Tombraiders: Luxor, Part Two

With our options exhausted at the train station, Mike and I joined the rest of the group and headed for the hotel. We walked along wide dirt streets without sidewalks. Shops, restaurants, and vendor stalls lined the sides. The streets were much less crowded than in Cairo, but far more chaotic. When I first arrived in Egypt, I was overwhelmed by the rush of cars clogging Cairo's roadways and the lack of traffic control. But the sheer amount of traffic tends to limit the speed at which vehicles travel, and the flow is fairly predictable. It's also helpful that virtually all streets in Cairo are one-way. This was not the case in Luxor, where there seemed to be no method to the madness whatsoever. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes careened haphazardly in and out of our path on the bumpy, unpaved roads. The motorcycles were the worst, driving in both directions on both sides of the street and zooming unsettlingly close to pedestrians.

We eventually caught sight of our hotel, the Nubian Oasis. The place was packed, as several groups of AUC students were visiting Luxor this weekend, and the this hotel was the residence of choice. Unlike the rest of our group, Mike and I didn't have reservations. All the hustle and bustle made me worried about getting a room, but we were quickly shown to a nice, air conditioned place on the third floor. Everyone settled in, and we headed out for a nice dinner.

Mike and I got back to the hotel around 11:00 and were informed that we had to move. More people with reservations had shown up and they needed our room. Ok… so what now? Foreseeing the possibility that the hotel could be booked when we arrived, we had a backup plan: the Bob Marley Hostel. As enticing as this sounds, it was pretty late in the evening and we weren’t exactly sure where the hostel was. I was tired and not keen on going to look for it. The hotel owner felt bad for us and offered to let us sleep on the roof for the night. For free. Score.

Now when I say we slept on a roof, the wrong image probably jumps to mind. The roof of the Nubian Oasis is furnished with benches, tables, chairs, and a TV, and many guests spend their evenings socializing up there. Most of the rooftop is sheltered by a latticework overhang, and a large area covered in blankets provides an adequate (although quite public) place to sleep. There’s even a comfortable hammock that I napped in a couple of times during the day.

The next morning, we got up and started touring the sites. Tim and Ariel, who’d arrived a day early, had a bus lined up to take us around for the day. Our first stop was the Valley of the Kings, home to the tombs of many ancient Egyptian pharaohs and one of the most famous landmarks in Egypt. I don’t have a lot to say about it. The place was positively packed with tourists, and we were herded through the tombs we visited. Some people were upset by this, but it didn't bother me too much. The truth is, I’m shallow and uncultured and all I saw was a bunch of old paint and carvings on a wall in some dank caves. I have no knowledge of the symbolism involved, nor have I studied pharaonic history. The thing that struck me as most interesting was the fact that the ceiling of every tomb was painted with identical white five-pointed stars. It surprised me to see this motif so well preserved over the course of centuries. And I felt sorry for whoever got stuck with the job of painting them all.

As unimpressed as I was with its contents, I thought the valley itself was pretty sweet. The area surrounding the tombs was comprised of sandy mountains, and our rugged band hiked over them in order to reach our next destination, which was some other temple thing that may or may not have had a name. As I scrambled up the dusty mountainside along with my companions, I made occasional forays off the path to explore what looked like promising alternate routes. Upon returning from one of these deviations, I rounded a corner to find myself with a full view of Andy urinating on the mountain fifteen yards in front of me. Awesome. Not realizing I had wandered off on my own, he had waited until everyone else had passed before going about his business. He didn’t notice me, so I passed without comment and waited until later to broach the topic. A true stoic, his only comment was, “You haven’t really been somewhere until you’ve peed on it.”

When we reached the mountain’s crest, we were accosted by a thirty-something year old Egyptian man who looked happy to see us. I can’t blame him. As far as I can tell, his job was to sit on top of the mountain all day long and point out the path down to the other side. The guy followed us around for a while and kept offering to take group pictures (in exchange for money, of course). He was also talking to Camille a lot, paying her the awkward, heavy-handed compliments to which Western women who visit Egypt are constantly subjected in markets and on the streets. After spending much of the train ride to Luxor getting to know Camille, I felt somewhat protective. I approached the pair of them from behind and squeezed between them at an opportune moment, then asked Camille some inane question that lent itself to a longwinded response. Her escort was not particularly pleased. He said something to me about how I should go ahead with the rest of the group. I pretended not to understand what he wanted. He grumbled a bit and fell back for the moment. He later apparently offered her something like ten million camels and fifty donkeys for her hand in marriage. Impressive. He must have been either very lonely or very into Camille, because that’s the best offer I’ve seen so far. Most fall into the one hundred-to-two million camel range, with no donkeys included. The only thing that really compares is the time in a Cairo market when I heard a vendor told my friend Jessi, “I kill my wife for you.”

View from the mountain overlooking Luxor. The transition between desert and cultivated land was surprisingly stark.

We finally made it to the other side of the mountain, took some pictures from afar of the temple thing, and boarded our bus again. It took us to the nearby Valley of the Queens, which kind of sucked. It was a lot like the Valley of the Kings, but smaller and less exciting. The coolest part was a preserved skeleton of a queen’s miscarried baby, which was on display in one of the tombs. A shadowy thing lying next to it under the glass looked like an umbilical cord, but further inspection unmasked it as a rubber hose.

When we got back to the hotel in the mid-afternoon, Mike and I were informed that we now had a room. We were in a triple on the first floor with a guy named Phil who also goes to AUC, but wasn’t part of our group. The quality of our lodgings had decreased noticeably when compared to the third floor room. We no longer had air conditioning, although there was a ceiling fan. The bathroom sink was clogged. Our room had no doorknob. But it was a place to sleep and keep our stuff, and I was happy to take what I could get after the night on the roof. Everyone was hot, hungry, and tired, so we ate a relaxed lunch and then slept until evening. Before I dozed off, I walked around outside for a bit and stumbled across a small herd of goats foraging for edible material around a dumpster. I couldn't decide what was more strange: the sight of goats munching trash on a public street in the middle of a city, or the fact that this scene had seemed completely natural to me until I stopped and thought about it for a few minutes.

We enjoyed a pleasant dinner that evening, and then whiled away the night on the roof talking and playing card games. I went to bed fairly early since we had big plans for the next day. I'm glad I got the rest, because Saturday was a real workout.

Trouble With Trains Times Two: Luxor, Part One

The American University in Cairo generously granted its students a four day weekend for Easter. I traveled south with a small contingent of compatriots to Luxor, home of the Valley of the Kings and the Karnak Temple ruins. Our original plan was to take an overnight train Wednesday and arrive Thursday morning. Most of my group was in Dahab climbing Mount Sinai the weekend before we left, so I volunteered to buy train tickets for everyone. Before I made it to the office, I was informed by a fellow traveler that there were only six tickets left for the Wednesday night train. I needed nine. I hurried to the ticket office near the AUC campus, which closes at 4:00. The man at the counter didn’t speak English. I asked in Arabic whether there were tickets for sale. He told me no. He told me I needed to go downtown. This made little sense, as Ariel had bought her tickets there half an hour ago. I concluded that he didn’t want to deal with me so close to closing time, and left.

I came back the next morning. I knew from my failed attempt the day prior that I shouldn’t expect the man at the counter to speak any English. I would have to do this all in Arabic. That was fine. I made sure I knew all the words I was likely to need. Unfortunately, the situation was complicated by the fact that the time we had originally planned on booking was full, meaning I had to call the rest of the group in Dahab and confirm before I bought anything. The situation was further complicated by the fact that I was standing in line with a bunch of impatient Egyptians breathing down my neck (somehow, God be praised, there actually was a line here). When it was finally my turn, the conversation went something like this:

Me: Ticket to Luxor Wednesday night.
Guy: Luxor, Wednesday night… what time?
Me: What times are available?
Guy: How about 6:00?
Me: Ok great, 6:00.
Guy: Second class?
Me: Yes. I want eight ticket.
Guy: Eight tickets?
Me: Oh, tickets. Yes, eight tickets.
Guy: Ah. Wudjca fajf lamnip?
Me: I’m sorry?
Guy: Travelers utbukh Egyptian or faiod?
Me: Travelers… what? Oh. No, American. All of them are Americans.
Guy: Ah. Ok.

He started typing a bunch on his computer, which looked like it was running an Arabic version of DOS. He had asked me whether the party was Egyptian because that affects what trains we could ride, and possibly prices as well. I took the opportunity to call Camille. She confirmed that this was good, and I should go ahead and buy the tickets. Perfect. This was working much better than I’d expected.

After a few minutes, the guy looked up. He told me the train was full. I asked for a minute and quickly called Camille again. The line behind had grown substantially since I got to the window, and it was starting to shift impatiently. I told Camille the situation and heard her relaying the message, followed by background chattering. People behind me edged forward. Someone else came on the phone. It was Liz or Nur-E, I couldn’t tell. She said they needed a minute to ask everyone. I heard a lot of muffled rustling. Whoever had the phone was running. I waited. People behind me came forward and started using the window. I stepped slightly to the side, but kept my left leg in front of everyone. I knew this could get ugly, quick.

Finally, someone came back on the phone. Everyone wanted tickets for the next morning. I hung up and wedged my way back to the window. I told the man at the counter what I wanted and he pecked some information into his computer, then informed me that one of us would have to be in a separate car. Well, that was unfortunate, but there wasn’t much we could do about it. After a long process of entering information into the computer and triply confirming every detail of our trip with me, the guy at the counter printed out the tickets, looked them over, stamped them, and handed them to me. I grabbed them. I looked at them. They looked fine. I left. I felt good.

I took a closer look at the tickets once I was out of the line of fire. As previously established, one ticket in the stack was in a different car. This was fine. The problem was that it also departed from a different train station. Great. Well, at least it was for the same train and both stations were in Cairo. I was also a little confused by the fact that the destination station was listed as something that came out roughly as “Assyoot.” I assumed this must be the name of the train station in Luxor, just like the Cairo station is called Ramses. I didn’t worry about it.

Later that night, I had a bad feeling. I got up at around two and looked at the tickets again. “Assyoot.” Something about that struck me as wrong. I looked up the Luxor train station online. After ten minutes of searching, I still couldn’t find a specific name for it. Eventually, I stumbled across a railway map for all of Egypt. Luxor was simply listed as “Luxor.” Hmm. I traced our railway’s course as it snaked its way south. About halfway between Cairo and Luxor, there was a stop labeled “Asuit.”

Shit.

How did this happen? How could this happen? I had clearly told the man “Luxor!” He had confirmed every detail of the trip several times. How many tickets? Nine. What class? Second. Departure time? Thursday morning 8:00. Egyptian or foreigners? Foreigners. Destination… destination…... no, he hadn’t asked that, had he? Not a single time during the whole process did I mention where we were going except for when I said it in the beginning. Fantastic.

Determined to rectify the situation, I went back to the ticket office with several people the next day, including Ariel, whose Arabic is better than mine. The ticket salesmen told us he couldn’t change our tickets. Nor could he sell us tickets from Asuit to Luxor. We all had to go to class, but I promised to go down to the actual train station afterwards to see if I would have better luck there. In class, I told my tale of woe to Mark, a Georgetown student who’s been at AUC since last fall. “Why didn’t you book through the travel office?” he asked, “Getting tickets is the one thing they’re actually good at.” I headed straight there after class. Thirty minutes later, tickets were booked from Asuit to Aswan (a stop further south of Luxor) and I was told I could pick them up the next morning.

When I got the tickets, I inspected the first three carefully and glanced through the rest. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. We were good now. My mistake (if we’re even going to call it mine) was going to cost us an extra 25 pounds each (around $5), but at least we were good to go. I was happy again. Then people started backing out. For a variety of complicated reasons, several people decided they didn’t want the tickets and would prefer to make other arrangements. Because everyone was in Dahab when I bought the tickets, I had paid for everything out of pocket. I was worried about getting my money. This turned out not to be an issue, as everyone paid. In fact, the situation turned out to be perfect. Why? Although the first six tickets in the stack were correct, the last three turned out to be as messed up as the ones from the ticket office. Inexplicably, I had assumed the AUC travel office would make sure they were giving me what I paid for. How foolish of me.

We made it to the station in the morning and boarded the train without incident. The eleven hour ride was unremarkable, except for the part where the train stopped for a few minutes and then began going backwards. Even the Egyptians seemed thrown off by this. Eventually, though, we rolled into the station at around 7:00 on Thursday night. Mike and I went straight to the ticket window to buy return tickets for Sunday morning. Everyone else already had them, but we had been debating exactly when to come back, so we waited to buy ours. I wasn’t at all worried about getting tickets, for several reasons. First, Mike speaks fluent Arabic, so that wouldn’t be an issue this time. Second, we were buying tickets four days in advance, which is ordinarily more than enough time. And finally, we were buying tickets for a Sunday morning, hardly a peak travel time for Egyptians. We ambled up to the window.

Mike: We want second class tickets for Sunday morning.
Guy: Mafeesh.

There are none.

Mike: Mafeesh? Ah. Ok, what other times are available on Sunday?
Guy: Mafeesh.

There. Are. None.

Mike: No? Nothing on Sunday? What about Sunday night?
Guy: Mafeesh. Come back Sunday morning and check then.
Mike: Sunday morning? But—
Guy: Mafeesh.

No. Please. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Small Victories

Life in Cairo is replete with small victories. In a city defined by pollution, traffic jams, bureaucracy, haggling, heckling, and Arabs not afraid to cut in line, it’s the occasional minor triumph that sustains my morale from day to day. There are many experiences that qualify as small victories, but crossing streets without changing pace or direction is one of the most rewarding of these achievements. My usual method for crossing a busy street (the only kind in Cairo) is to walk along the curb parallel to traffic at a moderate pace waiting for a break in the deluge of oncoming vehicles. When I spy an opening, I make a hard turn into the street. This allows me to preserve my momentum, one of the keys to establishing dominance in the showdown to come. There are on average three to five lanes of automobiles approaching (sometimes as many as eight), and the drivers can smell fear. Hesitation is defeat. I know this. I walk at a seventy degree angle from the curb, allowing me to cut in front of oncoming traffic. Cars, vans, and buses careen deftly around me. I’m halfway across the street, and life is good. But then it happens. Some guy sees a gap in traffic right in front of me. He zooms eagerly for it. We’re on a collision course. In the unwritten rules of the road that govern this place, I have the right of way. I think. I hope. In any case, I’m in front of him. If I hold my line without fear, he should stop. That’s how it works for the other Egyptian pedestrians at least. And in my two month career of street crossing, I haven’t ever been hit. But, without fail, the thought comes: “What if he doesn’t stop?” I flinch involuntarily and shorten my step by half a foot. Game over. Car after car plows in front of me without pause and, momentum squandered, I’m stuck waiting in the middle of the street for another opening. This is a frequent occurrence. I usually have to change speed and direction several times to get across a large road. But that’s not always the case. There’s the rare occasion when I step boldly into a packed street and some invisible aura of power and protection envelopes me. Deftly slicing my way through the shimmering torrent of steel with effortless speed and grace, I reach the opposite shore without incident. Jeff Gordon’s got nothing on me.

Another of Cairo’s challenges is getting water. The fundamental building block of life is not free in restaurants. Nor does it issue forth from public fountains. Drinking it out of the tap, even in the dorms, is not the wisest of ideas (after a few weeks I was brave enough to try, but I stopped a week or so later after beginning to feel a little yurpy). Thus, bottled water is the rule here. This precious commodity is available both in 20 oz bottles and in large 1.5 liter bottles. The larger bottles are much more cost efficient, and therefore highly preferable. The issue is transporting large numbers of bottles from the grocery store to the dorm. Granted, the store is easily within walking distance, but making the run every two days gets to be annoying. The solution that a brave few have adopted is to buy a case of 12 bottles at once and lug the beast back to the dorm. This lasts for a while, but those who attempt the feat are apt to sweat out as much liquid as they obtain. That’s why I was overjoyed to find a massive six liter jug of water tucked away in the corner of a grocery store a few days ago. After I got over my initial ecstasy, I started to have my doubts about it though. The jug was pretty dirty. I’d never seen the brand. It had no English on it. The label and the top were pink. But it was six liters of water rolled into one, and I decided it was awesome and I had to have it. So I lugged it back to the dorm. It’s too big to fit in the refrigerator and I don’t have any cups, so I just drink room temperature water out of it directly.

Getting laundry done continues to be cause for celebration, as the condition of the facilities has deteriorated recently. I’m nowhere near exhausting my 4.5 kilo supply of BioCleana, of which I now have a picture (see below). But, the washer did tip sharply onto one side about a week ago while my clothes were in it. This concerned me. The machine continued to function, so I let it be. We’ve also had some issues with the dryer. One night it started making a horrible screeching noise that could be heard all across the floor. It was even worse than the Egyptians in the common room. Every time someone turned the dryer on, Dan would get out of bed and turn it off again. This continued for several hours. Finally, someone called maintenance, which resulted in the dryer’s temporary decommissioning. The next day, half of it was gone – the base remained, but the central rotating mechanism had been removed. A few days later, the entire thing disappeared. This leaves the men’s side of the dorm with only two functioning dryers. As a result, I frequently air dry my clothes, hanging them from every available surface in my area of the room. This leaves my laundry with a consistency similar to cardboard. On the plus side, my shirts are stiff enough to be used as lawn ornaments and make my nipples bleed.

The final, and most pervasive, challenge I will share is the constant need to make change. If I go to a supermarket or a restaurant in the US and my bill comes to $12.50 I can pay with a twenty and get $7.50 back, no problem. In Egypt, it’s not that simple. There is a perpetual shortage of small bills, and one and five pound notes in particular are hoarded like precious gems. People hate giving change. Whoever I’m dealing with is going to ask if I have change, and if I don’t, there’s a chance I may not be able to get back all of what I’m owed. This is a constant refrain.

I obtain money by going to a bank and cashing traveler’s checks. Naturally, the bank employees try to give me the largest bills they can, and look exasperated when I ask for smaller ones. If I’m getting 762 pounds, I end up with seven LE 100 bills, one LE 50, a ten, and two ones. The hundreds are highly inconvenient since I’m never going to spend that much at once and there are few places where I can break one without a huge fight. Sometimes the guy at the bank will give me fifties instead, although these are only marginally better. But I’ve noticed something. Whenever I have a female cashier at the grocery store, she never gives me trouble about change, even when I pay with a large bill. The men, meanwhile, always want to fight about it. So a theory began to brew in my mind. I got to test it a few weeks ago at the bank. For the first time, I had a woman cashier. I was getting a lot of money – around 1350 pounds. I filled out the paperwork, gave her my passport and checks, and waited. As expected, she pulled a stack of hundreds out of a drawer and began counting them out. I didn’t want thirteen hundreds and change, so I interrupted her. “Could I get some smaller bills also please, like some fives and tens?” She looked at me, shrugged, said “ok,” and disappeared into the back. She returned with a massive stack of ten pound notes roped together with a rubber band. She then pulled out some twenties and counted out three hundred pounds, which I thought was most generous. To that she added a fifty and change. I expected her to give me fifteen or twenty of the tens and then round the rest out of my due with hundreds. I was perfectly fine with that. This was far better than I’d ever done before. To my surprise, she put the hundreds away. She then handed me the money she’d counted out, along with the enormous stack of ten pound notes, which was as thick as my fist. I stared at it in disbelief. Was this really for me? I picked it up with all the care I would use with a newborn baby and staggered away from the counter. A note under the rubber band said the stack contained one hundred ten pound notes. I counted them. Unbelievable. Somehow, it was real. I was holding the Holy Grail in my hands.

So how did I feel? Take the idea of walking around with a stack of one hundred of any bill (awesome!) and add to it the fact that I now had no worries about change – the bane of my existence – for at least a month. I was ecstatic! With this stack, anything was possible. If I held it out in front of me when crossing streets, traffic was sure to part like the Red Sea. Continuing with the Moses theme, I had no doubt that fresh water would spring from rocks at the slightest touch from my stack. And since I’ve already blasphemed myself halfway to hell anyway, I might as well add that I was confident that, much like the hem of Jesus’ garment, my stack was capable of purifying all that touched it, making my laundry woes a thing of the past. Put simply, I was unstoppable. I could do anything. I can't remember ever being happier. I realized there was just one problem: I couldn’t spend any of my money, because that would imply breaking the stack. That was unthinkable. After a week or so of limbo, I finally gave in when I completely ran out of other money. It’s been an emasculating experience watching my stack dwindle over the weeks. But, for a few days, I was a real life gangsta. Represent.

Team USA: The Untold Story

AUC is currently in the midst of a massive soccer tournament, the League of Champions. This annual tradition is serious business. For an entry fee of seventy Egyptian pounds each, players can join a team, receive custom jerseys, and compete for the 1600 LE prize for members of the winning team (over $300 per person). My roommate Dan entered the tournament along with Anthony (who loyal readers may remember from the Alexandria adventure) and a few other Americans. The person in charge of registration remarked that they were the first Americans to enter the tournament in memory. The odds facing the Great White Hope were formidable: forty rough and tumble Egyptian teams were also vying for the championship, and they play soccer like it's their job.

The games were played outdoors on either a clay tennis court or a paved basketball court in the evenings. Only four or five players took the field at once, depending on the size of the court being used. Team USA consisted of six members. Dan, the team's trash-talking specialist, was confident that his brand of physical soccer, complete with strategically thrown elbows and surreptitious tripping, would catch the Egyptians off guard and ensure victory. Anthony, who was to serve as goalie, had never played soccer. He was, however, a collegiate-level baseball shortstop. He was fully capable of throwing the ball from one goal to another. Working with Dan, he devised a strategy whereby he was to throw the ball all the way across the field and have Dan head it into the goal (this never worked in practice). Charlie, who had obvious soccer experience and was particularly solid on offense, was the team's official leader. Steve, Ibrahim, and Mohamed (the lone Egyptian), rounded out the team.

I attended the first game as a spectator, along with Liz and Steph. When we arrived, the teams were warming up and a few Egyptians were lounging around watching. The teams played on a clay tennis court with three fielders and a goalie in at a time. The game consisted of two halves that lasted around 15 or 20 minutes each, with a five minute break in the middle. At 8:30 sharp the teams took the field and the game began. Team USA struggled in the first half. They weren't used to playing on clay and there was a lot of sliding around. One of our men managed to kick the ball over the twenty five foot high net surrounding the court. Twice. Team Egypt was far from fantastic and there were several good opportunities to put points on the board, but the shots just weren’t coming. The Americans couldn't manage to put a solid offense together.

Things are looking dire by the end of the first half. The score is 3-1, Team USA down. Anthony is playing his heart out, not afraid to dive to the ground to block shots, but his inexperience shows at times. It doesn’t help that he isn't getting much aid on defense. His frustration becomes obvious after the third goal, but he keeps his cool and stays in the game. When the second half begins after the break, it’s back and forth for a while with neither team taking firm control. As the midpoint of the half approaches, the score is still 3-1. Team USA has possession, takes the ball down the field, passes to Charlie and… GOOAAAAAALLLL!!! Momentum has definitely shifted.

The Egyptians begin playing more conservatively, trying to hold onto their lead as the clock winds down. They’re still aggressive with the ball when they have it downfield, however, and it’s a stellar combination of good defense by the fielders and knucklebiting saves by Anthony that keeps Team Egypt at bay. Anthony is definitely showing major improvement in the second half. After a particularly close call wherein the ball almost bounces between Anthony's legs into the goal, Steve suddenly fires a shot out of nowhere, tying the game at 3-3 and sending the American half of the crowd into joyful celebration.

With the game all tied up and play time quickly expiring, both teams are focused and the intensity level is high. Riding the momentum from Steve’s goal, our boys dribble down the court, pass, pass, and send it to Charlie... he takes the shot from outside ----- it’s good! Pandemonium in the stands! We’re up 4-3! Mike, who has arrived to support the team, erupts with shouts of U-S-A! U-S-A!

The Egyptians are crestfallen but hardly about to give up. They come flying back into action with a vengeance. The tension of the situation is heightened by the fact that only the ref knows exactly how much time remains – there’s no visible game clock. Good defense and goalie work by the Americans hold back the tide of Arab fury, but barely. With seconds (presumably) remaining, Team Egypt launches a desperate blitz and sends all four players down the field for a final shot attempt. Our boys hang back in a defensive perimeter around the goal. The crowd shouts excited words of encouragement to the two teams. Team Egypt passes the ball back and forth, looking for an opening. Our boys bring pressure, but one of the Egyptians manages to get a shot off. It rockets past the defenders toward the goal… the crowd gasps... but it’s wide! The ref blows his whistle three times signaling the end of the game, and shouts of jubilation erupt from the spectators! Sweating and out of breath, Team USA meets its adoring public on the sidelines. Team Egypt shuffles glumly off the court, ashamed of their failure to crush the infidels. After a few minutes of recuperating and a change of clothes in the bathroom, the Dream Team heads straight for a bar to celebrate. Appropriately, the bar is named Hureyya, which is Arabic for "freedom." The rest of the night is spent recounting game highlights.

Team USA had a rougher time the next two games. These were played without Anthony and on the larger, five-player court, meaning there were no substitutes available. I did not attend either game, but Dan told me the Yanks were up 4-2 at the half during the first contest, but didn’t have the endurance to hold it together till the end. Team USA was then blown out of the water in the third game by the defending champions, thus ending the American dream. R.I.P. Miracle on Grass.