The guitar made it all the way to Cairo. It was born in America and visited Asia, Oceania, and Africa.
Then, its head snapped.
R.I.P. You made a lot of people happy.
I had almost come to the conclusion that non-Muslims weren’t allowed in mosques.
Then, we visited the Al-Azhar Mosque. And I learned they’re just as beautiful— but boring— as all other places of worship.
I had to share how freaking huge Egyptian stamps are!
There was simply no preparation for their massive size. Hopefully my postcards get through; I had to get creative with the postage placement in order to not totally obscure my bad jokes.
El-Fishawi’s, a traditional coffeeshop, has been open for 200 years.
Unsurprisingly, they also serve some mean tea and hookah.
It’s situated in an alleyway that cuts through one of the largest open-air markets in Islamic Cairo. Which provides no shortage of fascinating people watching. And, conversation with cute girls who sit nearby you.
Somewhere around Cape Town a promise was made.
We’d never seen the facial hair of the intrepid adventurers that fire our imaginations ever touched by sharpened blades. And, so, our own moustaches and beards would continue the same glorious tradition. No shaving until we made it to Cairo.
Well, we’re in Cairo. Time to enjoy our just rewards.
On the train to Cairo, a young Egyptian lady and I struck up a conversation. She was, naturally, curious about my opinions of her country. I, naturally, had nothing but words of appreciation.
As happens when talking to me, the topic of food arose. And she told me that we hadn’t truly eaten Egyptian food until we had tasted kushari. Unsurprisingly, this became Faulkner and my top goal the proceeding day.
Kushari is a carbohydrate flavour explosion in your mouth.
Apparently, during some times of economic trouble, the government began licensing and supporting kushari shops. If you opened one and sold plates at the official rate, then you’d receive subsidies. And, fortunately for our bank accounts, the legacy of kushari as common and cheap staple has continued to this day.
Cairo. 64 days.
Our travels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
PSSSYYYYCHE!
Somewhere in Africa, I started having reoccuring dreams about Cairo.
In one of them, I was standing on the top ledge of a building, watching the sun set into the glowing lights of downtown.
The Dahab Hostel was the top listing on HostelWorld when sorted by price. And, it’s located on the rooftop of a building a few metres off from Midan Tahrir.
I don’t believe in fate.
We hurried through the empty streets of the Aswan morning trying to not miss our train to Cairo.
It’s so close now. And doesn’t feel real.
Is this the place on the map where our teachers had us pin the Pyramids?
Faulkner found the weirdest channels on Egyptian satellite TV.
As far as we could tell, this one consisted of people sending text messages that would then be broadcast. Like some kind of big media Middle-Eastern Twitter.
