Yesterday, 12 December, my aunt and I began the day with a short trip to a place called Khan el-Khalili (sp?) where there was a public square with gorgeous architecture. It might have been a religious center, but religious or not, the main building had a sign that read in both Arabic and English, “No women allowed inside.” It was time for prayer because we heard haunting music playing throughout the area; some pedestrians even stopped and closed their eyes. My aunt told me some of the lyrics go something like, “I profess that there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of God/Come to prayer/Come to the good/Allah is most great…”
The streets behind the square were old, narrow, full of cats (Dog ownership is frowned upon in the Middle East because Muhammad said they’re unclean.), and contained many tiny shops. Some shops probably couldn’t hold more than ten people, and others probably no more than five. We stepped inside one shop to get my aunt a new traveling spinner. What’s fascinating about a shopping experience in the Middle East (Well, I’m not sure it’s completely unique to the Middle East.) is that if you’re going to take time to look at their merchandise, they take you to a remote part of the shop where they serve you tea, put a few options in front of you, and then begin the bargaining process. Raised on fixed prices, I found I had no patience for this and could equate watching my aunt bargaining with “Imon” (eye-mon) to a comedic tennis match. One needs to maintain a sense of humor while bargaining.
She eventually lost interest and we moved on to another shop. A couple of men working at the previous one had followed us. The two men working in this new one gave my aunt some options, she chose one, and I suggested that it can’t be worth more than $40.
“I tell you what: because man behind you is my friend, I offer you discount.” Yeah, like we haven’t heard that one before.
She bought the chosen one at the price I suggested, and before leaving I got a picture with the vendor. My aunt stepped out the shop and I shook hands with the vendor. He then pulled me closer and said, “You have beautiful eyes and look Egyptian. How about a kiss?” He turned his cheek toward me and I politely declined. It had been the third comment on my eyes since I arrived in Egypt and I was starting to think that Egyptian men really go for that kind of thing (probably because that’s all one can really see on most Muslim women).
“When you turned around he and the otha guy stared at your ass. They wouldn’t ever do that to a Muslim woman,” my aunt said.
The Egyptian Museum was a short distance away, so we moseyed over to see the mask and coffin of the famous King Tut. (I can smell Stephanie’s jealousy from California :-P.) On the way over another sandstorm was brewing, and I noticed a barrier surrounding a large hole in front of the museum that looked a lot like Ground Zero in New York. Turns out that's where they had some terrorist bombings (as a statement against Christianity?).
The museum had incredible pieces. But what really baffled me was, unlike in the States, one could sit and relax at the base of a sculpture, and the display cases housing some of the mummies and coffins looked like they could be opened easily like cabinets. Also, locating anything with descriptions was like looking for Waldo; my guess is they do that so the museum can produce additional income with guides, who approach you periodically to ask if you’re interested. That, again, illustrates the desperation of a poor country—they always have their hand out.
The King Tut room was packed with tourists. The mask, much to our relief, had a description attached to it saying that it contained 11 kilo of gold. Jebus! And the three-layered coffin and jewelry were just as breathtaking with their many minor details. Those Egyptian royals…so spoiled…
On the way back my aunt mentioned that we’re going to have dinner with the Italians again later this week.
“Man, isn’t Jacomo just a hot piece of ass? I might be old, but I’m not dead. And by the way, I think Alessandro was really taken by you; I’d never seen him so quiet. Either that or he’s a player,” she said, Jacomo (JOCK-o-mo) being the 22-year-old and Alessandro the 32-year-old.
After we returned to the hotel around 2 PM, I used the rest of the day to sleep off the leftover jet lag. I woke up and knocked out periodically, and then found myself at the point of no return for sleep at 3 AM. Sigh…
