I’ve Lost My Edge
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Yesterday we arrived in Tunis, Tunisia. Back in the day, it was known as Carthage. Hannibal (as in, Hannibal-elephants-Alps) was born here. I’m excited to explore some ruins.
I’ve Lost My Edge
Lee says I’ve lost my edge. Two years of hiding from Covid have made me soft. He has no idea—when he reads this, it will be the first time he’s heard the whole story. I was too embarrassed to tell it out loud.
Our first morning in Cairo, I popped out of bed, ready to go visit the Antiquities Museum. It’s probably the world’s greatest collection of ancient artifacts.
We’re staying in a hotel a few blocks away this time, and I was daunted by the prospect of crossing those streets by myself. Cairo traffic is notoriously intense. I halfway asked Lee to walk with me, but he just rolled his eyes.
So I pulled up my big-girl pants and headed out.
The last time we were in Cairo was in 2017; it was my first visit, and I was new to this kind of chaos. I managed to avoid leaving the hotel by myself, except to walk to the museum, and that time we were staying next door. I didn’t have to cross any streets.
Now, four and a half years later, one would assume I know a thing or two. One would assume I have some street smarts.
One would be wrong.
I typed the destination into the map, popped on my headphones to listen to a book on the history of Egyptology (I know how to have a good time), and headed out. At the first cross street (which, in my defense, was about 47 lanes of traffic, all merging together to cross a bridge over the Nile) I stopped, waiting until I could thread my way to the median. Once at the halfway point, I waited again. And waited. Checked the map (something is off—where the hell is this museum? I knew I needed Lee to come with me.) And waited. Finally, a young man appeared at my left elbow and said follow me. So I did.
That was my first mistake.
On the far side, I thanked him and started to continue along my merry (if somewhat discombobulated) way. Where are you going, he asked. The Antiquities Museum, I answered.
That was my second mistake.
Oh, you have to take the tunnel. It’s over here—I’ll show you. There’s no tunnel on Google maps, so I followed.
That was my third mistake.
He was good. He chit-chatted as we walked, telling me that he’s a set designer. Cool. The hook was set.
We rounded a corner, and—surprise!— there’s his workshop. Won’t I come in to see his work? Sure, why not—just for a second. I’m in no rush. Line, sinker.
Reader, I Still. Didn’t. Understand.
What pretty little paintings! What pretty colors! What perfect hieroglyphs! He introduced me to his sister, and his uncle. He asked my name, and suddenly his sister is painting letters on a papyrus. AND STILL I DIDN’T GET IT! I commented on the extraordinary shade of blue on an astrological chart, and he’s rolling up a black one just like it, asking me if I want a box.
And still I didn’t get it.
It wasn’t until he point-blank asked for money that I realized how thoroughly I’d been taken. I don’t want a papyrus with my name on it, thank you. And I certainly don’t want that bait-and-switch black astrological chart.
He was good, and he very nearly reeled me in. Painting my name (or whatever the characters were) on the papyrus was intended to make me feel obligated—it can’t be sold now, can it? He did me such a favor, walking me across the street. He caught me incrementally, one tiny gesture of trust and reciprocity at a time.
When I said I had no cash (which was true), he pulled out the credit card machine. At that point, I fell back on the worst excuse in the world—no, I can’t do that without my husband. *shrug* The words leave a sour taste in my mouth, but they work.
I left in a hurry and went on my way, eventually finding the museum and wading into a whole different kind of chaos.
Touts are a hazard of the way we live—in some places more than others—and it’s unfortunate. The poverty in Egypt is difficult to witness, and I vacillate between sympathy and frustration. If circumstances were different, perhaps I’d enjoy haggling over that papyrus. It was very pretty, after all. But I don’t want it, and didn’t go looking for it. When I say I have no space for it, I mean I really have no space for it. The only place it could possibly live is my suitcase, which I have to kneel on to close. I realize that little slip of reed and paint might very well be the thing that puts dinner on his table tonight, but it might also be the thing that literally pops my zipper.
I take taxis, I eat in restaurants, I go to bakeries and museums and landmarks, and I happily pay whatever price is asked. I hire guides and drivers. I go to pharmacies and grocery stores; I buy fruit at the local market. But I’m not buying the damned papyrus. I’m just not.
Lee says I’ve lost my edge. It’s like I’ve sloughed off a callous, and now I’m going to have to gradually re-thicken that skin by repeatedly rubbing it into a blister. It’s going to be uncomfortable for a while, being back in the world, saying no, ignoring the touts.
I almost got caught by the papyrus guy. I should’ve known better.
From my writer’s notebook:
A group of European museums, including Queen Elizabeth’s private collection, have withdrawn significant loans from an exhibit at the Kremlin Museums. Some of the items had already arrived in Moscow, and are now being transported back to their home institutions.
The planned exhibit, about the history of dueling, was set to begin in early March. It has been postponed indefinitely; apparently the named sponsor is one of the top oligarchs currently under sanctions.
Take care,
Lisa
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