I'm not saying my bus driver is actually Mussolini.

I'm not saying my bus driver is actually the reincarnation of Mussolini. But Driver is about 60. His english is peppered with little things that let you know he spoke another language before he spoke english. His t's and d's sneak out from between his tongue and the front teeth. And his hand gestures to car drivers is a cross between on opera director and a roman salute.

If your wake involved you hanging upside down in a gas station, would a bus driver on a crowded university run be a quick leap for your soul to take?

Our bus would not truly be considered a police state, but I dare you to ask Driver a question about change.

A young couple visiting us from Asia got on the bus this morning.

Excuse me Mr. Driver. How much for ride?

Driver points to the sticker where the transfer or money go.

-You see my sigh-een?

-Yes. I see. Excuse me Mr. Driver. How much this, please?

As the couple smile nervously Mr. Driver turns to them.

-No change! Off-a my bus.

So, while I am not actually saying Driver is a reincarnation of Mussolini, I always have my transfer ready when I step onto the bus in the morning.

--
treena and kootenay
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Father's Day

I see Dad. He pauses outside my hospital room. My eyes are closed but I can hear him outside the room. Our relationship has been tested these past months. I am fourteen. Our interests have been diverging for a while, but cancer has driven us further apart.


Travelling Dad

When I was diagnosed he believed everything would get better. He believed hard enough that I was afraid to not believe.

"She's not asleep. She's counting. It's how she copes." I hear the nurse quietly talking to him.

I draw a firm line between hospital time and my time outside the hospital walls. Dad-time is outside the hospital. He pushes me to dive back into life after each treatment. I worry about him seeing me as sick as I am today. Will he still think I can do anything if he sees me so sick that I don't have the energy to cry?

I can hear him take a moment, before entering, and breathe. He is trying to be present.

"I have a cold. That's why I'm not at work today." He feels the need to explains his presence in my room on a weekday. At thirty-six he's defending his choice to say home from work, as if his child in the room here isn't reason enough. "I was worried about coming in. Germs. How are you counts?"

I hear worry in his voice and wonder if he is looking for a reason to go home? "They're okay. But the nurse can get you a mask. Then we don't have to worry. I had my treatment about an hour ago. I should be feeling sick soon. Company will be nice."

I close my eyes. When I open them dad is sitting in the chair by the window.
The smell of the snack cart going down the hall means that any break in my concentration will mean the start of a cycle of sick. Today will be a victory if I can keep from throwing up more than three times.

"What can I do?" Dad asks.

"You can read to me. I started counting the holes in the ceiling tile, but the sunlight from the window hurts my eyes. I need to get thru the next three hours, then things will settle down. And by things I mean my stomach."

I try to be still while dad reads to me. If I move, the grip I have on the nausea won't be able to hold back the waves of sickness.

His reading is halting at first; the words and rhythms are a big step away from his comfort area. The sound of his voice is my anchor today. He reads me back to the world.

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Happy Accidents - Good Food and Great Wine

The best part of travelling is the happy accident, that moment when everything seems to be going wrong, you surrender your control and end up not where you were going, but where you are meant to be. I had one such accident in St. Paul de Vence.

I was on my way from Nice to St. Paul de Vence to meet a work buddy's partner. Unfortunately a rude bus driver, a local trying to scam a free ride, and windy road combined to make me late. I missed my date with Andre.

To drown my sorrows I turned to wine and food. Ahhh. The French life.

I settled down to eat lunch feeling a bit sorry for myself. Luckily I was surrounded by family.


le Vieux Moulin

We sat down in le Vieux Moulin and proceeded to have the best lunch of our month-long trip.


Daube de Boeuf à la Provençale et Polenta crémeuse

The kids and Dad played it safe and ordered hamburgers. These hamburgers didn't come with french fries though. Ironic eh, given we were in France. Instead the accompanying dish was polenta. Two travellers, a few tables away, with a distinctive American accent, complained about the polenta. I didn't actually hear them say freedom fries, but…


Daube de Boeuf à la Provençale et Polenta crémeuse

My sister and I went for the seafood risotto. If I can ever cook rice this well I will die a happy person.


Risotto aux Scampis et calamars, Persillade

The waiter convinced us to have a bottle of rose wine with our lunch. I was a rose snob until that moment. I had never met a rose worth drinking. Now I can't wait for the summer weather here in Vancouver so I have a good reason to try out new ones. If you ever run into a bottle of Rimauresq Cru Classé AOC Côtes de Provence. Buy it and give me a call. I've been practicing my risotto recipes.

So I missed my friend, but ended up eating in this charming place.


Bathroom Stairs

It is an old converted olive press building. Now full of charm. I mean even the stairs to the bathroom are charming. May you have many such happy accidents on your travels.

This post is part of WanderFood Wednesday, a weekly blogging event featuring food from around the world. See more food posts and learn more at host Wanderlust and Lipstick's WanderFood page.

for the links and images that accompany this post please see www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Soup?

Eating while you travel can be both exciting and terrifying. My family and I sat down for dinner, while travelling through China. I had a touch of the travellers tummy and was late to the table. Everyone was scooping up their soup and looking at one another.

-Psst. Treesa. Have you eaten your soup?

-Nope. Why.

-Look at my bowl.

-What am I seeing?

-I know me too.

-Don't tell anyone. They have already finished theirs.

-But, I'm not seeing things am I? You see it too.

-What do you see?

-Goldfish….

-Me too.

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Now That's Customer Service

The French are not known for their great customer service.

This summer, I was in Nice. I was taking a bus to meet a friend in St. Paul de Vence. Even though the bus fare was the same no matter where you were taking it the driver proceeded to yell at me "quelle ville allez-vous!" My response, in bad school girl French was "lentement s'il vous plaît". Which must have translated to please yell at me some more. Finally someone in the bus line intervened and translated for me. Did I mention that no matter where you went on the bus line the price was the same…

When I was in Paris a waiter spilt an entire carafe of red wine down the front of my white sun dress. When he realized what happened he laughed, handed me a napkin and said "dieu merci c'est vendredi". I guess he had the weekend off. There was not a moment in our interaction where he was concerned about my wine splattered body.

Signs. I work in customer service. I understand the annoyance a clerk feels answering the same question over and over again. To make life easier for customers stores put up signs. I can only image how many tourists were yelled at before this sign was put up.

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Overheard on the Bus - 2

-yeah. summer courses 'cause then I can be done earlier.

-me too. good thing my dad can help me with tuition. I didn't really want to cash in my investments right now.

-why? tax implications.

-no. some of them lost value during the crash. I've reinvested, but they aren't where I'd like them to be.

-what did you invest in?

-I'm not sure. My dad's guy did it for me.

-I handle my own portfolio. I get some help from my dad, but mostly I make the calls. You should totally look at arms companies and private security firms. My earnings have gone through the roof.

-don't you feel a bit dirty with all that.

-hell no. It was great to see Egypt in trouble this year. Israel freaked out and my stocks soared. And man is Gaddafi good for business. Between that and the whole war thing, by the time I graduation I will have enough cash for a down-payment on a house.

-I'm not sure I could do that. You know. It seems a bit icky.

-are you kidding get in now man. With Greece the way it is, and Spain in so much trouble it's just a matter of time before people start freaking out more. You should put some cash in gold as well.

-Well...

-no really. I'll hook you up with my advisor if you want. After all we're business majors. We need to know how to make money.

-I know, but it just seems weird to be betting on chaos.

-what are you talking about, weird? Somebody going to be making money off it. It might as well be me.
--------------------

These girls hopped on the bus wearing their lulu yoga pants and Canucks jerseys, with their hair up in pony-tails, and freshly scrubbed faces. Then proceeded to casually chat about making money off of global unrest.

And people say today's youth aren't engaged in current events.

Gram

Yesterday on CBC, Stephen Quinn was talking about headcheese. Ah headcheese. I never ate you but how you remind me of my childhood.

My Grandmother was good prairie stock. She was 4 foot nothing and she towered over people 2 feet taller.

She and my grandfather were a study in contrasts. She grew vegetables. He grew roses. She surrounded herself with family. I was in my teens before I met any of my grandfather's family. She quoted the bible. He chopped wood.

There was a coal and wood stove in her kitchen. The oven on her electric range was used to store bowls she couldn't fit in her cabinets. The fridge was accessorized with a meat shed, and root cellar. In the event of a nuclear catastrophe her's was the house you wanted to find yourself at. She died ten years ago and I think I just ate her last jar of canned beans.

Years after she sold the farm and moved into the "city" I couldn't bring myself to answer her phone on the first ring. The ring on the farm phone was two short rings and one long. The rhythm of that ring stuck with me well into my 30′s.

Fall was butchering season. The menfolk would go down to the barn. They'd shoot the cow, then give the "all clear" signal. Until the "all clear" was given the kids had to stay in the house.

——————

One shot, but no all clear.

Second shot. Still no all clear.

Third shot. No all clear yet.

The kids looked at each other. We looked in the kitchen. Gram was reaching into the drawer that holds the butchering knives. With one hand she pulled out a knife and a sharpening stone. Her other hand grabbed her white butchering apron off a hook. She threw the apron's top loop over her head, and tucked the knife and sharpening stone under one arm so she could use her hands to tie the apron strings around her.

As she left the house she took the knife in one hand, the sharpening stone in the other and punctuated each step with a blade stroke along the stone. The kids followed her out of the house, careful to stay far enough back that it would be an inconvenience to send us back to the house, but close enough that we could see what was going on.

The menfolk were gathered round a cow. Despite the shots we heard, it was refusing to go down. They looked up. Gram strode past them. One hand reached under and lifted the cow's chin up. The other drew the newly sharpened blade along the cow's neck. It went down.

The uncles, and fathers paused to look at each other and then to Gram, then they got to work. They hoisted the cow, started to bleed it out and laughed at themselves. Gram meanwhile, cleaned the knife on her apron, sharpened it and handed it back to my grandfather so he could use it later to skin the cow.

She got it done.

And, that's the type of woman who would think nothing of wrapping a pig's severed head in a plastic grocery bag, hand it to her 12 year-old granddaughter and send me off to drop it at the shoemaker in town so he could make headcheese.

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Flash ah-ah!

My dog has become my barometer.

I love my dog. She's a great companion. If it wasn't for her I would never have chucked everything and spent a year travelling. Before she came along I was tied to owning my apartment. It was the first home I had ever bought. I loved it. I pictured myself a blue-haired old lady trudging up the back steps to my apartment with my tin of cat food in my hand, wearing a hair net. But, when my coop board offered me the choice between keeping the dog and staying in my apartment I chose the dog.

At the time, losing my home was terrifying. Later, when I was drinking wine with new friends in Portugal I was thankful for her. After all, besides being the impetus for the move she introduced me to my new friends.

Now, before you panic and think I've had as stroke and become one of those people who imbues their animal with "special powers", I mean this whole barometer thing in a totally concrete way.

I no long have any confidence in my internal thermometer. It could be -12, 12 or even 42 degrees outside, I couldn't tell the difference. Sweating is no longer indicative of hot temperatures.

Lots of people have advice on how to avoid and manage hot flashes.

Avoid caffeine.

No hot drinks.

Don't eat chocolate.

Spicy or hot foods are a no-no.

Worst of all, they tell me no alcohol.

Really, do you even know me? These are all things I love. You can take my uterus, but you can't take my pleasures! Maybe I should call them vices? Either way...

When the dog and I get ready to head out to the park or for a walk I look at her. Is she panting? How far out of her mouth is her tongue hanging? These are clues I use to help with the big decisions. Puffy vest? Wool sweater? Or sweat shirt?

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Hysterectomy!

Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy.

There. I said it. I have been dancing around the word for the past three months.

Operation.

Surgery.

Medical problem.

Those have all been answers I've given to various questions asked of me.

I am not been a person who keeps secrets. If it has happened to me you usually know about it. I have a few dirty secrets that involve surfers, wine, and foreign men, but generally if you ask I'll tell you. But, then came this surgery and suddenly I found myself dancing around what was happening to me.

My sister and I shuffled about the mall a few days after "the operation". I needed to get out of my apartment for practical reasons, new underwear had to be found as everything I owned rubbed and got caught up on my staples, and I needed a mental health quickie, I couldn't stare at the same four wall one more day without throwing a plate through my apartment window. To avoid a dramatic and costly over-reaction to confinement we headed to a nice covered mall that offered underwear and diversion.

First stop was Starbucks. I was overdue for a London Fog. And Treesa need a Chai latte. We are both much nicer people when we feed our vices. A little popcorn from Kernels helped as well.

Then we made our way to pick up underwear. That was about all the excitement I could imagine surviving on my first outing.

I shuffled along found some suitably ugly but comfortable underwear and then made for the car. Between me and the car was a Mac cosmetic store. The combination of exhaustion and the loss of my uterus that caused an undeniable urge to own a new lipstick. A good lipstick and a nice pair of shoes can always cheer me up. A new handbag can help as well.

Treesa stood by and offered her critique of the various shades of retail therapy.

Too pink.

Too purple.

Too dark.

Makes you look yellow.

I settled on "not bad". It was all I hoped for given the circumstance.

The sales attendant wasn't sure what to make of us. Treesa and I are quite content conversing in sarcasm, but it scares other people.

I don't… But… Well… If you're sure. The clerk uncomfortably responded to our sister patter.

At one point I turned to quickly and laughed too hard. Pain caused what little colour I had drain from my face. Treesa quickly responded with an arm and a chair.

I just had abdominal surgery, I told the worried looking clerk.

Oh. I had my appendix out last year. She smiles.

I thanked her for her help and Treesa got out my bank card and paid for my purchase. It is a comfort to have a sister so close she can use your bank card without asking you for your pin code.

With lipstick, popcorn and underwear in hand, we slowly made our way to the car.

Abdominal surgery? Treesa asks.

I know. I couldn't think of what to say. I shrug.

So now I am practicing saying it. Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy.

I do say, all this honesty is giving me the vapours.

Vignette One

-Ding. Dong.

-Hello I say opening my apartment door to two young men in black suits. Each of them is wearing a small telltale name tag on their left lapels.

-Sister Treena? It's so nice to meet you. Your aunt asked us to visit.

-Hello boys. This would be my auntie Jennie I suppose.

-Why yes.

One replies. But for the fact that only one mouth moves, the two faces are indistinguishable from each other. One could be the other. Although, they are identically unique within our age group. Clear skinned, bright eyed, and joyfully free of any stimulants, these are nice young men.

I can't resist young men on their missions. Our world views are the antithesis of each others. But, it feels like home to have them at my table talking about hockey, books, travel and God. They avoid saying I'm a hell-bound heathen and I avoid saying they are naive and superstitious. For an hour we chat. I drink tea and they sip Ovaltine. I mentioned they are stimulant free didn't I? Then it comes...

-Sister Rivard mentioned, that with the temple so far away, you are finding it difficult to make sunday services.

-She did huh. Distance.

We smile at each other. No hard feelings. They had to ask.

--------------

This friday afternoon she will finally get me to temple. I hope there is no lightening around. A thunderbolt from the sky might challenge my current state of atheism. Although it would be a neat trick and my hat would be off to you Jennie.

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Jennie

-Hello

-Hi Treena. We lost her today.

-I'm sorry Andrea. How are you doing?

-I'm okay. She went peacefully. The funeral will be either Friday or Saturday. I'll let you know when things are confirmed.

Jennie introduced me to angel food cake. For two years, once a month my parents and I would drive to Vancouver. I would spend the week in the hospital undergoing chemo. Jennie would make me a congratulations your week of chemo angel food cake with whipped cream and strawberries. She and Norm, her husband would host all the Vancouver family for a heading out of town dinner.

Board games. Badminton. Bar-b-que. Angle food cake.

It was always a celebration. Making it through the month, making it through chemo, and finding ourselves together again, eating laughing and to celebrate living.

Good-bye.

Overheard on the Bus

-No!

-Really? Come on.

-What?

-No, really?

-Oh. My. God.

-Come on. Like, really?

-hahahahahahahahaha

-Yeah, I know.

-You know I hate that.

-I fuckin' hate when that happens.

-Cheese.

-She said what?

-I would break up with her for that.

-No really. Burger King makes the best burger.

Alentejo Blue

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Portugal knocked on my door twice recently. Once. A friend guided me to Monica Ali on twitter. A second time friends from Nazare shipped me a bottle of Ginja de Obidos. What a lovely way to be cheered up when you are consigned to your couch for a prolonged period of time.

So, while some friends are off eating and drinking, celebrating birthdays on a Saturday night, I am sitting here, sipping a glass of Ginja re-reading Alentejo Blue. And, remembering how lovely Alentejo was.


Monsaraz in Alentejo

The story awoke my desire is to be a foreigner whose place some locals break into so they can swim in the pool. I know, it's a little bourgeois, but…

At the end of The NY Times review the reviewer wants Ali to let the characters out to interact rather than having them silently stew. I am glad she didn't do that. To me it would have seemed very unportuguese for the characters to act out their lives in public. Maybe it's their history of being invaded, maybe it's that until 1974 they lived under a right-wing dictatorship Estado Novo, maybe it's just the friends I made, but to me silently stewing fit the stories perfectly.

Another part of the book that makes me smile is when she talks about older men sitting on benches watching the world go by chatting to each other. Every morning I walked my dog through the town and smiled to the older guys as they solved the worlds problems amoungst themselves. At least that is what I think they were doing. Hard to tell as I didn't understand a lot of what they said to me. Devagar por favor, or slowly please was the phrase I used the most.

Muhammad Ali Pasha al-Mas'ud ibn Agha (Not the boxer)

"Hello" they recite in unison. A group of school girls are trying out
their english.

"Hello." Dad replies. "How are you?"

This is met with giggles. They're not sure what he is asking them.

"Mr. Where. Are. You. From." They slowly pronounce each word as they
practiced in class.

"Canada." Dad smiles at his flock of admirers.

"Oh yes. Canada Dry. Nice. Nice." They reply.

This is the first time we have had this response. We will hear it many
more times before we head home.

"We won't get anywhere if he keeps encouraging him." Alice says. We
joined Alice and her daughter Erica along with the guide Essam for our
Egyptian vacation.

Alice talks. I'm not sure how she manages to get oxygen into her
lungs. I have known her for three hours now and I know she is from
California, worked in banking until her bank was taken over by the
Fed., has a troubled relationship with her daughter, lost her father,
loves to travel, has a police officer husband, hates Obama, has Greek
ancestry, had a bad European tour experience, loves Hawaii, and
Mexico, has been to Egypt before, drinks coffee not tea... She is the
embodiment of the "American" tourist, but seems genuine and kind. So,
I swallow my prejudice and try to engage her.

"Shake a leg." Essam calls and holds up his blue clipboard as a beacon
for us to follow.

We head to the entrance of Muhammad Ali's mosque. Essam hands us
tickets. We line up at metal detectors for a cursory inspection of our
bags and persons. Essam heads through first and shakes hands with
everyone he encounters. The same men line up to search our bags.

Father of modern Egypt. Reformed the military. Headed land reform.
Built a central bureaucracy. Essam fills us with more details that we
can possibly hold onto. I start to learn how deep the history of this
country runs. I am reminded of how young Canada is.

Muhammad Ali's Mosque
I love the architectural details in moorish influenced buildings. The
arches, the curved doorways, and window details combine to create an
elegant facade. The details remind me of the buildings in Seville.

The mosque's courtyard houses a few women holding out white modesty
gowns. I dressed with modesty in mind this morning. My skirt covers my
knees. My shirt covers my shoulders. That doesn't stop the man behind
us from pushing women forward and demanding I wrap myself in a gown.
Two women lift my arms and start robing me. In arabic, they firmly
demand something from me. I'm pretty sure it's money they are looking
for.

Essam realizes that Treesa and I have fallen behind the group. He
returns to the entrance looking for us. Short sharp words are
exchanged with the man in charge of the gowns. Then the handshake
where palms never meet occurs. Money was passed between them, and
Essam herds us off to meet up with our group.

"Privatization." he says. "This man has been hired recently to run the
gown rental. It used to be run by the government. He is "stricter" in
his assessment of acceptable dress."

Even religious institutions need to drive a profit these days.

It is beautiful. The court yard's alabaster reflects the sun. The
interior of the mosque is painted in green and gold and hurricane
style lights are suspended from the ceiling. The floors are covered in
persian carpets. We pad about barefoot and learn about Mamluk
architecture, the height of the mihrab and Muhammad's son whose death
inspired the building.

As we leave the mosque we are approached by women who disrobe Treesa
and me. I step into my shoes and out into the sun. Cairo lies at our
feet. I can see why Muhammad came to this mountain.

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Breakfast

My first breakfast in Egypt.

It happens at the ungodly hour of 6am. I hate mornings, but after a
few days here I will come to see the common sense behind starting your
day this early. For now the breakfast buffet will be my solace.

My introduction to Egyptian food starts with black tea. Here, they add
mint to the hot water and then brew the black tea. Awesome!

The hotel we are at must cater to both western and eastern travellers.
The breakfast buffet has a crepe bar and an egg man making any
omlette, over easy, or fried egg thing you can dream up right next to
a felafel maker with fresh hummus. There's also a bean, tomato and
onion spread with pita that people are digging in to, but this seems a
little too heavy for me for the first day.

The baking deserves a special mention. The breads are sweet and
fluffy. Buns are fresh, some are covered in granulated sugar and some
are stuffed with a fig paste or chocolate. So good.

And if you want a little honey on your toast or in your tea there is
always this: www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Rickie

"Call me Rickie" he tells us. We are finally on the bus that we will
ride to the hotel. "Anything you need, you tell me. Egypt is a great
country. Anything you need, you call me."

We careen through the streets. Four cars squeeze into two lanes, and
horns beep. The horns are not angry horns. Drives use them to say
hello, I'm taking over this lane, and this light is taking too long to
change so I'm coming through. People shrug off the sound. Donkeys and
their passengers move to the side and everyone negotiates their space.
If I hadn't ridden in cabs in China and Thailand the traffic might
have bothered me, but the rush and noise seem quite calm to me.

"Ahh." Rickie says. "We have crazy divers here. Egypt traffic مجنون (Mjnwn)"

"They just make the lanes too wide." Is Jerry's response.

Before I left Canada I read a bunch of books by Egyptian authors. One
of the book, The Yacobian Building involves the intertwined lives of
groups of people who live in a building. Some of the people live on
the roof. While reading it I understood that people lived on top of
the roof, but I never thought of how that would work. As we make our
way to the hotel I start to see it. The tops of some apartments have
rebar sticking out and loosely woven palm that provides shelter to the
people living there.

The official population of the city is 17 million. I can't see how
they could possibly count everyone here. As we were taking overpasses
and winding our way through the city I thought the apartment building
were not that high. Then I looked down and realized that the road we
were driving on was five floors above ground level.

Mosques, army headquarters, army mosque, football field, more mosques
and finally a bridge. My first sight of the Nile. It's almost 2am and
couples are crossing in groups, people are fishing, and crazy.... cars
are parked in the outside lanes. They pull up, stop, and everyone
climbs out and gazes at the water below.

When we finally get to the hotel I can see how security is an issue
here. Our bus pulls up to the parking lot. The driver identifies
himself and Rickie, and the the bus is sniffed at by a dog. Men with
guns eventually lower the steel pillars in the roadway and we drive
into the lot. Now we are just a metal detector and x-ray machine away
from bed. Man am I tired. I can barely appreciate the grounds.

"So. You need AnyThing you call me. I can find anything in this town.
You just tell me." Rickie smiles.

Blah. Blah. Blah. Princess's former castle. Visiting dignitaries.
Blah. Blah. Blah. Egyptian cotton and a feather pillow await.

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It's Sunday

Paris. Notre-Dame. Sunday.

It was amazing how amidst the tourists, the congregation and priest
managed to create a space that they saw as holy.

I came into the church and heard the sounds of hymns. The hymns in a
Catholic church are very different from the ones I grew up with. We
sang things like Jesus Loves Me, and This Little Light of Mine. My
hymns were kinda jr. faith meets new agey worship.

On this Sunday I heard the Psalms being sung in French. They made no
sense, but were comforting. The ritual and structure offered communion
(in the non-Eucharist sense) to those gathered and they shared it with
all of us watching.

Maybe it was comforting because I couldn't understand it...

This way people were joined together in a happiness I could feel, and
my mind didn't jump in and start to punch holes in their theories.

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Customs. Check?

Meeting up with the family in the airport is not that difficult. There
are not that many, looks like they are going to be sunburned in about
a minute, groups milling about. And, they are watching the door for
me. We all think the first five minutes in the country is too early to
lose someone.

Jerry and Dad are in the "line-up" to get our visitors visas. It is
amazing how many people are trying to get paperwork processed at
midnight on a Sunday. Ten minutes of "elbows up" nudging and 15 US
dollars per person and we all now have shiny visa stickers to hand
over to customs.

"Keep moving to the end wall." A familiar voice floats out from a
black cloud. "The line ups move faster."

"Thanks." I smile and herd the family along to the wall. Here is where
you can see money making things easier for some. Small groups move
through customs with such ease I have to believe something other than
love passed between everyone when they were hugging, kissing, and
shaking hands.

There are no stanchions, velvet ropes for guiding, or even a clear
line up, but there are lots of men in white uniforms carrying machine
guns to prod stragglers in the right direction.

Passport control. Check.

Luggage. Check.

"Don't take your hands off your bag. And don't let anyone else touch
it or they will want money from you. Do you need cabs to your hotel?"
Posh spice asks.

"Nope. My sister the travel organizing Goddess has arranged for the
hotel shuttle to pick us up." Which is a relief. I'm not sure after
all the travelling I could handle the cabbie madness and heat I step
into outside the airport. As I dodge "helpful" outstretched hands I
turn to thank my new friend.

"تصبح على خير" she says. "And, wear sunscreen!"
--

You're Not In Canada Anymore!

After twenty hours of travelling, my plane is touching down in Egypt.

"Please stay in your seats until the plane comes to a complete stop"
the flight attendant calls out over the PA and repeats the request in
Arabic.

Tourists on the plane glance at each other and tug their seat belts to
reassure each other that she's not talking about us. The Locals ignore
the entreaties floating over the PA system and keep pulling out
carry-on bags and passing them back and forth across the aisles.
Travelling companions call out, identifying their suitcases, duty-free
bags, and coats, and wait for the standees to distribute the overhead
compartments holdings.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Please remain in your seats until the plane
comes to a complete stop and the Captain has turned off the seat belt
sign." The attendant repeats this, but seems resigned to the fact that
very few passengers are going to comply with this request.

The plane stops and the rest of us passengers stand and join the
chaos. Tentative smiles, yawns, and anxious glances pass amongst the
new standees. None of us know what to expect outside the plane.

I get closer to the door. The heat surprises me. It's 11.30 at night
and it is warmer than a summer's day in Vancouver. Sweating at
midnight...

This is one of the stop on the tarmac and take a bus to the terminal
landings. Like a polite Canadian I line up and make my way towards the
door. By the time I reach sight of the night sky, I have been
separated from my family. Hesitancy comes with a cost here.

"توقف" (twqf) a gun toting man in a white uniform shouts at me as I am
about to head down the stairs.

A hand reaches out from behind me and tugs on my t-shirt. "He wants us
to stop and wait here" A posh british accent attached to the hand
tells me. I turn to thank the woman translating for me. She sat near
me on the flight from London to Cairo. She was wearing upscale jeans
and t-shirt, but is now covered from head to toe in a black headscarf
and dress.

"I'm here to visit family." She says. "I wear this to please my
grandmother. It is easier than arguing with her." She smiles.

I helped butcher chickens to please my grandmother. I understand
compromising to keep the peace.

"You're going to need to be a little pushier if you're going to
survive in Cairo." She laughs.

Luxor

Was floating down the Nile today. A maz ing! Palm trees, donkeys,and
camels lined the shore. The crops, mostly corn and sugar cane were
sweating off the night mist and getting ready for the day. A farmer
started up a diesel engine and I thought for a minute that I was in
apocalypse now. The machine gun mounted on the bow of the ship helped
the war time image. It was six in the morning. Jet lag helps me become
an early riser.

Jer's thinks that the reason they once worshipped the sun is 'cause
you can't beat it.

T

--
treena and kootenay
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