Walk Like an Egyptian

Rising before 7am the streets are silent, likely due to the late night feasting going on till just hours before. Mom and I somehow dressed like twinsies, but with limited options while on the road I had to just deal and move on; forward into the lazy hazy crazy days of summer.

Rasheed was our guide for the day and offered us oodles of info about the stops we'd be making and places we'd be seeing. 

First stop were the ancient, like more ancient than the Giza group, Saqqara pyramids. These are crude versions of the photos we're used to seeing and though I was only mildly interested mom was as excited as the first day of school with a new Jansport and she and Rasheed walked the length of the area chatting about history and the obligatory geopolitical issues effecting both the Middle East as wel as Sacramento, California.

Rasheed was a lovely man who was generous, inviting both my mother and myself to have dinner in his home with his family, and informative but I far prefer to wander and ponder solo - or with a trusted friend. The experience of someone telling me what to do and when to do it was a challenge. A challenge sure, but seemingly necessary to get into these 'attractions' as it were, so I accepted it as we entered tombs carved with figures of owls and hieroglyphic depictions from writers of the past. The insides of tombs were unimpressive with the exception of the mere preservation of shape and color throughout the years, made even more impressive when shown to you by a fragrantly friendly man who clearly did not have a good dental plan. It was while exploring one of these tombs that my mother lost her camera and I had immediate dad dejavu - as he lost his phone in Morocco years before. Parent-Child-Parent, I am telling you!

Bouncing in the backseat of our van for the day, meandering through the rocky roads of nowheresville Egypt I am reminded of what I love about these foreign countries, so foreign to me and the way of American life. It always takes me a while to remember this and when I do it is always contingent upon my escaping the metropolis of a capitol city and seeing where the real people live.

Stop #2 was essentially just a pit stop for relics. The most prominent of which was a partially broken and horizontal statue of Ramses the II who's legs were so gorgeous that I was dying to be Nefertari to his Ramses. Whomever made the term Greek God ubiquitous in our culture clearly had not spotted the royal Egyptians. With his uncanny resemblance to the man who owns my heart, Ramses soon became my favorite of the folklore.

I find when booking these excursions there are always seemingly spontaneous stops and local artisans and vendors. Though always feeling a bit duped, I have never been to a papyrus gallery before, so why the hell not. And they had air conditioning to boot!

A hard negotiator, not even a marriage proposal got me to purchased an overpriced piece of paper, but dear old mom, with 'tourist' stamped proudly in Comic Sans on her forehead went ahead and got two pieces sure to hang on her pink walls alongside my senior photo project soon!

On the particular voyage, on this particular day, they saved the best for last - and that was the Great Pyramids of Giza. 

After being deposited in a back alley and listening to our options for the one hour photo-op excursion or the three hour trek around the Great Pyramids of Giza and the Sphynx it was a no brainer - lets go all in. 

We paid the fee and mounted our respective camels, both of whom looked a little worse for wear but mine was named Mickey Mouse so I felt an immediate kinship. I can honestly and accurately now tell all of those who have not had the fortune of straddling a camel for an extended period of time that A) it is maybe the best workout I have ever had, putting Suzanne Sommers and her ThighMaster to shame and B) it is extraordinarily uncomfortable. This discomfort is only made worse when you split your brand new Hammer pants on Khafre pyramid while mounting it which is most likely illegal and most definitely frowned upon but something our guide insisted I did so, as I climbed up the third large stone I heard it and has the ultimate fat girl experience;  all of a sudden the desert became far less hot and stuffy. 

With at least 90 minutes to go it was vagina to camel the rest of the ride and the thin, woolen and most certainly not sterile blanket separating Mickey's boney back from my baby maker was by no means going to HELP my current UTI. My clever sister pointed out that this gave camel-toe a brand new meaning. And she was right.

After circumnavigating the three pyramids which were roughly the size of the Hollywood W hotel were impressive because they are famous, garnering them the title of the wonder of the world, but other than that, my awe was not inspired. When coming down the mountain back toward the city that building on has finally been halted almost butted up against this ancient spectacle is 4,500 year old butt plug known as The Sphynx. Disrespectful, maybe - but look at it from the back and you will know what I am saying!

The Sphynx is also diminutive in size and was surrounded by a bevy of Asian tourists and selfie sticks so our encounter was brief, but pleasing.

After wrapping my face in a sparkly scarf and having my Lawrence of Arabia moment it was time to head back to Mickey Mouse's home where a handful of robed men and a fresh watermelon, served in the filthy hands of the camel wranglers. Honestly, I was equal parts shocked and proud that mom took more than one slice from the warm if soiled men who offered us this gift. 

Good job, mom!

By now Rasheed was our bestie so it barely even registered when he brought us by the parfumerie before getting back to the hotel so we could learn about essential oils, their functions and, most importantly, their price - as my mother purchased a gallon of some goodness from the gods.

Though the Cairo Inn is where our bags lay in wait, it was not our home base anymore and we grabbed some cash and a cab during what I imagine is Egyptian rush hour to rish to the train station where nothing, not even numbers, are written in English, with the exception of KFC located on the second floor.

As resourceful as ever I interrupted some guards having their first meal of the day to locate Platform 8 where we waited and I cooled my jets after the cabbie had so clearly taken advantage of my mother's naiveté and taken far too large a sum for our quick ride directly out of her hand.

We had splurged for a sleeper car and after being served an unappealing meal and sorting out how to lower the top bunk I was fast asleep - face down, no joke. 

Rowdy Ramadan

Exhaustion leaves me asleep for much of the flight from Munich to Cairo, save for the bout of extreme turbulence in which I try to breath through the contraction in the sky and think of one man in particular, just in case things go awry. Love, the every ready cure for despair.

But this man is not the reason for my latest sojourn, nor is a Nora Ephron inspired comedy about mothers and daughters sure to fly off the shelves and later cast the most current Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts as the lead (yes, I did date myself there).

The man behind this trip, originally concepted alone and then extended to my mother for a myriad of reasons, is the other half of my DNA, not seated on the plane next to me, unless you count the travel-sized urn I have come to feel as comfortable traveling with as a neck pillow or a sleep mask.

Two years ago today, the day I land in Cairo and am afforded the opportunity to get a peek into an ancient civilization that changed the world, hell built it, the day my best friend (Hi, Simone!) was brought into this world and instantly made it a better place by simply existing, my father, the man to whom I owe my wit, brains, brawn and booty, was taken from it.

I have made a promise to myself, and to him, for us to travel together twice a year, once on the day he was born, and another on the day he died, book ended nearly 6 months apart, book ends he would no doubt love the concept of and willingly participate in if he were given the option. Sadly, he is not, so I am once again placed in the position of the elder, the caretaker, the educator and bring a part of my dad to various parts of the globe to share the experience with him as well as share him with the world. And yes world, you are welcome.

Part of  Dr. Christopher N. Heard, Esq resides near the turtle sanctuary in Grand Cayman, atop a temple in ancient Burma and amongst the cacti in Joshua Tree. He is everywhere and nowhere all at once, just as any deity who knows whats good for him.

Drawing deity parallel would no doubt bring about a dismissive shake of his massive head or an uproarious laugh so unique to him; a sound I can only now hear the faintest echo of. A sound I long for.

So here I am, landing mere miles (or meters) from the ancient pyramids. A canvas bag filled with lightweight clothing, camera equipment, and my dad.

Welcome to Cairo.

Upon arrival at Cairo International Airport one has various offers from cabbies and crooks alike and after accepting the help of a kind man with an official looking badge and unsuccessfully trying to assuage my nervous mothers nervous mumbles we loaded into a very tiny car with a very large man hired to bring us to Cairo Inn, downtown. The 40 minute or so drive brought us past Tahrir Square, home of the 2011 revolution that seemingly changed life in Egypt entirely and past the banks of the Nile where were were safely deposited into the heart of rowdy Ramadan at Cairo Inn where were were greeted by an equally kind man who greeted us and immediately began planning out our trip for us, replete with guides and bus transfers.

By this time it was nearing 4 am and I was in no mood to negotiate travel plans with a complete stranger trying to make a buck under the guise of 'helping us out,' so a quick FaceTime with my paramour, a feast of carbohydrates provided by our host and a much needed shower were about all I could muster the energy for before it was off to bed with the sun rising through the open windows and the symphony of horns and laughter permeating the red silk curtains.

Our plan to have breakfast at 9 was easily forgotten as we lazily slept through the alarm clock and didn't manage to rise until nearly noon. Sleep had been limited the past few days and a bed felt too good to deny. More carbs, travel negotiations and an obligatory mother-daughter argument all took place before hitting the brightly lit streets of Cairo, looking more like a city deserted after battle than the a bustling metropolis.

Yusef immediately exited his shop of papyrus painting to greet me, tell me his life story and insist I looked like an Egyptian woman (which I clearly ate up with a spoon) before mom descended the staircase and we hit the pavement, headed nowhere in particular, as everything was new and untouched - at least by us.

We walked past the Egyptian Museum, part of the reason I booked our hotel where I did, and straight down to the Nile that more closely resembled the Mississippi than I care to say with river boats lining the waterway. After enjoying the breeze off the water on an otherwise stagnant day we passed back toward the museum only to find that it was already closed due to Ramadan hours, though vendors lingered about, one insisting a take a coin purse for free (which I did) as well as that I looked just like his sister. He explained that I looked Egyptian BECAUSE I looked American. Though the argument was weak, any reference to me looking ethnic or exotic is something I readily accept.

Traffic is messy in Cairo and crosswalks don't really exist. I insist time and time again that being a New Yorker, that's right -I said it, A New Yorker, has prepared me for many things in life, and navigating my way through blaring horns and screeching wheels is most certainly one of them. Unfortunately, the mean streets of Sacramento was not quite the same learning ground for my mother. Her trepidation, understandably, to step out into traffic was clear and once we crossed multi-laned thoroughfares a real sense of accomplishment was felt. 

A quick check of the map and a stop at the Carl's Jr. of the Nile, i.e. Hardees, for nice cold cup of their local fruit flavored soda, Miranda left us energized, likely from the amount of sugar in the liquid green apple Jolly Rancher, I just consumed and it was off through the winding roads of the city yet again.

Much like the path I navigate through life, I brought us on the longest most circuitous route back to the ho-tel using mostly my gut and sense of direction, with a quick stop for jewelry acquisition and internet (two of my passions) along the way.

With a quick conversation and a couple clicks of the proverbial mouse our transport to Luxor and accommodation were booked and I was able to live to see another day.

With the next few days at least roughly lined up, it was time to eat. The local shawarma shop provided sustenance till sunset and my mother's entree (no pun intended) into Middle Easter cuisine. Though not Bourdain-worthy, her chicken kept her satisfied and the bean soup in red stuff I spooned into my face eagerly was sufficient. Consuming the meal handed to us in plastic bag on a terrace overlooking a roundabout provided enough ambiance for the dining experience to at least feel authentic.

After calories were consumed I was allowed my first alone time of the journey, if only for a few moments. With a travel companion literally underfoot I find myself grow anxious and frustrated easily. And wanting to have spent today, June 17th, alone I greedily drink up the few moments I am allowed solitude with only my thoughts to keep me company.

I miss him.

I miss him every second of every day.

I do not partake in any activity, participate in any conversation or play a single song without wanting to share it with him.

Him. My father.

2 years ago today I lost him. 2 years ago tomorrow I got the call confirming it. Strangely I kew even before the Sac County coroners office phoned me at work I knew something was wrong. I felt it.

The call simply confirmed it.

Solidified it.

It just made it real.

Though Cairo reminds me more of Ho Chi Minh than Casablanca (apologies for the seemingly superfluous travel flossing), the fact that I am on the continent of Africa, in a Muslim country of course makes me think of my old man and the fact that only a few years ago we were making the same sojourn. Only a few years ago I was in one of my most favorite countries with one of my most favorite people.

No matter where you go, there you are.

And no matter where I go, he is here with me.

Luckily I was not allowed too much time to let my overactive mind work me into a tizzy and mom was back for more information and we were back on the streets.

Part Indiana Jones, part art teacher Mel navigated the streets with well arch-supported feet and a well brimmed hat looking just a touch out of place passing burkas on the sidewalks.

Though only having been in the country for a day it seems that everyone who wants to help you with your travel agenda insists on you booking a package. I generally don't travel with packages and after the 5th insistence that I book one it takes all of my strength not to yell that the only package I am interested in is waiting for me back at home!

Luckily, I resist.

One thing we do book, however, is a sunset dinner cruise along the Nile. Sold as a buffet with belly dancing - neither were presented - and neither were missed. 

After a quick and unnecessary cab ride to The Scarabee (the Delta King of the Middle East) we were pumped. Amongst the crowd of shrouded Muslims waiting for the sherbet colored sky to turn dark so we could turn up, mom was very aware that we were the outsiders, whereas all I was aware of was my own hunger. At 7 sharp we were allowed to dig into our curious and delicious feast of various meats and honey flavored desserts. 

Beautiful children, beautiful scarves and a beautiful meal was had (to the sweet sounds of Kenny G and Babyface), but this is not what resonated most. What may stick with me about this trip to the Middle East more than anything else, my favorite memory from my trip to Egypt may very well be the undeniable glare of 'an American whore is among us,' I receive at every turn. In a long, navy dress, Chucks and a jean jacket for me is practically ordained but I can only be left to assume that, to the average Muslim woman I am a heathen hungry for mischief and lewd acts and, scarily enough, they just might be right... (don't worry baby, just with you!)

Though the belly dancer sat this one out due to the holy days of Ramadan, the whirling Dervish did NOT disappoint with his technicolor coat spinning over his head and with a subtle wink and a few flick of the wrists he folded up one level of his dress/coat and handed it to me like a bundle of joy - only the joy in this exchange was a tip - for him. And a well deserved one. 

After dinner we moved up to the top deck where two chairs remained and a barista who awaited my ever command, i.e. made me two teas. Trying to charge me American prices my lack of funds was helpful and he only got 2 Egyptian pounds.

A lap around Cairo on the Nile on a balmy evening is a pleasant one and one I would absolutely recommend. 

Crossing the precarious web of streets where horns function as traffic signs and the lines on the toad are merely decoration, my mother gripped my hand tightly which navigating our way back home. With Ramadan in full swing, things don't get popping till late night so we decided not to call it a day just yet and peruse the shopping district and a local market while we still had the wherewithal.

The throngs of men affectionately playing with one another and burka'd women carrying unruly children distracted from the neon lights and traffic noise. Catcalls seem to be an after hours thing and I was equal parts pleased I still got it and disgusted when becoming the recipient of a handful. 

A few postcards, a hot shower and a plane to wake early to see the pyramids tucked me int bed and left me to the dreams of crossing off another bucket list item for many and a Kodak moment for me in the morning!

Guten Tag, Cairo

I'm exhausted, my back aches, blisters have most certainly begun to resist the canvas of my Converse and my mother has already begun to annoy me - have I mentioned that we haven't even left yet?

Hopping on the NJT I had a belly full of bagel and a head full of chaos.

Following what can only be identified as the darkest two years of my life, I am marking the anniversary by making my virgin sojourn to Middle East - and bringing my mother to boot.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in what seems like ages about what life has in store, I am ready for another adventure, if not the slightest bit weary of the heat and oppression of my given gender.

Never one to back down from a challenge ... here we go!

They say Baby Boomers are the ones trapped between generations, caring for their aging parents and still housing their recent college graduate children struggling to find sustainable work. But maybe that is simply the cycle of life.

A couple of years back I traveled to Morocco with my youthful, brilliant and in shape father and there were most certainly moments where I felt like I was guiding a toddler through the playground one sandbox at a time.

This time I am with my mother and the destination is the Middle East, Egypt to be exact, and though I am expecting and ready for some culture shock hand-holding, I did not foresee needing to help her properly use headphones, explain how food service works on a jet, or unbuckle her safety belt for her whilst still on the United flight. Literally.

Perhaps child and parent roles are not so clearly defined and one is not always teacher while the other is student. Maybe it is more of a reciprocal relationship through life, or at least it is once you've reached your thirties. Or maybe, as is the case from time to time, it's just me...

Descending upon Munich is a beautiful tapestry of manicured farm land and adobe colored thatched roofs, intermittently sprinkled into the landscape in what I can only imagine are quaint villages in which there still resides a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker.

After taking a whore's bath in the Munich airport, mom and I dropped our bags at the affront to TSA known as the onsite storage center and headed on the S8 train (the yellow line) to Marienplatz, or for those in the know (see: Wikipedia), city center.

Germany seems to be a quiet place, even if my travel companion does not.

Having worked the majority of the lengthy flight editing photos I am now having trouble transferring those images and am left despondent. Mom, having claimed she has not slept a wink in nearly 20 years, remains surprisingly spry.

The S8 train leads us through the rich, lush countryside and the casual conductor took me by surprise when he presented himself to be a well-coiffed hot German dude with a tightly woven sweater and a backpack, ready to hop into an international spy movie at the drop of a hat. He authoritatively checked our day pass prints out and went alone his way, displaying his pert posterior in the process. Who knew Germans could have fatties too!

The bells of New Town Hall filled the square with music and as we rode the escalator up from the underground train. Here we were met with a crowd, gathered to watch the carousels of figurines built into the Gothic structure spin about, delighting the young and old alike. The sun greeted us warmly and it was a new day; a new city. Trying to remind myself that I am actually in Europe, and not an attraction at Disney World, mom and I strolled about the square, taking in the sights, stopping briefly by a beautifully blue fountain where to German men, chorused, said hello. Delighted that I could actually be hit on in Eastern Europe, especially when having the same clothes on for 2 days straight gave me a boost. Upon second glance one of the said hitter-oners was biracial at the very least and it all began to make sense. Existential crisis averted.

A short walk leads you to St. Peter's cathedral where you can, as I did, light candles for your loved ones who have gone on to hopefully a better place (two in every country for me), climb the bell tower which will make you huff and puff but by the time you see the view from the top you most certainly will not want to blow the house down, and purchase slightly inappropriate postcards with sexual content for your underage nephew.

Just beyond St. Peter's is the beer garden known as Viktualienmarkt. A jovial place surrounded by shops selling handmade crafts and handmade cheese. After some debate on where to eat and even more on where to sit we were set. Two bratwurst, one spicy, on not. Some sweet tasting potato salad. A beer of indeterminate name and, the piece de resistance, a handmade pretzel, on which I may be able to subsist for life.

A sunny spot in what can only be deemed old people heaven was located and mom and I sat down to our feast (about which one of us was FAR more excited than the other) among the crowds of smiling, amiable and perhaps slightly intoxicated seniors. Seating is limited and personal space a foreign concept. Illustrated by  the woman behind me used my spine for support and   the elderly man sitting next to me using broken English and hand gestures to heavily imply that I clearly liked my meal, as a bit of hot mustard and single bite were all that remained on the plate. It is good to know I can be fat shamed in all cultures.

With no particular direction in mind we stumbled upon the posh part of Munich where store fronts like Gucci and Ferragamo lined the streets and not much else, so it was back to the New Town Hall for us. The obligatory German doll for my niece purchased at tourist prices neatly tucked into my camera bag and we sat down among the mullets and questionable fashion choices of Europe for a cup of tea.

When the weather began to turn, so did we - toward the subway - and back to Flughafen München. Mom seems to have gotten confused between when we had decided we needed to be at the airport and what time our flight actually departed so we had plenty of time to patronize Airbraus and for me to aggressively fight with my computer in an attempt to deliver images to a client I was now certain would be late. Nothing like the desperate feeling of helplessness and rage of frustration to start off a mother-daughter week of bonding!

After pacing the tiled floors of the airport in search of food we settled at Selmans, an eatery offering everything from octopus to omelets and apparently boasting the most fragrant fake flowers that ever did exist as the look of ecstasy that crossed my mother's face when inhaling a nose full of woven silk almost had me convinced I didn't see the dusty petals.

Ordering a hamburger I was most certainly served a Spam burger, but desperate times call for desperate measures and the mystery meat was consumed with great appreciation and little inquiry.

My mother can be a bit of a prude and the mere mention of the word vagina can cause a litany of reactions. Today it was boisterous disdain and darting glances, looking around for the nuns who were most certainly standing by, rulers in hand, ready to bloody my knuckles and make me a good little girl. Why nuns would be boarding a predominately Muslim flight is beyond me - but there you go. I often wonder if these reactions are generational or personal. That the generation gap between a child of the 50s and a child of the 80s is so great that one is extremely modest and the other not so much is a question I simply cannot answer. The fact that this particular genitalia-related incident was encountered while boarding a plane with women draped in yards of dark fabric to maintain their own modesty most certainly played a role.

Regardless, we were set to bid adieu to Germany and move on to the next leg of our journey...