Glory Ho

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.