Egypt- Land of the Pharaohs (Day 8)

 

Egypt-The Land of the Pharaohs (Day7)

 Day 7: Arrival in Cairo

Four a.m. arrived right on schedule, which struck me as unnecessarily punctual.

Our airport hotel room had been something of a sardine can, but you couldn’t argue with the location. We were already inside the terminal, so getting to our flight required considerably less effort than getting around each other in the room.

At that hour, check-in, passport control, and security were a breeze. There was even a lounge serving breakfast, a reassuring sign that civilization was functioning despite the absence of daylight.

The flight was uneventful, and we arrived in Cairo about forty minutes early. Either the airline had been unusually pessimistic about the schedule or the pilot was speeding. Whatever the explanation, we had gained a generous head start that Cairo’s traffic would shortly reclaim, with interest. Our driver then introduced us to the local transportation system.

The lanes were clearly marked, making it easy for everyone to ignore the same lines. Cars straddled them with confidence. The direction of travel appeared open to interpretation, and pedestrians were expected to bring their own survival strategy.

It seemed that everyone in Cairo owned a car and had decided to take it out at precisely the same time. Our driver appeared perfectly comfortable. I was developing a more practical interest in the ancient Egyptian concept of an afterlife.

Eventually, we reached historic Cairo and met our guide, Sharif, an Egyptologist specializing in art history. His plan was to introduce us to the old city while incorporating a food tour. We had not yet appreciated how seriously he intended to take the feeding portion of his responsibilities.

Cairo was founded by the Fatimid dynasty in 969 AD and grew into a prosperous trading center linking Africa, Asia, and Europe. It flourished under the Mamluk sultans, who ruled from 1250 to 1517 and built elaborate mosques, religious schools, hospitals, and mausoleums. They left behind an extraordinary architectural legacy. A workable traffic plan apparently fell to a later administration.

Our first stop was Tentmakers’ Street, or Al-Khayamiya. Think New York’s garment district, then add several centuries of history and replace fashion deadlines with the patience required to stitch a masterpiece by hand.

The narrow, partly covered street is lined with shops displaying brilliantly colored textiles, with artisans often working right in their doorways. The name comes from khayma, the Arabic word for “tent,” and the traditional craft is called khayamiya.

It is a form of appliqué: craftspeople cut colored fabric into shapes, fold the edges under, and stitch each piece onto a cloth background. The designs range from intricate geometric patterns and Arabic calligraphy to flowers, birds, and scenes of Egyptian life. Some of the larger panels require weeks of painstaking work.

These textiles traditionally lined large tents and ceremonial pavilions. The outside might be plain, but the interior could be dazzling. Today, the same techniques produce wall hangings, cushion covers, bedspreads, and other decorative pieces small enough to tempt people who have already packed their suitcases.

Just north of the market stands Bab Zuweila, one of three surviving gates of medieval Cairo. Its massive stone towers support two ornate minarets added centuries later. The gateway has witnessed processions, celebrations, and considerably darker events: in 1517, the last Mamluk sultan was hanged here following the Ottoman conquest.

After this introduction to Cairo’s history, Sharif apparently decided we looked underfed.

He took us to a local falafel restaurant for a traditional Egyptian breakfast: falafel and pita, accompanied by tahini, olives, and eggplant. It was delicious, and by the time we left, we were thoroughly stuffed.

It wasn’t even noon, and we had already eaten breakfast twice. Somewhere in our digestive systems, there was a scheduling dispute.

Several more food stops remained on the itinerary. Sharif seemed optimistic. Our stomachs had begun requesting revisions. But we just had to try a special Cairo dessert (the name of which escapes me, but I'll find out when we return to Cairo in a few days).

We continued along Al-Muizz Street, the great thoroughfare of medieval Cairo, 

passing hookah shops 

and copper shops where the merchandise appeared to have been arranged primarily by gravity. 

There were old city walls, 

imposing doorways, and mosques tucked into a streetscape that kept producing another reason to stop and look.

Among them was the Mosque of Al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, one of Cairo’s great surviving Fatimid monuments. Construction began in 990 under Caliph al-Aziz and was completed in 1013 by his son, al-Hakim. It became an important center of worship and Shiite religious teaching.

Twenty-three years to finish a building. Apparently, “almost done” has a long history in the construction business.

We eventually passed through Bab al-Futuh, one of the surviving northern gates, and persuaded Sharif that we simply could not continue eating.

Then Dave and I made a tactical error.

We mentioned ice cream.

Being full and being unable to eat ice cream are, of course, entirely different medical conditions. Sharif immediately decided we needed to try the best Cairo had to offer.

It was only a couple of miles away.

We should have asked how far that was in hours.

The traffic we had encountered earlier now seemed like a fond memory from a simpler, more innocent time. About an hour later, we reached the ice cream.

To be fair, it was excellent. But after that journey, I felt it should have come with airline miles. Even Dave and I had to admit that an hour in traffic was a substantial investment in frozen dairy products.

And we still had to get to the hotel.

By the time we reached the Four Seasons, we were all fully schlepped out.

Then we stepped into the lobby, and someone appeared to have located Cairo’s volume control.

The silence was palpable. After hours of traffic and street noise, simply standing still in a quiet room felt like a hotel amenity worthy of its own surcharge.

Our room was on the thirtieth—and top—floor, with a beautiful view of the Nile. 

Through the haze, if you looked hard enough, you could even make out the pyramids. Cairo was presenting them in soft focus.

Our accommodations were a considerable improvement over the previous night. We had space, quiet, and a spectacular view. The sardines had been promoted out of the canned-goods aisle.

Tomorrow we see the pyramids up close.

At least we know they’ll still be there when we get through the traffic.

Turkey-The Bridge Between East and West (Day 6)

Day 6: Squash, Snakes, and the Return of the Sardine Can

After breakfast, we said goodbye to the Eyes of Cappadocia and headed out for another jam-packed day before our evening flight to Istanbul. Oğuzhan apparently considered an unused minute a personal failure.

As we left, more than 100 balloons floated overhead. It was another spectacular sight, made especially enjoyable by the fact that we had gotten some sleep, already eaten breakfast and were standing on something permanently attached to the ground. Also, the weather yesterday was much better.

We drove south from Nevşehir into agricultural country, where potatoes, squash, and vineyards featured prominently. Cappadocia is particularly known for white wines made from the local Emir grape. The vines grow in volcanic soils, and chambers carved into the rock serve as wine cellars. The landscape provides both the scenery and somewhere to keep the drinks—a thoughtful arrangement.

Our first stop was Mustafapaşa, where we sampled everyday village life by sitting at an outdoor café drinking Turkish coffee. This is the sort of cultural immersion I can support enthusiastically. 

Oguzahn taught Dave to read the coffee grounds (a skill he practiced in college to pick up girls.  I consulted ChatGPT who did a much better job.

Even Winnie got in on the act and Dave scored a massage.

During the Ottoman period, the village had a large Greek Orthodox population living alongside Muslim Turkish neighbors. In the nineteenth century, merchants from here prospered through businesses in Istanbul, trading in caviar, sesame oil, and linseed oil. Caviar was not something I had expected to encounter in the economic history of an inland farming village, but apparently there was considerably more money in fish eggs than I had appreciated. We also saw dried okra sold on the street. They prefer the dried form to the slimy type we eat (smart!)

That wealth helped pay for stone mansions, carved doorways, balconies, and elaborate interiors. Some houses contain murals of landscapes, figures, and mythological scenes. A plain wall was apparently a missed opportunity.

There is also a sobering history behind these beautiful buildings. During the compulsory population exchange between Greece and Turkey in 1924, the village’s Greek Orthodox families left for Greece, while Muslim families from Greece were resettled here. The surviving houses and churches preserve traces of a community whose people were forced to leave their homes and begin again elsewhere.

We continued about ten miles farther south to the farming village of Taşkınpaşa, where potatoes and squash are major crops.

Squash seemed to grow everywhere. 

Here, it is cultivated for the seeds, which are removed, dried in the sun, and eaten as snacks throughout Turkey—roughly the role peanuts play at home. The rest goes to the animals.

From a commercial standpoint, the squash itself is essentially elaborate packaging.

Jeri and Molly found it painful to see all that squash headed for livestock. They saw a terrible waste of potential meals. The animals, presumably, were thrilled.

Potatoes are also big business here. Just outside town, enormous warehouses have been carved into the rock to store them, taking advantage of the naturally stable conditions underground. We slipped inside one that was open and found ourselves in a cavernous space.

The potatoes were enjoying accommodations substantially more spacious than ours in Istanbul.

By then, it was time for lunch. Oğuzhan wanted us to experience a local eatery, and once again, he delivered.

The food was delicious. I would describe the dishes in greater detail, but that would require having identified them.

There was also far too much of it. This has become one of the great challenges of our trip: we keep being offered wonderful food, and apparently our only defense is to eat it.

With another night in the Yotel ahead, lunch was beginning to raise questions about clearance.

On the way to the airport, we still had several stops to make. First came the Snake Church, a church carved into the rock that takes its name from a painting of a saint killing a serpent. It has two main worship spaces and belongs to a larger complex with a courtyard, kitchens, dining rooms, and burial chambers. Some of its paintings date to the eleventh century.

Getting there from the road was no easy matter. After yesterday’s hiking, our legs had been hoping that “visiting a church” might involve pulling up beside one.

Our penultimate stop was the underground city of Kaymaklı.

The same soft volcanic rock that helped make Cappadocia’s fairy chimneys possible also allowed people to excavate an astonishing network of rooms and passages. At Kaymaklı, these included kitchens, food stores, wine-storage areas, and a church. Wells and ventilation shafts helped people survive underground, while massive stone doors could close passages from the inside.

These underground refuges provided shelter during periods of danger, including raids during the Byzantine era. It is remarkable to imagine the effort involved in creating them—and why people needed them.

It is also remarkable to imagine getting David through them.

Some passages were only four or five feet high, requiring us to proceed in a position normally associated with searching for a shoe under a bed. David had a particularly challenging time, although the rest of us were hardly strolling along with our heads held high.

The rock was soft enough to carve, but not soft enough for my forehead.

After all our complaints about the Yotel, we had voluntarily spent part of the afternoon squeezing through even smaller spaces.

Our final stop was an ATM so we could get cash for tips for Oğuzhan and our driver. Turkey’s largest banknote was 200 lira. At roughly $4 a bill by our reckoning, expressing our appreciation required a substantial amount of paper.

By the time we had assembled the money, Oğuzhan practically needed a briefcase to take it home. We were tipping him, but the handover had the potential to look like the final scene of a bank robbery.

We made it to the airport in time for an uneventful flight back to Istanbul.

And now, the moment you have all been waiting for:

Did we spend the extra €20 for a larger Yotel room?

We did the math. With a 4 a.m. wake-up for our flight to Cairo, we would only be there for about five hours. That made the upgrade roughly €4 per hour for the privilege of occupying different parts of the room at the same time.

We declined.

This time, at least, we had a stronger argument: there would be fewer hours in which to regret it.

After a full day of sightseeing, an enormous lunch, and our training session in the tunnels of Kaymaklı, we were well prepared. We mentally applied a little grease, slid into the sardine can, and went to sleep.

Somewhere in Cappadocia, a potato was stretching out.