Fountain and Tomb, by Naguib Mahfouz

My book club is reading this book later in the year, but I have a student reading it right now, so I went ahead and got a jump on it. I'm very glad I did.

What an amazing book. It's nothing like I expected, a quality which has the potential for being either very disappointing or entirely enriching. In this case, it's the latter. Fountain and Tomb is set in Cairo, all in a single neighborhood, and seeks to show the reader just how complex and fascinating life can be right where you live. The narrator is a young man (for whatever reason, it took me about a quarter of the way through to figure this out) who is telling the reader a series of stories about people he knows or knows about in his neighborhood. I've included a picture to show what such a neighborhood might look like:



With the obvious exception of the satellite dishes (honestly...) and the height of the buildings, this image isn't too far off from the one that the narrator is describing. The apartment buildings are set very near one another, with people living in extremely close quarters. (This isn't the case everywhere, but on our recent trip to Cairo, I noticed that it's true for many sections of the city.) These neighborhoods mustn't be confused with slums, though. Cairo is a city of at least 17 million people, and it's not necessarily that big of a city in land mass; all of those people have to live somewhere. I imagine there's also a cultural element at play in these neighborhoods and that the close living of neighbors is a very important part of the world that is being described in Fountain and Tomb. Unfortunately, I don't know that much about Islamic Egyptian culture, but the book offers at least a fascinating glimpse into a culture that I'd like to study further.

To get back to the book, it's set in the late 1930s, in the days of Egypt's push for freedom from the British Empire. But the book isn't necessarily overtly political; it's purpose is to describe the people and their way of life. The narrator--whose name I don't recall being mentioned--manages to present a very richly described cast of characters within the small confines of his neighborhood. There are all kinds of people: clerics, local bullies, adulterers, drunks, beggars, young men and women in love, people who start off ambitious only to have their hopes dashed. It's honestly such a complex list that it declines to be easily categorized. But the reader comes away from the book realizing that regardless of cultural differences, all people are pretty much the same and struggle with the same thing; these struggles just occur in different surroundings and with different cultural expectations. Each story seems to have a rather delicious touch of irony to it, although Mahfouz is careful not to overplay this. His purpose is to create a complete tapestry of humanity that can serve as a microcosm for the larger city. In a few places, there are mentions of other rival neighborhoods that the narrator's neighborhood has to take into account. It is only at these moments that the reader is reminded of the world outside the single neighborhood--which is actually described as just being an alley. Such a whirlwind of life in one alley! Mahfouz is a masterful writer and has the delicate touch of an experienced storyteller who knows exactly how much to tell the reader and how much to leave unspoken.

What I liked the most about the book is that it introduced me to Muslim fiction without attempting to convey any kind of religious principles. It's first and foremost a story or a series of stories, and it allows me as a reader simply to delight in the fascinating world of a culture that is very foreign but very fascinating to me. This isn't propaganda; it's literature. In fact, Mahfouz was one of the first Muslim writers to focus on being a storyteller instead of a poet (apparently poetry has been the more common Muslim literary form). He occasionally got into trouble for his stories, but I think this one is pretty benign all around. It's also very short. I sat down and read it from start to finish in about two hours.

The only downside to Fountain and Tomb is that it might be a little difficult to find. Mahfouz is not an unknown writer, but I don't know that he's one of those authors that will be heavily stocked in the local library. For those who want to purchase this book (a very good investment, I think), I highly recommend the version by Three Continent Books, Lynne Rienner Publishers. It has an excellent introduction and a glossary at the end to assist the reader who is being introduced to Islamic Egyptian culture.

Major thumbs up for Fountain and Tomb. Wonderful read. Short book. Nothing to lose.

Animal Farm, by George Orwell

I have mixed feelings about this book. On the one hand, I like that it only consumed about four hours of my time and was, all in all, an entertaining read. On the other hand, I have to admit that I didn't really get it. Yes, I understand the political commentary that Orwell is making regarding totalitarianism, with the pigs representing Stalin and Trotsky. Yes, I understand that his purpose in writing this book was to take down "the Soviet myth"--about equality, I suppose. All of that aside, I still didn't get it.

What bothered me the most is not that Orwell was a committed British socialist and is thus contrasting communism and fascism with what he believes to be a more perfect form of social equality. What bothered me was that the book seemed frankly irrelevant. Obviously, it was written for a specific period of history to combat a specific problem. But nothing about this problem, as it was presented, seemed to strike as significant a chord for today's world. Or put another way, nothing struck me as being particularly revelatory. For example, throughout the book there were instances of the pig Napoleon's chief spokes(pig?) making small, subtle changes to the rules and in some cases altering the perception of history in Napoleon's favor. Now maybe I'm just jaded, but what person today doubts that the government does this--even (if not particularly) the American government? It's not like it surprised me all that much. (Consult my husband's burgeoning blog for more on this.) Additionally, having grown up in the era of a rapidly declining Soviet empire, in which the lies had already been revealed as false and the theories about communist utopia proven to be erroneous, I was coming at Orwell's comments retrospectively and thus found them a little anti-climactic. This isn't his fault, of course. He was writing for his time and wrote quite effectively at that. But I'm not sure the modern person really knows how to relate to this in modern terms. We live in a different world.

I had another issue with Animal Farm, which is more related to my confusion about the analogies than to anything else. I understand that the pigs are meant to represent the communists--some hopeful about possibilities for equality, others eager to manipulate the possibilities and twist them into personal power. I understand that the other animals represent the people who were sucked into this and subsequently deceived. But what do the humans represent? At no point in the story are they ever shown as being anything but negative characters. There is no moment in which the animals on the farm decide that they were better with the humans and that the system they have embraced is completely false in its hopes. So, who are the humans? Are they...me? The Western capitalist who opposes socialist society in any of its forms? Orwell seems to be arguing that although the animals are deceived by the communist vision, they are still better off without the humans (i.e., capitalists?). This would mean that there is no clear dichotomy of going somewhere and then returning; in fact, the best option is never presented clearly but rather implied by default of its absence. This kind of irritates me. I realize that this book deals very heavily in metaphors, so there is no perfect one-to-one comparison, but I still came away from it a little insulted by the implications. After all, at the end of the story, the pigs have basically turned into humans, much to the shock and horrified disapproval of the other animals. Apparently, whatever it is that I am--because I didn't see myself in any of the animals--is pretty unacceptable to Orwell.

It is entirely possible that I am over-analyzing this and that there is a simpler explanation. If so, I welcome it, because I really wanted to like this book. But I kept feeling like whatever it is that I represent personally in the categories upon display is not something good. Orwell actually made me feel bad about not being an animal.

Freedom in Truth

Gasp. Shock. Horror.

My husband has started a blog. Check it out here: Freedom in Truth.

He should be adding and updating soon. (And if he doesn't, I'll make sure he does.)

Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner

I just don't know about this one. I've read Faulkner more than once in the past, and while the experiences didn't inspire me to pursue Faulkner studies, I can't say that I disliked the stories I read. In this case, though, I developed an intense disliking for Absalom, Absalom! and I didn't get very far into the book before coming to this opinion.

The storyline is not terribly difficult to understand, but in true Faulknerian style becomes very complicated very quickly. Because I can't say that I recommend this book, I'm going to go ahead and summarize the story as it finally develops. It appears that Faulkner's purpose is to tell the story of the (not surprisingly) tragic Sutpen family. Thomas Sutpen is born in the early 19th century to a poor West Virginia family. He decides at an early age that he will slough off his surroundings and seek out his fortune. He makes his way to Haiti, where he marries a young heiress and has a son with her. Only after the child is born does he discover that his wife has African blood, and he decides that this does not fit into his plans for his life. He divorces his wife, providing for her in what he believes to be a fair way, and leaves Haiti to find his fortune elsewhere. Sutpen eventually makes his way to Mississippi, where he slowly builds up his fortune and marries one of the local women. This marriage proves to be far more successful and gives Sutpen a son and a daughter. All seems to be well until Sutpen's son Henry meets a young man at school, Charles Bon. Henry immediately strikes up a friendship and invites him home. Somewhere along the way, it's decided that Charles Bon will marry Henry's sister Judith, something that seems to please everyone but Thomas Sutpen. It turns out that Sutpen has a very good reason for objecting to the marriage, although it's not the one that the reader would think--even after finding out about it. Charles Bon is Sutpen's son by his first marriage, and his mother has pretty much spent her life trying to find a way to get revenge on her ex-husband. Marrying her son to his daughter appears to be her modus operandi. This seems to be a good enough reason for Sutpen to give Bon the boot, but it would seem that Sutpen's primary problem with the marriage is not incest; he is more worried that his daughter would be married to someone who is part African. The question, "What on earth is wrong with these people?" never gets asked.

As expected, there is no good ending to this story. Henry murders Charles Bon to keep the man from marrying Judith (more because of the African blood than because of the kinship) and then runs away. For her part, Judith never marries. Sutpen decides that he needs to produce a new heir and thus suggests (after his wife's death) that his wife's sister "give it a try" with him and see if she has a son; if so, then he will agree to marry her. Not surprisingly, she declines this insulting offer. Sutpen then has an affair with his steward's teenage granddaughter; the girl dies in childbirth, and the baby (an undesired daughter) also dies, leaving Sutpen with no heir and little hope of one. In a rage, Sutpen's steward attacks Sutpen for seducing the granddaughter, and the attack ends in Sutpen's death. The book itself concludes with Sutpen's out-of-wedlock daughter, who is also half-black, burning the house down with herself and the rediscovered Henry Sutpen in it, and thus ending the misery that is the Sutpen family.

Perhaps that wasn't so simple after all. But add to it Faulkner's nearly cryptic style of storytelling, and you have a veritable mess. I can't say that the book doesn't work. Faulkner was a master of his craft, and there are moments of real genius in this book. The problem is primarily that the story is told in the most bizarrely secondhand way and never with any real chronological value. The reader gets snippets of the Sutpen experience through a number of characters who are just relating what they know, or even worse just speculating on what they think happened. The ubiquitious Quentin Compson is a main character in this story, but only as a person who is hearing about the Sutpens or guessing about what happened with them. Sutpen's disgraced sister-in-law Rosa Coldfield tells a good portion of it, but the reader gets the distinct impression that Rosa sees very much through biased lenses and that her version is heavily shaded and not entirely fair. The other main portion of the narration is actually Quentin and his college mate Shreve McCannon sitting in their dorm room trying to fill in the blanks that Rosa left behind. Once more, we have the problem of the potentially unreliable narrators, and the reader finishes the story with a sense that the Sutpens probably earned all of their problems, but without any assurance of this. I have no doubt that Faulkner did this on purpose, but it's very unsettling to read a book about characters so rich in moral depravity but to come away from it wondering if they don't deserve a little sympathy. That is the problem with layered narrators; they leave so much room for interpretation that a moral center doesn't quite form. I, for one, grew rapidly to dislike Rosa Coldfield (and if ever there was a good example of the prudish old virgin, this woman is it) and to start thinking that Sutpen might have had some positive qualities, or at least that he deserved credit for trying to make something of himself. I don't think this was supposed to happen, but when you dislike one narrator, you tend to turn against that person's views. As for the Shreve/Quentin narration, I had to ask myself if any of it should even matter; it's largely speculation, after all, and offers a very staged reading.

What is more, by the end of Absalom, Absalom!, I began to wonder if the story was really about Quentin and not about the Sutpens at all. Quentin's unspoken subconscious is virtually a character in the story, and given that Quentin dies in the same year that he and Shreve are discussing this story, it's tempting to ask if this isn't just one more step along the path that leads to Quentin's destruction. After all, the final words in the story are Quentin saying that he doesn't hate the South. Quentin's relationship with the South and his struggle to reconcile past and present are threads woven through many of Faulkner's stories, so this might just be an element that helps to push him over the edge. I think, although I don't remember and don't feel like looking it up, that Quentin commits suicide. I wouldn't be at all surprised if the Sutpen tale contributes to this. I know that I sure needed happy pills after reading about it.

I don't know if this is a great book. What I do know, however, is that I didn't like it and that I don't want to read it again. Unless you happen to be a Faulkner scholar and something of a masochist, I'd leave it alone. Absalom, Absalom! was challenging, but not the way that left me feeling rewarded or enriched. And I can't say that it left me thinking about anything of real value. If that is how one can or should measure quality in books, then this one is lacking in something significant.

Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

--W.B. Yeats, 1920--

Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart is one of those stories that seems deceptively simple at the start, but then unwinds itself into a rich, complex story that can't be easily defined or categorized. In brief, this is the story of Okonkwo, a man who is entrenched in his own cultural heritage (and more importantly, in his level of success within that culture) and in unable to accept the changes that inevitably come when tribal Africa meets industrialized Europe. What makes Okonkwo such a difficult protagonist is that he really isn't one throughout a good portion of the story. He is stubborn, arrogant, narrow-minded, and difficult to like at times. He is also hard-working, ambitious to improve himself, surprisingly gentle at unexpected moments, and thoroughly in love with his homeland. He is at all times a fascinating character and one that demonstrates the complexity of human beings. Perhaps to undercut any European expectation of the African as simplistic, Achebe presents a character who is far too complex to ignore. He is not always likable, but he is always real and struggles with very real. Yes, Okonkwo appears easy to categorize at times, but he is not. He is the image of a dying way of life, and shows readers that--for Okonkwo, at least--so much is lost when that way of life fades into obscurity.

The passing of one way and the emergence of another lies at the heart of the challenge in reading this book. Central to all of the conflict is the appearance of the Christian missionary into Okonkwo's village and the gradual conversion of many of the tribe's members. There is a temptation to read this book and to assume that Achebe is anti-Christian and anti-West, because Western Christianity destroyed the traditional way of life in Nigeria. And yet such a comment fails to tak the big picture into account. For one, Achebe himself is a product of the Western influence in Nigeria, having been very well educated. What is more, the Christians are not necessarily portrayed badly; in fact, Achebe makes it clear that the first people they reach out to are those who have been rejected by the village. An example is a woman who runs from her husband during her fifth pregnancy because each of the previous pregnancies has resulted in twins--a very bad omen. The children had been abandoned to the wild, and the woman feared losing her babies again if she gave birth to yet another set of twins. The missionaries slowly but surely make progress, bringing much good to the people. But with this good comes the defeat of the traditional gods, which also means the defeat of a huge part of the village's cultural history. It's an interesting problem and one that doesn't have an easy solution. I think that Achebe's goal is not to much to mourn the loss of something as it is to explore what happens when this loss occurs. It is the loss of an identity for many people, in particular Okonkwo.

In the end, Okonkwo cannot accept the changes, and the book ends rather surprisingly on a negative note. But what this does is remind the reader that the story has not been fully told, even today. The story of Africa and Europe (and America, I suppose) is being written every day. Much can still be changed in the perception of "the West" toward Africa, and that--I think--is what Achebe is trying to say. I do recommend this book, because it is definitely a classic but also because it is a nice change from the typical "classics" that fill the canon of Western literature. I'm certainly not going to suggest that it replace anyone but rather that it be added for its qualities as a piece of literature.

As a final note, the poem quoted at the beginning explains the title of the book. Yeats is a tough nut to crack, and I wouldn't say that the poem properly conveys the tone of the book toward Christianity. Nevertheless, it does offer a glimpse of how great a conflict occurred when Christianity appeared in Okonkwo's village.

Cross-posted to Bookfest.

Live Journal

I'm a LJ girl now too! I added this so I could at least have an account should I decide to post on the myriad of LJ communities that I read. It has more information about the day-to-day, so it will probably prove to be a far more boring read. Who cares.

Live Journal Here

Surprised by Joy, by C.S. Lewis

Well, this is officially the first book the I'm supposed to read for the New Year: it's the first book on my Bookclub's list, and it proved to be an excellent choice. (Thanks, Sky!)

I've read C.S. Lewis in the past, but this is by far the most intimate of his writings that I've encountered. There is are plenty of hints of his powerful logic working through it, with moments that get a little too arcane for my ability to follow; but all in all, this is a pretty simple (not easy) read with a few philosophical signposts along the way. Lewis's purpose in this book is essentially to show the reader, first, how he became an atheist and, second, how he converted to Christianity. The story meanders around and gives the impression--intentionally, I'm sure--of being something like the over-decorated Edwardian rooms that he describes having grown up in. The book also feels strangely like the kind of thing you need to read curled up in a large stuffed chair, in front of a fire, and drinking a cup of tea. It offers that cozy sensation that hearkens back to late Victorian writing. The result is a story that keeps you engaged from start to finish, even though you know you are reading one man's often winding memories of his early life. Were it not C.S. Lewis, I might complain. But he has a knack for keeping the reader turning the page.

There's no point in summarizing this book. To some extent, it defies simple summary; to another extent, it's just an autobiography and thus follows the rules of the genre. What makes it so delightful is the anecdotes that Lewis tells along the way. I'm rather convinced now that my father-in-law is of the same breed as Mr. Lewis Senior. There were so many similarities, and while Lewis's fond but resigned comments about his father didn't entirely reconcile me to my own father-in-law's foibles, they certainly showed me something important: no matter how harsh it may sound, some people don't really change, and they might be put on this earth largely for the purpose of keeping those closest to them humble. And that's a good thing, so I suppose difficult people are an inevitability of life.

Lewis litters his life story with some absolutely charming moments of description. I think it has something to do with his ability to word his thoughts just right. For instance, I loved his short mention of his Irish terrier Tim, especially his comment: "He never exactly obeyed you; he sometimes agreed with you." (Perhaps I should name my computer Tim. Except that's my dad's name...) Or his thoughts on how he became a believer in Christ: "I was driven to Whipsnade one sunny morning. When we set out I did not believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and when we reached the zoo I did." (I heard somewhere else that his companion on this ride was none other than my hero Tolkien.) The utter simplicity of this comment belies his struggle toward Christ, but also exemplifies his style of writing. Lewis has that purely British capacity for perfect subtlety, and this is his method throughout the book.

Of course and without question, I recommend this book. At the same time, I'm not sure I'd recommend it to someone who has never read any of Lewis's other works or who isn't really interested in exploring Lewis's conversion. The writing is lovely, but it's a very specific topic and might feel out of context for some readers. Then again, for those who might have been put off by Lewis's more erudite writings, this will come as a nice change. Either way, give it a chance, because it really is wonderful.

Cairo

It's taken me a few days to get over the jet lag and to organize my thoughts, so here is my review of our trip to Egypt. Please bear in mind that the order and the choices amongst the "Top Ten" are entirely subjective and relate to our own feelings about our experiences.

Top Ten: Cairo

10) Getting there. Honestly. It was about sixteen hours of flying time for me, and many more hours of sitting in airports waiting for planes. I left early in the morning on a Sunday and didn't arrive in Cairo until just before 11 pm on Monday. Granted, there's a big time change in there, but that still adds up to around 24 hours. It's long, and no matter how nasty the airport is in Cairo, it feels like paradise. (By the way, the airport is pretty gross. A word to the wise: don't use the toilets unless absolutely necessary. I could only find one stall in the women's restroom that actually had a commode. The others just had a porcelain-covered hole in the floor. Umm, dysentery anyone?)

9) The culture. While I have my reservations about Islam as a religion (although nothing against Muslims as a whole and a total respect for people who choose to follow other religions), I have to admit that it adds something wonderfully enchanting to the culture of Cairo. A city of 20 million, with its own share of slums and poverty, Cairo still feels strangely luxurious. There was something fascinating about the architecture, the intricately covered women, and the evening prayers that resounded throughout the city. In the evening, we would leave the back door of the hotel room open (largely because it was the only way to get a wireless signal on the computer), and we could hear the beautiful singing of the Muslim prayers. For the first time, I began to understand the intoxication of the East.


8) Staying in central Cairo. For all but the last day of our trip, my husband and I stayed at a hotel in the middle of the city, right along the Nile. While we loved the hotel we switched to on the last day (very new, very posh), we decided that we were glad to have been in the center of it all. You really get a feel for life in the city when you stay in it. Yes, it's a little dirtier, with all of the people and the astonishing amount of smog floating around Cairo, but it's worth it primarily for the ambience.


7) The Cairo Marriott. Not to promote one hotel exclusively, I still want to mention that we loved this hotel. The Cairo Marriott was originally the Gezira Palace, built (or heavily remodeled) during the high Victorian period and has the most interesting--and the most tasteful--combination of Middle Eastern and English Victorian that I could have ever imagined. But a palace it is and well worth the opportunity to stay there. No, the hotel rooms aren't palace rooms, but the restaurants and public rooms are, all of which still retain the original look of the palace. We spent our first day in Cairo just wandering around the hotel taking pictures. Additionally, the staff is friendly and helpful, and we had no trouble getting information or setting up a tour. I've heard some bad reviews on a few travel sites, but I'm convinced that these are from people who complain no matter where they go. ("You know, I went all the way to Paris, and the Venus de Milo didn't even have arms!") Ignore the complaints; this is a lovely, enjoyable hotel that is close to all the main attractions in and around the city.

6) Taxi drivers. An odd choice, I know, but we had the loveliest and friendliest taxi drivers imaginable. What is more, they deserve kudos for being able to successfully maneuver their way through the chaos that is Cairo traffic. Lanes are ignored, and drivers zip around the road as though they are the only car for miles. But our taxi drivers managed to get us around, and what's more they were fair on price (as long as you bargain in advance) and unceasingly polite. A shout-out to Mamoud and Mohamed.


5) The Nile River. Seriously, there is something bizarre about looking out of the hotel window and seeing the Nile. It's surrounded by city now, but it's still an impressive body of water. Egypt really is a desert, but the Nile cuts through Cairo like a swath of freshness, leaving the area around the riverbank fertile and green. We saw peddlers in the streets with the biggest vegetables we've ever come across, all grown locally in the little farms that dot the riverside. Fortunately, if you visit Cairo, the river is one sight you can't miss (literally).


4) The Egyptian Museum. While not quite as sophisticated or as well organized as the British Museum, the Egyptian Museum is worth the price of admission. There are antiquities for what feels like miles, giving the traveler a sense of just how deep Egyptian history must go back and how impressive ancient Egypt must have been. If what we see in the museum is just a fraction of what was there, Egypt clearly possessed a very grand culture in its heyday. Most of the signs for the items on display are in Arabic and in English (most people speak some English, and a good number speak it very well), but if you need more guidance there are scads of tour guides that greet you at the ticket counter. They all seem to be multi-lingual, so if you feel like starting your tour in English and ending it in, say, Italian, there will be a tour guide for you. We chose to just wander by ourselves, because the museum is pretty self-explanatory. You can always sidle up and catch a few comments from someone else's tour if you so choose. (Another word to the wise: the toilets are pretty vile. Carry hand-cleaner.)


3) King Tut. Yes, we saw the old boy, or rather all of his funereal array, and I can say without doubt that this exhibit alone is worth the cost of a ticket to Cairo. It's extraordinary. And extraordinarily old. And in extraordinarily good condition for being so old. The museum doesn't have King Tut's mummy on display, but they do have the famous headpiece, as well as two of the three sarcophagi that encased him. The amount of gold used is astonishing. One wonders where it all came from and if they didn't drain several hundred veins of gold just to lay a teenage king to rest. But it's part of the mystique, I suppose, and only adds to the enchantment that is Cairo.


2) The Pyramids at Giza. Giza lies just outside Cairo, and driving down the highway you can see them peeking up in the distance. To be perfectly honest, my husband and I decided that we're not completely sure what to make of the experience of seeing them. So iconic and so surreal. Looking at them, you get the feeling that you should be thinking grand thoughts and contemplating the amazing achievement of building the pyramids; but it's so overwhelming that all you can think about is making sure you take a picture of them. They're not expensive to see, although I do recommend going on a tour (private or group tours are available). We had a lovely tour guide (Neveen, who is an Orthodox Christian interestingly enough), and while her English wasn't perfect, she knew exactly what to tell us and gave us excellent information. We also went into the Second Pyramid, although I don't recommend it to anyone who suffers from claustrophobia. To get inside the pyramid, you have to climb down a long tunnel and then climb up another long tunnel, hunched over and with people passing you on their way out. I suspect the tunnel is only about three feet wide and maybe four feet high (maybe not even that). I have usually have no problems with claustrophobia (except in Disney World in August), but even I briefly felt as though I might have a panic attack. Once you've gotten through the tunnels, though, you step into a large bare room in which is a big square hole at one end, formerly containing a sarcophagus. No cameras are allowed, but I'm not sure that's a bad thing. Frankly, a picture couldn't do it any justice.

As a side note, I also recommend good shoes for this outing. There was a couple from Spain who joined us on our tour, and the young lady inexplicably wore stiletto boots. Very cute, but highly inappropriate for climbing into a pyramid.


1) The Sphinx. My comments regarding the Sphinx are largely the same as my comments about the Pyramids. It's simply surreal. Not a let-down in any way, but just difficult to take in. It's not as large as I expected, but it's sufficiently impressive to make you realize that you are looking at an ancient masterpiece.

Some Travel Tips

Pack light; don't check bags. I had four connections to get to Cairo, and given that I missed two of them due to weather and poor airport organization (a pox upon Chicago O'Hare), I'm extremely grateful that I chose to carry my bags on. The only caution is for travelers who are routed through London: only one carry-on is allowed. For whatever reason, if you are flying out of a British airport, you can only have one carry-on. In all honesty, if you are traveling internationally at a busy time of the year (and traveling through Chicago), just bring one carry-on, as there is a possibility that you will get routed through Heathrow. My original flight was through Milan, but due to the missed connection I ended up going through London. Fortunately, I had a large bag, so I could stuff the smaller bag into it. I know this all sounds a little silly, but it makes for much less hassle to be as prepared as possible.

When traveling to Africa, bring hand sanitizer. Public restrooms. Point made.

Buy noise-canceling headphones for long flights. On my return flight from Milan (ten hours), I had a lovely Indian couple sitting next to me with a very cute baby that cried for the majority of the flight. The headphones, while not completely noise-canceling, enabled me to sleep during the flight without too much trouble. Unfortunately, they could do nothing for the smell of body odor, as the couple had apparently not discovered the value of deodorant; but one thing at a time, I guess.

Fly American Airlines and British Airways. By far the best flying experience I've ever had was on these two airlines. While American struggled with heavy delays in Chicago, the crew made the flight to London very pleasant. And British Airways has the best in-flight comfort for economy passengers that I've ever encountered. The large planes carry a library of movies and tv shows, and passengers have individual video screens. Sure, sure. I could have been reading. But I have a hard time staying awake when I read on planes, and the movies kept me occupied for a good part of the flight.

Well, that's all for now. I've tried to cover everything, and just short of elaborating on my near meltdown at Chicago O'Hare, I think I've offered a pretty thorough description of our trip. Cairo was a fantastic destination (in the correct sense of the word), and I would love to return. I highly recommend it as a vacation spot; with proper planning, you will have a lovely vacation there.