I’m slightly obsessive-compulsive, so I’m entirely packed for my rapidly-approaching departure and have made the requisite mock-airport skit in which I fool myself into believing that my bags will actually feel just as light upon arrival in Cairo and that they will fit as comfortably in a taxi as my mother's trunk. Things I have packed that might be superfluous include: patchouli incense, a tall stack of books, and enough tampons to supply an entire army of menstruating women.
The incense are coming because although I consider myself a nomad, I still like to exist in a familiar-scented state no matter my whereabouts. It was worse than pulling teeth to narrow myself to 8 books, so those 8 books will be toted with pleasure. And the 180 OBs seemed essential because I’m not sure if the Arab Aunt Flow is still working with traditional virility ideals or Rita-the-Riveter rhetoric. Either way, I’m just hoping the x-rays at customs don’t mistake them for rolls of illicit powdery-substances.
The guitar is mine but I’m not bringing it for me. I’m bringing it for Sasha, below, who actually has musical abilities. For the record, Sasha has recently been coined Raja due to her suspiciously-Egyptian-seeming features. Ahmed, also below, gave Sasha the moniker and a kickin' tour of Giza on camel and horseback this week. I'm still deciding if Ahmed is an example of Egyptian hospitality or the universal drive of men towards women's pants.
First stop,
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