Alexandria, Part Three: Stranger in a Strange Land

We launched an abortive attempt to visit the Graeco-Roman museum Saturday morning, which was oddly closed on weekends. We instead headed for the catacombs, another popular tourist destination. On the way, we paid a small entry fee to visit Pompey’s Pillar, a massive (Corinthian?) column jutting from the top of a hillside near the catacombs. There were several sphinxes nearby, and we stopped to take pictures. I waited until none of the guards were looking and scrambled up for a quick photo. Liz and Steph were dying to follow suit, and they entrusted me with a camera so I could take a picture of them. This was a poor decision on their part, as I got a nice (i.e. not particularly flattering) candid shot of them climbing, which is now on Facebook.

We then made our way to the catacombs. After paying admission, we descended down a narrow stone spiral staircase into the depths of the earth. The air was dank and musty, and it would have been black as night without the dim yellow lighting installed throughout the complex. The main chamber was ornate, with pillars, archways, and small sculptures carved into the rock. Faded paint stained the walls in vague, washed out shapes. I wish I had more pictures of this place, but cameras were prohibited. We did manage to sneak ours in, but a suspicious old attendant kept staring at us, making it was hard to get good shots off. After doing our best, we set off to explore the numerous side passages branching out from the central area. This turned out to be less exciting than I had anticipated, as virtually all of the passages led to small rooms with chambers hollowed out for sarcophagi. To make things worse, we couldn’t descend to the bottom level because the caverns were flooded due to recent rain. Disappointed, I followed my group back up and out as a massive horde of Asian (I’m guessing Chinese) tourists flocked down the spiral staircase, chattering noisily and obstructing our path.

Our last tourist stop was the famous Library of Alexandria. I don’t really know or care why it’s famous, although I will admit the building is nice. Truth be told, I was far from impressed, and I sat down and went to sleep while everyone else looked at some old paintings and maps and other such museum stuff.

We finished up with the library late on Saturday afternoon. At this point, Dan and I decided we wanted to head back to Cairo because he was sick and I had class the next morning. We returned to the hostel, packed up our stuff, and took a cab to the train station. We found the counter for first and second class tickets without excessive difficulty and asked, in English, for two tickets on the 7:00 p.m. train. The man at the counter replied: “Seven o’clock train, full.” I had been afraid of that – a lot of Cairenes spend the weekend in Alexandria and head back Saturday night. Disappointed, we asked for tickets on the next train, which was to depart at eight. “Eight o’clock train, full.” Uh oh. What about the 9:00 p.m.? “Nine o’clock train, full. Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock train, full. No more trains tonight.”

You must be joking. After a moment of despair, we thought to try getting third class tickets. I had been warned not to do this because the conditions in third class are not particularly pleasant, but what choice did we have at this point? Reproaching the counter, we asked:

“Can we buy third class tickets?”

“Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock trains, full.”

“Right, but what about third class?”

“Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine…”

These seemed to be the only words of English the man spoke. We changed tactics.

“Daraga talata, daraga talata – fein daraga talata? (third class, third class, where is third class?)”

The man started speaking incomprehensibly in Arabic and pointed us down the station the way we had come. We walked until we found another counter. Egyptians were crowding around the windows, exchanging money for little stubs of paper that didn’t look anything like the tickets we had bought on the way down. Unsure of what to do, we drew near one of the windows and asked in Arabic for tickets to Cairo. The man pointed us to another window. We asked again. The guy there seemed to be telling us we were in the wrong place. All I could really understand was something about platform one.

We went back out to the platform and looked around. No place to buy a ticket in sight. We tried asking a security guard for help. Unlike in Cairo, he didn’t speak English. We got the point across about tickets to Cairo, but the only thing he would tell us was to go to the first and second class counter, where we had already been. We tried without success to explain the situation to multiple guards. It became inescapably clear that our paltry knowledge of Egyptian Arabic was utterly inadequate to the task at hand. We resorted to reading directly from Dan’s Egyptian colloquial phrasebook, an emasculating experience. Even then, we couldn’t follow enough of what we were told to make any progress whatsoever.

We went back and forth between the counters several times in a futile attempt to solve the great mystery of where third class tickets come from. The common answer, insofar as we could understand, was “platform one.” Desperate, it occurred to me to try outside sources assistance. My phone’s battery was almost dead, but I squeezed off a call to George, who I knew had visited Alexandria before. He had bought his return ticket upon arrival, thereby avoiding a situation such as this. He couldn’t help us. My last resort was to try Mohammed, who I thought might know these things since he’s lived in the country for a number of years, although he doesn’t seem the type to have ever ridden a third class anything. He answered the phone and I explained the situation. Silence. Dead battery. My phone, like my Arabic, had failed me when I needed it most.

Crestfallen, we left the station and caught a cab back to the hostel. It took a couple minutes, but I eventually realized I had never seen Dan so angry. Although completely calm and composed to all external appearances, he muttered under his breath nonstop about murdering people the whole way back, and wouldn’t stop saying, “I’m so pissed. I’m so pissed,” in a flat monotone.

We were not pleased with the state of affairs at the time, but it turned out to be just as well that we stayed in Alexandria, because it was a fun night. We still had our room in the hostel, and our companions were just getting ready to go out to dinner when we got back. We joined them in a trip across town to a strip mall where we ate in an American style restaurant called Cordon Rouge. I had a hearty meal consisting of an aptly named Mighty Beef Burger, fries, and a mango drink. The Mighty Beef Burger (or Mighty Morphin Power Burger, as I took to calling it) was truly gigantic. It wasn’t very thick, but its Frisbee-like size was too much for me to vanquish after an appetizer of bread and hummus.

After dinner we went back to the same bar from the previous night, Cap D’Or. It was even livelier this evening, and we sat in a corner of the main room instead of in the back. The owner gave us a hearty welcome back and accurately recited the drinks we had all ordered the night before. The music playing that night was of a particularly catchy Arabic variety, and people clapped along while a few middle aged women danced in the middle of the floor. We clapped along to the beat from time to time from the safety of our corner. The bar owner tried to get our girls to get up and dance, but they weren’t having any of it. A few minutes later, one of the particularly enthusiastic men at the bar noticed that some of us were participating in the clapping, and he started waving at us excitedly to get up and dance. In a betrayal that will neither be forgiven nor forgotten, Dan pointed at me. The man’s face lit up and he seized my arm roughly and pulled, while I struggled to resist. He was not halfhearted in his efforts. I found myself dragged to my feet and thrust across the room, almost into the arms of a much older Arab woman. This brought universal applause from the bar. Having no idea what to do, I tried an awkward two step, waving my arms frantically out of time, and then decided I was better off shuffling my feet and clapping. I did a discomfited jig for thirty seconds or a minute, and then I fled back to my corner refuge where my “friends” sat laughing at me. I spent the rest of the night plotting evil things to do to Dan in his sleep.

The bar left us to ourselves for a while after that. I started a game where we took turns trying to flip a bottle cap into an empty glass from around eighteen inches away. This was more difficult than anticipated, even for the sober ones among us, and it was some little while before Mike finally succeeded in winning. We burst into triumphant shouts, which attracted the nearby bar owner, who began giving us all high fives. When he clasped hands with Anthony, he wrapped around into an arm wrestling position, saying something about Anthony being strong. Anthony was obviously surprised by this, and not quite sure what to do. Although he didn’t appear particularly muscular, the bartender was a big man, probably around 250 pounds. I had full faith in our enforcer’s abilities, and I wanted to see this. We made way at the table and cheered him on, so the contest began. Still looking slightly bemused, Anthony held the smiling barman in place, biding his time. Eventually, he made a move and started gaining ground. With a laugh, the owner stood up and broke off their grip. “Left hand now,” he said. Anthony was not so confident in his left, but he consented. This didn’t go as well. From the beginning, the owner was putting some wacky moves on Anthony’s wrist. Anthony held on for a minute or two and then broke grip. After mutual compliments and applause from the audience, his jolly opponent waddled off to tend to other customers. Another challenger quickly stepped up – a nicely dressed businessman wearing glasses. This guy was a bit on the scrawny side, and I don’t know what he was thinking. Anthony beat him down in about a second and a half, at which point the man cheered loudly and started clapping his hands. Bewildered, Anthony glanced around to make sure no other contenders were going to crawl out of the woodwork, and moved gratefully back into his former seat.

(Photo courtesy of Mike)

We stayed for a while longer, but not much else noteworthy happened that evening. The guy who had forced me into dancing was very social, talking to people as they came into the bar and trying to get them to participate in the dance party. After a few more drinks he told me I was a good man and scribbled his email address and phone number on a piece of paper, advising me to call him if we were ever in Alexandria again. I guess I’m just irresistible.

The next morning we checked out of the hostel and headed to the train station. It being Sunday (the first day of the week in Islamic countries), we had no trouble securing tickets. We were all tired and didn’t talk much on the ride back. I watched a little boy giggle and play on the luggage rack for a while, and then I dozed off. When we arrived in the station back in Cairo, the weather was hot and the city felt dirty and hard to breathe in. The streets were crowded and traffic snarled everywhere, barely moving. Horns blared and street vendors swarmed us as we exited the station. We were cranky and not in the mood to argue with cabbies over the fare back home. When I finally made it back to my room, I took my first real shower in three days and slept from eight in the evening until nine the next morning. Traveling sure can take a lot out of you.

(One more from Mike)

Note: I’m not positive, but my best estimate for the total cost of the weekend in Alexandria, including train fare, four meals, two nights in a hostel, entry fees for attractions, and about a billion cab rides: $70. I love this country. Come visit anytime.