The Exodus

Monday, October 8, 2012

Waterloo, Canada

Agenda

Go Home

This story begins on Saturday, two days ago, or something like that. Crossing time zones confounds the telling of this story as days compress and expand with each leg of the journey until you can barely tell where you are, or how long you've been there. All is well as long as you have your passport, a boarding pass, and a President's Choice granola bar in your pocket, right? Does two out of three count?

Let's start on Saturday morning. We had finished touring the day before, so for the first time in two weeks, there was no early morning wake-up call. Instead, I could lie in and enjoy the luxury of the the Old Winter Palace Hotel. In theory. But two weeks of early mornings can be habit forming, and I woke up at 5:30 am anyway, just as the sky was brightening from black to deep blue, and then through all the dusty shades of red and orange as the sun broke free of the horizon, and the day began in earnest.

I spent a lot of time on Saturday writing. Or trying to write, because I don't have anything to show for it. After two weeks of touring, I wanted to give these notes a proper ending, a big production number where everyone is dancing in formal evening attire. The boy gets the girl, the music swells, the chorus sings us out, and the final credits roll.

But no such luck. I was tired and just wanted to go home. So let me tell you about that – the going home part, and we'll have to make do with whatever show biz drama we can wring out of it.

Gayle, Lloyd, Tove, Bill and Margaret, Ahmed, and I left the Old Winter Palace at 8:30 pm. Outside, a minivan was waiting, and as our luggage was loaded, Gayle and I noticed that some speech was being played at top volume on a nearby radio. The speaker was delivering it in Arabic, but it had the same cadence and feel as one of Adolph Hitler's harangues from Nuremberg. Odd. But there was no time to ponder these things as it was Time To Go. Ali Blue-Eyes, the taxi driver and felucca captain appeared at the last moment to bid us farewell, giving a happy wave though the van window. There were smiles all around as we pulled away, bound for the airport.

Airports are curious places. They are a place you go to in order to go somewhere else. They have no other intrinsic reason for being; no one builds an airport as a local attraction, or as part of a new condo development.

A good airport is a predictable airport. A certain amount of blandishment is acceptable, but its basic operation must be comprehensible to travelers of all nations and cultures. You show your papers, you check your baggage, go through security, then stroll through an ersatz mall for hours on end until you come round to the idea that you really do need a new $2000 watch, or a magnum of perfume, or a 5 kg box of chocolates. Eventually, your flight is called, and you leave with a herd of other happy travelers.

That's how it's supposed to go.

When we arrived at the airport, we threw our bags onto an x-ray belt, and passed through the first metal detector of the night. As we waited for the machines to do their work, we noticed the same radio broadcast was playing here too, a full twenty minutes after we had heard it outside the hotel. “It's the President,” said Ahmed, “talking about the 6^th of October.”

Of course. We were flying on October 6, the day Egypt started the war to take back the Sinai. Armed Forces day. No wonder it sounded like a Nazi rally, but the similarity between the two dismayed me.

But never mind all that. Here's the plan: Gayle, Lloyd, Tove, and I are flying together, first to Cairo at 10:30 pm, then to Frankfurt at 4:00 am, then to Toronto at 2:50 pm, arriving at 4:50 pm local time, the following day, refreshed and relaxed. We check our bags all the way to Toronto, and pick up the three boarding passes we need for the journey home. Except for Tove. For her, they will only send her as far as Cairo, where they insist she must pick up her bags and check in again for the remaining flights because “they are on a separate ticket”.

Really? It looks like the same ticket to our eyes. And even if it isn't, why should that matter? A protracted discussion ensues between the ticket agent (whose English is fair at best), and Ahmed (whose English is excellent) and us (who are strangers to these kinds of nuances). Minutes pass, and when it becomes clear that there will be no enlightenment on our part this evening, we shrug and just accept it, even though it sounds like a pointless exercise. You have to pick your battles, and we did not have the home team advantage.

The flight to Cairo went off without incident. Arriving at the terminal, we said goodbye to Ahmed who was returning to his home in the city, but only “au revoir” to Tove whom we expected to see again once she had collected her luggage and had checked in again. Gayle, Lloyd, and I lit off to the gate for our next flight, and hunkered down in an empty airport to kill four hours before we left for Frankfurt.

They say that life is short, but it seldom seems that way when you have time on your hands. Lloyd and I discussed the nature of consciousness, while Gayle wisely cat napped on the terminal floor. Some time later, when the conversation had turned to favourite Star Trek episodes (original series), Gayle asked the obvious question: Where is everyone? Looking around, we were the only people in that part of the airport. Shouldn't there be more people here? And where's Tove?

We checked the gate number on our boarding passes. We were at the right gate. Absolutely. And yet the complete lack of other passengers made it feel like the wrong gate. A vague unease began to stir inside us.

I looked over at the boarding pass in Lloyd's hands. “How come we're not sitting together?” I asked. Now that was odd because we had prebooked our seats weeks ago. (If you're going to have to step over someone in order to get to an airplane bathroom, I think it's best if they are already dear friends.) Maybe there's a Lufthansa agent nearby who can fix this, we thought, and started looking for one. In the Cairo airport, in the middle of the night, in a deserted terminal. This took a while, but you probably already guessed that.

* * *

“There you are!” We looked up and saw Tove striding towards us. “They wouldn't let me in without a boarding pass, so I had to leave them my passport,” she said. It took a few moments for her meaning to become clear. The flight had been delayed, she said, and they wouldn't give her a boarding pass for it, but she had been allowed into the terminal to find us.

Delayed. The word send my mind racing – For how long? Why? And what about our connecting flight to Toronto? How would we change that flight?... Racing, as I say, but then fatigue steps on the clutch and puts the brain in a neutral, and you spend a long moment looking into someone's face, thinking … nothing. “Oh,” I said.

Eventually, we connected with a Lufthansa agent in a back office in the airport, not usually accessible to customers. He looked up from our boarding passes, and cheerfully announced that our flight had been delayed. Well, canceled, actually. It would fly again at noon the next day. “It was the towers in Frankfurt,” he said cryptically. “They closed at 11:00.” We took this to mean that our airplane had not left Frankfurt the night before because the aircraft control tower had shut down for some reason, so there was no plane here in Cairo for us to board. “Is there anything you can do to help us get to Toronto?” we asked. He was all smiles. “I will need your boarding passes, and your luggage tags, and your passports. It will take 15, maybe 20 minutes.” He looked around, then pointed to a wall of padded benches in the main ticketing hall. “Why don't you wait there, and I will be back in about 20 minutes.” And then he was gone.

This was fine. Our group was together, and we were being looked after, in the Cairo airport, in the middle of the night. “I really have to lie down now,” Lloyd said, and he stretched out on a couch and shut his eyes.

I was feeling it too. Staying up late always makes my stomach feel stretched, but we had to stay awake in case the agent returned with out Golden Tickets home. Standing helps. It's harder to slide into sleep if you're standing. And singing can raise your spirits, so that's what we did. The assorted works of Cole Porter and Monty Python. It would have helped to have a firmer grip on the lyrics, but at 3:00 in the morning, much can be forgiven.

Thirty minutes had passed since we had seen the Lufthansa agent. I checked my watch again. Yup – thirty minutes. And then he appeared, still chipper, saying “You're the four going to Toronto? Don't worry. We're looking after your passports, and we're still working on it.” And then his disappeared again.

Don't worry? Why would I worry that we seemed stuck an empty airport, and had given our passports to a fellow whose name we hadn't noted, and who comes and goes like Jesus? Why would that worry me?

It was about that time that the airport staff started to clean the ticketing hall we were in. A small team drove riding tile washers – wheezing one-man Zambonies that shot water on the floor, then vacuumed it up with sickle-shaped squeegees. Back and forth, back and forth, right where we were waiting. They cleaned around Lloyd, who continued to sleep on his couch.

Three o'clock passed into memory, as did four o'clock. And despite the agent's best and sound advice, I did begin to wonder about our passports. What if this fellow's shift ended before we saw him again? How long could we sit in the airport without being asked to leave? Could we stay here indefinitely, like Tom Hanks does in “The Terminal”? I put the question to the group. “Who was the woman in that?” someone asked. “Stanley Tucci was the best part of that movie,” I answered. This sort of broken repartee is typical of early morning conversations where more is thought than actually said. “Catherine Zeta Jones,” someone says, and we all nod sagely and lapse into amicable silence.

It wasn't until around 5:00 o'clock that I saw Gayle madly waving at me from across the ticketing hall. Our agent had reappeared with boarding passes in hand. We were booked onto an Egypt Air flight at 9:30 am to Heathrow, and then at 3:00 pm, an Air Canada flight to Toronto. He returned out passports, gave us our baggage claim tags, and vouchers for breakfast in the terminal food court. Never have you seen a group of people express their gratitude so completely and sincerely. He walked us past security, pointed out our gate, wished us a good journey, and was off.

From anxiety to exultation in minutes! And we had breakfast vouchers! Wow. All transgressions are forgiven with a free meal. Now all we had to do was wait for the restaurant to open, and we were in business. It's surprising how a plate of broiled tomato, cold fried egg, and tepid eggplant can bring you right back to life, just in time to enjoy the next curve ball that life is about to throw you.

* * *

I adore Egypt Air. It's logo is the falcon head of the Ancient Egyptian god Horus, but if that doesn't impress you, the fact that all the seats are well-spaced, even in steerage, should. And on this flight, we were flying in a brand-new Boeing 777 – designed by computers, specially optimized to use less fuel, and to be quieter than the previous generation of wide-body aircraft. The long-legged nerd in me is delighted beyond words. I can't wait to get aboard. But we have to wait, because there are 300 other passengers going with us, and everyone's carry-ons have to be x-rayed (again), and their passports checked (twice) and their boarding passes inspected (twice). We leave Cairo 45 minutes late, but once the wheels left the tarmac, you could practically hear a choir of angels singing us up into the clouds. Egypt was finally done with us.

But Heathrow wasn't. We landed late, which meant that we had only 60 minutes to get out of the plane, clear security, find the gate, and get on the next jet. All this, while mildly dazed from having stayed up the night before. It felt a bit like this:

Walking. Walking. Connecting flights. Walking. Walking.

Security. Why has the line stopped? Losing time. Too much time. Remove major electronics from your bag. X-ray. Body scan. Where's Lloyd's bags? What do you mean they didn't get through the machine? Put them through now for God's sake! Where's Tove? Don't lose anyone.

Gate? Got it. Which way? There's a sign. Follow it. Time... time.

Wait – wrong sign. That way! Where is everyone? Point the way, keep moving. Go, go, go.

At the gate. They know we're coming. How many more? Here they come now. Scan the boarding pass. Our row is boarding. Onto the plane. Stow my stuff. Butt in the seat. Buckle up. Throttle up.

And into the sky we go.

Lloyd is sitting to my left. We are both exhausted, greasy, and frazzled. I turn to him and say, “Hello.” It is the most normal thing I can think to say.

* * *

The rest of our Flight From Egypt passes with relative calm. There are airplane meals, and films in the seat backs, and customs to go through in Toronto, and luggage to collect, and then... and then...

And then you are home. In your bed. Or rather, I'm home, in my bed, looking up at the bedroom ceiling, thinking “I'm home,” as much to convince myself as anything. For the last few days, a room in the Old Winter Palace had become my home, and this place I was in now had started to become abstract – more like the idea of home, rather than home itself. And now that I was here, looking around at all the familiar things about my house, I felt a faint pang of unease. Is this really my home? Or just another hotel that I am passing through, a way-station? Take a long enough view, and that's all anything can ever be. A long view is a lifetime, or maybe more – a yawning history stretching for centuries, or millennia, as far away in time as the pharaohs and the pyramids...

And then I slept.

West Bank Stories

Friday, October 5, 2012

The Old Winter Palace Hotel

Luxor, Egypt

Agenda

Colossi of Memnon (revisit)

Tombs of the Nobles (Sennefer, Userhet, Ramose)

Rameseum

Valley of the Kings (tombs of Ramesses 4, 3, and 9)

Lunch at El Nakhil/The Palms Hotel and Restaurant (West Bank)

Sunrise over Luxor

Days in Luxor this time of year are hot, so an early start is essential. Today, we had a wake-up call scheduled for 5:00 am with breakfast buffet to follow and then a ferry across the Nile to our waiting bus. For some reason, I awoke instead at 2:44 am and was unable to return to sleep, lying awake, mulling over various things.

This is our last day of touring as a group, something which is bound to cause a certain amount of reflection. We have done a lot of living in the last two weeks, and home has started to become something of an abstract concept. Friends and loved ones are text in an email, and one's physical home starts to become a place for your stuff, reminding me that a house is a house, but home is... well, you know the rest. It's a strange feeling of displacement.

Here then, are a few closing stories from my heat-addled brain.

Strange Cats

Yesterday, we at lunch at the Happy Habu Restaurant on the West Bank, one of my favourite places in Egypt. When we arrived, a beautiful tomcat came to visit us. While probably in search of a free meal, he was also happy to receive pets and scratches from most of the group. At one point, he saw that my lap was free, and jumped into it, and made himself comfortable. Eight pounds of spotted coat, white underbelly, and twin eye lines leading away from the corner of the eyes, just like you see on pictures of the Ancient Egyptians themselves. Eight pounds of purr. We could just stay here a while, couldn't we, I wondered. Meow, meow, purr.

In moments like that, there is nothing for you to do but stroke the cat, and feel its warmth in your lap. There are no decisions to make, no other imperatives. Conversation can even become difficult in some cases as the repeated stroking and purring can actually induce a temporary aphasia. This is why cats are not allowed in the United Nations General Assembly; a strange by-law forbids them in the fear that they will strike foreign dignitaries dumb, leading to some sort of international incident. Dogs, on the other hand, are welcome as their inclination to mindless toadying allows them to blend in with the human rabble.

As our bus drove away from the ferry dock this morning, though the west bank streets, past shops still shuttered at the break of day, I thought of that cat, and wondered if we would be back there today. Would we have another chance to say hello to our new friend (and to the lovely and friendly staff at the restaurant)? No, in a word. We had our chance yesterday, and that was it. And that should be fine, but it isn't. Something about it continues to gnaw at me.

Dancing

A colossal statue of Amenhotep III

Our first stop today was at the Colossi of Memnon, two very large statues of the Pharaoh Amenhotep III, each carved from a single piece of stone. At least until they were toppled in an earthquake, and then repaired. It's a treat to see them in the early orange light of morning, but we stop only briefly because we want to get to the Tombs of the Nobles before the day's heat has a chance to soak in. They are small tombs, but each is as gorgeous as I remember from visits past. In one of the tombs, we ask the guard if it would be possible to take pictures, even though it's against the posted rules. He agrees, with the understanding that we will take care of him when we leave. Now this is a delicate thing: we have come to an understanding, a bending of rules. The guard should be compensated for his flexibility, there's no question of it. But when another tour group comes in, you should lay low with your camera, lest the other group get in a snit that we are taking pictures and they are not. Which is what happened today. So the guard came up to me, and berated me for taking pictures, winking while he did so. I played my part and apologized, putting down the camera until the other group had left. At that point, it was business as usual. It's all a dance, you see, a quadrille with strange rules that have to be broken to be found, and once seen, to be followed. Do that, and everyone is happy, and everyone is taken care of in the end.

Anna's Watch

Last night, the first of our number returned home. Anna is a seasoned traveler and a cool hand when it comes to managing the logistics of a tour like this one. Years ago, she was given a watch which has a thermometer built in. Fantastically useful if you want to gauge how long it will be before your exposed skin bursts into flame, as in Wadi Hitan or Medinet Habu (40 and 42 degrees respectively, if memory serves).

But today, Anna was not here to give us a weather report, and while the sun still threatened to kill us like ants under a magnifying glass, it didn't seem as bad as the last couple of days. In fact, I started to imagine that given time, one could even adjust to the climate, and come to think of this as normal. Are we starting to acclimatize, or was it really Anna's watch that caused the sensation of heat in the first place?

-- To Be Continued --

Anecdotal Evidence

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Old Winter Palace Hotel

Luxor, Egypt

Agenda

Karnak Temple

Luxor Temple

Avenue of the Sphinxes. Luxor.

We just got back from a visit to Karnak temple. It was 40 degrees in the shade, and seriously hotter in the sun. I could feel my lips burning and my camera body was hot to the touch. The locals wisely huddled in the shadows, but under the open sun, I saw Japanese tourists weeping openly with looks of uncomprehending confusion. It was an ugly scene, but the light was good, and I managed to take many fine pictures.

When hit with this kind of scorching heat, conversation inevitably suffers. I trotted out my favourite story about the heat in Luxor: Some years back, I was here in a much cooler January, and by cooler, I mean 30 degrees rather than 40. We were over on the West Bank, waiting at a tomb entrance for one of the guards to get the keys and open its door for us. The western hills are desert – an incandescent beige that hurt the eyes no matter how much squinting one does, or how thick the sunglasses. Fanning myself with my hat, I said to one of the other guards, “Sure is hot.” He nodded. “What's it like in the summer?” I asked. “It's horrible,” he said.

The 2011 revolution has been good for Egypt; that's what everybody here says, and I believe them. But it has been very bad for business, especially in a place like Luxor which is intimately dependent on tourists for the economy. Luxor (city) recently split off from Luxor (state) so that it could have more control over how it spent the massive amount of tourist money that flows into this city as a result of its close proximity to the Valley of the Kings and four of the largest and most famous temples in the country. A wise decision in the good times, but today, everyone here is hurting. You can hear it in their voices as they harangue you to take a kalesh ride or to sail in their felucca.

“Five pounds to take you to the market and back!” they offer. This is good price, assuming they're talking Egyptian Pounds, not British Pounds, a sucker's trick that shouldn't work on anyone, and yet you always hear it. I walked around Luxor Temple at lunch today, and had one kalesh driver follow me more than half-way, asking if I wanted to see this, or be taken somewhere else. A polite “No, thank you” escalated to “I don't need a kalesh today, thank you”, but it took me fixing him in the eyes and saying “No” in the way you would a dog, and that was nearly enough to break my heart right then and there.

I spoke to a man who claimed to be 50, but looked more like 65. His English was unusually good, and we talked about politics, and the new president. He was reserving judgment until Morsi has had more time, in office, I think. That's reasonable. “What about the petrol shortages,” I asked. “Someone is causing them, and there is an investigation,” he said. “But this has been happening since the spring,” I said. “How long do they have to investigate?” He nodded, “What I mean is, they have not found out who is doing it yet. But they will.” He went on to tell me about a time a few years ago when he said something against the government, and the police arrested him on the spot, taking him back to the station to cool his heels for three hours. They eventually told him to get lost, but he says this was not an unusual story. Before the revolution, you could not say anything. “But now you can,” he said. At least they have that.

Change is hard, and political change, even more so. Getting rid of Mubarak is a lesson that no one who rules Egypt should ever forget. Things are improving, but there's no time to waste. Yallah!

Touring

Monday, October 1, 2012

Nefertiti Hotel

Minya, Egypt

Agenda

El Ashminein

Colossal statues of Thoth

Remains of a church dedicated to the Virgin Mary, with columns

The remains of a house

Partial statues of Ramesses II

A temple dedicated to Thoth with decorated columns

A small temple with reliefs of Seti II and the god Amun

Tuna el Gebel

Tomb of Petosiris

Tomb of Isadora

The well/el Sakiya

Catacombs with mummies of baboons and ibises

Akhenaten's boundary stela A

Our three days in Minya have come to a swift end. It's possible that the days are starting to accelerate as our remaining time decreases. Tomorrow we leave for Luxor by way of Dendara and Abydos. It promises to be a long day – twelve hours from start to end – but I expect that six of them will be spent on the road, watching the Egyptian countryside roll past. That is certainly one of my favourite parts of touring. The monuments are fine, but there is a quiet serenity to be had aboard a bus of convivial traveling companions, many of us lost in our own thoughts, watching the palm trees, or the small plots of land on which farmers are growing sugar cane, or sesame, or corn. Or watching the villages, each similar but different. There are usually a few houses with an airplane or ship painted on the outside, signifying that they have made the hadj. And there are small shops selling potato ships and Pepsi a stone's throw from a small automotive garage, or maybe a butcher with a hock of meat hanging from a metal hook in the middle of a white-tiled room with a small cloud of flies.

There are animals everywhere. Even here in Minya, dogs roam the corniche in ones and twos. Occasionally, a donkey cart will clop by, overtaken by impatient cars and lorries filled with vegetables, metal fuel tanks, or occasionally people, riding any way they can – in the back, on the cab, anywhere.

This morning, on the drive to El Ashmunein, I saw two kittens – one orange and black, the other a sandy brown – play fighting under a grubby white plastic lawn chair. The first one had its paw out towards to the other, as if say “en garde!” And then the battle began. And then they disappeared from sight as the bus sped on.

Some houses have yards that back onto the road. Some have stacks of new red bricks in them, some have chickens. Or a donkey. Or just packed dirt and unidentifiable detritus under the shade of a large tree whose great green leaves offer shade from the murderous sun.

Stores in the cities are different. There's more consumer goods – clothes and furniture and technology (batteries, computers, internet, automotive parts). One has the impression that an enormous mall has been turned inside out and disbursed along the road for our inspection.

A shop in Minya,

The local people are very welcoming, despite our arrival in an enormous, fume-breathing bus. School kids especially wave enthusiastically, and I try to wave back to everyone, even if I have been waving for the last hour. It's their two seconds of contact with some strange traveler, and I feel better if I can make them feel that their effort was not wasted.

Why do they wave at us? Are we such spectacle? Or are we some sort of rarity, like a two-headed calf?

It doesn't matter. I will keep waving in the hope that some kid will grow up thinking that maybe the tourists who visit their country are not all loathsome jerks. And so, for all of those people who waved, and who will probably never read this, I send you my thanks for making my time here that much more enjoyable. And for those people who waved, but didn't get a wave back, I offer my apologies. I just didn't see you. It wasn't anything personal. Keep the faith. That's all that any of us can do.

Amarna

September 30, 2012

Siva Nefertiti Hotel

Minya, Egypt

Agenda

Tour of Amarna with Barry Kemp

Southern Tomb #25 – Ay

The Small Aten Temple

Mud Brick House # 244-1

The King's House

The Royal Tomb

Boundary Stela U

Tombs of Meryra and Pahesy

The Northern Palace

Hee hee hee. We got a tour of Amarna with Professor Barry Kemp today, and you didn't. Unless you were in the same group as me, and in that case: virtual high-five.

It's hard to know what to talk about for today. The day was very full, but it seemed to pass in less than an hour. We started in the Tomb of Ay. Not the one in the Valley of the Kings, which I was able to visit in 2010, but his one here at Amarna. I think the most noteworthy part of that tomb was a small portion of a wall relief showing Akhenaten and Nefertiti at a window of appearances, bestowing gifts on Ay. In this scene, the royal couple are shown surrounded by minions who busy themselves by bowing and scraping. However, in this version of the scene, there is a group of 4 men who are clearly dancing – hopping and gyrating in a way that rather closely resembles the pedestrian crossing sign used in modern Minya. It is the only thing I have ever seen in Amarnan art which suggests that anyone was happy.

Also of note concerning this scene: Akhenaten and Nefertiti are obviously nude. As are their daughters, but since they are children, that's neither here nor there.

At the Small Aten Temple, Professor Kemp told us how the axis of the temple is aligned with the entrance to the wadi which holds the Royal Tomb, about 4 km away at the edge of the desert plain. He also mentioned that while a great ceremony is made around plotting an astronomical/geophysical line for the temple axis, it is purely ceremonial, and that the temple is aligned to the location of the Nile.

I could spend a long time telling you what we did and what we saw, but it's already 10:30 pm and maybe some pics would be better at this point.

A mud brick house.

Barry Kemp pointing out features surrounding the Northern Tombs

 

Looking south from the northern tombs

The group at the Small Aten temple

The climb to boundary stela U

Saqqara Stories

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Oberoi Mena House

Giza, Egypt

Agenda

Saqqara

Imhotep Museum

Step Pyramid

Pyramid of Wenis

Wenis Causeway

Tomb of Niankhkhnum and Khnumhotep

Pyramid of Teti

Tomb of Kagemeni

Tomb of My-Kau-Isesi

Lunch at Saqqara Palm Club

Dashur

Red Pyramid (inside)

Bent Pyramid and Satellite pyramid (outside)

Cobra Freize

Cobra Frieze. Step Pyramid complex, Saqqara, Egypt.

My new favourite thing in the Imhotep Museum is a fragmentary cobra frieze, four of them, carved from white stone. I think I could have looked at them all day, though I probably spent only ten or fifteen minutes. I think I've always liked them, but not as much as this visit. See – when Gayle was in India earlier this year, I made her a gunky lion-snake (that's something you see on a couple of Egyptian coffins – a snake's body with the head of a lion) as a welcome-back present. It's not until you try to make a thing that you really appreciate its line and form. I was working from photos, in coloured felt from a craft store. I drew a pattern on graph paper, and held it at arm's length to judge the proportions. The cobra's hood could be wider, I decided, and changed the pattern. It was still the same lion-snake, and looked almost exactly the same as it did a moment before, but now it was just a bit better. Or was it? Maybe it was better before? Did I really change anything? Moments of indecision ran together as I slowly sewed and glued, finally calling it quits around two in the morning, still wondering whether I had made something that was even worth giving.

The ancient carvers worked in stone. That's permanent. No fooling around. You really have to know what you're doing to work in stone. And to do it over and over again, because there were at least a dozen of these cobras on the frieze, probably a whole lot more. As I stood in the museum, looking at the first snake, I inventoried its features: the striated body, the flare of the hood, the cobra's face and eyes, and the hint of a smile. Maybe. Or maybe that's what I wanted to see; in truth, the enigmatic inflection of the lips is impossible to read. I imagined running my hands along the side of the carving to get a better sense of its proportions. All the snakes are similar, but none are identical. Some have longer snouts. Some vary in lateral position of the head when viewed straight-on. All have a loose, simple, sensual line that runs from the body up to the hood, then to the crown of the head. All of them are lovely.

How something so simple can holds me so completely falls just beyond my grasp.

Museum Dogs

Let me tell you about Lloyd.

Lloyd is a published American novelist, a university professor, an accomplished pianist, and one of the kindest people I have ever met. He is also Gayle's sweetheart, which is how I've come to know him.

Lloyd and I were a little bad the other night. Instead of joining the rest of the touring group for supper at a restaurant Giza, we opted for a simpler, smaller, quieter supper in the hotel restaurant. Neither of us were particularly hungry, but we knew we should eat something. We talked at length about the novels of Arthur C. Clarke, and how Lloyd had met Clarke in the late 1960s. I have been a huge fan of Clarke's work since I've been a teenager, and tried to explain to Lloyd why that was so. “His writing is so clear and poetic. And he can do the trick where he talks about something without actually talking about it.”

Lloyd nodded. “Indirection is one of the most important things in novel writing. You could have a man and a woman talking, and he could say something like, 'I really love you, and I think you should come back to my room now,' and it would be very direct, but not very satisfying. Instead, you could have them walking on a beach, and the man could pick up a sea shell and give it to the woman, and say, 'Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?' You can tell he's interested in her from what he does, without him saying what he's feeling.”

It had the sound of truth to it, and that left me feeling deflated for selfish reasons. I have been lately reading a book of short essays by Hunter S. Thompson. I adore his work, and often pilfer the tone of his pieces without a backwards glance. It's great fun, but his writing is all very direct. And so my own writing tends to be very direct as well. It's something to work on, I suppose.

After leaving the restaurant, Lloyd played on the hotel's grand piano in the lounge, filling the bar and the lobby with jazz standards and other songs I didn't recognize. The music was forceful enough to replace much of the ambient sound, and in doing so, became the soundtrack for the hotel staff. I watched as the bell captain crossed the wide lobby, one step at a time, in no particular hurry. Three men in black jackets and immaculate pressed white shirts cross-checked receipts at the concierge desk. The reception staff processed arriving guests. These mundane activities all seemed to have a special purpose when observed with the addition of music.

And today, as we were about to leave the Imhotep Museum, I watched from the bus as Lloyd tore off bits of old piece of pita bread and tossed them to a pair of dogs in the otherwise empty parking lot. The dogs live nearby, at the edge of the desert, and looked to be in good heath -- lean, but with good coats and a solid build. He would tear off a bit of bread, and toss it to one dog, who would catch it in its mouth. Then he'd do the same with the other dog. Then back to the first, and so on until there was nothing left. The dogs never missed. I have seldom seen Lloyd look so pleased.

The Saqqara Palm Club

The Saqqara Palm Club. Saqqara, Egypt.

 There was no one at the Saqqara Palm Club when we stopped in for lunch. The last two times I have been there in 2008 and 2010, it was packed. Today, there was a couple using the pool, and our group. That's it. It's a good place with excellent service and solid food. Please give them your custom.

That's all I really wanted to say. I have no particular anecdote to relay about the restaurant; I just wanted to recommend it because they have always been good to me there. For example, when I'm in Egypt, I prefer not to eat meat. It's not a big thing, but if I have the choice, I prefer to eat a vegetarian meal. When I mentioned this to the waiter taking care of us, the manager overheard, and offered to make up a plate of mixed vegetables, and some french fries. Would that be OK, he asked? Perfect, I said, because it really was exactly what I had been hoping for. Two plates soon arrived, one of very tasty seasonal vegetables, and one of really excellent french fries. I offered some of the latter to Gayle, knowing that she had also declined the mixed grill. She took a handful. And then later on, she took a few more.

The Red Pyramid at Dashur

We were all on the bus, on the road to Dashur. Someone asked Gayle how hard the pyramid was to go into. “The entrance is up pretty high, so you start by climbing the outside of the pyramid, you go in, and then you go down a whole lot of steps. There's a short flat section, and a ladder.” Then she asked me, “Do you remember how many steps there are?”

“A hundred and thirty-nine,” I said, referring to the small black notebook I carry with me in Egypt. I had counted on a previous visit. Twice: once down, and then again going up.

The Red Pyramid at Dashur, Egypt.

I'm never really eager to leave a pyramid once I've gone through all the trouble of getting into it in the first place. So I usually hang around in the burial chamber as a slow stream of people come, gawk, and leave. Most people do not linger long. Once they've look at thecorbelled ceiling and the floor, which has been torn up badly by vandals in search of treasure, they leave. That's fine. I like the sense of place one has in a pyramid. You know that you're in Red Pyramid, and there is only one of them in the world. You can't be anywhere else, and keeping your attention focused there is slightly easier as a result.

Gayle always sings a requiem for Sneferu, and I like to hear it. It calls an end to our visit, and after that, we usually leave together. The last time we were here, I said, “Until the next time,” as we left the burial chamber. This time, I didn't say anything by way of farewell.

As a rule, pyramids are humid, very warm, and dark. You climb a long set of steps though a narrow passage before emerging high above the desert floor, and because you're half way up the pyramid, you have an expansive view of the flat sands of south Saqqara, and farther to the north, the Step Pyramid complex. On a really clear day, you can see the pyramids at Giza. Going from darkness to the airy brilliance of day is not unlike being reborn.

Gayle looks at me, a little winded, but all smiles. “We did it! Again. Why do we do this?” It's a running gag – why do we fly 7 time zone to be here, or why do we tromp through the desert to look at a rock quarry, or why do we risk life and limb crawling into pyramids? We smile because there is no answer that makes any sense, then pick our way back down to ground level using a set of worn and tricky stone steps. Part way down, we take a breather. Gayle picks a flat white sea shell from a crumbling pyramid block and hands it to me. “Eocene rock,” she says, “from when this was all covered by ocean. Forty million years ago.”

We complete our descent under an open blue sky, in the shadow of Sneferu's pyramid.

Giza Plateau

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Giza, Egypt

Agenda

Pyramid of Khufu

Tomb of Senedjem-ib Inti

Tomb of Idut

Solar Boat Museum

Pyramid of Queen Hennutsen

Tomb of Idut

Tomb of Qar

Backsight (a viewing area in the desert where you can see all three pyramids)

Pyramid of Menkaure (outside)

Sphinx

Lehnert & Landrock book store

Sometimes when I am describing how dangerously hot it is outside, I will emphasize my point by making a noise with my mouth – a fuzzed buzzing sound that might come from an alien death ray in a bad science-fiction movie.

Today, the sun was making that sound all on its own, all day long, and I was really getting tired of all the racket. We know it's hot; stop rubbing it in already.

Seriously though, it was very warm. I drank almost 2 L of water, and my face is still glowing like a cherry. 

Pyramids of Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure. Giza.

A camel in the noonday sun. Giza.

Touring finished early in the afternoon, giving us some free time. That's something I seldom have when I'm in-country. Usually every last hour is filled with something or other, but today, we have a couple of hours between lunch and supper. (I say it like this because I'm starting to think of a day as three expansive meals separated by short bursts of antiquities.) Gayle and Lloyd mentioned that they wanted to visit Lehnert & Landrock, a fine book store located near the Sphinx, and wondered if I wanted to go. As if they had to ask. Never pass up a clean washroom, and never pass up a good bookstore.

We asked the concierge at the hotel to call us a cab which arrived in moments. It was Zacharya – I think I may be finally spelling his name correctly – the fellow I spoke to on one of the first days in Giza. “You don't recognize me?” he asked as we got in the car. “Zach!” I said, and introduced him to Gayle and Lloyd. He told us that we were his first fare of the day. It was just about 5:00 pm. Business has been bad, he said. Everyone goes on package tours with no free time to hire cabs to take them places.

The outing had been poorly-timed. Rush hour was in full lockdown, so what should have been a short sprint around to the other side of the plateau took between 15 and 20 minutes. Maybe longer? To get around a particularly slow intersection, he took us through Mena village, a small neighborhood of narrow lane ways and ordinary people doing ordinary things. At that time of day, it was mostly coming home from work. It's impossible to drive quickly, but at least we were moving. At one intersection, we noticed a child of about eight watching us. As we passed, he made slow, distinct gestures that resembled sign language, but wasn't anything I recognized. Is there a school for the deaf nearby?

We got to the store, and books were bought even though the credit card machine refused to connect to its computer network. I bought a couple of postcards. Not much more to say, really. Zach offered to take us to see papyrus, and then cotton shirts, each of which we politely declined. I understand this is how he makes his living, but a vague sense of unease – or maybe simply disappointment – accumulated with each side trip he suggested. He had gone from being a character in a happy anecdote to someone I just wanted to get of (which is far too harsh a way of saying it. I wanted to be back at the hotel; I didn't want to be rid of Zach. Not exactly. I'm not proud of this, but this is the best I understand it.)

Cairo Crank

Monday, September 24, 2012

Mena House Oberoi, Giza

The Day's Itinerary

The church of St. Sergius

Ben Ezra synagogue

Church of St Barbara

The Hanging Church

Lunch at Felfela (downtown Cairo)

Egyptian Museum

Dinner in Zamalek

After only the second day of touring, it's becoming difficult to remember where we had lunch. Lord Ganesha, help us as the journey unfolds.

I made some irrelevant notes this morning about the churches and synagogue we went into this morning, mostly about the design elements in houses of worship, and the commonality between the Big Three monotheistic religions. They go on to talk about the shape of pulpits, and how much I admire the design which reaches into the body of a church so that the parishioners in the first two rows of pews have no hope of seeing the minister without incurring serious neck injury. Take it farther, I say. Go for a full thrust pulpit which reaches half-way into the audience. Make it a 220 degree experience; get out into the crowd, and reach.

The other point in my notes is a certain impatience with the creation stories that surround historic churches in Middle East. This it the place where the Holy Family took refuge while fleeing Pharaoh. This is the place where god spoke to so-and-so. This is the place where Abraham spent a week blessing this and that.

The Church of St. Barbara. Cario

Whatever you say, sir. It's a very nice church/synagogue/mosque. The incense smells sweet, and I am grateful that you have opened your doors to me, an infidel, and have welcomed me into a place that you consider special. 

Candles in the Hanging Church

The drive from the churches was unusually long because of the unusually bad traffic. Cairo traffic is always horrible, but since the revolution, it has gotten far worse. As we inched past the parliament, and the concrete barrier which now hides the American embassy, we came to an intersection where three cars had gotten into some sort of fender-bender. A man was wielding a piece of lumber as a bat, using it to smash the windshield of one of the cars. Another man, presumably the owner of the other car, was trying to stop him, and got struck for his troubles. A crowd surged forward, and the man was eventually restrained as our bus rolled on past.

I am not used to witnessing the violence a blind rage brings on, and it leaves me dismayed. I wonder if there is anything special about the events we witnessed, whether this sort of thing happens all the time, or whether this was the one-in-a-million, and it was just out lucky day.

At lunch, our table rehashes some of the mosques we saw yesterday, and it turns out that almost all those present were also atheists. Who knew? We need some kind of secret handshake so we can sort this out with less risk to our mutual bonhomie.

We pass the afternoon at the museum, which is located on Tahrir Square, the site of the revolutionary protests in January of 2011, the protests which led to the end of the Mubarak regime. The government building beside the museum, which was set alight in February last year is still standing, with its windows gone and heavy soot coating the outside walls.

There are changes at the Museum. The second-floor cafe, from which you used to be able to have a cold lemonade and a bowl of soup while overlooking the garden, is gone. The bookstores are gone. Some of the alcoves in the central statue gallery have been painted purple, or blue. Some stela which are attached to the walls have been simply painted around, leaving a visible line of dirty white, which was the previous colour. I make no judgements on this work in progress, although I will observe that that gallery is already dim, and opine that the darker paint will not improve the situation.

Gayle and I do an impromptu tour of some of our favourite things: an octagonal display case on the second floor, containing small finds. It's a lovely old piece of furniture that remind me of a Tardis control panel. Nearby, some of the coffins of Tuya and Yuya lie in new display cases which Gayle speculates were made for the touring exhibition that wound up recently. From there, it was down to the Old Kingdom room to see a pair of terracotta statues of a standing feline deity with human body. The muzzle of one statue is broken, and in the damage, you can see that the statue has teeth. If the statue hadn't been broken, you never would have known.

Then to Djoser by way of the Menkaure triad statues, to which I conveyed my Mother's greetings. Ever since the Old Kindom show in Toronto in 2000, I think she has had a soft spot for that Pharaoh. His artwork is undeniably spectacular, and is of the finest quality.

What was next? A check of the special exhibits room on the main floor – a dog skeleton, and also that of a horse with the remains of its tack displayed. A lack of labels means that I have now conveyed all the knowledge on offer.

Waking down the north wing, backwards in time, past the Graeco-Roman, Late Period and the end of the New Kingdom, we end up stop at the Amarna room. We'll be there next week, so it's only right to pay our respects.

The afternoon ends with a visit to the Royal Mummy rooms where the air conditioning provides a welcome respite from the rest of the building which is distinctly hot and humid. There are some new additions to the second Royal Mummy room – Queen Tye and the skeleton thought to be Akhenaten are on view for the first time anyone in the group can remember. Also, most of the Ramesses are receiving visitors now. Gayle says prayers for them, and once we've recovered a bit in the cool, we head out for a cup of tea in the new museum cafe, which is outside, on the south side of the museum, near the new exit (which is near the Hatshepsut statuary.)

It is here, as we nurse cups of outrageously overpriced tea that one of our number realizes that her wallet is missing. A search of her knapsack turns up nothing. The museum lost-and-found hasn't seen it. It is not on the bus. Ominous vibes. We return to the restaurant where we had lunch, and to everyone's great relief, it was returned by the washroom attendant, which is ultimately (or initially, depending on how you want to understand this story) is where the wallet was inadvertently left in the first place (or last place). Nothing is missing. Not the credit cards, the bank card, or the cash.

So what to make of all this? How does the honesty of one person compare to the rage we saw in the noonday traffic? I'll err on the side of generosity, despite being a cynical crank, and declare the good guys the winners on this day.

Mosques

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Giza, Egypt

The Day's Agenda

Citadel of Salah Al-Din

Mosque & School of Sultan Hassan

Mosque of Al Rifa'i

Lunch at Andrea (shipboard)

Khan el Khalili (walk and tea)

I can't read anyone today, and that bothers me. As a group, we are still feeling each other out, trying to find the connections that link us. Would an off-hand remark lead to offense with this person? Will that person play if you offer them a decent lead? What does someone's pensive, distant stare mean? Is there a profound thought in the offing? What sort of dynamic is there between those two?

It will come clear in time, but at the moment, it feels like I'm on stage without a line in my head.

But human interest stories are not my strong suit, so let's get on to the tiresome details of the day so we can all go to sleep.

In my previous five visits to Cairo, I have never visited the Citadel. Don't ask me where it is, exactly, because I have only the most general idea. It's on a hill, overlooking the city, just past the expansive City of the Dead, the Mamluk necropolis where otherwise homeless Cairenes live in untended shrines built to the dead. The Citadel is a bright white medieval fortress and mosque built on a hill, overlooking the smog and haze of modern Cairo. The sun beat down on us as Mohammed, our local guide, held forth on the history of the city, who did what, and when. He did this at length. In the merciless sun. And so, when we went inside the mosque, the dark and the cool was like a blessing from God. There were red carpets everywhere, and one could sit quietly under a vast circle of hanging glass lamps, each lit with a single electric bulb, looking faintly like the war room in Dr. Strangelove.

Inside the Mohammed Ali mosque. Cairo

The calm is utterly broken at 11:50 when the call to prayer sounds. The Call is usually loud outside of a mosque, but inside, it is deafening. It's our cue to leave.

A short bus ride past the city of the dead took us to the adjacent mosques of Sultan Hassan and Rif'a. They are separated by a wide set of stone steps where a cool breeze blows seemingly without end. And there are cats, which always endears me to a place. The mosque of Sultan Hassan was built in the 14^th century as both a mosque and school. It contains a large courtyard with a massive domed structure which is supported by a circle of columns. The four sides of the courtyard lead off to large open spaces with soaring roofs and lamps which hang from impossibly long chains, and which sway very gently in the breeze. I often tone-deaf to sacred spaces, but this place seems to invite a certain amount of peace and contemplation from its visitors, both the devout, and the infidel alike. Because the courtyard is open to the key, you have an impression of being both outside and inside at the same time, as if to suggest that even in contemplation of the divine, you are still a part of the world, and that what happens there also happens in the busyness of the wide world.

The mosque of Al Rifa'i was built much later, but was made to match that of Sultan Hassan. It is the final resting place of King Farouk and of the last Shah of Iran. And also a sheik from whom people sought healing – his memorial features what might pass for coloured Christmas lights back home. It lends a sense of liveliness that emphasizes his relevance today, I suppose. 

A middle-aged man who walked with the aid of crutches led us to a far corner of the building to show us a mausoleum, which was a large marble sarcophagus, decorated with architectural features. It was in its own room which was on the order of 12 on a side, and well over 20 high – we were clearly at the base of a very tall stone tower. And then the man sang the Call to Prayer. He was a muezzin, and his voice was clear and strong. Each phrase filled the tower, and each pause gave space for the sound to echo and fade.

It was beautiful.

And it was complete on its own. No further comment from me is required. But – in that moment when the final words were pronounced, as you follow the sound rise and fall, you are left in a mind which is still, daring not to move, lest you break some sort of spell. It is the moment before moving, before coming out of yourself, in reconnecting to the world that is of value. When you realize you have been taken somewhere, and you did not even realize it.

The sun sets in the akhet -- between the pyramids of Khafre and Khufu. On the road to Giza.

I'm Back. Did You Miss Me?

Saturday September 22, 2012

Mena House Oberoi Hotel

Giza, Egypt

There is almost nothing attractive about walking down a street which is covered in dust and dung and discarded plastic foil wrappers. And straw – there's always straw, or more likely hay, fallen from a horse's feed bucket. Cars pass at speed, driven with reckless skill, a man at the wheel, his family around him. Someone is using their mobile. Something is tied to the roof of the car, or to the back bumper, or maybe it's the bumper itself which is lashed to the rest of the vehicle with dusty bungee cords. They pass in a moment, and you barely register to them. If you're lucky, you are ignored. If not, young men weariing dress shirts and long trousers despite the heat will ask if you need a taxi. Or if you need to be taken somewhere, to see the sphinx,or to make a picture behind the pyramids, an act which sounds as if it should be forbidden by local zoning laws. There is nothing attractive about this at all.

But there is something compelling. And even if one is not attracted to something, once a connection is made, sometimes the dust and the bother passes or attraction, and there you have it.

5:50. The call to prayer sounds as dusk falls. First one mosque, then three more, overlapping, and vying with car horns for attention. The first time I was here in 2000, the streets were full of honking. Then in the decade that followed, it seemed to die down, at least by Egyptian standards. Today, in 2012, it seems to be back in full force. It remind me of birds, the way a road is full of horns, the way trees are sometimes full of birdsong. But not here. The only birds I have seen today are out on the grass right now – large black ones with gray coats, picking at something in the lawn. Last night, while out for a walk, I noticed a couple of bats tumbling through the air. You can tell they're not birds from the loose way the move through the air, as much falling as flight. It lends a touch of mystique to the place, as though it needs it needs any more of that.

My hotel room overlooks one of the hotel's outdoor pools. It looks nice, even if you're not the sort of person who likes swimming in pools. A long progression of toughs lined with deep blue tile feeds the main pool. On deck, yellow lounge chairs and umbrellas, and beyond them, date palms. After that, trees and a concrete wall, and past that, it's Pyramid Road and car horns. Rooms on the other side of the building have a view of the hotel courtyard and the pyramids. We are only a short walk from the entrance to the site, and yet they don't really dominate the horizon the way I imagined they would, no more so than a tall office building does in the heart of a city. 

The Pyramid of Khufu, seen from the Mena House hotel

I spoke to a taxi driver named Zackaria this afternoon. He was plying a very soft sell, and I have to say, I was half-tempted to get in his car and just say, “Let's go somewhere interesting.” But didn't. Instead I tried to find out how things have changed since the revolution last year. His answers were mixed. The recent protests at the American embassy was strictly about the recent appearance of an internet video which was supposed to insult the prophet Mohammed. Nothing else, no sign of lingering resentment against the west. I observed that things had changed in Giza since the first time I was here in 2000. There had been a lot of construction, he said, but still people don't have enough to do, and there is more litter in the streets. This, he said in a very gentle way, almost poetically. He wasn't complaining, he was just making an observation. I asked him about the new president, and whether he was a good person and was doing good things. He is a good man, he said, but the people around him are still the same as before and that's the problem. And the police are not happy. Apparently in the Mubarak years, they were paid to work, but not too hard. Now, that is gone, and the work is no easier. Either that, or I've got it backwards, and they want to work, but are paid off to cool their heels. Zackaria's English was fine, but sometimes not fine enough for discussing the nuances of graft and alluding to facts that any local would know.

Dusk has passed into bone fide night now. It always happens quickly in Egypt. Faster than back home, at any rate, where the cooling hours of dusk are long enough to warrant having a name. Here, there's barely time to give it a label.

Another couple of bats just tore by the balcony. Looking that the silhouette of their wings, maybe they're only swallows after all. So much for mystique.

Leaving For Egypt. Again.

September 19, 2012. Waterloo, Ontario.

I’m still not sure what happened at work today. Meetings were attended, lunch was eaten, and log entries were made in my black notebook. I set my email and phone to give an automated message that I would be out of the office for two and a half weeks. I turned off the computer, turned out the lights in my office, and left the building as I would have on any other day.

I’ve been putting this off for more than a week now, but it can’t wait any more. My pre-trip freak-out has begun in earnest.

Packing. Or rather, PACKING! Imagine a trumpet blaring as you read that word, or maybe ten trumpets, and a surge of adrenalin making you so amped up you can barely think straight. What do I bring? Everything I own? Can do! What? One suitcase? Is it dimensionally transcendental? Do they still make steamer trunks? Is there some flea market I could buy one at? Do they still have flea markets? (And so on.)

Packing the technology is easy. Camera, laptop, cables, power supplies, adapters, a yellow network cable, a mouse. Maybe my rubber keyboard if there’s room in the suitcase. And then granola bars, a couple of chocolate bars, a fly swatter (learned that on the second trip – there’s nothing worse than the sinking feeling of inevitability as you lie awake in bed, in the dark, straining to hear the on-again, off-again whine of a mosquito in your room, knowing that it’s homing in on the carbon dioxide you’re trying not to exhale. Maybe sleeping with a sheet over your head will keep it at bay. That’s fine for a minute at most, and then the air turns stuffy, and you start to sweat, and you wonder which is worse: itchy welts come morning, or losing a litre of water in sweat. It doesn’t matter; sooner or later you’ll have to fall asleep, and then your guard is down and the buffet is open).

What else? Medication for stomach ailments – Pepto Bismol, Immodium, Gravol – the holy trinity to protect against the indignity of losing control of your body far so from home, so far from a bathroom. Sun screen, laundry soap, a plastic hanger (handy for drying anything you might choose to wash in the hotel sink), a rubber stopper for the sink (because you never know), a map, a ten-year old guidebook tossed on top, and by then the suitcase is comfortably filled.

Apparently it’s also customary to take some clothes with you too. Deep breath. Socks, underwear, pants. How many pairs? How many shirts? Fall nights are starting to dip down into the single digits here in Ontario. The muggy haze of summer is a quickly fading memory, but it’s still 30+ degrees in Cairo, and no amount of mental strain can help you remember what that kind of heat feels like. It’s hard to be sure, but I’m almost positive I don’t need to pack a sweater, but I might try anyway. Because you never know, I think to myself, and then wonder what it is I think I don’t know. I’ve done this before. Five times. I should have it down by now.

Address labels. I have to make up address labels tonight of dear friends and loved ones (You know who are you. Or aren’t.) The labels are a great time-saver when it comes to writing postcards. Everyone gets ten minutes of stream-of-consciousness which probably makes no sense at all, printed in tiny block capital letters. Slap on an address label and a stamp, and it’s done. Easy.

A couple of years ago, I heard American astronaut Michael Collins muse about autographs. Why do so many people want autographs from him, he wondered. What do they do with all of them? The same question can be asked of post cards. Why do we send them, only to arrive home before the cards do. And then what? They are read in seconds, and displayed on the fridge for a couple of weeks, but can you ever get rid of them? I have a binder in which I file every post card anyone has ever sent me. I have cards of industrial cities in England from the late 1970s that my parents sent me – nasty pictures of roundabouts and grubby hotels. I cherish them, you understand, because no one makes postcards like that any more, but that’s not the point. It’s a burden to care for the cards until they no longer have meaning; it’s space in a box or in a binder on a shelf. It’s work, dammit!

Oh – but maybe you’re the type who just throws away their cards after reading them. And maybe you don’t feel compelled to save Christmas cards, either. Look at all the time you’re saving by not storing them in folders, carefully arranged by year, with your own notes on the backs to remind you who this person was who sent you a card of a happy cartoon snowman. How happy will he be after you’ve tossed him into a recycling bin after you’ve had your fun with him? I hope you can live with yourself. See if I send you anything ever again, card killer.

Yup – the freak-out is in full swing. We’ll have more as the story develops.