Glory Ho

I grew up on the banks of the Mississippi River. Turtles perched on the stump we used to measure the water, ducklings dawdled on our bonfire-ashed beach and boats always waved as they went by. We swam off the dock, slithered between the fish and sandbagged during the floods. But the river’s real character was always hiding beneath the surface. What John Irving referred to as the UnderToad, my parents called the Current. Lurking between the buoys and hidden at the edges of a barge, it was stronger than my father and had more energy than a dozen third graders. Every summer, before Days of Our Lives began, we’d listen to stories of drownings on the noon news as we ate our macaroni and cheese. Lanky bare-chested boys whose parents had failed to instill a sense of fear in them. Kids who never went to swimming lessons and would jump over craggy cliffs and overpasses into deceivingly shallow streams or soft quarries of thick sunshine.

So as a matter of survival amid river recreation, I was enrolled in swimming lessons from an early age. I completed every drill, took every test and made sure Annie was okay. I even became a lifeguard. I was never a particularly strong swimmer—not like my Pisces husband, the silver fish you see weaving calmly and placidly through your dreams–but I could take on the mighty Mississippi if necessary.

Over the years, I’ve shivered along the English channel, splashed through the Pacific, ferried across the Aegean, sunbathed at the Black Sea and SCUBA dove in the Gulf of Mexico. Yet despite these visits, the ocean and I have never really become great friends. Sure, it made for a great vacation. There’s nothing like white sand, seagulls and a sunset to make you fell you’re in a music video. But the ocean’s salt always stung. It’s utter endlessness frightened me. Mostly, the sea was too much of a snob. I knew it was available only on vacation and there was always quite a cover charge. Who needed the ocean’s elitist club when I had my own river pub?

The Dead Sea was no exception. While my own Mississippi swallowed mud, seaweed, catfish and sand with a strong stomach, retaining a solid black-and-blue collar, the Dead Sea boasted a sunlit, aquamarine outfit and a supportive entourage of desert and palms. False. A lot like the set of a film where Elvis and Shelly Fabares hook up.

Then there was character. The Mississippi’s history was hard-earned, uniting and supporting America’s Midwest, enchanting Mr. Twain, trickling from Minnesota to Ponchetrain and bobbing with crops which fueled farmer’s lives. Although the Dead Sea, at 420 meters below sea level and wandering in eddies and erratic waves, supported head-scarfed grandmothers who welcomed the natural laundromat, it formed a prickly border between Israel and Jordan—one that was rarely crossed.

And going in was weird. With a rocky beach, the shore was a basket of barbed wire. When bathed in, it shrunk away, carrying me with awkward outstretched arms like a cousin-less male house-guest holds a newborn. When hugged, its thick white grits cut without mercy, riding through my nostrils stinging my throat and burrowing like tapeworms into the buds of my freshly shaved legs.

But the Dead Sea and the Mississippi did have one thing in common. They were both famous for mud. Though not celebrated, the Mississippi was muddy in a way that made you care less about keeping clean. The Dead Sea’s mud sat, as if on a picky child’s plate–next to, but not touching the wavy pastel colors of the water. It’s a mud known for therapeutic properties, enriched with healing minerals such as magnesium, calcium, potassium bromide and organic remains of plants and animals. Some claim it helps to increase the supply of oxygen to the skin tissues and removes toxins from the body.

Whatever it does, I hope it worked on us.

Some call it the Northern Cemetery, Bab el Nasr or the Cemetery of the Great. Those in a hurry might say: el’arafa, meaning simply “cemetery”. We were tourists so we called it City of the Dead, which just didn’t translate. But we were no longer in tour-bus territory. As usual, as education decreases, hospitality increases, so we eventually found our way. Across the Saeb Salem Highway, it mazed like a sunny, dusty ghost town.

Due to a serious urban housing issue, over five million Cairenes call this four mile stretch of stone their neighborhood, forming a macabre and illegal, but tolerated society atop generals, sultans and conquerors of centuries past. But it wasn’t exactly a graveyard. Not how I picture one, anyway. Centuries ago, tombs, mausoleums and places of honor were different. More spacious and less leafy. Set aside, outside the city for idolatry and isolation. Expected to host forty days worth of mourners, burials were surrounded by gardens, rooms, walls and shelters to accommodate dozens of relatives. It is within those walls, before a saffron yellow family plot, between six-feet high tombs meant to intimidate, that poor, urban Egyptians dry their laundry, park their motorcycles and fry their samosas.

Electricity lines bunched across nearby mosques minarets like the strings of a necklace around a plump woman’s neck, delicate and out of place all at once. Sewage drains ended much sooner than the stench. The lack of screeching music, rattling traffic and high-pitched police whistles of the city center combined with voiceless respect for every inch of your cement floor created a hushed, floor-staring manner for most.quat

Living souls s squatted in life while buried ones basked in death.

Of course, we still managed to have a good time in Egypt. Especially once my parents, Steve and Donna, arrived.

Me a Mom at the Dahab Hostel. . .

Yes, the Dahab.
But we snagged an especially sweet spot with the retro-church-hall-charming kind of just-barely-above-ground bar culture which saves Egypt from itself, letting American University of Cairo students and tourists forget about. . .how many times they were cheated that day and how their landlord was trying to con them out of their deposit. When most drinking establishments shut down in the 1970s Islamist movement, a handful simply hung fluorescent strips from the ceiling and changed their names to “cafeterias” or “cafes” to remain in business. A relief from the cheese-lined Nile shore with its TGIFridays, corporate hotels, belly-dancing buffet cruises and overpriced prestige, Horreyas was Cairo’s best dive. It yawned with ceiling-high windows and filthy mirrors which blurred the crowd into a sexy out-of-focus photograph. Across dank yellow-walled room, singer sewing machine tables with marble tops sprouted Styrofoam plates of soft yellow butter beans and a garden of green bottles—it was the only way they tallied the bill. Achmed, the lone waiter, walked around triple fisted with Stellas, popping tops to the floor before you could say no.

That was where we could release a breath of relief from the streets of Cairo. And we did.

I’ll never forget the night my brother Dustin took over.

It seems so silly now, our fear. But at the time it was very real. Mom and Dad, soft and sparkling, not much older than myself at this moment, had gone out for the night. We were watching TV. My youngest brother Philip sucked his thumb beside us. Our home wasn’t old enough to speak unless spoken to, so when we heard more than a few floorboards creak above us, we assumed my parents were home. When their voices never came, and the creaking continued, we hovered with uncertainty near the foot of the stairs in a makeshift meeting. But the plush pink carpet on the landing, the soft light of the smoked-glass chandelier and the familiar curve of the wrought iron banister didn’t calm us. This was exactly where scary movie scenes took place.

I was the oldest at 12. But it was Dustin who eventually led us all upstairs, where he swept up the bedskirt of the guest room to prove that nothing but wrapping paper rolls hid beneath, flew open the closet door to show us that my mother’s evening dresses stood alone and flipped on every light-switch to expose the emptiness of the living room. He was right of course. No one was in the house.

Later, he confessed how scared he had been. But he’d fooled me by flinging his fear aside and moving forward. I was grateful.

The name Dustin means “valiant fighter” and this describes my brother very well. While my heart tends to build nest after nest neatly upon my sleeve, Dustin has always tucked it away in the lining of his armor, ready for skillful negotiations, peacemaking and poker. Growing up, he excelled at every sport, was a natural leader and made more trips to the emergency room than Philip and I combined. He is a hunter and a defender. Drying tears is a tall order for him, but he’d risk his own life to save mine (and others) in an instant.

Today, Dustin conducts his life with the calm of a ship captain and the determination of a madman. Officially, he is a regional safety specialist for TransCanada, runs his own business and saves lives as part of the volunteer fire department. Unofficially, he is a gardener, football player, husband, canine master and community leader.

And on May 22nd, he became a father.

Garrett Stephen Enright emerged from his fetal slumber into he and his wife, Christine’s arms, instantly inheriting the noble qualities of them both. In fact, the name Garrett means “strength of a spear”.

It’s a big step, becoming a D-A-D. I have no idea how Dustin’s feeling about now. As we get older, disclosing fear gets a little harder. But he will take on this role as he has so many others. With bravery of the boy scout he’s been and the wisdom of the man he has become. This I know for sure.

Michael is the photographer in the family and as you’ve likely noticed, I am more about documentation. But occasionally, I take some “heroes”.

Thousands of miles from Tennessee, but might be mistaken for Memphis circa ’65.

Headscarf in motion, stripes and streetlights above the Nile.

Although there exist over 100 Egyptian pyramids, the three Giza structures, made of limestone, with the Sphyinx reigning amidst, remain the most famous.

The Pyramids are a full-on Monet. From far away, pretty cool. See above! You can see their swagger and hear their sexy voice say:

“I’m not sure how to tell you this, but uh, I’m kind of a big deal.”

And they are a big deal.

But up close, just as using your Canon 7 Pixel on your nose pores isn’t all that attractive, neither are the Pyramids. Why we expect a three thousand year old structure to be sanded just so and attract a celestial moonbeam spotlight is beyond me. This is our own mistake.

But Egypt has plenty of sand on their hands, too.

Around all three Giza suburb structures (Cheops, Mykerinus and Kephren) are trash, fallen stones, camel shit and genuine scam artists scarring the landscape made beautiful by MGM. Limp yellow ropes imply loose restrictions so that policeman can get bribes for allowing tourists to take a climb. Camel-posing for a picture will cost you a couple bucks, but no matter the price on which you agree, it’ll be double by the time you’re feet land back on the sand. Tomb ticket-takers demand tips for holding your camera while you crouch under the pyramids for a claustrophobic, but curiously creepy walk.(which unsurprisingly few people are comfortable leaving). At the Spinx-front, the touts were the most oppressive I’d ever seen in my life. Across the street is a Kentucky Fried Chicken where dirty barefoot children stare into the windows and begged for our fries by pantomime.

This is life, mixed in with a wonder of the world.

We all have our own fantasized images of life. Memories, for better or worse, are the most talented make-up artists, air-brushing the wrinkles, blemishes, scabs and annoyances out of ourselves, our family, our children and our friends. The further away these people really are, the more grand they become.

So it goes with these sandy slopes. Now, months after I wrote my original impressions, I wonder if I’ve been too harsh. Because upon reflection, although they’re not perfect, they’re still the Pyramids.

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Egypt could be the first country on our trip where we found the history more fascinating than current life. We’re talking about a land which was ruled by thirty dynasties and dozens of pharaohs for three thousand years. A civilization with customs so appealing that even the Romans played along for a century or two. Gold-plated and glowing with jewels only Carrie Bradshaw could successfully pull off, the ancient Egyptians were master planners and skilled project managers. They are what I call “china cabinet people”. Those who save their best pashmina, string of pearls or felt black hat for that special occasion which never comes. The Egyptians were saving it all for the afterlife, when they’d break out the marble game pieces, bejeweled thrones and papyrus-woven beds to play, pose and sleep like the rebels they truly were.

King Tutankhamun, which I recognize mainly from company logos was a lot like the Mona Lisa. So familiar from pop culture snapshots, that you must concentrate very hard to realize you are looking at his actual 24-carat gold casing. Little Tut took the throne at the ridiculous age of nine in the 14th century and ruled, I understand quite unremarkably, for no more than ten wild years (a shriveled, linen condom, required to keep mistresses from mixing their potential peasant lineage with royal blood, is on display). Yet because his tomb treasure were found in tact as recently as the 1920s, he’s the only pharaoh to get his own room at the museum and a nickname in popular culture. And it was impressive.

The Egyptian history, explained by our speed-talking tour guide, Tito, was a comprehensive overview of this ancient civilization—most of the world had taken a turn at Egypt—the Romans, the Muslims, the Ottomans, the British. Even Napoleon wanted to play. Alexander the Great is forever immortalized in Egypts northern namesake city. But our tour also included some dubious claims. Did you know that Ramses II’s 13th son perished after chasing the prophet Moses into the Red Sea (remember that whole “parting of thing”?) They know this because of the excessive salt found on his mummy (surely not a result of the mummification liquids) and the “bite” taken out of his foot by a sharkfish (surely not lopped off at the museum’s narrow second stairwell, my Dad suggested). I suppose depending on your audience, it’s tough to decide just where history and religion intersect.

As a fitting finale, the mummy room was my favorite. Eleven drying corpses, each kept at 22 degrees Celsius, lie still, awaiting their role in the next Indiana Jones movie. Wrapped in linen, arms crossed to indicate their royal blood, their black skin stretched like canvas across the brittle bones just beneath. Hair, some Rumpelstiltskin golden, the texture of a doll’s locks, clung like a last accessory to many heads.

Tomorrow we shall see the Pyramids.

We’d been dreading Cairo for a long time. Pyramids or not, it didn’t seem to please many people. Matt and Olivia vowed never to return. Koubi and Carey advised us to see the required wonders and get the hell out. Everyone told us that the chaos, the hassle, the pollution and the traffic was just barely worth our time. In Jerusalem and Jordan, the tourist trail had been inevitable. To find feeling, we’d had to look a little harder. So it went with Cairo.

And suffice to say, I hope I never find myself there again.

I must admit, the chaos was initially intoxicating. Black and white lada taxis, some with the horn of a 1930s jalopy, others mimicking a low train whistle, honked and gunned and weaved through intersections. Turbans and gallebeyas created a city of sheesha-smoking ghosts, who went inside from the alley teahouse five times a day to pray, careful to keep up their forehead rug-burn. Women emerged at night, arm in arm in arm, to shop and stroll. Their luridly colored halters and headscarves, layered atop long-sleeved shirts coordinated well with mango and raspberry ice cream cones from the crazy bakery, where you’d think they were selling American visas instead of dry macaroons.

The gender-separated subway cars were kinda funny–even if the ladies sometimes stared icily at my whorish clothing and bare arms. Flat-bottom family-filled boats fished up and down the River Nile, while the corniche served as a lover’s lane every Saturday afternoon. Food was cheap and good–sometimes twice a day, we savored the “mixed sandwich”, falafel, fuul (mashed beans) salad, eggplant and French fries for about 45 cents. Our $7/night, rooftop hostel, despite its vibrating 1950s washing machine, packs of cats, lazy clerks and 5 x 5 rooms (the only thing funny about this is that you think I’m kidding), was a garden oasis for evening beers and cool breezes. And Michael’s traditional dress and hat were a hit, to be sure.

But Egypt was undoubtedly dark. Overcharged on everything from books to chocolate bars, buying anything was a battle. The art-deco architecture, once nouveau, was furry with dust, yet bistros still asked minimum cover charges for mere fingerprints of faded charm. Garbage and dirt piled wherever no one was living—on rooftops, like weedy, wilted wreaths around the hundreds of satellite dishes, or on the spiral staircased fire escapes, which hid in the vertical tunnel of every building. Policemen wore bright white uniforms and with the truly perilous Cairo traffic, it’s no wonder. They mostly stood around smoking. And Egypt was too clever for a tourist’s good. By creating non-existent jobs to boost employment, poor Egyptians are paid almost nothing to distribute tissue, push buttons and close doors. In turn, those same clerks beg for tips from you. And for reasons which remain unclear, on every restaurant bill was a service charge, which, incidentally, has nothing to do with your server’s tip.

An errand to buy more tissue or fresh water was an obstacle course of brazen sexual harassment and offers for directions which instead led to a papyrus or perfume shop. And our time there, three weeks in total due to some flight and planning debacles, was not what I would call “fun”.

However, as we approach our 150th day of travel, it is quite evident that travel and work have a few things in common. Just as the managers who taught you the most are rarely the ones who would waste an hour playing foozball on break, the most intriguing cultures, those which provide the most lessons are not always the giver of good times.

I would never recommend Cairo, but I will never regret it. More is coming. . .

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.