Trading sandals for blue suede shoes

United Airlines flight 9025 leaves Cairo at an ungodly hour; 3:00 am. It lands in Frankfort, Germany five hours later. Dana and I will be on board. Six and one-half hours later, United Airlines fight 8878 departs Frankfort for Denver. This is a ten and one-half hour deal, and Dana and I will be on this one, too. Five and one-half hours later, United Airlines flight 4090, a little shuttle, departs for Memphis. One and one-half hours later, Dana and I will touch down in the land of the Delta Blues, twenty-nine hours after having left Cairo. Ain't gonna be pretty. I understand now why Elvis bought the jet.

I wish I could blame some other idiot on these less-than-ideal flight arrangements. I cannot. The idiot is me; sort of. You see, this series of flights was born one year ago. Dana and I had just found out that my high school (grades 9-12) principal position was transforming into an upper school (grades 6-12) principal position. The change meant that I would be competing for this newy-created job along with the sitting middle school principal. I might be successful in getting the job or I might not. Not being in a place financially to be able to possibly take a year off, Dana and I had to go recruiting for new jobs given that one of us - me - might not be gainfully employed for the upcoming year. So we made arrangements to attend a educational recruitment fair in San Francisco. As fortune would have it, we secured good jobs in Cairo (bless you, Skype) ahead of the fair. 

So we had this flight ticket. We cancelled, and according to airline policy, we had one year to change the ticket into something else. That "something else" started out as a one-stop, round-trip excursion. Then there was a flight cancellation and a reshuffling of tickets. One stop turned into two stops. Then there was a rescheduled flight; and then another. All of a sudden we are facing the 29 hour marathon that I outlined earlier; and that is IF all goes according to schedule.

In some respects, our transitory flight schedule resembles our five months in Egypt. We took jobs expecting certain situations to occur. Some did and some did not. Example .... when we signed our contracts back in February, we signed on for a two-year stint as an assistant principal and as a lower school counselor. That has not changed. But back when we signed our contracts, Mohammed Morsi was still President of Egypt. Morsi had not yet begun to tinker around with the constitution. The protests that avalached as a result of Morsi's actions had yet to transpire. 1500 or so Egyptians souls, forever departed in the wake of the violence that that has been Egyptian politics since, were still very much alive in February. Our school's enrollment last February was a bouyant 1300. It is now 900 including 75, non-fee-paying, faculty children. Dana and I had yet to dodge groups of protestors, hundreds strong. We had yet to hear the chants. We had yet to walk by the tanks. We had yet to be stopped at the checkpoints. We had yet to see the trucks of security forces, the scared faces of the young men about to be deployed, putting themselves in harm's way.

Samples of 'khayameya" in the Khan El Khalili

Like our flight arrangements, there have been surprises, albeit many pleasant ones. We have seen struggling people offer charity and hope to other people struggling even more. We have seen taxi drivers greet us warmly every morning, even though we have never ridden in their cabs. We have experienced the spectacles of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings. We have walked in the steps of St. Antoni and conversed with eccentric Coptic monks. We have purchased a khayameya from a tent-maker in Cairo's Khan El Khalili; a tent-maker who also sells his beautiful pieces in Paducah, Kentucky. We have dipped our toes in the Red Sea. We have visited the City of the Dead, and we have met the recycled goods vendors who live and work in Garbage City. We have dined in the palace of King Farouk. We have sailed the Nile. We have stood atop mountains to see the broad expanse of the Sahara open at our feet. 

But now our feet are weary. Our sandals have become worn and dusty. Our venturing spirits long for the comforts that we know Memphis can provide. Being with family and friends. Walking down Summer and Beale. Eating the best "down-home" cooking in the world. Living among Tigers and Grizzlies. Watching as the mighty Mississippi flows gently down to the Gulf. Longing to be home. 

We are on our way.

Beale Street, Memphis

The Mermaid

Our little portion of Cairo is called Ma'adi. Ma'adi is a large "suburb" of Cairo situated to the south of the city proper and on the eastern bank of the Nile. Cross the Nile from Ma'adi, and you are in the tangle of urban clusters and farming communities that make up Giza. Stand on a third-floor of a Ma'adi balcony, and you can see the Pyramids (on a clear day). Ma'adi has been a wealthy enclave of Cairo ever since "ever-since." Ottoman "pashas" lived here during the days of the Ottoman rule of Egypt. After the Ottomans left their grand homes, embassies moved in, and they are still here. During World War II, Eisenhower and Montgomery used Ma'adi residences during their brief stays in Egypt. Today, Ma'adi is home for many of Cairo's million-strong, ex-patriot families. When Egyptians in faraway places like Luxor and Hurghada ask us where we live, we say that we live in Cairo. Curious, they ask where in Cairo. We respond that we live in Ma'adi. They always, and I mean always, smile and sigh as if recollecting their own wonderful, past trip to Ma'adi. Ma'adi is a lovely, verdant oasis amidst Cairo's dusty, urban bazaars.

One of Ma'adi's main thoroughfares is "Road 9," and it is a stone's throw away from our flat. Road 9 is one of Ma'adi's main shopping streets. It is reminiscent of a small Floridian seaside town before the hyper-development began. Narrow one, two, and three story buildings, each sharing a common wall with the adjacent buildings, line either side of the roughly paved street. Here and there, a few of the older Ottoman dwellings, still proudly standing and framed by massive, well-tended desert palms, break up the links of small boutiques, fruit stalls, carpentry workshops, bistros, and cafes. It is here on Road 9 that old intersects with new, local mixes with ex-pat, and laboring melds with idle-rich; all in a delightfully Bohemian social fabric.

Set among a jumble of fruit stalls, carpentry shops, cafes and small lamp stores is "The Mermaid." The Mermaid is one of the older eateries on Road 9. Established in 1981, The Mermaid was one of the original, western-style, small restaurants that opened during the early portion of the Mubarak investment boom in Egypt. Despite all of the changes since, The Mermaid has remained relatively unaltered. Her wooden, one-story facade is a curious mixture of dusty saloon and weathered nautical. The restaurant name is carefully scripted in red neon, a prominent fixture in one of the tall, story-high, bay windows in front. At night, the front of the restaurant looks like something from an old Genesis album cover. 

Open the door and some kind of music from the 70s or 80s is playing. As we come in this evening, Boston's "More Than a Feeling" is blaring. Like the facade, the decor inside is a curious mix. Imagine a cross between your grandparents' favorite steak house and 70s porn. I half expect to see Ron Jeremy, Snoop Lion and their respective entourages sprawled out at a corner table, sharing a blunt over a couple of cans of Shlitz.

{Rod Stewart, "Young Turks"}

The restaurant is divided into two smallish, dimly lit sections; one side for smokers and one for non-smokers. With no ventilation fans, there is little difference, and whisps of blue-gray cigarette smoke hover and drift just below the ceiling. There are perhaps 20 booths and tables in total. The chairs are ancient relics, faded brown leather thrones from a bygone era. The tables are hulking slabs of granite and dark wrought iron. Generations of young Egyptians and expats have left their mark, Arabic and English script scrawled in the wood-paneled walls. Lamps suspended from the ceiling float above every table, each one muted with a beige, gauzy lampshade. Suspended pieces of flat sculpture that look like purplish, fallen chess piece adorn both main walls, punctuated by black-and-white photos of the restaurant's past regulars. 

{Michael Jackson, "Thriller"}

One of the wait staff motions us to a table by one of the bay windows. We sit. I am more than a little afraid of sticking to the chair. We wait. And wait.

{Eddie Money, "Two Tickets to Paradise"}

{Carly Simon, You're So Vain}

Finally the menus arrive, and our drink order is taken. Dana has a Stella, and I have a lemon-mint juice. More waiting ensues.

{Hall & Oates, "Private Eyes"}

The drinks finally come, and the waiter is about to return to the back when we tell him that we are ready to order. He seems genuinely surprised. Clearly we are two rare customers that do not have four or five hours to lounge about in The Mermaid. I order a Greek salad and a meat calzone. Dana takes a bit of a risk with the fettuccine and a white, mushroom sauce. More waiting.

{Thin Lizzy, "Whisky in the Jar"}

{Kool & the Gang, "Get Down on It"}

{Wham, "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"}

By now the soundtrack is so good that we don't really care how long the food takes to get to the table. It takes a long time by the way, but it is worth the wait; for me, at least. Dana's fettuccine is passable, but her order was a risk in the first place. My Greek salad comes a bowl the size of small washtub, and it is excellent. The calzone is as big as a football, and is a lovely hunk of meaty, crusty goodness. We split the salad and the calzone, and life is all good. A couple of Stellas and mint-lemons later, accompanied by Hendrix and Janice, and we are stuffed. We have also enjoyed a couple of hours of a delightful soundtrack and some great conversation; just like it used to be back in the day. Back before we had more important shit to do.

Then it happens. Just when I thought the evening was finished, and that the soundtrack could not get any better, the impossible occurs. Marvin Gaye, "Let's Get It On." This is amazing. Surely we are in some cool, funky diner orbiting Neptune. Surely St. Marvin himself has descended from above to christen our little evening out, blessing us with a big send-off and ensuring that the wait staff are left with a big-ass tip. They are, and we depart.

Bless you, St. Marvin, and bless you, too, Ms. Mermaid. When next we have a few hours to while away, strolling down amnesia lane and stuffing our faces full of calzone, we will be back for more.

A Journey to Luxor

Al-Qurn, "The Peak" that overlooks the Valley of the Kings

Down along these hillsides,

Many miles ago,

Lived a man of vision, child,

Little did I know,

He was always talking, child,

'Bout the heart and soul,

'Til one day some pharoah came,

And offered up his dole,

In the valley,

In the Valley of the Kings.

Marc Cohn

"Valley of the Kings"

Leaving the lobby of Luxor's small but modern international airport, we are ill-prepared for the onslaught of taxi drivers jostling toward us. Though our flight is full, most of our fellow travelers have arranged transport in advance or are returning home to Luxor and their own vehicles. We are among maybe five other sets of passengers that require transport into the city. There are at least fifty idle drivers forming a loose, mobile barricade between us and the parking lot beyond. 

With the tide of drivers breaking around us, a brown hand, sinewy and weathered, shoots forward, clamping down on one of the straps of my backpack. I do not sense a pull. Just a firmness and an immense presence.

"Come this way, sir." The sonoroous voice seems to emanate from far above me. I look up to see the face that matches the voice. Rye colored skin with a deeply lined face and blazing eyes, the driver towers above me. He is very tall, his height accentuated by a bulky turban and flowing, sage dishdasha. 

He loosens his vice-grip and takes a couple of steps toward the lot. Dana, overwhelmed and nearly surrounded now by a host of drivers, is nonetheless following behind. We halt as a fierce argument breaks out. A couple of jostling drivers in front of us spit harsh Arabic slurs at the tall driver. He barks back, menacingly.

"Umm," I start.

Whirling around, his snarl instantly vanishes, replaced immediately by cherubic smile.

"No problem, sir. No problem. Come." His teeth are a flash of alabaster set against the dark crags of his face. 

Spinning around to face his rivals, he lifts one arm high in the air, fist clenched. He seems to be holding aloft some sort of invisible staff. He is all at once the Moses of the Luxor cabbies. And before him, the Red Sea of complaining drivers parts. He marches triumphantly into the breach. Dana and I are in tow, reluctant Israelites following an inspired prophet; or a madman.

The tone of our three-day journey to Luxor is established by our first 30 minutes in Upper Egypt: running pell-mell into a series of situations for which we are completely unprepared.

The Great Hypostyle Hall, Karnak

First, let me say that Luxor is a marvel. Straddling the Nile, the city boasts an urban side dominated by Luxor Temple and the Temple of Karnak  Then there is the rural side, the West Bank of Luxor, dominated by the necropolis and the Valley of the Kings  Over 3000 years old, the temples of Luxor and Karnak are amazingly well preserved masterpieces of ancient Egyptian architecture. Both sites feature soaring columns and richly carved hieroglyphics. In Karnak some of the ceilings still remain, beautifully painted in various hues of blue, gold and bronze. The West Bank of Luxor is reserved for the dead, the burial chambers for pharaoh's and their spouses, for nobles, and even for artisans. The final resting place for Tutankhamen, a relatively small tomb as we come to discover, is found here in the Valley of the Kings. Tomb chambers, hundreds of feet deep, snake their way into the escarpment. Several are open to the public. In the Deir el-Medina, the tombs of the artisans who worked in the Valley of the Kings remain almost perfectly preserved along with colorful paintings depicting the lives of more ordinary Egyptians.

However, I come to the conclusion that an amazing dis-service has been perpetrated upon the people of Luxor, and they are suffering lasting, negative consequences. Some two hundred years ago, Napoleon and his troops revived an interest in ancient Egypt. Thomas Cook brought the first formal European tour group into the region in 1869. Since then, Luxor has been sculpted and shaped by the tourist industry. Over time, residents with other skills have slowly abandoned their various trades to take jobs in more lucrative industries tied into the tourist trade. Since the coming of the revolution in 2011 however, there has been no tourist trade. The world-class hotels erected here are empty, as are the restaurants, shops and docks that once catered to thousands and thousands of foreign tourists every day. Dana and I check into the 4-star Steigenberger Hotel, for example. With 200+ sumptuous rooms, the hotel is a jewel. Dana and I are among maybe 20 of its current occupants; maybe. For most of our stay here, we feel as if we have the hotel to ourselves. When we go out of a walk, we are bombarded by street merchants, taxi drivers, carriage drivers, and boat captains all looking for that one crumb of business for the day; just one speck, one scrap. There is a desperation here that I have never encountered in all my years of travel. With virtually no tourists, the people of Luxor are making a torturous return to the days before Thomas Cook and Napoleon, and we are heartbroken to bear witness.

With extremely mixed feelings, we depart. The driver who has guided us through the city and the ruins comes to pick us up from the Steigenberger promptly at 7 am. His name is Said, but he is known throughout Luxor as "Mr. Hero." With two wives and four children to support, Dana and I get the strong sense that he works various jobs for most of the day and night. He bids us a cheery good morning, but his weary eyes betray a deep fatigue. Silently, he drives us back to the airport down roads that snake through verdant fields of sugar cane, cabbage, cauliflower, and banana. At this time of the morning, mists rise from the rich soil as villagers emerge from their simple dwellings to begin their day. Some of the farmers are already at work in their fields. Everything is done by hand; we see no signs of machinery anywhere. When Said drops us off at the airport, we say our goodbyes, we wish him and his family well, and we pay him. There is a lot extra in today's payment. What else can we do? We shoulder our packs and walk towards the airport. I look back for a second. An elderly man dressed in a ragged dishdasha and turban, wheeling a baggage trolley, approaches Said. I get the sense that the trolley was for us, but the man is quite old and a minute or two too late. 

They talk for a second. Both are smiling. Said reaches into the side pocket of his dishdasha and hands the old man some money.

*This week's photographs taken by Dana Purpura.