Melissa arrived on Christmas Eve about an hour and a half late into Cairo airport, disembarking what she describes as the worst flight of her life. We immediately jumped on board the Superjet bus from the airport station bound for Alexandria, hoping to exchange time for money, considering how it’s really impossible to catch a cab from Maza to the center of town without getting robbed blind. Question to other expats: how much do you pay — I’ve heard LE 70 is a good price, but who knows some days.
Anyhow, the ride was hellish: Thursday night coming out of Cairo almost invariably is. We spent six hours trying to get out of Bulaq, at which point the driver thought it might be a good idea to take Shar3a al-Ahram, parking us in the middle of the budding night scene. Melissa was a good sport about it, though, considering it was a crash-course in Cairo craziness (traffic, time, and the smell of this bus was particularly foul). We arrived in Alex around 12, missing midnight Mass, but still on our feet. I had most of the things ready for dinner beforehand, so we stayed up only a little later and made a chicken parmesan that, I must say, had quite a superior sauce of my own devising. Around this time, Melissa discovered that the very pretty silver Christmas ornaments on the tree were actually three sets of very pretty earrings that were her Christmas gift, and all was well on the silent night.
We’ve just come back yesterday morning from a three-day sabbatical to Siwa Oasis, where we stayed at the Desert Rose. I’m kind of sad to report that the place has gone downhill as of late: they’ve whitewashed a lot of the awesome decorations, and the staff isn’t quite as a helpful as they once were. Everyone seems kind of worn down by the influx of tourists (and there were quite a few– meaning hordes) rolling into town for New Year’s Eve. We met up with Andrea (who deserves a blog post of his own, including pictures of the almost-finished but definitely liveable house on the side of Shali), and even made some more Italian friends.
Yesterday was spent recovering from the Siwa night bus and desperately trying to finish my last essay for Ann Arbor; last dinner of the year was a good singaal at Abou Ashraf in Anfushi (which Melissa loved), followed by relatively low-key festivities at the Spitfire. No clock in the bar, and everyone argued over the time (all our watches were different), until someone just started the countdown from ten — at which point we all joined in and raised our loving cups high. Melissa pushed me forward to sing Auld ang Syne, and I got to the end of the first verse before I realize that I was the only one singing.
Sigh.
Happy New Year, everyone! Kul sena wentum tayyibin!
SON OF A DUCK / إبن بطوطة الجديد 