future of Egypt. I hope you can see the beauty, the purity of heart, the warmth and love that is in each of them (Click on any image below to begin the slideshow).
Rick and I experience the Nile on the felucca “Blue Sky”.
Ask any Egyptian what the Nile River means to his people, and he will surely tell you that it is Life. For millennia, its waters, silt, and nutrients have nourished the lush farmlands that line its banks. The abundance of fish still provides a vital food source for Egyptians. Man has harnessed the power of the mighty river as a renewable energy source. And still now, as in ancient times, the Nile is a major transportation thoroughfare, connecting one community to the next, ferrying people, goods, materials, technology, and information. Rick and I wanted to experience what it was like to be on this proud and vital river. Seizing an opportunity to ride a felucca, or traditional Egyptian sailboat, Rick, our friend Tarek, and I boarded the good ship “Blue Sky” for a casual outing on the Nile.
Our captain Mahmoud, a third generation felucca owner, proudly takes us on his sailboat to explore the beauty of the Nile.
We left the shores of Luxor about an hour before sunset. It had been a brutally hot day, and it was only now beginning to feel tolerable. A barefoot, slender and jovial man named Mahmoud was our captain, and his first mate was a teenager who barely cracked a smile but worked hard to please his boss and his passengers.
All along the Nile, scenes like this making you pause for a moment, catch your break, and take it all in.
Our last nine days of research and scouting to prep for two upcoming TV shows on Egypt had been intense–physically demanding and mentally exhausting. We did twice as much as what would typically be done in that amount of time. The overstimulation of dramatic ancient sites, cacophonic voices constantly overlapping in a language and in decibel levels I was unaccustomed to, the relentless bombardment of historical and cultural information, and the visual flurry of everyday life were pushing me to the verge of sensory overload and breakdown. Yet somehow, being on the water instantly helped me find an even keel.
As we headed south, this felucca took a northward–and therefore downstream–route.
The Nile flows from south to north. As our sail swelled in the wind, we sped southward. Being late in the day, most other feluccas were headed downriver, back to their docks in Luxor, leaving us nearly alone on this wide waterway. While Luxor is nowhere near as hectic as Cairo, it is certainly more boisterous than its neighboring villages, and that became wholly apparent, even from a distance, as we sailed farther and farther south.
A slice of daily life on the Nile is captured as a fisherman searches for his favorite place to catch dinner for his family.
The scenery and sounds changed, morphing from the bold to the blissful. Endless buildings lacking personality gave way to endless palm trees and lush reeds. Motorboats became virtually extinct while fishermen in rowboats peppered the shorelines, hoping for one last bite before day’s end. The honking horns of cars evaporated into the distance, and the songs of birds became a temporary soundtrack for a supple afternoon on the water.
Every now and again, one of us would comment on how beautiful everything was, but mostly we stayed quiet, as if it were a sin in such a setting to break a solemn vow of silence . In that stillness, my senses became more acute: colors seemed more vivid, sounds became more distinct and individualized, and scents were suddenly crisper. As the sun set, the sky put on a spectacular show, silhouetting the shoreline scenery and bathing the desert and riverside oases in golds, pinks, oranges, and purples. I reflected on the experiences of the last nine days–all that we had seen, all that we had learned, all that we had experienced. Gratitude filled my heart and I felt my tensions dissolve into the Nile, carried northward, downriver, far, far away.
It is in moments like these that we can find a connection with the divine, and know that we are all a part of it.
Sharing this moment with my life and travel partner, I stood on the prow of the felucca, gazing from one shore to the other across cerulean waters. Jubilant birds soared above proud palm trees. Layered calls to prayer echoed from four different villages. The warm desert breeze caressed my sun-kissed cheeks. I was more consciously aware than ever before in my life that I was in the presence of God. He was there with me, of course, as He always is: in the ripples of the water, in the reeds that swayed slowly along the shore, in the flight of the birds, in the changing colors of the sky, in the wind that filled the sail, in the voices that sang his praise, in the tears that were now streaming down my face, and in everything around me and within me. I had never felt so completely a part of Creation than in that singular moment.
It was there, on the Nile, that I came to truly understand that God–no matter if you call him God, Yaweh, Allah, Heavenly Father, the Creator, the Divine, the Supreme Being, Mother Nature, or even nothing at all–is a part of everything and everything is a part of Him. And because we are all part of the same creation, we are all connected. We are all equally precious. We are all divine.
In a tomb in the Valley of the Kings, hieroglyphics teach us about ancient Egyptian life.
On our trip through Egypt, we hit most major historical and architectural sites in Cairo, Alexandria and Luxor: the Pyramids of Giza, the new great library Biblioteka Alexandrina, the temples at Luxor and Karnak, and the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Stunning and powerful, one and all. But equally fascinating to me was experiencing daily life with contemporary Egyptians. Wherever we went, we always made time to visit the local markets. Some were contained within a few narrow and dusty lanes, others seemed to course through every pot-holed street in an entire neighborhood. Some thrived in the morning, and many were busy all day and late into the night.
Don’t bother picking the melon yourself. This friendly and gentle man will pick you the perfect one.
Whatever you need, you can find. Huggable, overstuffed grandmas peddle the freshest tomatoes, eggplants, and mint while toothless old men with smiling eyes can pick out the best melons for you. Cigarettes are everywhere and locals know that ubiquitous packets of Kleenex come in handy since many non-residential bathrooms lack toilet paper. Knock-offs of Mickey Mouse shirts for little boys are as prevalent as frilly party dresses for little girls.
Man’s Magic and other Viagra-like supplements can be found in practically every other market stall…right next to conservative cover-up dresses for women.
This wasn’t surprising. However, what was astonishing to me were the stalls and shops selling conservative cover-ups for women that were bookended by vendors selling racy lacy lingerie that actually made me blush or Viagra knock-offs like “Man’s Magic.” When I asked one of the vendors how business was going, he smiled and said, “I keep my family in a nice home and food on the table.” The Western World doesn’t have a monopoly on carnal desire, and clearly there’s enough in Egypt to keep plenty of people in business.
Sanitary conditions not as high priority as in The States…but it seems to not be a problem here.
More often than not, Rick and I were the only tourists–certainly the only American tourists–roaming with the locals through the souks. While everything was elementally the same as any commercial area in the States (merchants eyeing potential shoppers, people looking for a bargain, a broad quality spectrum of products), for me, the unusual visual environment and even the products themselves kept my head on a swivel and my mind swirling. All kinds of questions popped into my head: Is it really safe to buy that unrefrigerated butchered meat, how come the kid selling falafel isn’t in school, why are there suddenly thirty people at this bakery, how does a merchant stay in business when there’s so much competition, are these mostly middleclass locals or is market shopping a common denominator?
Bread like this has long been subsidized by the government, offering basic sustenance to those who can’t afford more than the basic.
Having friends to guide us through the markets was helpful when we had general questions. Yes, Egyptians are used to buying meat like this and don’t get ill. Although schooling is available for everyone, in some families, everyone needs to work in order for the family to function. There’s a particular type of bread that is subsidized heavily by the government. When bakers have a fresh batch ready, it’s typically lower income locals who descend like vultures to carry away their fair share. With around 40 percent of the Egyptian population living on $2-3 a day, recent attempts by the Morsi government to ration the bread has caused countrywide outrage. With shared poverty comes shared concern, so people “invest” their earnings in their community by supporting local merchants. It’s generally the lower- and middle-income earners who are the job makers and job sustainers. And while everyone’s shopped in neighborhood markets at some point in their lives, you’ll find that those who are better off tend to shop elsewhere. For them, coming to the market is a novelty.
For more upscale shopping than a market street, Egyptians who can afford to shop at seven-story mega malls like City Stars.
But even our friends aren’t necessarily experts on particular neighborhoods industries. That’s when the uninhibited traveler in me kicks in. If you let your guard down, curiosity can open doors and reveal cultural secrets that can shed a whole new light on what you don’t know and what you thought you knew.
Well into the night, this young man and his family work tirelessly to make shredded wheat to be sold to bakers making delectable desserts.
When strolling by a tiny store, illuminated by the sickly light of a florescent lamp, we saw a fibrous material being hoisted by a young man. We poked our heads in and learned that he and his brothers were making long, floss-like strands of shredded wheat, used in a traditional Egyptian dessert. A cylindrical machine went round and round, spinning out the edible tinsel, until there was enough for the boys to cut and transfer to a tray. The first young man offered us a sample. Brittle, with the slightest hint of sweetness, this freshly made shredded wheat was made in a 3-man factory, ready to be sold to a local baker to be transformed into sweet treats for countless neighbors.
Ready for our ride through a market through the Muslim Quarter in Cairo.
Wondering about public transportation, we learned that public buses are reliable and private buses are convenient but the drivers can be reckless. In neighborhoods with a labyrinth of slender streets, people have recently been using tuk tuks (think of the three-wheeled moto-cabs of India). Even more recently, some entrepreneurial wunderkinds have taken old motorcycle butcher wagons, strapped on a cloth cube for covering, and have started a transportation service. One Egyptian Pound will get you from one end of the neighborhood to the other. It’s cheap, it’s convenient, and it’s a hoot to ride in. Even for our pal Hammad, it was thrilling to zip through well-worn lanes, dodging grocers, grandmas in burkas, delivery boys, horse-drawn carts, and shoppers, trusting that our driver Ahmed would get us to our destination (check out the video footage I shot of our ride through the Muslim Quarter local market, check it out on Rick Steves’ Facebook blog).
In the Anfoushi district of Alexandria, an engagement party had spilled out onto the streets. There was live music, and all the guests were dancing. When some from the party noticed us watching, they invited us to join. Grateful to be welcomed, we joined the festivities. Despite not knowing the dances or anyone at the party, we became a part of this local scene–a celebration of love, of happiness, and of a future filled with both.
Egyptian gentlemen gather, as they so often do, for a game of backgammon or dominoes, social time, and hookah smoke.
Later on we joined a group of proud old-timers who were playing dominoes and backgammon, and relishing their hookahs alongside a cup of mint tea. Normally, local women do not socialize in such places, but as a visitor (and among the fellowship of local friends and Rick), I joined in on the fun. While these men had elaborate pipes for smoking strong tobacco, we got the pipes with plastic tubing–probably meant for the casual smokers and non-regulars who preferred the sweet, apple-infused tobacco. I kept up with my friend Hammad for a while, matching him drag for drag. But not too long after, I was feeling my mind want to separate from my body and my dinner wanting to separate from my stomach.
As our discussions turned to health, I asked Hammad about what Egyptians do to stay fit. He explained that there aren’t parks where you can go for a run or fitness clubs like Gold’s Gym, so families join social clubs. There they engage with neighbors and friends while playing tennis, learning fencing, running around the track, swimming some laps, watching a movie, or meeting for dinner. Families have been members for generations, and nowadays, since it costs about $20,000 to become a new member, people feel very lucky when they marry into a family that belongs to one of these clubs. Clearly, this is not for your average Egyptian, but it is interesting to see this slice of life–one that most Americans never hear about.
Egyptian civilization has been around for 5000 years. And while learning its history and heritage is mesmerizing, discovering what life is like in present-day Egypt is equally rich and rewarding.
As a woman, I cherish the hard-earned rights, freedom, and respect that my gender enjoys in America and throughout the Western World. We’ve come a long way in the last century, but we still face challenges and work diligently to hurdle them. And because we recognize the value and contributions of women, no matter where they live, we want all women to savor the same opportunities we have. Here in Egypt, I’m finding out that although the current definition of rights, freedom, and respect may seem to differ a bit here than where I come from, women are finding ways to express themselves religiously and politically loud and clear.
Muslim or Christian? Can you really tell just from looking? Answers: Coptic Christian and No.
Visiting various neighborhoods in Cairo, we met mostly Muslims and just a smattering of Coptic Christians, but you might not know who’s what just from looking. Naïvely, I subconsciously believed that any woman wearing a headscarf would be Muslim, and anyone who’s not would be Christian. Our guide Hanna–a devout Muslim with liberal politics whose curly locks were hidden under a tight black wrap and a rhinestoned baseball cap–explained that many Copt women also wear headscarves, and that wearing one is a personal choice for any woman. While Islamic tradition would have women appropriately covered in public except for their hands and face, in practice, how Egyptian Muslim women interpret that tradition ranges from wearing no hair cover at all to dressing in the full hijab/burka (gown-like dress with head covering that exposes only the eyes). Hanna quipped, “Some think they’re doing extra so they can earn more favor with God,”
As a modern, liberal Muslim, Hanna forgoes the traditional headscarf and opts to cover her hair with a fashionable baseball cap.Within this Alexandrian family, you have a mom who chooses to dress very conservatively and two daughters who go for a more modern and fashionable approach.
Wearing a sheer, florescent green headscarf that matched her white and florescent green sweater, twenty-something-year-old Marwa shared with me that how one dresses is an expression of individuality–and even rebellion–as much as it is of religion. In big cities like Cairo, Alexandria, and Luxor, I found myself entranced by the women’s visual expressions of religion and modesty: full hijab, primly wrapped headscarves accompanying black mumu-like galabayas that cover everything from the neck down, and modern attire with peek-a-boo bangs under scarves that look like they’re about to come undone. Scarves can be frilly, animal-print, or Technicolor, but all seem as much a stylish accessory as a symbol of devotion.
Marwa–well-educated, open-minded, devout, and trendy.
Only in the villages and countryside do you find practically everyone in all black and in the long, shape-hiding dresses that denote conformity to the conservative, where women are typically less educated and poor. Still, Marwa was confident that no Egyptian woman is forced to wear a particular type of garment, and rebellion against the norm is not exclusive to the less religious or the wealthy. In urban areas (which tend to lean liberal), extreme conservatism has flowered lately because rules have become less enforced in Egypt, not more, and women want to express their opposition to that trend. If how you express and whether or not you express your religion (and yourself) is a choice, women in Egypt–conservative and liberal–are exercising that right to its fullest.
With me and Rick and guests in her home, Heba appropriately covers her hair according to Muslim tradition.
While how one dresses can correlate with one’s religion and how devout one may be, people I spoke with assured me that it’s irrelevant to how most Egyptians interact with one another. Degree of piety doesn’t prevent socializing with another group. Asking my Muslim friend Heba for her take on this (she chooses to dress modestly and to meticulously cover her hair in public or when her family has male guests who aren’t relatives), she agreed saying, “What you do and what you believe is between you and your God. It’s no one else’s business.” She also reminded me that under the long gowns and in the privacy of one’s home, a woman wears whatever she pleases (more on eye-popping Egyptian fashion in a later post).
While I initially began wearing the headscarf out of respect for the culture, I really began to enjoying wearing it quite a bit. (photo by Rick Steves)
In a country where conservative attire is pretty standard, in my usual clothes, I would stand out like a sore thumb (whereas in The States, I mostly blend in). So, pants or long skirts with long-sleeve shirts were my daily uniform, and a fashionable scarf around my neck could quickly double as a headscarf when more modest attire was required in mosques, churches, or in certain private homes. I came to appreciate the practicality of wearing a headscarf (not having to fix my hair, protecting myself from the sun or wind). I felt comfortably more engaged with the people, and I think people appreciated me showing my heartfelt respect for their social and religious customs.
With respect to how I was treated as a woman, I really can’t complain. Most everyone I met–male and female–was not only courteous but genuinely friendly, too. Nonetheless, Egypt is a man’s world where women abide by a certain expected level of decorum in public, and I was conscious of that. Walking down the streets at whatever hour, I was mindful of staying close to Rick or our guide. Yet despite recent isolated yet horrific incidents or violence towards women, I never once felt like I was in danger or sensed any degree of animosity. Intermittent stares and barely audible comments from men like “Hey, beautiful! Where you from?” or “Pretty lady, you Japan?” were about as lascivious as a middle-schooler awkwardly trying to flirt with his teacher. I’ve been treated worse on a New York subway train or walking through downtown San Diego.
Egypt is in the midst of political, social, and cultural change.
While the trunk of Egyptian society is rooted in long-held Islamic and Coptic Christian traditions of modesty, piety, and respect for order, it’s also feeling its limbs grow with nourishing access to the latest technology and fashions, international influences, and the burning–if somewhat dimmed–afterglow of a people’s revolution. It’s a complicated tug-of-war between what they’ve been accustomed to and what they now know is possible.
Because of their contributions and prominence in the Revolution (participating in demonstrations, having their opinions heard and supported), women, who rarely had a voice until then, are gaining confidence that their role is evolving ever forward. Even so, there are some in this country who would have them return to their “proper” place: Be seen and not heard, and don’t upset the pomegranate cart. This has manifested in serious assaults on and violence towards women during demonstrations on Tahrir Square. My friends here (male and female) give me various versions of these incidents–all condemn them, but each qualifies the events with varying degrees of blame on the individual attackers, mob mentality, and even the government itself.
Egyptian women face tough challenges on many fronts in their country, but a spirit of optimism carries on.
Turning to Heba again, I asked whether she thought life for women has improved or worsened since the Revolution, she told me, “Women in Egypt now realize that their voice matters, but conservative and extremely traditional groups want to keep us silent. It’s hard for us now, and some women have paid a terrible price. But we’ve tasted freedom, and we will never go back.”
As a citizen of the world, it’s my responsibility to champion the rights of all people, but it’s also my challenge and duty to understand that my worldview–shaped by my experiences as an American woman–is not necessarily the right or only way to see things. Progress is an evolution. Sometimes it feels likes change happens overnight. Other times, things move so slowly that we can’t even perceive those transformations. But things do change…and usually for the better. Things are complicated but evolving here for women in Egypt–differently than they have in other parts of the world, but still in forward motion. We may not fully understand the cultural context but it’s fascinating to try and learn about it.
I’m glad I brought the guidebook, but I’m ready to lighten my load by ditching some of the too many clothes I brought and the misinformed preconceptions I have about Egypt.
Coming to Egypt, I packed way more than I should have: four pairs of pants, two skirts, eight tank tops, two short-sleeve shirts, four long-sleeve shirts, three super slim sweaters, a dress, a denim jacket, a light rain jacket, four pairs of shoes, and my entire bathroom drawer (note: I’m on a two-month trip to Egypt, Israel, and Europe). But of all the things I packed, what I should have truly jettisoned were my preconceptions about Egypt.
In this day and age of 24-hour news channels, information at your fingertips, instant gratification, and ever-quickening tendencies to jump to conclusions, it’s no wonder that so many of us think we know so much. Gone are the days when people go to the source for the real story because you can much more easily verify “the truth” on someone’s Facebook status update.
And so it is with a grand majority of people and their perceptions about Egypt. Prior to going on this trip, nearly everyone I spoke with expressed concern for my safety. They referenced what they had seen on TV or what they had read in the news. While I always find it prudent to be wary of my surroundings when I travel to any destination, I’m not going to let a 30-second news clip or 75-word article focused on isolated incidents of violence in very specific locations deter me from exploring a vibrant country of 90 million people. After all, if there were a shooting in Connecticut, would you cancel a trip to Vegas? In fact, because we only get bite-sized–and often biased–snippets of what is happening in another country, it behooves us to seek out the real story from the people who are living through it.
That being said, I did have my own strongly ingrained, if poorly informed, preconceived notions about what I would experience in Egypt: getting hassled by men, having to always keep my hair covered and wear no makeup, Christians isolated from and discriminated by Muslims, an obliterated economy, and a moving-through-molasses sense of progress and democracy.
Naturally, these concerns had been shaped by my own personal value system and Western Christian culture. My baseline for comparisons can only be my own experiences, but when you’re looking through the window from the inside of your own home, you can never get a 360-degree view. Life is a tour for all of us, but imagine some people never getting off the bus.
Young Egyptians enjoy a balmy night, strolling by the Hardee’s (Carl’s Jr.) on Tahrir Square…without incident.
A few days before we arrived in Egypt, a woman was assaulted during anti-government demonstrations on Tahrir Square–add that to the nearly twenty women who were assaulted in the same place in January. People I spoke with here roundly condemned those acts but were also quick to change the subject. I would never belittle violence towards women, but my experience in Cairo bore no resemblance to the level of danger those women suffered. Misogyny and the brutal treatment of women occur here in Egypt (as they do in Western countries, too), but most Egyptians and tourists will never be a part of those horrible situations. Visiting Tahrir Square and the neighborhood streets on three separate occasions, I always felt safe. Rather than an atmosphere of tension and aggression, the joy of daily life abounded with small groups gathering in the center just to hang out, brightly lit shops enticing passers-by with the latest fashions, proud parents taking their kids for a sunset stroll, and giggling girls in colorful scarves batting eyelashes at boys who were too cool to show that they cared.
Expertly balancing a rack of fresh baked bread, this young guy races through the market streets to make his delivery.
Taking a tour of the Islamic Quarter, I went into sensory overload. From late afternoon to well into the night, we wandered through seemingly endless, narrow labyrinths that were lined with entrepreneurs of every sort. The smell of day-old dusty sweat mingled with the aroma of savory ta’amiya (Egyptian falafels), the shisha smoke of apple-flavored tobacco, and briny just-caught fish. Locals haggled with their favorite butcher, whose freshest slaughtered meats were hung without care for hygiene in the hot air of the skinny streets. Young boys motored expertly through the lanes, transporting freshly baked bread, precision-stacked garlic mountains, and even people. Modern dresses and conservative cover-ups were a rainbow canopy for shoppers who had money to spend and vendors who were ready to lighten their purses.
The markets of the Islamic Quarter in Cairo are a feast for the eyes.
The beautiful Hanging Church in the Coptic Quarter (Old Cairo) was not a victim of extremist violence during our visit…thank God.
The Coptic Christian neighborhood we visited is home to the Hanging Church, which was built atop the former walls of Roman fortress, and the Coptic Museum–a delightfully petite building that shelters scant and humble remnants of centuries-old texts and carvings in wood, stone, and metal. The surrounding areas were fortified with high walls and gated entries, all well guarded at several locations by dozens of black-clad policemen toting intimidating weapons. It seemed liked overkill…until the next day when we heard that five Christians were killed by Muslim extremists in a neighborhood in northern Cairo. Two days later, I read a tiny blurb in The International Herald that mourners at the Coptic cathedral of Cairo were attacked by other Islamists. What it failed to mention is that a large group of neighborhood Muslims ran to the cathedral to loyally protect the Christian house of worship and their fellow Egyptians who were hiding inside.
When you travel, getting to know people one-on-one (like our new friend Sharif) add a completely new dimension to the stories you read about in the papers.
I asked my Christian Egyptian friend Sharif how he, his family, and their fellow Copts felt and were reacting to all this. Although they were extremely saddened by the tragedies, a kind of what-can-you-do attitude sat heavily upon their shoulders. A tiny minority, the Copts don’t retaliate, knowing that it could make things worse for everyone. “We just pray. We love our Muslim countrymen, and we know that a few crazy, hateful people don’t represent everyone.”
Whether a fruit vendor, a doctor, a shoe shiner, or a teacher, when you all remember that you are countrymen and share a common bond, it makes life a little bit easier.
Everyone else we spoke to reiterated the same notion: regardless of religion, they are one people…Egyptians. They share the same history, land, and blood. They are each other’s dentists, cobblers, produce vendors, waiters, and bankers. They’ve shared this land for so long and have learned mutual respect and understanding. It may not always be a perfect peace, but neither is it the image of eternal hatred so often portrayed in the media.
Mohamed Morsi barely got a majority to win the Egyptian presidential elections. Nowadays, the vast majority of Egyptians are pretty fed up with what’s resulted since then.
Despite any differences and misunderstandings they might have, most everyone is learning that they have a new common distrust and disgust for the state of Egyptian politics. Poor or wealthy, Muslim or Christian, male or female–no one we’ve spoken to would go back to a Hosni Mubarak-style dictatorship, but the disorder that’s descended upon the country after gaining its freedom is giving Democracy a bad name. Trash mounds can linger for weeks because President Mohamed Morsi’s government can’t manage to implement regular pick-ups–emblematic of the new government’s general ineptitude. The economy–particularly in areas that rely heavily on tourism–is reeling from the instability. Every time the electricity goes out (this happened to us in three different neighborhoods), people grumble “Morsi” like it’s a curse word. Most feel like their concerns are falling on deaf ears. Egyptians are getting fed up, and their patience is wearing thin once again. The Revolution proved that they can affect change, but right now they lack the organization to make a move and follow through.
Weekly protests (usually on Fridays) still go on, although we’ve seen none. Life is challenging here and more complex than one can understand through a news report or a blog entry. But in just a few days of being here, exploring the neighborhoods, meeting the people, and conversing with them, I’ve learned more about contemporary life in Cairo than I have in two years of watching the news. I can tell my family and friends not to worry about my safety because the closest I’ve been to danger is having my mind blown away by everything I’ve been learning.
By and large, I’m a visual learner–I need to see it to understand it. I’m not the kind of gal who’s skilled at just “imagining” something. While books, photos, and movies are helpful, traveling and seeing things with my own eyes is, for me, the best way to comprehend a culture’s history and contemporary realities. As this is my first trip to Egypt, I’m eager to ditch my preconceptions shaped by recent media and years of watching documentaries on this country and see it for myself. My first glimpses begin with a trip back in time to Ancient Egypt.
Navigating the roads of Cairo can be a tricky thing.
On our first full day in Egypt, we embarked on a mini-bus trip from Cairo out to the ancient desert town of Saqqara. Our skilled driver, Mohammed, weaved through what should have been three lanes of traffic (had there been painted lanes), dodging taxis, public and private buses, 1970s Fiats and new model KIAs, engine-buzzing crotch-rocket motorbikes, and brave pedestrians who maneuvered however and wherever they pleased. In these post-Revolution times–moving from an oppressive dictatorship to a shaky and highly flawed democracy, they all know that rules no longer apply. And even if they did apply, the freedom to break the rules is all too tempting.
Endless rows of tenements like these stretch on for miles from Cairo to its distant suburbs.
As far as the eye could see, both sides of the highway offered no other view than unfinished tenements that stood like soldiers at attention, occasionally decorated with a rainbow of clothes being hung out to dry and always accessorized with at least a half-dozen dirty white TV satellite dishes. Our guide explained that over the last fifteen to twenty years, fertile fields had been disappearing exponentially from distant villages all the way to the suburbs around Cairo. Farmlands that used to extend to the horizon were sold under the government’s nose to developers who disregarded building codes–packing in as many multi-storied buildings as possible. And since an unfinished building cannot be taxed, virtually all the buildings we saw were inhabited yet remained incomplete, bathed in years of dust–Cinderellas awaiting a fairy godmother. It made me wonder whether this was progress on pause or progress defeated.
In the villages and towns heading south to Saqqara, donkeys and horses are modes of transportation.
Heading further southwest through villages along canals of the Nile, the noise and population congestion of the capital gave way to once-common arable spaces, polka dotted with red-brick residences, donkey carts transporting alfalfa, and hijab-cloaked women with anything from jugs of water to bags of lentil balanced expertly atop their piously covered heads. Seeing how things are now in this area allowed me to understand how they used to be just two decades ago much closer to Cairo.
Rick waves to our driver Mohammed and to absolutely no one else in the parking lot in Saqqara.
In Saqqara, a blast of heat and ancient sands greeted us as the mini-bus door opened. It was already ten o’clock, yet we were the only visitors around. Fear and bad press has kept away many travelers, and tourism is down about 80% from two years ago. It’s a shame for travelers who delay their trips here until it’s “safe” (it is safe, provided you keep your wits about you), and it’s damaging to millions of average Egyptian citizens who rely directly or indirectly on the tourism economy and who desperately need the financial stability. For us and for the rare few who are choosing now to take advantage of favorable prices, smaller crowds, and a chance to witness history in the making, it’s a brilliant time to visit Egypt. Being here, after weathering all the concerns from loved ones back home before we left, we feel almost smug.
The step pyramid of Pharaoh Zoser at Saqqara.
Saqqara is known for the oldest Egyptian pyramid, dating back to about 2800 B.C, the third dynasty. It’s a step pyramid, similar in shape to what you might see in the Yucatan in Mexico, and was built as the final resting place for the Pharaoh Zoser. Although it’s covered today by scaffolding and has long lost its limestone casing, it nonetheless stands majestic and proud that it has withstood millennia of desert climate and sandblast erosion.
These hieroglyphics bless the nobleman Teti.
While we weren’t allowed into the Pyramid of Zoser because of current maintenance, we did get to peek inside two nearby tombs of noblemen. Even though tombs and pyramids are essentially associated with death and mummies, it was surprising to me to see how the reverence of life permeated every aspect of these burial places. Painted carvings depicted daily activities of the noblemen such as hunting, fishing, music, banquets, and even manicures and pedicures. Hieroglyphics included blessings or “magical spells” that would grant the dead person an abundance of animals, food, riches, and all things good in the after life.
The middle pyramid of Kephren gives visitors an idea of its former grandeur with its still-remaining limestone tip.
Heading north along the West Bank of the Nile, we jumped ahead 300 years to the pyramids at Giza, which belong to the 4th dynasty. In ancient times, people generally lived on the East Bank of the Nile and buried their dead on the West Bank, symbolic of the rising and setting of the sun…and of life itself. That’s why from Giza down to Valley of the Kings in Luxor, all the pyramids and tombs are on the same side of the Nile: the West. The three great pyramids of Giza belong–in order of lineage and size–to the Pharaoh Cheops, his son Kephren, and the grandson Mycerinus. Because the middle pyramid still has remnants of its limestone casing on the tip, one can really envision the former grandeur and how for generations, these pyramids–gleaming white under the late-day light of a setting sun–were beacons of glory for the pharaohs upon whom the Sun of Life had permanently set.
Feeling small and grand at the pyramids of Giza.
These ancient structures struck me to the core. Like so many others, coming to Egypt has been on my Bucket List, even long before there were such things as Bucket Lists. With each of the over two million blocks of the Great Pyramid of Cheops weighing several tons, there is something about these edifices that can in one moment make you feel diminutive and humbled, and in the next, substantial and an integral part of a storied legacy of civilization and humankind.
Rick, “Bob Marley”, and I strike a pose at the pyramids of Giza.
While ancient sites were about death, the fear of the afterlife, and revering the past, the gaggle of hustlers around these towering monuments to the past can be annoying. But I found them strangely uplifting–real people, focused on finding the joy in life today…in the here and now. Like any clever entrepreneur, these merchants and camel drivers seized every opportunity to trade on the history of Egypt coupled with the hokey-ness of wide-eyed tourists…me included. So, despite the fear of breaking our collarbones, Rick and I hopped on “Bob Marley” for an obligatory camel ride, complete with the obligatory camel-at-the-pyramids photo-op. If ever you’re going to ride a camel, there’s no place to do it like Ancient Egypt.
The span of Egyptian history covers five thousand years. For someone like me who comes from an American culture whose history dates back only a few centuries, Egypt is jarring, awe-inspiring, and, at times, confusing. Gaining an appreciation for its past lays the foundation for me to learn more about its unsettled present and its path toward an uncertain yet promising future. And I’m ready for what lies ahead on this trip.
Stay tuned for more stories in this continuing series on Egypt.
When Rick and I started telling people about our plans to visit Egypt, their first reaction was generally, “Wow, aren’t you scared?” followed by, “That’s on my Bucket List. I’d love to go there.” We’re on a scouting trip for two new TV shows that Rick will do on Egypt. While he’s been here twice before, I’m a first-timer and steep on the learning curve.
Exploring Tahrir Square and the environs, on this day, we found it to be both lively and safe.
My hunch is that our recent perceptions about Egypt since their revolution has been skewed pretty egregiously by the media and others–perhaps not maliciously, but certainly with the credo that “if it bleeds it leads.” This isn’t to say that there haven’t been violent clashes, heated struggles, and misogyny and abuse in the streets of Cairo. But, we, as non-Egyptians, are not necessarily privy to the whole picture when we rely solely on what we see on TV or read in the papers for our understanding of what’s going on thousands of miles away. And that’s why we’re traveling here: to learn what Egyptian life is really like from the people who actually live here.
Inviting us to watch the football (soccer) match, these two Egyptians were just one of many examples of the friendly welcomes we have received.
So far, the people we’ve met have been among the warmest I’ve ever encountered. They’re curious about us as much as we are about them, their history, their culture, and their contemporary realities. Many have a phenomenal command of the English language–particularly in the high traffic touristic areas, but in certain sectors, Arabic is exclusive and all that’s needed. We do our best with the polite expressions we know, and with generous smiles, they do their best with repeating phrases like “Hello!” “What your name?” “Where from?” “Beautiful!” and “Welcome in Cairo!”
Cairo certainly is an intense city–from it’s rule-less, crazy traffic to the hustle and bustle of workaday life in the local markets of the Muslim quarter, from the dishwasher-sized cement blocks that barricade the U.S. Embassy to the thousands of minarets echoing calls to prayer throughout the day, and the massing of humanity crammed into miles of shoulder-to-shoulder apartment buildings and spilling onto the colonial boulevards that starburst from Tahrir Square. It seems a challenge to find an oasis of tranquility in the city. The pulse of the city is so rapid, and rather than sit idly by as their country changes drastically in the post-Arab Spring era, the people here scramble to find new and any opportunities to earn a living. They take newfound liberties to bend all manner of rules that were rigidly abided by during Mubarak’s reign, and they seem to do it with an urgency that makes everything feel like it’s on hyper-speed. They may not yet be gaining the traction they hope for, but they’re not willing to give up.
We’ve been here less than 36 hours, and we’ve already seen and learned a lot–it’s just the tip of the sand dune. But sure as the sun will rise, I’m sure we’ve only picked up a grain of sand in a desert-ful of experiences that are yet to come.
Stayed tuned for this series on the insights we’re discovering about Egypt: the Land of the Pharaohs, the Land of Civilization.
