The monuments of Egypt and Jordan with their intricate histories constructed and destructed by the egos of nationals and foreign competitors alike were fascinating.
I certainly spent my fair bit of time stumbling around the pyramids and sphinxes and temples, head cracked back, jaw hanging slack, going “But how did they…? Wait, Who lifted…? No way that’s solid marble. Are you sure aliens weren’t involved….?”
But the aspects of “Spring Break 2006: Mom and Dad in the Middle East” I most enjoyed had more to do with characters still flush with flesh and blood than the decomposing sarcophagi of ancient nobles.
See, there are things you learn about people only when you’re traveling beside them.
What comforts they most value, how far they’re willing to push themselves beyond those realms of comforts, the thoroughness of their oral hygiene routine, how they react to beggars, what they look like without makeup, how much uncertainty and novelty it takes to finally stress them out.
The evening we wandered down a dusky little alley in a very untouristed neighborhood of Cairo, I got a lesson on my mom and dad.
The greatest thing about being where you shouldn’t, or where the tour groups don’t bother to stop, is the local reactions – nine times out of ten, you are met with puzzled but warm smiles, reactionary offers to try whatever communal dish they’ve got their hands deep into, modest invitations to come in and inspect their dusty hardware store or fruit booth.
And my parents ate it up. As old men pulled their faces back from hookah pipes to shout out a “salaam aleikom” my dad instantly greeted them back with gusto. Within five minutes, my mom was deep in serious conversation with a precocious ten year old girl who deemed our family “white as little mice.” I tracked my father down in a unassuming little bakery going “Ooh, what’s this? Try this one, Connie. Oh, we’ll definitely take three of those!” to an old burka-ed woman who didn’t understand a word we were saying but seemed thrilled to have these weird foreigners pillaging her baked goods.
Clad in backpacks, my parents arrived in Cairo armed with a handful of Arabic phrases and a determination to try almost anything once. Through the course of three weeks, their enthusiastic abandon had them immersed in language lessons with Cairo cab drivers, consuming street shwarma and falafel sans inhibitions, bed bug bitten on a night train to Luxor, dozing on the overnight bus across the Suez canal, and lounging next to Bedouins in a desert oasis, discussing the ramifications of the modernization of their civilization over a cup of mint tea.
I was impressed. I hadn’t expected such resilience, such an ability to adapt and embrace every next adventure. But their attitudes absolutely made the trip.
After a tearful reunion at the airport (drama is apparently genetic) we caught up over shwarma at a local fast food joint and spent the next few days plowing deep in to the requisite Cairo sites: The pyramids at Giza, the Alladin-esque Khan El Khalili market, Coptic Cairo (Orthodox Christian turf) and the Egyptian museum (Now I found the mummies fantastically gruesome and the art lovely, but my dad devoured the place with the patience and detail of a crazed archaeologist. Mom and I eventually collapsed on a bench to wait out Dr. Livingston’s grand tour of every inch of every floor).
With the exception of a near tragic horse ride at the Pyramids, our only brush with danger came on the Cairo Subway. Now let me disclaim (Look! I invented a verb!) that the ride was my mom’s idea. At this point, I was still treating my parents as delicate Faberge eggs to be protected from Cairo’s grim realities.
All illusions of such innocence were left on that grimy little subway train. The car that started as a relatively spacious carriage on the outskirts of town caught rush hour waves of pushy local women at each stop until my arms were numb from diverting the crushing masses away from my mom’s internal organs and her arms were exhausted from wrestling the hand of an aggressive — and veiled — female pickpocket who was determined to liberate the contents her money belt. Which was worn well inside the front of her pants.
Creepy.
Meanwhile, my dad, who was alone back in the roiling and tumultuous men’s car (this is a Muslim subway, folks) had been given the name of an incorrect subway stop (do you like how I avoid responsibility for that one?) and hopped off too early. The sight of my frantic father’s head popping up outside our car, in the midst of a million covered female heads was hysterically funny. For me. We wildly mimed “one more stop” to him, he managed to wedge his way back on to the next train and we all met up safe and sound at the downtown station, from which we quickly fled.
Moral of the story - sometimes you know better than your parents.
With that slightly scarring adventure behind us, we headed down to Luxor and spent a few days scooting from historical site to site in Mom’s beloved horse drawn carriages and being piloted down the Nile in a felucca by my Dad.
We coasted through a week on the Sinai Peninsula in the aforementioned and much adored Dahab. Every morning we intended to leave…and were then promptly lured into another day spent washing down baba ganoush, hummus and seafood with a few cold, delicious Stella beers while reclined on Egyptian cushions in bohemian open air restaurants on the banks of the Red Sea. When we could be bothered to rouse ourselves, we snorkeled in an underwater canyon studded with Technicolor coral and brilliant marine life and scampered up and down through the stunning Colored and White Canyons – some of the best hikes I did on the entire trip.
Eventually, we heaved ourselves from these Arabian Nights and hopped a ferry bound for Jordan, where we hiked in Wadi Rum, slept in a desert Bedouin camp with a former cook for the Qatar Army (who oddly bonded with my father) and discovered Petra. The hours we spent trekking through the rose hued neighborhoods of ancients were quiet hours. Even in its decay, even amongst the throngs of a thousand sweaty tourists, there is something regal and mystical about the place, about the local women and children sweeping the steps of the steep back stretches, the merchants saddling goods on donkeys and the way diluted sunlight sets the place aglow.
Other highlights of Jordan included exploring the posh and forgotten neighborhoods of Amman on foot, a visit to the doctor for Erica (apparently I’m “riddled with bacteria,” which is pretty cool), watching a Jordanian marching band in the Roman ruins of Jerash, driving by the Syrian border – the closest I may ever get – with our animated cabbie who stopped at every fig stand in a 100 mile radius and conducting very scientific taste tests to determine the best sandwich vendor in town. And the common thread that sewed all our encounters together was the Jordanians’ willingness to help and eagerness to befriend.
I used to pretend the world was inherently safe; I’d downplay friends’ concerns over travel destinations as uninformed, small minded or ill-founded.
I’m a bit more of a realist these days.
I can honestly say I never felt unsafe in Egypt or Jordan, despite the overly friendly men and sometimes less than friendly mosque keepers and conservatives. But the few tepid receptions we received were more than outweighed by welcoming attitudes and a consistent readiness to openly discuss anything from Muslim fundamentalists to the Israeli occupation and President Bush.
That said, as long as there is one lunatic with a bomb in his backpack, we’re robbed of our ability to fully defend a destination’s security.
So now I think that instead of naively denying any risk, the best I can do is admit that there might be a small chance of jeopardy — but steadfastly refuse to allow this campaign of intimidation to keep me at home or unfairly paint my impression of the masses.
I guess my parents taught me well.
From a perch on the roof of the all but deserted Sammo Guest House in Cape Coast, Ghana, I knew I probably wasn’t where I was supposed to be. 
