Every day in Dahab seemed a lot like the one before. Every morning brought flies, breezes, heat and cats. Michael went running. I read or did yoga. Every day, Shepl would deliver our meals. Every day, Mustafa and Waleed would wash another section of rugs, positioning the pillows like crayons in a box before late-rising guests would dump them out all over again. Every afternoon, as the sexy tide pulled up its sundress to expose bits of broken boat and surface-sliding jellyfish, the haze arrived, napping between Egypt and Saudi Arabia. That’s when dozens of flipper-fitted feet walked straight into that haze to float atop a zero-scaped ocean floor and Arabian nights would splash their hoofs through the water, promising a fairy tale ride. Every day, I worked on the Penguin’s website, rewriting the redundant English text so we could get 50% off our meals, making two full breakfasts of pancakes, eggs, cheese-toast and tea less than $3. I read The Thirteenth Tale. Michael read Where God Was Born. We finally finished Beirut to Jerusalem. Every day, we reviewed the Book of World Faiths I’d borrowed from a nearby hostel, landing on Buddhism and aspiring to the Eightfold Path. Every day, we said we’d move back into the Penguin from our shared apartment with Romi over the Internet cafe, where we paid $10/night for room and unlimited online access. Every day, we found ourselves in the room once again, opening the shutters, ignoring the lopsided bed, listening to our roommates Polish-Egyptian drama and facing the Red Sea.
Every hour was happy hour. Sometimes with the Brit, Joe Berry, an aspiring author. Other times with Kent and Lauren, the Boulderites who lent us their Lonely Planet and reminded us how much we loved Colorado. But toward the end, it was with Ingie and Simon, the Norwegian couple who gave us the key to their downtown Cairo flat, a colonially-furnished clusterfuck with fifteen foot ceilings and an electrically unstable fridge full of beer. Venturing left or right down the coast always seemed an exhausting idea. We did go snorkeling once. Michael even dove. We barbequed on the beach with a couple Egyptians and drove out to a Bedouin oasis with a bunch of Dutch.
One night, we strayed ten feet south to a difficult-to-pronounce restaurant. But the name doesn’t matter. Behind Michael was a coral-red-brocade backdrop. Sconces dripped cheap jewels on the wall, toy-chest-green clap boards covered the brick fireplace, our hibiscus tea glowed like Egyptian wine. Bouquets of garlic splayed above, like sepia toned roses. Red checks, in the spirit of Italy and America, covered the wood tableaux. Jars of olives with towels across their shoulders, like my grandmother’s kitchen when she was pickling. The beams of a pub and the antique lamps of Arabia. Oh how I wanted it all to last. . . to stay there on my tongue forever.
That night, as we sat on our pillows, staring at the moon, I looked over and said: If we weren’t already married, I’d ask you right now.
What a glory.
