Day Three-Part One

I'm not a morning person as all my friends and family will atest, but 6 am here is a gorgeous hour of the day. The Aten, to use Akenaten's term, pouring in the window fills the room with a radiant yellow glow. I step onto the balcony and the clear air, the slight breeze, the hint of warmth to come...I can see why Aktenaten decided to worship the Aten and why Re was the supreme God here for so many years.

Along the side of the walk are various kinds of flowers, red geraniums, little blue cornflower like flowers, pink ones with leaves like mint...I stop for a moment to admire the pink ones and I notice that hidden amidst the blossoms are dozens of orange butterflies. I move and they flutter around my ankles like dancing girls clad in their festive finery doing a wild dance in honor of the sun god. Then, at some silent signal, they rise to the sky like a offering of live flowers and swirl off in the the distant blue.

We are going to Saqqarah today to see the famous Step Pyramid, so we are driving beyond Giza into the country. As we stop at a little village market to pick up bottled water, I notice a plastic bag floating like a deflated balloon along a street covered with empty cigarette cartons, tin cans of what looks like cat food and skips and scraps of paper. In a land of such incredible beauty, there is also incredible debris. You skip from one to the other without so much as a pause for breath.

Everywhere I see half-built buildings; I can't tell if they never were completed or if they are abandoned. And in the midst of what I assume must be ruins, I see a line of clothes handing from a balcony like a string of multi-national flags and a satellite dish---someone is living there afterall.

The farther we get into the country, the more donkeys we see. I think there must be more donkeys than cars, all of them heavily laden with goods or riders, trotting along the side of the road, weaving in and out of traffic. I spot a donkey and a motorcycle going nearly the same pace, but with the condition of the road and the traffic, my bet would be on the donkey.

We are traveling the Royal road from Mena House to the Royal lake where Egyptian kings (and perhaps queens) would take their guests to hunt. Fadel says that when he was a boy, it was a narrow dirt road. I don't think it's changed much, although I suppose if you looked close enough you could tell it was asphalt. It nestles its shoulder against a drainage canal that leads all the way to the Mediterranean.

However, because of construction, it's not working properly and the land on either side is reverting to the marshy conditions that existed when the Nile flooded and brought the soil-enriching silt to the farms. Pools of standing water can be seen between houses, in yards and seeping into the fields. As I peer into some of the larger homes, I can see lush gardens, filled with date palms and flowering bushes. Walking in the garden of the Pharoah or a Nobleman must have been a sublime experience, especially with the desert so very nearby.

As the bus rushes through the countryside, so do the images:
A little girl, maybe 8 or 9, sweeping the dirt outside the front step of her house with a broom of twigs shaped like a half-smile
Date palms with their fronds cut and small birds nesting near the bound stalks darting back and forth.
A man and a young boy fishing on the banks of the canal, their lines a delicate arc to the water below.
A teenage boy picking his way down a slope of garbage, stepping carefully, but searching for something, his head bent low, looking intently at the debris.
Two goats poking their heads out of a doorway, alongside a child who peeks over their heads at our bus rushing by.
A girl, about 8, waving and smiling as we pass.
Mechanics in tiny shops, welding metal amid stacks of old tires.
Women bearing baskets on thier heads looking as if they had stepped off the walls of an ancient painting as they walk along the side of the road.

Suddenly the fields and village change to a veritable forest of palm trees. It is as dense as any pine forest I’ve ever been in, although these trees are clearly cultivated. Fadel tells us that the palm is used for its fruit, its fronds are made into a type of fiber fabric, the stalks into furniture and then, when the tree is old, its trunk is used for lumber. Perhaps the Giving Tree shouldn’t have been an apple, but a palm tree instead.

We come around a corner and all of sudden I understand, not intellectually, but viserally why the ancient Egyptians called this the Red and Black land. You can literally draw a line with your finger and separate the lush from the barren, the green from the yellow, the growing from the desolate. We get off the bus and I take a picture—my left side is a tangle of trees, brush, grass. My right side is sand and rock. Life and death, separated by a line in eternity. Little wonder the ancients ones saw now and then as a continuum, marked only by the cessation of the heart beat, but the soul, the life force merely crossed the thread that divides this world from the next.


I'm ending this part of Day three because we have a very early wake-up. We have to be on the bus by 7:30 so I must pack my bags, shower and get ready to leave tonight. If I don't collapse, I'll try to finish tonight...otherwise it will be the next time I have internet access. We are going to an area with spotty access for the next several days so I don't know when I'll next be able to post.

Day Two--Pyramids

Day 2
Today is a retrospective, not a moment by reality moment account because there simply wasn’t time to write. It was an exhausting, exhilarating day spent at the Pyramids of Giza. But that doesn’t mean I won’t switch tenses since, in my own mind, I go from remembering to actually being back in the moment.
Re Rising.

We enter the bus and drive a very short distance up a fairly steep incline to join dozens of other tour buses at the base of the Pyramid complex. I was particularly struck by the rubble that surrounds the site—rocky scrabble with a fine layer of dust, not really the sand one thinks of in the Egyptian desert. The complex itself is fenced off to bar unauthorized access and military guards in their white uniforms, are everything. As are about a million tourists. Just as aside, I wonder why some women go to archaeological sites wearing ankle turning high heels? I saw one woman in a pair of platform heels that would have been right at home on the catwalk trying to negotiate the rocks.

The surface of the pyramid plateau is an uneven mélange of what must have been paving stones broken and worn by excavations and time. Like a gaggle of baby geese just venturing into the world, we straggle behind Fadel, listing to his lecture on the building of the pyramids, the theories that have been rejected and the precision with which it was all built.

Everywhere children hawk items—gifty souvenirs—I avoid the word tacky, but it would fit here—cheap statues of Bastet, plastic pyramids, and envelopes full of postcards. They start out asking $5. American for 10 cards, but the real going rate seems to be about a dollar.

It is almost impossible to find words to describe the Great Pyramid. Which is why I’ve been skirting around starting. The Pyramid of Khufu is 137 meters high—which is, if my faulty metric to feet conversion is about 450 feet. As you stand under it, it is impossible to see the top because of the angle. But that’s not what makes it so incredible. Standing there, I realize that I am at the foot of the last remaining wonder of the ancient world. One of the great wonders of civilization. The only one that sill looks the way it did (or close to it) when it was built. Others have completely disappeared, like the Colossus of Rhodes or are mere shadows of their original selves. But the Pyramid, with its precise angles and looming presence on the skyline is still as impressive as it must have been to those who visited it two thousand years ago. Its sheer size is difficult to comprehend and pictures do not do it justice. It is particularly awe-inspiring when you realize that it was built without any of the things we require for modern construction, like lasers, computers and, oh yes, the wheel. The ancient Egyptians apparently didn’t use the wheel to move the blocks in place, but relied on a system of rollers instead. As we gaped at the immense stone blocks, Fadel talked about the various theories of how the Pyramid was built, but I was so awe-struck by its precision and beauty, the latest, involving some sort of lever device has escaped my journal and my memory.

The thousands of tourists snapping pictures, many of which seem to consist of being positioned so that it appears you are holding the pyramid by your fingertip, and I include myself in the category of tourist, but not in the finger holding the pyramid division, stand in a line nearly 4000 years old. It boggles the mind to realize that during Cleopatra’s time, these ancient giants were nearly 2000 years old. They were as old to Cleopatra and Marc Antony as they partied on the Nile as Cleo and Tony are to us today.

We walk, stroll almost, about the complex listening to Fadel lecture on the history, One of the novel and very practical aspects of this tour is that we all have radios and Fadel broadcasts his talks on channel 108. We can wander quite a distance and look at whatever we want, while still hearing him. And he can summon his goslings back with just a few words. It’s a very efficient, very practical way of keeping a group together while still allowing maximum wandering freedom. Walking into history via modern technology.

Periodically Fadel leaves us, shutting off his broadcast, to take a cell call or a text because we are supposed to meet with Dr. Zawi Hawass who was Secretary General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities until this last week when he was made a Deputy Minister of Culture. As Secretary General, he had to retire this year, but as Deputy Minister he can work as long as the President of Egypt wants him to. And since Dr. Hawass is arguably the most famous Egyptologist of the day and perhaps one of the best known archaeologists in the world because of his many television programs and specials, it’s a pretty good bet that he will continue working with Egyptian antiquities for a good many more years.


We are getting to have a private meeting with him because he and Fadel went to school together and are both colleagues and personal friends. At one point, Fadel informs us that Dr. Hawass was at the dedication of the new Howard Carter museum and we are at the mercy of his “murky schedule.” Dr. Hawass’s assistant, a cheerful young American named April keeps updating Fadel on Dr. Hawass’s current location. At least that’s what I think she is doing.

After walking along one side of the Great Pyramid, which was sufficient long enough to satisfy any latent urge to circumnavigate it, Fadel leads his little gaggle away from the hoards to a small tomb of the overseer of pyramid construction and a head scribe…whose name I have forgotten and who isn’t listed in my guidebook. His tomb is in a group of tombs, mastabas actually, that cluster in the shadow of the pyramids, so as to allow their owners to share in the glory of the Pharaoh.

This tomb is hewn from solid rock.



Down a short flight of fairly steep steps, it remains a silent sentry to the fascination the ancient Egyptians had, not with death, but with eternal life. The tomb, or more correctly, the chapel, consists of an outer room, an inner chamber with five statues of the tomb’s owner and one of him as a child, representing different aspects of his life, a small center chamber and a room with a false door and offering table. Fadel points out the chiseled inscription which look as if they were museum replicas and not the real things, they are so clear and fresh appearing. It is the blessing of the desert that preserves these artifacts of the ancient culture. The dry air, lack of rain and general desert conditions are ideal for preserving everything from pottery to human flesh.
Next stop is the solar Boat Museum, so we need to go around to another side of the Great Pyramid. The second largest pyramid on the site, the Pyramid of Khafre peeks around the corner. It is unusual in that its tip is still covered with the polished white limestone blocks that originally covered all the pyramids. It must have been quite a sight to see these enormous white building rising like massive sailing ships on the sea of the desert. Even today, with city buildings virtually at their feet, they are still awe-inspiring.

It’s essential to pay close attention to where you step and not just because the ground is so uneven. The stony platform is littered with camel dung (smallish pellets) and what must be horse or donkey feces, although I am not sure since I am not now nor do I ever want to become a dung specialist. It is also important to watch for puddles as well, where the camels (and perhaps the donkeys…I’m not a urine specialist either) have relieved themselves. The camels are here for the tourists—take a camel ride and get your picture taken by the Great Pyramid. Some of the camels look in fair condition, but others have open wounds and they all are covered with flies.


Suddenly a fight breaks out between two trinket vendors. One puts the other in a choke hold and much cursing in Arabic ensues. The fight breaks up with the arrival of the Tourism Police, but after the officer departs, the injured party throws a few stones at his opponent…just for show.

The Museum of the Solar Boat is blissfully air conditioned and since I am dripping swelteringly hot, I could stay inside for a very long time. The a/c isn’t for people, however, but for the boat which was found intact in a pit at the side of the Pyramid. It was used, not in this world, but to transport the King to other mystical realms in the afterlife. We are obliged to put on thick canvas shoe covers, shove our bags thought an X-ray machine, pass through the gift shop and enter the exhibit hall.

Suddenly, we get word through our radios that we must leave immediately. Dr. Hawass has arrived. Fadel urges us to hurry and “get a move on” as we begin a very brisk march down the steep causeway leading from the Pyramid of Khafre to the Sphinx. It’s steep enough that my thighs feel the pressure, but we continue at a near jog until we reach a guarded barrier. The guard opens it for our group and we walk down a wooden staircase until we reach the very base of the Sphinx.
Above us, the throngs look over a railing down into the excavation, but we are standing at the very paws of the Great Beast.

We are here only because this is where we are to meet Dr. Hawass, at the Dream Stele at the base of the Sphinx. We wait for a few minutes and then suddenly, he appears in his uniform of blue jeans, blue shirt and infamous hat looking exactly like he does on every National Geographic special.

This has to be one of the most surreal moments of my life. Standing at the paws of the Sphinx with hundreds of tourists looking down at us, as we listen to the leading Egyptologist in Egypt today talk about his work, his explorations and his newest discoveries. Among the most intriguing, is the revelation that sometime in the next few weeks, as a result of DNA testing in new labs that specialize in DNA from mummies, he and his ream will reveal the parents of King Tut. Later I asked his assistant, April, if the world would be surprised at the names and she smiled nearly as enigmatically as the Sphinx itself before saying that it was Zawi’s to report, adding that the details had been checked and rechecked three times so that when the announcement comes, it will be definite. To think that within a month one of the great mysteries of the 18th Dynasty will be solved!

At the end of his talk about the preservation, and a Q and A session, Dr. Hawass allowed each of us to have our picture taken with him and while I never really want my picture taken with a celebrity, I made an exception of the man who will go down in history with the greats like Howard Carter and Flanders Petri. It seemed like a good thing.

As Dr. Hawass and his guards left, our group moved to the shady side of the Great Beast. Since no one is allowed to be this close, the fine sand was footprint free. I stepped into the powder and then took a picture of my sole print, feeling a bit like I was photographing a print on the surface of the moon.
We were free to look about, so I decided to circumnavigate the Sphinx. As I stopped to stare up at the gigantic face, I caught sight of a small dark scorpion, which I assiduously avoided, crawling over the casing as well as several very intent long-legged black ants. As I came around the far side, viewing the profile was a heart-stopping moment.


Against the blue sky, dotted with angelically photoshopped clouds was that profile. The most famous stone profile in the world. It took my breath away.
Coming back to the front, I was alone, so I rested my palms on the sacrificial altar directly between the paws and stared through time at the Dream Stele. The antiquity of the place suddenly overwhelmed me and the thought that I was standing where virtually no one gets to go hit me. I began to cry. This was my pilgrimage, my Mecca, my Rome. And it was every bit as astonishing as I had ever hoped.

Leaving the Sphinx, the modern world intruded in the reality of a one-way road. We couldn’t be driven back up the hill. We had to climb the causeway in an aerobic exercise and diagnostic knee strength testing. At the top, we started again on our aborted tour of the Solar Boat museum.

Long ago I read that the Queen Mother told Prince Charles that he should always sit instead of stand, ride instead of walk and never pass up a chance to go to the bathroom. I passed up the bathroom but when I saw a wooden chair standing lonely sentinel at the edge of the boat pit, I immediately snagged it. Right under the air conditioning, with a view down into the pit, I sat and blissfully allowed the possibility of heat stroke to be blown away.

Eventually the group reassembled. Bathroom breaks take awhile. And we climbed up three stories to see the reconstructed Solar Boat. It is astonishing to think that the Cedar of Lebanon still gave off a sweet aroma when the pit was first opened in the 1950s. The boat itself is much much larger than I expected, although why I expected it to be small, I don’t know. It is beautifully preserved from the originally matting that lay over the top of the cabin to the huge oars in the shape of spearheads to defend against an evil god who causes sand bars to move. The only thing that is modern is the rope used to lash it together. The original rope still exists, but for safety purposes, modern rope was used.


Leaving the Solar Boat, Fadel informs us that it is now time to enter the Pyramid of Khufu, to climb to the King’s Chamber if we are so inclined. In order to preserve the interior, only 300 tickets are issued each day and it is necessary to be in line at 6 am. Unless, of course, you are Fadel and a personal friend of the Deputy Minister of Antiquities. (Just as an aside, April said to me that no one in all of Egypt has better connections than Fadel. I believe her. He is amazing.)

I am a little scared of the climb. I’ve seen pictures of the low ceiling where you must crouch to climb and then the Grand Gallery with its very steep ramp staircase. I also know you climb about 2/3 of the height of the Pyramid and I know that I’m not in great shape and I already ache from the fibro, but fear be damned and fibro be banished. I decide I’m going to do this no matter what. It is my only chance and I’m not giving it up.

The climb is as arduous as I dreaded. It’s very steep, very narrow and very hot. Definitely not for the claustrophobic or the faint of heart for once you are committed to the climb, there is no turning back. It’s up and up and up in the heat, the dark and unknown. And then there is the descent. It is so steep one could probably slide down and if one lost one’s footing, you would probably take out at least 20 other climbers in your fall.

After a breath-robbing, heart pounding, knee aching climb we arrive at the King’s Chamber. It was everything I expected and nothing at all what I expected. It was totally black, as much from the color of the walls as from the complete and utter darkness pierced only by a few rather dim lights. But what gave the experience an eerie hue as that a woman, arms open to the ceiling, was chanting over the sarcophagus. The resonance vibrated deep into my chest and I could feel the notes echoing in the very cells of my being. After she quit singing, I moved in the sweltering oppressive heat to her place and laying my hands on the cool stone, I said a silent prayer for all who had stood here before me, inside the Great Pyramid of Khufu.

The climb down was as bad as I had anticipated. Hard on the knees, hard on the shoulders as I braced on the rails, hard on the back as I crouched in a near crawl though the winding corridors. Besides the fact I was extremely proud of myself for having actually accomplished this feat, I learned I’m not especially claustrophobic since the dark and closeness didn’t’ really bother me. Of course, the pounding of my heart, the gasping for breath, the aching in my calves and thighs might have mitigated any minor claustrophobia. When you think you might have a heart attack, a little darkness is immaterial.


I knew I was hot…sweltering actually…in the interior, but I didn’t realize just how hot until I got out and the afternoon breeze, which had been quite warm, was down-right chilly. How interesting it is that your perception can change so rapidly.
We geese returned to the bus behind our leader and we headed for a late lunch. After winding through narrow streets shared equally by pedestrians, cars, donkeys, goats, carts and the occasional cat, we parked and…walked some more, passing a stable with bony horses and bored camels for hire. Turning a corner, we came to the restaurant and as we waited for the door to be opened, we shared the street with various Arabian horse, a foal and one donkey who was hot-footing it as fast as he could clip-clop around the corner. Oh the delightful incongruity of a Mercedes bus, a Peugeot cab, a Japanese car, a grey donkey, a sandy camel, black and white goats, a dun mare and foal and a calico cat---all just outside the restaurant where we were having lunch. If the sights weren’t enough to convince me I was in Kansas anymore (although I’ve only been in Kansas once and really don’t want to return), the noises would be a sure sigh. The guttural grown of the camels, the braying of the donkeys, the yelling of the men all punctuated with the rap of hooves from a quick-stepping horse.

Following lunch which was a fabulous assortment of vegetables, of which we tender stomached Americans were told to eat only those that were cooked, we got up close and personal with the camels on the stoop by taking a camel ride through backs streets with tiny shops, children playing the games children play everywhere, camel dung, donkey piles, dirty puddles and a crush of horse-drawn carriage, camels, goats and people. Eventually we came to a gate with Tourism Police who let us go out into the desert for a photo op of riding a camel with the Pyramids in the background. It was a completely kitschy, completely romantic and absolutely wonderful moment.
One word of warning, when the drivers tell you to “lean back and hold on,” that’s just what they mean: “lean back as far as you can and hold on for dear life” because the camel rocks up and in case you haven’t been next to a camel recently, they are very very tall. If you don’t lean back and hold on, you will most definitely fall off. Even though I had been on a camel before, the one I rode was very tall and it was a very long way to the ground.


On the way back to the hotel, we had a shopping opportunity at a jewelry store which specializes in gold cartouches with your name. I wasn’t even going to go in, but I was talked into leaving the bus to just “look around.” I didn’t think I would find anything since I have more than enough jewelry I don’t wear, but lo and behold, in the back I found small statues of Egyptian gods. I added Hathor and Sekmet to my collection.

Several of our group were going to an Indian restaurant and others were following the one we call Maid Marion to a grill. But I was way too tired for another excursion and besides, I had promised myself that I would keep my journal and notes up, so I opted out. Good thing because I ate at the coffee shop at Mena House and fell asleep twice over my fried egg, turkey and veal sandwich.

Tomorrow we go to Saqquarah and Dahshur.

Day One

If this were a book, this would be the foreword, that stuff no one reads. But I am hoping you might read this because, like many forewords, it does contain some things I want you to know.
This blog is a record of my trip to Egypt, the number one item on my "bucket list." The story of how I came to take this trip at this time will have to wait, but for now, this is the record of my adventure.
A couple of things:
1. The tense changes throughout from present to past and I've made no attempt to alter that. I know it changes because I keep notes in a hand-written journal, a Moleskine to be precise, with its black cover and unlined pages, the same sort of journal that traveled with Hemingway and Picasso.(Incidentally, I write in it because it makes me feel like I am joining in a great stream of visitors to this land who, journals in hand, have seen these same magnificent buildings and temples and stood in awe before their history and heritage.) The tense changes in my journal, depending on when I am able to scribble in it and as I essentially transcribe my journal to share with you, I haven't bothered to edit. Partly because I think there is a certain interesting flavor to the immediacy of the words and partly because I'm just too damn tired at night when we get back to do the kind of rewrite and editing that would require.
2. This really is a blog, a journal account. If and when I can, I'll provide links and possible pictures, but internet access isn't always the easiest and so I'm not approaching this with the same degree of detail that I would if I were truly writing a book, for instance.
And because of the internet issues, I'm not sure how often I will be updating this. I'm going to try for daily, but I'm also going to go with the flow.
3. I'm writing this on a netbook with a small keyboard and no spell check...so ignore the typing errors that are sure to appear
Finally, .I'm doing this because I hope to let you in on a bit of my dream and the fulfilment of that dream in the hopes that you will go out and find your own dream. It is only in the sharing that we make our experiences come to life.


And so it begins.
The fulfilment of a dream.
I'm on my way to Egypt. Technically I'm on my way to New York where I'll catch an Egypt Air flight to Cairo. According to othe moving map at the back of the seat in front of me on this Delta flight, I'm somewhere over Forest City, Iowa. The heartland of America. Somehow that seems like poetic justice to begin a journal of an adventure to the mysterious land of the Pharaoahs and the Sphinx, the vast desert and the throbbing lifeline of the Nile. Over Iowa, the middle of the middle of the country of my birth.
The flight from Portland to JFK was supposed to leave at 6:25 am but the number two engine was three quarts low on oil and, for some reason, no mechanic at the airport was authorized to put oil in. So someone else, from some place elesd had to be summoned. This, of course, took a very long time, more than a hour. Clearly putting in a couple of quarts in an Airbus is not like going to the nearby JiffyLube.
Fortunately I have a couple of hours in JFK before I catch the next flight to Cairo (Oh My God, I'm going to Egypt!) so it doesn't much concern me. A few people are panicking, but there always seems to be at least one person who gets freaked out, as if that will somehow make the place fly faster.
Incidentally, if you want to attact attention, just carry an Egypt tour book. Everyone stops and asks if you are going there. Then, when you say "yes," they act quite surprised as if it were usual for people to carry around Egypt tour books. After about the third person said the same thing, I was very tempted to reply, "If you didn't think I would be going there, why do you think I would be reading 'The Rough Guide to Egypt'?" But I refrained. At least so far.
Last night in the restaurant where I had dinner before going to the hotel which offered a Park and Fly option that was ultimately cheaper than paying for parking in the budget lot, the manager was so intrigued, he brought over one of his servers who was from Jordan and they both sat down and talked with me for about 20 minutes. At the end he said that if I would come back on the way home and show them the pictures, he'd give me dinner on the house.
I might just take him up on the offer.
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The afternooon air in NY was brisk, but since the airplane had been stiffling, it felt wonderful. I caught the Air Train to the International terminal where, once inside, the presence of veils and rapid-fire world languages made it clear I was leaving the US.
As I was checking in, the man at my Egypt Air station was clearly a supervisor, as he was dressed in a suit and tie, not a uniform. As he took my ticket, he asked if I knew the president of Germany. I said I didn't and then he added, "You look 90% like her. The next time you look in the mirror, you are looking at the President of Germany." I googled her on my iPhone while I was waiting and I'm not sure if we look that much alike. We are both blonde, and sort of round-faced. Perhaps I'll be mistaken for a German in Egypt. Not sure if that is good or bad. German or American? Which would I choose.
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In the Egypt Air plane waiting for take-off, I find myself surprisingly delighted to learn that one of the people on the trip is a doctor. Now granted, he is a radiologist, but still. A doctor is a doctor and I'm pretty sure he still remembers how to treat heat stroke or snake bite. In any event, it is nice to be traveling with your own physician of sorts.
He and his wife are traveling with his cousin and her husband. And in the small world category, the cousin's husband graduated from Stanford where my son Matt went. Even though I'm not a Stanford grad, there is a sort of comradery that goes with the Cardinal connection and I was adopted into the "club." So I have some companions for the journey, although I am happy to have my own room.
Egypt Air feels like almost every other plane I've been on except for the foot rests that resemble those on Amtrack. And the fact that everything is in Arabic and English. The announcements take a very long time in Arabic and end with Shukran, thank you, one of the few Arabic words I know. The same announcement in English takes less than half the time. I wonder what we non-Arabic speakers are missing out on?
One interesting point is that instead of a movie or pre-flight announcement, the overhead screens show the pilots' view of the runway. We are slowly taxiing, since we are 20th in line fo take-off. No turning back now.
About an hour into the flight, the attendants brought little zippered pouches with sox, sleepshades, toothbrush, ear bud and a carrying strap. I can only imagine what they must get in first or business class.
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We are about 40 minutes for landing. I slept som, rather fitfully and uncomfortably, but I dozed a bit. It's now 2 am my time and I've been up for nearly 24 hours, so no wonder I feel a bit off. I'm not exactly excited or nervous anymore. Just a little spacy. As I look out the window all I can see is a sliver of blue sky beyond the slanting slope of an immense silver wing. We are suspended in space, not part of the earth, but not part of the sky and we hurl through the frigid air, eating, drinking, talking as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Which, I guess, it is now.
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Kemet. The Red and Black Lands. Egypt.

My first glimmer is a flash of red-yellow sand between fluffy white clouds and the azure sky. As the wing dips, I see a bit more and I have an "aha" moment. I now understand why the ancient Egyptians called the desert the "Red Land." Under the yellow of the desert is a pale salmon color and where a road or a building brushes away the surface, deep red lines remain.
The desert is truly endless, broken by patches of buildings, the same color as the sand. It suddenly strikes me as I watch that there is no water. No streams, no lakes, no ponds. Little patches of dusty green pop up now and then, but there is no open water. I understand now why the Nile was so important. It was and still is the only source of water in what is truly an endless desert.
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Our group gathered to get our Visas together and as I waited, someone called my name. Hearing one's name in Cairo is a bit of a jarring experience. It turns out someone on the flight (not on my tour) was a member of the Board of Directors of the Catholic Press at the same time I was and he recognized me. Indeed it is a very small world.
I have to admit there is a certain advantage to being in a tour. They take care of details like Visas, customs, luggage etc. All I have to do is find a bathroom. Which grows more urgent by the moment.
The terminal of the Cairo airport we landed at is brand new, as in less than a month old. It gleams in every corner and the bathrooms are utterly spotless. I was a little startled when, in this ultra-modern bath with automatic flush, a hand suddenly came under the door with a wad of toilet tissue. Since there was a roll in the stall, I tried to remember the Arabic for "No thanks," but being a bit tired, trying to balance my purse and carry-on and pee at the same time meant I had no brain. The hand finally pulled back out.
We were accompanied through the city by a police escort which I didn't see, but I did see cars swerve quickly to let us pass so I assume he was in front. I really don't know why we had a police escort. Perhaps all buses filled with American tourists do.
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Cairo is greener than I expected although I knew that gardens had been a part of Egyptian culture since the beginning. Nevertheless, I saw many more trees and evergreens than I had anticipated. Most are a dusty green, from the pollution, the cars, and the dust itself. Every now and then, a bank of bougainvillea appears, the red flashes of the blossoms revealing pocket gardens between buildings, in old villas and even, sometime, just along the side of the road.
I had been waiting for my first sight of the Nile and suddenly, we turned a corner and there it was. The Nile. The most famous river in history, perhaps the most famous river in the world. The river of the Pharaohs and Cleopatra and Alexander and the British. It was, well, the Nile. Broad, silvery blue and flowing steadily toward the Mediterranean. I barely got a glimpse before high rises cut off the view, but then we crossed a bridge and below us was the most amazing sight. A couple of small islands of the most incredibly lush green fields. It struck me that they looked exactly like the fields in a computer game about Egypt that my son and I used to play. The islands, in the center of the river between Gezi and Cairo are not filled with masses of tumbling houses, half-built high rises or a jumble of dwellings which appear to have sprung up without regard for direction or safety. Apparently they are considered "the lungs" of the city and are therefore left verdent, to be cultivated as the land of the Nile has been cultivated for centuries.
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Our tour guide Fadel Gad has been giving us rolling history lessons as we pass through Heliopolis, the President's Palace, Military Academies and what seems like endless highrises. Much looks as I had imagined or extrapolated from my visit to Jordan, but nothing prepared me for the Cities of the Dead.
The Cities of the Dead, which is now a sort of squatters' area inhabited by the living as well, is enormous. Literally miles and miles of what look like small houses, shrines and temples surrounded by walls. It truly is a City....of the deceased. If ever one were to realize that the necropolises of Pharonic times are not yet gone, one has only to look at the City of the Dead. It is estimated that as many as 500,000 Cairenes live in these cemetaries and, as we passed by some of the alleys with evidence of live habitation, it was a very odd thing to think about children playing literally on the bones of their ancestors. Life and death. Birth and rebirth. It is a very Egyptian concept, the living and dead together. But a bit eerie from my Western perspective.
The Citadel of Salah-al-din is located near the end of the Cities of the Dead, at least via the route we took. An enormous fortified Crusader-era complex, it stretches like a Medieval spider across the landscape. Our tour guide said that we would not be visiting it because it "wasn't that old." In a land where time is measured in thousands of years, the 13th century truly isn't all that old. In fact, it's practically modern by comparison.
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The landscape almost immediately changes from city to rural and just as we turned off to go to our hotel near the Pyramids, there began to appear little stands with a vegetable seller and always a donkey. Carrots must be in season for everyone had bunches for sale. They are beautifully arranged, their bright orange ends bundled and fanned out like some oddly pointy flower arrangement that has fallen onto its side. At one of the stands, a grey donkey contently munched his own bag of carrots. As we passed, the vendor began tossed water from a bucket onto the vegetables and being the quesy-stomached American, I no longer considered how lovely and picturesque the carrots and vegetables were, but began to think Immodium thoughts and recalled how a friend of mine nearly died from eating raw carrots in Egypt. I can see why she was tempted, but I will resist the temptation.
Our hotel is magnificent. The Mena House was once a khedival hunting lodge and was the placw where Roosevelt and Churchill initiated D-Day as well as the signing of the peace treaty between Isael and Egypt. Upon our arrival we were given glasses of karkaday, a scarlet beverage made from hibiscus flowers. It is slightly reminiscient of cranberries, with the same sweet-tangy flavor.
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My room is modern and comfortable, but the most amazing thing is that outside on my balcony I can see Cheops' Pyramid, soaring high above what appears to be the minuet of a mosque. (But it might be something else pointy.) I am sitting in a comfortable chair, with a slight breeze blowing, looking at the Great Pyramid. I can bearly believe it. After a lifetime of dreaming, it appears before me as if it were itself a dream.
A flock of bird soars to the heavens, temporarily creating a cloud of living smoke in front of this, the last remaining wonder of the ancient world, old at the time of Christ, ancient even to Cleopatra, this symbol of eternity seems almost itself to be eternal. As the birds circle and then dive, I can see why the ancient Egyptians chose the bird to be the sign of the Ka, the soul. I feel like for a moment I've been given a glimpse into the soul of the Pyramid.
Directly in front of me, a lush green manicured lawn glides up a gently slope. Palm trees sway in the breeze, their fronds waving gently. The temperature is ideal and I now understand why, in the 19th century, people came to Egypt in the winter for their health.
Turning my attention back to the Pyramid that fills the skyline, I sense I'm holding my breath.
I am here.
I am really here.
It has begun.