Cairo (Part 3: Pyramids, Sphinx, Vendors, Eastern European Tourists, and the Egyptian Antiquities museum)

We went back to the Great Pyramid. It was time for the crawl inside. Tourists from all over the world were near the entrance, but few were going in. An American woman loudly and persistently complained because other people had the temerity to walk through her attempt at a photograph of the only surviving Great Wonder of the Ancient World. I hate American tourists.

The entrance was a grotto/cave-looking hole cut into the pyramid. No cameras allowed. We showed our tickets and went in. It was dimly lit and the tunnel passage was craggy and cave-like. Then we got to a forty degree (ish) shaft going up. Hunched over, we entered. It was surprisingly warm. I'm out of shape, thus the crab walk/lunging up the fifty or so yards to another chamber was painful and moderately unpleasant.

The new chamber had much higher ceilings so we could stand; unfortunately, I didn't stop being out of shape so, since it still went up at forty degrees and did so for fifty or more yards, it too was painful and, not surprisingly, unpleasant. At the end of that chamber was a leveled off platform at which we took the opportunity to pant and perspire. Then we ducked into a corridor and emerged into the King's Chamber.

They hadn't developed funerary carving when Cheops/Khufu built the pyramid so the King's Chamber is a smooth-walled, dark, granite room with an open, empty sarcophagus in it. There wasn't much to see, but I liked the idea that some day, should I ever propagate, my issue can go there and experience exactly what their forebear did. I had to be me, so I tested the acoustics of the room (excellent by the way) by Gregorian-Monk chanting "Ice Ice Baby," an appropriately immortal song. If that sacrilege didn't release the curse of Cheops, nothing will.

We clambered back down and when we exited, legs throbbing and worn out, I peg-legged to the other side of the pyramid, where Cheops/Khufu's 4800 funerary barge (Palestinian Cedar wood) was housed. What else can I say but "remarkable"?

We went to the Sphinx and the temple beside it. Vendors, carrying trinkets and post cards, descended like a swarm of mosquitos. I'd learned "Shukran" is "thank you" earlier. I quickly learned "la" is "no." I tried "la shukran." That didn't work so I got blunt. "La!" Then, I ignored them. That worked best. I felt like a rude Yankee. One of the vendors was wearing a purple, orange-pawed hat. My SC came flooding back.

"Your hat sucks! Boo Clemson! You need a new hat! I hope you die!" I unleashed on him.

Common decency and international norms of etiquette do not apply when it comes to my Clemson hatred.

"Your hat sucks! Your hat stupid! You die!" he shouted back to my Carolina hat and me.

"Go Cocks!" I yelled.

David, also a gamecock, was slightly taken aback, though amused; the rest of the group was in turns horrified/flummoxed. Whatever. When you dump as much money into something as I have into the University of South Carolina, you can handle that situation as you see fit. I was pleased.

There isn't much to say about the temple. Old. Impressive. I got so sick of the vendors I tore out a page from my note pad and wrote

"To: Vendors

From: Me

Subject: No! La!"

I tore a small hole in the center, affixed it on my shirt button, and wore it proudly. The vendors probably can't read English, but they can see sullen crazy, so they left me alone.

I people-watched the Eastern European tourists, men and women, strutting around dressed as though they were going to, coming from, or were, in fact, at a disco. Hot pants, tight pants, low-cut pants, pants that didn't cover modesty, all variations of pants in shiny or bright colors. Boobs, pecs, biceps, triceps, abs, legs, butts. Very intelligent and appropriate in an Islamic country where there have been major bombings. People are dumber than hammers. Myself included, of course.

We piled into our van, flabbergasted. We were also going to the Egyptian Antiquities Museum, home of Tut's treasures, and taking an overnight train. I'm not sure where else in the world you can see that much in one day. Paris, I suppose (Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Musee d'Orsay, etc) but this culture is so alien and exotic to me it's hard to compare.

We stopped at a restaurant for lunch. Complete tourist trap. I knew from all the other vans and buses and you know what? I didn't care. Especially after, while walking in, a man holding a lion cub asked if I wanted to hold it.

Um. Yes, please.

I handed him the 30LE and he handed me an apex predator, two feet long and about 30-40lbs. I was so excited I didn't wonder if it were defanged and declawed. It was gorgeous, adorable, and amazing. All of which makes me a hypocrite. It's a freaking lion. If it ripped open my abdomen and spilled my guts onto the ground and then bit out my neck, as I died a horrible death, I wouldn't have cared it was majestic and my death fittingly ironic (in light of my nearly mauling a small kid not three hours earlier).

As it was, the cub just seemed annoyed at how undignified it was to be passed around like a party favor. Lunch was great. They brought out small grills with sizzling pieces of chicken and lamb, which I promptly devoured. Ordinarily I'd focus more on that experience but when you've carried a king of the jungle, a good meal doesn't stack up.

I don't mean to gloss over the Egyptian Antiquities Museum. Really, I don't. But words can't properly express what it's like to be seeing many thousands of years worth of objects that were ancient and spectacular over a thousand years before the Romans went into Britain.

As I looked at King Tut's funerary cache, I paused to consider what had happened to all the other pharaohs. Tut's tomb was a spectacular find. Rich beyond measure. But he was a king of little note who died around age 19 rather suddenly and so his tomb was probably unimpressive by pharaonic standards. What on earth was in Pepys II tomb? He ruled, not lived, ruled ninety-six years. What was in Ramses II tomb? Ozymandias. King of Kings. Look on my works, Ye mighty, and despair. Reigned sixty seven years. Left awe inspiring temples and statues everwhere. What soul-stirring treasures did he accumulate to accompany him to the afterlife?

No one knows. All stolen millennia ago. I would wonder what happened to all of it, but I already know. Having a priceless work of art doesn't mean anything to the uncultured. History, craftsmanship, majesty, artistry, all melted down or broken up into comparatively worthless ordinary gold. I hate people sometimes.

Some of the others paid for the extra ticket to see the royal mummies. Dead bodies. Ho hum. In my opinion, the passage of a certain amount of time doesn't make it uncreepy to look at someone's dead body, especially the body of a person who did pretty much all that was humanly possible at the time of his death to make it so no one could disturb his corpse. Something about paying a fee and doing the voyeurism in a museum doesn't legitimize it for me.

Instead, I went to the animal mummy room. It was free. Dogs, cats, crocodiles, cows, monkeys. I thought of the story of the Monkey's Paw, got creeped out, and left.

We made our way to the train station and got on the overnight train to Aswan. In my berth, I drank scotch, read parts of a history of the Crusades, and tried to process what I'd experienced.

Cairo (Part 2: Threatening a Small, Underfed Boy)

The camel ride place is over by the smallest of the three large pyramids. Supposedly, the camel ride is the only way to get a view of all the large pyramids (for the kings, who built them) and the smaller pyramids (for their queens). We hand over our money. I am shunted off to a boy who leads me to a disinterested camel.

I've read and heard told that camels are vile creatures. They reek. They spit. Occasionally, they bite. Uniformly, I hear camel rides are painful more than anything else. Still, when you're at Giza, you have to do it.

Every camel sex joke I've ever heard runs through my mind. "Oooh! Oooh! I got a pretty one!" I holler for the others. They laugh. Sorta. I think they're still trying to make up their minds about me. I show up looking like a bizarre mixture of Indiana Jones, the Dude from The Big Lebowski, and, possibly, a recent convert to extremist Islam. On day two, accepting that my facial hair isn't going to help me in any way, shape, or form, I shaved.

So I guess I morphed into the typical loud American tourist. But then they found out I'm a lawyer and I can't keep my damn mouth shut, constantly adding unasked-for bits of arcane trivia to whatever the guide tells us; then, I let slip I live in Afghanistan and was a soldier. By this point, I'd assume they think I'm an obnoxious, intelligent, hippie, soldier, lawyer, who needs a haircut and drinks rocket fuel scotch. My secret hope is that they think I'm some form of secret agent, but I'm pretty sure I'm just the bizarre American from the South.

I'm none of those things to my teenager camel guide. He says, "You look like a real Egyptian." He says he's 17. He doesn't look older than 14. As we start out in our gaggle, we take pictures of each other on the camels. The boy, holding the camel's leash, continues telling me I look like a real Egyptian. I know he's trying to butter me up for the infamous baksheesh, the tip/bribe/gift/gross extortion that is notorious in the Arabic speaking world. Despite what he's telling me, I know I look like, to put it delicately, a retard.

Sure enough, as we get to the prime pyramid viewing location, the extortion begins. Ten minutes in, at best, the caravan breaks apart. No coubt the camel guides are well-versed in that military maxim: divide and conquer. They try to make it seem they all know the "best" spot to take pictures. I smile to myself. This is not unexpected.

Farther away, I see the guides taking the cameras from my group members to get photos with them on the standing camels. My guide doesn't do this. He gets "Michael Jackson" to sit down (Magdolin, when we got back, asked us, "Let me guess...you rode on Michael Jackson? Michael Jordan?" We all nodded and smirked, except for Greg's wife, Krista, who had the only inventive guide and so rode on "Casanova.").

My Michael Jackson doesn't seem to notice I'm there. He barely seems to notice my guide. The guide pulls out some plants from the saddle bag and jams them in MJ's mouth. MJ chews and pees.

Which reminds me, if you ever mention you can hold off peeing a long time, do NOT say you're "like a camel." When it comes to pee and camels, they pee frequently, intensely, and it doesn't matter to them if they're standing or sitting/lying down. Basically, they're like toddlers or retirees.

At any rate, I'm bummed because my boy guide doesn't take pictures while I'm up on the camel, but then he pulls out a headdress and wraps me in it. "You look like a real Egyptian!" Actually, I look like a poorly bandaged burn victim. No worries. He takes a picture of me next to MJ with the pyramids in the background. Cool enough.

Then he tells me to stand *ON* MJ. I am hesitant. I'm not fat, but I'm not a feather either. I don't want to be the Ajax who breaks the camel's back. "Up!" commands the boy guide. Up I go. MJ continues to eat and pee furiously.

After I clamber down, it's time for the extortion. My boy guide's English is barely passable. I can't remember the specifics, but he grows plaintive doe eyes and says something about money or else his boss man will be mad with him. I explain that I paid the boss man. Magdolin had told us not to accept any "gifts" because they'd make us pay for them and that if we took a picture of them or let them take pictures of us, they'd expect payment. I give back my bandages/headdress, but I'm fine with paying him for taking the pictures.

I pull out my money wad to give him 50LE ($8-10). He takes it but then says something about change and hands it back. Before I know what he's doing, he snatches a 200LE ($35-40) note out of my hand. I get mad.

"Hand that back!"

"Change!" He says and snatches ANOTHER 200LE note out of my hand.

I cram what's left of my money wad in my pocket and demand my money back. He quickly puts both bills at the bottom of his cash wad and starts counting off smaller bills. I know where this is going.

The positive aspect of the camel guides separating us schmucks is we're easier to manipulate individually. The negative aspect is that the other guides aren't there to help when I go off.

I try my best to be good-natured and self-deprecating and not take myself seriously; I think I'm pretty wildly successful in this, in that few people who know me longer than a few minutes can fathom me being intimidating.

However, in reality, I'm a 6'2", 200lbs, trained soldier who thinks very little of dangerous situations, has an affinity for weapons (the use of which I'm not untalented in), and I'm prepared for killing if the occasion ever requires it. My camel guide is a malnourished, teenage Egyptian who is 5'5", 130lbs, and has a cheap riding crop. He has badly miscalculated that I'm a patsy.

Now, I'm not saying I was going to kill the kid. I'm not saying I was going to beat the kid up. What I am saying is this: I'm happy and content NOT to be a homicidal psychopath and play the part of the easy-going buffoon so long as, on some level, you acknowledge reality and don't bait me, particularly when you're an overmatched punk who walks through camel piss in sandals all day long. If there's a bear at the circus who wears a silly hat and suit and rides on a tricycle, you don't go up to it and poke it in the eye because you think you can get away with it because it looks silly. It's a bear. You're a weak, walking meat bag without fangs or claws.

Goodbye joking, smiling André. Hello serious, growling André.

"Young man," I growl as I step close to him and lean in. "Hand back my money right now!"

He backs up a step.

"Change! Change!"

I lower my voice more. "Hand me back my two 200LE bills or I will be angry!"

Even at a time like this, I think of Bill Bixby.

"You wouldn't like me when I'm angry!"

Inside, I'm amused. Outside, I'm setting my jaw, beginning to puff out my chest, and stepping menacingly towards him again.

"Change! Change! No angry!"

"Young man, now I'm angry."

My shoulders roll forward as my elbows flare slightly.

"Hand me back my money. Right. Now."

His eyes go wide.

"Okay! Okay! No angry!"

He pulls out my two bills and hands them to me.

Goodbye serious, growling André. Hello joking, smiling André.

The boy has moxie, I'll grant him. He goes back to pleading to make change. As I don't really want to throttle a child and be shot by an AK47 or repeatedly raped in an Egyptian jail, I put away one of the bills and then let him make change for the other. He knows I was willing to give him 50LE, so he somehow hides the rest of his cash so he only has 145LE to give me back. I'm okay with him getting me for 55LE. My adult streak of never having been in a fight remains intact.

On the walk back, I holler to the other to find out how their extortion went. David ended up coughing up way more, throwing in some American money along with the Egyptian pounds. Steven, an Aussie physical therapist manager who lives in London, got away with only 50LE.

The entire ride back, my guide keeps alternating with "You happy? You happy?" and abjectly begging for more baksheesh. I'm having none of it. Once we get back, he asks for money for the head man.

"I already paid him."

He wanders off. The head man wanders over.

"You happy? Something for the boy?"

"No. I already gave him baksheesh."

I walk away with the headman still jabbering at me for more money.

The whole experience lasted thirty minutes, tops.

So. That's what it's like to get extorted.

(next chapter: Pyramids, Sphinx, Vendors, Eastern European Tourists, and the Egyptian Antiquities museum)

Cairo (Part1: Haggling)

We woke up early to get a head start on the crowds. Though the tour provided tickets to the grounds of the Giza pyramids and the Sphinx, we had to purchase an additional ticket if we wanted to go inside of one of the pyramids. On one level it is a crock, but I didn't spend thousands of dollars and fly thousands of miles to get indignant at another $20. David and I bought the additional ticket. We entered the park.

There were still many people there early in the morning, but we had enough space that we didn't feel boxed in. Magdolin took us off to a side of the Great Pyramid where we could get photos without the hordes gunking it up. Two armed tourist police sat on their camels just across the path from a corner of the pyramid and did their best not to acknowledge either the tourists or the pyramids themselves. "Yeah, yeah. Look at all the @#$!ing majestic splendor. Whatever. Yawn."

Though not everyone bought the ticket to go into the pyramid, all of us wanted to do the camel ride. Magdolin prepped us. If a small number of us want to go, they will charge us 250LE apiece. If all of us went, we could haggle down to 150LE for the "forty minute ride." Either way, $30-50 for letting the camel do the work. Not a bad gig for the camel owner.

Except it is. I hate haggling. HATE it. Greg, a Canadian ice cream shoppe owner, took control of the negotiation.

"250!" the head man declared.

"150!" Greg said resolutely, for all of us.

As impressed as I was by his taking charge (seriously; someone had to do it), I was equally impressed that we all stuck to Greg.

"No! No! 200! Good price! 40 minutes!"

"150!" Greg barked. We nodded vigorously.

"180! 40 minute ride! Best I do!"

"We were told you'll do it for 150," Greg said. Then with perfectly intoned disgust, he added, "Forget it."

He turned around to walk away.

The moment of truth.

The bossman looked to the rest of us. Amazingly, we all, to a person, shrugged and went to follow Greg.

"Okay! Okay! 150! Good price!"

(Next chapter: extortion and threatening violence on a small, malnourished teenager)

Wadi Natroum

I live in a war zone. I don't see (attractive) women for months at a stretch. I go on an all-inclusive "comfort" tour. The hotel in Alexandria is named "Alexandria Mercure Romance." My room is on the top floor, has a view of the harbor, and a single king size bed. All this would be perfect if I were with a female; however, I'm traveling with my friend Dave, and thus share a room with him. The universe is mocking me.

Today is a light day. We need only visit an historic monastery and check back into our hotel in Cairo. In the van, thrilled as I am to be around an intelligent person again, I babble at Dave. His restraint is remarkable. He does not punch me in the throat to shut me up, though I no doubt sorely tempt him.

We stop approximately half way back to Cairo at Wadi Natroum. In ancient times, Natron, a saline mixture used to mummify, was harvested/mined here. We're not here to dabble with that though. We're here for the monastery.

Monasticism was invented in Egypt. Wildly pious (or possibly extremely crazed...or possibly both) monks would plop themselves out in the desert to contemplate. A cottage industry was born. Monasteries spread like wildfire. We have much to thank monks (and the mendicant orders that sprung from them) for. Their diligent scribbling kept alive literacy and faith in the Dark Ages. Urban II, a former Cluny monk, launched the First Crusade. Friar Bacon gave us gunpowder. Rasputin was a monk. St. Benedict. The Society of Jesus. Trappist beer. Say what you will about the robes and tonsure; men who hate "the world" have had a hell of an impact.

We get our very own monk guide at the monastery, a Coptic monastery. "Coptic" is a corrupted label that means Egyptian. Now all in Egypt speak Arabic, Christians and Muslims alike. "Coptic" also is the name of the ancient Egyptian language, transliterated with the help of the Greek alphabet and five or six extra letters. Coptic survived as a spoken language, in isolated pockets, until the 1800s a.d. Now it's dead save for certain church ceremonies, much like Latin in the Roman Catholic church. Egyptian is *at least* 5000 years old. Latin is 2800 or so. The Coptic faith giggles at the pretension of the Roman Catholic. Upstart punks.

Our monk is bearded and wearing black robes and a black head covering. Indoors. I ask him why the head covering. He misunderstands me. "Excellent question!" he tells me. What I wish to know is why a man has his head covered on holy ground. St. Paul admonishes men to keep their heads uncovered and women to keep their heads covered (a practice which still holds in the South as I was raised to damn well take off my hat indoors). St. Paul tells us we must do this because of the angels. Neither myself, nor anyone else, knows what he's talking about with the angels, but, just in case, I try not to wear my hat inside, regardless of my vanity and soul-stirring dislike of hat head.

So. Our wise monk does not know, or at least know how to answer, about head coverings indoors. He definitely knows why we are supposed to (and do, during the tour) take off our shoes. The Burning Bush told Moses to take off his sandals, for he was in a holy place. Pretty straightforward.

Our monk tells us of the history of the place. This monastery might very well be one of the oldest in Christendom. It holds the relics of St. Bishoy, per se. We see them, sort of, enclosed in a covering over in a shelf in the wall. They're "sort of" relics because, according to legend/tradition/fact, St. Bishoy's body never decayed at death as a testament to his holiness. So, the 1600 year old body in the painted plastic sack that the Coptic laity are praising and praying to sits intact. I see no need to check for myself. Let faith be faith, I feel. I don't mean this in any mocking or New Age way whatsoever. Dave is an atheist; my college roomate Campbell is a militant atheist; my best friend is a Baptist deacon; I am, by birth an Episcopalian, now a nominal Anglican, and a descendant of Huguenots. I follow Matthew 6:5-6 in my visible faith and Matthew 22: 37-40 in my private. The closest I come to explication is that I believe as I do, and strongly, but proselytizing has never been for me.

I'm very pleased when I find out this is the monastery of St. Moses the Black. He was once a notorious land pirate/bandit. He converted to Christianity and, as a monk, single-handedly defeated a pack of robbers (he didn't kill them because he didn't think it the Christian thing to do...they were so impressed they converted on the spot). Later he defended the monastery from attack by Berber bandits. I read about this on badassoftheweek.com. I thought I remembered reading that he thrashed the bandits. The monk tells us St. the Black was beheaded. So it goes.

Knowing church history as I do, I ask our monk if the Copts are still Monophysites. Christianity, religion of compassion and inclusiveness, has long been riven by various doctrinal schisms. The greatest of the early schisms had to do with the nature of Jesus' human and divine essences. Were they separate essences, conjoined in one body, or mixed together? The Egyptian church was famously monophysite. Joined they said. Constantinople said separated. All this came up 400 or so years after Jesus died and was resurrected and ascended, by the way.

Constantinople, seat of power, took the opportunity to persecute. Copts bore it. Until a small ethnic group with a differing faith said, "We don't believe as you do, but we won't persecute you. You only have to pay a 'poll tax' of sorts that is actually much less than the taxes you pay to the Byzantines AND we won't force our faith on you."

That is part of how the statistically inferior Muslim Arabs spread from a pocket of nowhere to damn near to France in about one hundred years. Even in the time of Saladin, four hundred years later, the majority of Egyptians were Christian. Nine hundred years after that, they are 10% and there has been a major bombing of a cathedral here only days before I arrived.

Alexandria

I’d met the rest of the tour group the evening before. We’re a mix of Americans, Aussies, and Canucks. Our guide is an attractive Coptic Christian, Magdolin.

Early in the morning, we pile into the tour bus and head for Alexandria. All my reading for this particular trip has been for ancient Egypt, which ended with the conquest of Alexander the Great. Thus, I haven’t studied this city that he’d founded…because the 2300 year old city is too *new.* My knowledge of the city is what I recall from having studied the Greek and Roman worlds. Still, I felt slightly out of my element and unsure since I hadn’t brushed up.

Magdolin starts the tour. Then, every piece of applicable trivia I’ve ever read erupts from my subconscious and out of my mouth. I am Ajax: Trivia Master, Bane of Tour Guides!

We descend into Roman catacombs; we climb the ruins of the Serapeum. I establish my reputation within the tour group as the slightly crazed, bizarrely bearded, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing hippie who won’t shut up. All is going as I planned.

After the Serapeum and lunch at a fantastic seafood restaurant overlooking the harbor, we headed to the “Library of Alexandria.” A total gip, in my humble opinion. The Great Library of Alexandria is the most famous library in the history of the world. Unfortunately for civilization it burned down at some point, when isn’t certain. The librarian who took us on the tour of the current library tells of a couple of the possible times it burnt down by pagans and Christians, but fails to mention the mostly widely known legend.

When Alexandria was taken by the Muslims in the 600s, the Caliph, when asked by his subordinates what he wanted done with the hundreds of thousands of scrolls (no books back then) in the library, is said to have responded, “If they are not in accordance with the Koran, we do not need them. Burn them. If they are in accordance with the Koran, we do not need them. Burn them.” Supposedly it took 6 months to burn through the knowledge of the ancient world. Nope, the librarian didn’t mention that one.

At any rate, by any accounting, the Great Library hasn’t existed in at least around 1400 years. Therefore we went on a tour of what may as well have been the Library of Cincinnati or Dayton. It was a nice enough library, but I had little to no interest looking at a modern library when I’d traveled to Egypt to see OLD STUFF.

Magdolin apologizes for it on the bus when she lets a vendor step on to see if he can persuade us to buy his trinkets, but part of the trip is that we must participate with the various merchants. Thus I’m fairly certain we went to the library was to shop, particularly since the tour of the library ended, conveniently, at the bookshop.

We arrive at the hotel early in the afternoon. I pour myself scotch. I must keep pace and I’m already regretting buying so many bottles. Nonetheless, I soldier on.

After dark, we venture out of the hotel for food. “We” are my friend David and an American defense contractor, Ryan. David works in the IT department at Scana, as does one of my closest friends, Lee. David lives in my 1st cousins’grandmothers’ (Skista) former home. I am friends with David through my brother, whom he went to high school with in Conway. South Carolina is small. My life needs charts and diagrams at times.

As we walk along the waterfront, I note the condition of the buildings. Alexandria, once the greatest city in the (non-oriental) world. The buildings along the waterfront exude decay and dust. Few have lights shining within. Laundry dangles out of the windows. I struggle to think of what metropolis in the west could be as pitiful. Is there a waterfront apartment in Miami, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Diego, London, or Paris where the linens dry in the dusty breeze?

As we walk on, I note the packs of young men roving the sidewalks after dark. Good Muslim women are not out after dark. Though there is no alcohol in them, the local discos are open til 6am. My mind recoils in horror, trying to figure out what a chaste, sober disco is like at 5:30am.

Cairo

Having flown from Kabul to Dubai to Cairo, I'm tempted to refer to the Muslim world as the Dust World. Though Dubai is one of the world's newest cities and on the Persian Gulf, it carries a constant patina of dirt and, were the apocalypse to come, I question how much wouldn't be under sand in a decade.

I land in Cairo. Africa, my fifth continent. My trusty hat, an Australian model felt Stetson, made the journey, its fifth continent as well (or its exact twin; I bought two in Germany six years ago).

The Cairo airport is a breeze. Off the plane, onto a bus (terminal gates aren't connected to the planes by ramps), into the customs line, kicked out of the customs line for not having a visa, purchasing the $15 entrance visa, back through the line, and right into the duty-free. Not only do they have my beloved Laphroaig, but they have the Quarter Cask, for $47 no less. At that price, I buy four. "Better to have and not want than want and not have" is a family saying, though I think that usually applies to weaponry.

Out the door, into Egypt. A rep from the tour company meets me, takes me to the hotel shuttle. Off we go. Cairo is dense, clearly old. As an American, I'm still jarred by ancient and modern all mixed together. I pass mosque after mosque, the enormous size of which would surely make them must-sees were they not in a city filled with them. Ornate minarets stab the sky.

My coworkers, accustomed to Thailand whoring vacations attempted to warn me off Cairo. "It's a #@$!hole! It's like Baghdad! Terrible! Dirty!" As we drive and I try to take it all in, it is all those things and yet not only. It is also parts colossal, beautiful, intricate, state of the art and lush. I do note the dirt patina. As we occasionally rise from the valley onto the desert bank, it seems as if we ride into a moonscape. Here, an unfinished luxury condo complex; there, a monstrous medieval fortress.

Back down, we descend into the tumultuous din of the city. There, the Nile, river of lore. Though the road has lanes, much like any third world nation I've been to, they go unnoticed save by the terrified westerners as we flit along side the skyscraper western hotels along the riverside, their names emblazoned in the Roman alphabet. If Washington D.C. had untold buildings with Arabic paraded on them, I imagine there would be an uproar.

We cross the Nile, making our way from the east bank, land of the living, to the west, sacred land of the dead. On the bridge, I take note of the verdant isle in the middle of the river, awash in rows of unknown green crops, a massive Coptic Cathedral its triumphant jewel. I take note of the image in my mind and consider it a metaphor.

The hotel is apparently in Giza. The road narrows. The dilapidated buildings become uncountable. Chunks of concrete are missing where poor pours result in untimely disintegration. Many buildings are unfinished. Roofs missing. Windows never installed. Still, they are clearly lived in; they have satellite dishes after all. We pass donkey-drawn carts repeatedly.

Lo and behold, the pyramids. Alien, surreal, ethereal, shimmering in a haze of smog on the desert shelf above the city.

Giza used to be a satellite of Cairo; now the capital has absorbed it. We arrive at the Hotel Mercure Sphinx. It's half a kilometer from the pyramids, but seems a stone's thrown. I'm perplexed. Should I be appalled or impressed? I take the middle course: indifference. As we're staying in this hotel a number of days/nights, I'll no doubt grow inured to the majesty of the five thousand year old marvels. "Yeah. Look at all this @#$!ing splendor. Yawn."

Hungry, I sit in the cafe at the hotel. Having ordered, I ponder history. Cairo, capital of the Shia Caliphs. Muslim Egypt's most famous ruler was the Sunni vizier and Kurd, Saladin, who was the self-proclaimed "Sultan of Islam" and is best known for retaking Jerusalem from the infidel Franks. So I'm sitting in a French hotel in a country which was one of the five great seats of Christianity, in the capital built by "heretic" Shia, beside the holy surviving great wonder of the ancient world, so venerable that in the 1300s (I think) when an earthquake loosened up the highly polished limestone casing (which legend had it was so reflective that it could be seen in Israel), the caliph had nearly all of it torn off and used to build up his capital. Intact for four thousand years, we are in awe of flayed husks. I have no doubt the pyramid limestone leather, wherever it is, is covered in a patina of dust.

My beer arrives. I ordered a "Stella." What arrives is not a Stella Artois. This Stella is Egyptian. "Authentic Egyptian" the blue and yellow label declares. "Since 1897." It is a lager.

Beer, is perhaps, five thousand (or so) years old. It may very well have originated in Egypt. The builders of the pyramids deserved a beer at the end of a marvel-constructing day. In Islam, alcohol, "khamt", is forbidden, "haram", and thus predominantly illegal for 1300 or so years. Yet here, in Muslim Giza, I drink haram khamt named, perhaps, for a four hundred year old Belgian beer, but brewed in a style developed in Europe, reintroduced to the land the damned drink was invented five thousand years after it was conjured up. Something about this is perplexing, funny, sad, and fitting all at once.

Though they say, "Many a slip twixt the cup and the lip," there is no barrier between me and my first sup of khamt in over two months.

Relaxed, I take stock and various tidbits of my day bombard me:

-Having heard rave reviews of Emirates Airlines, I rather looked foward to the flight from Dubai to Cairo. All started out well enough. I was in the forward-most row of coach and so had glorious amounts of leg room. I sat in the aisle seat. A nondescript European sat in the window seat. Thus, of course, a stinky (literally) Indian or Pakistani plopped himself between us. Half my torso leaned out into the aisle, not only because I wished to veer from the clench of the stench, but also because Airbus designers have yet to account for the fact that modern men have shoulders.

Apparently, uncomfortable, aggravated, large men are not a concern for Emirates' security, as we are given actual metal ware to eat with. That said, felt comforted. As Twain said, "An armed society is a polite society."

-So, beer is forbidden, but I'm not from here and I'm not Muslim so it's okay. I struggle for an analogy, but the closest I can come up with is that it would be like if the US allowed cocaine if you were foreign and non-gentile. "Eh...we'll take their money; they're gonna burn in hell anyway."

-1/10th of the time back to Khufu (Cheops), builder of the Great Pyramid, and my ancestry disintegrates into legend and myth. That makes me ponder living history. In my estimation, it lasts until the memories of your grandfather's grandfather. My generation, by that reckoning, is the last to touch "the war."

-Rameses II dominated Egypt and the Near East two thousand years before the Crusaders. The language before the language that is the etymological basis for the English word "ancient" hadn't developed when Egypt STOPPED being ruled by indigenous pharaohs.

Curious Product Placement

Written by a buddy, who for professional reasons, can't be identified:

"I stopped in the gas station last night and noticed behind the counter three single serving products placed left-to-right side-by-side-by-side:

1. Trojan Magnum XL (Prophylactic)

2. Rock Hard Weekend (Male Enhancement Supplement)

3.E-Z Flow (Laxative)

Party time."