The Spell of Twilight

Music: Nemo, Nightwish

Movie: The Promise (2016)

Book: The Bastard of Istanbul, Elif Shafak

There are those places in the world that are impossible to grasp in one sentence, see in one day, or ever forget. Istanbul is one of them.

Stretched on two continents, Europe and Asia, at the mouth of Bosporus Strait that connects The Black Sea to The Sea of Marmara, the city sits on layers of history layers. Istanbul is a tempting mistress that wraps you in her voluptuous mystery like an alluring siren’s song.

Wherever you turn your head, the skyline is bristled by hundreds of years old minarets. In an ingenious architectural twist, next to them found their place modern skyscrapers erected after the most recent earthquake.

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On the narrow streets in the historical centre, you will meet an older man pushing uphill his cart filled with cherries or sweets. You won’t resist his charming toothless smile, a lot of gesturing and Turkish that makes no sense to you that translates into an invitation to spend a few coins on his ware. And what a tasty one it is! You will congratulate yourself on purchasing it. 

Students, businessmen and women flood the wide boulevards, walking about with purpose. Not to mention the ever-present, colourful and rowdy traffic, be it on roads or maritime. 

Istanbul is one of the most eclectic cities in Europe. However, it is precisely the variety, the blend of ancient and modern, of meagre and wealthy, of crammed and wide-open spaces that makes it so attractive to tourists.

All the hours of the day are not enough for what this place has to offer. One moment you are haggling for some item you don’t even need in the Grand Bazaar. You will even lose your bearings in the medley of colour, scent and clamour and end up forgetting what you wanted to buy in the first place.

The next minute you find yourself in Topkapi, a sumptuous palace, learning about some potent sultan and the hundred concubines he kept in his royal harem. Or you might visit one of the numerous other palaces and castles scattered around the city.  

You will discover a sense of belief even if you are not religious when you marvel at the engineering splendour of the Hagia Sophia. 

You will get swallowed by the swarming hive Istanbul is in daylight, but most of all, you will love to surrender to the sensuousness of the nightlife in the city that knows no sleep.

I was not immune to any of it. And this is another memoir.

The Mistress On The Golden Horn

This summer, the cruise ship I work on docks in Istanbul for two nights precisely to give the passengers (and the crew) a chance to see as much as possible of the galore the city has to offer.

The tours we sell onboard would cover most of the main tourist attractions and sightseeing. Then, if you have any energy left, you are free to go out at night and witness something like a parallel dimension. 

The energy conundrum solves itself the minute you find yourself past the security gate. All of a sudden, the tiredness of a long working day (in my case, spent chiefly on tours after an early morning dispatch) dissolves miraculously as if I just woke up after a resting nap instead of roaming the city in the heat of the summer for over twelve hours. 

I swear this place has tremendous power to recharge your batteries once you step out on firm land. 

One evening, as I was preparing to close the office, the phone rang.

“Don’t go to the staff mess for dinner. I’m taking you out tonight!”

It was the mellow voice of Jay, a young grandfather of forty-eight from Goa, the manager of a busy department on board. 

“Okaaay.”

My voice seeps with disbelief at his ability to find time to go out, not to mention restaurant reservations. I hear a soft chuckle before he hangs up.

I’ve known him for some time—an educated, attractive and charming man. 

Some of our mutual friends say we’re perfect for each other; I don’t know. When you spend months on end in a relatively small environment, a crew of a thousand people become a tight-knit family away from home. 

One gets to know almost everybody; friendships form quickly, as do relationships. Besides, as in any small community, everybody knows everybody else’s business and gossiping becomes a great entertainment source among the crew. 

So, I agree with those who tell me we are perfect for each other, and that’s about it. What I am sure of is that I cannot force butterflies in my stomach. Couples chemistry is a funny thing sometimes.

I contemplate all this as I walk to the gangway, clad in a black dress and high heels. 

Ever the gentleman, Jay is already waiting in the lobby, smartly dressed and charming the lady security officers on duty. His eyes were already set on me when I spotted him. His smile, equally charming, produces more giggling that doesn’t stop as I get closer. 

A few passing by crew members wave at me; others show a hopeful thumb up. The Nepalese ladies of the Security team wish us a pleasant evening; their giggles linger even after we’re off the ship.

Jay offers me a hand to help manage the inclined gangway, not so practical for high heels. 

Now that the colleagues who saw us seem happy that we are finally going out and the gossip machine is churning merrily, all that is needed is some universe intervention to get the said butterflies fluttering. With some luck, the city will work her magic.

Before I ask how far we have to walk, a taxi stops right at the terminal’s gate, and Jay opens the back door for me. The car joins the heavy traffic towards the quaint neighbourhood of Galata. It seems all of Istanbul is going out, and it is not even Friday.

The Golden Horn seems dreamlike in the flashing neon lights.

The restaurant Jay picked is on top of a skyscraper. He flashes his charming smile at the hostess who starts undulating her hips in a well-rehearsed walk down to a table for two on the terrace. 

The view of Istanbul gleaming her myriad of lights at night renders me speechless. 

Jay’s smile widens. Check! Or so he thinks.

“You are way too busy. Who did you pay to make this reservation for you?” I ask him.

He casually places the silk napkin on his lap, his smile never faltering. I have to admit that it is his most attractive feature, together with a sexy pair of dimples and penetrating brown eyes. 

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. Well done, you!”

The waiter is a Portuguese girl, very professional and informative. As soon as we make our choices, a Turkish sommelier presents a wine menu. I prefer dry red, but we settle for white, given our meal selection. 

Conversation with Jay flows smoothly. The atmosphere is electric, and I should have my eyes set on his gorgeous smile, but the city’s magnetism is hard to resist. 

All too often, my eyes turn to caress the mysterious shadows strangely illuminated by the free-flowing fluorescent beams.  

So does Jay, admitting that picking Istanbul for the momentous decision of asking me out (we both nearly choke with laughter!) was a no-brainer. 

By midnight, we leave the elegant but cosy skyscraper terrace and walk to the first club that comes our way. Just before we hear the hubbub, we join some of our colleagues heading in the same direction. The feeling of meeting familiar faces in a place where you know nobody is so heartening!

Even the club security’s awkward occurrence asking one of the boys to show an ID becomes a hilarious moment. We all know he’s twenty-eight. Lucky bastard! The same security guard discarded me with half a look. It made me feel like seventy-two, not the other way around! 

I’m adamant that age is just a number, and I say this to Jay, who bursts into hearty laughter. Other than some grey strands at his temples, the man does not show his years at all. He laughs because I’m about half his age and concerned about it, even if I state the opposite.

I keep teasing that he is the real reason the damn guard did not bother to ask me for ID. Jay pretends to like the banter. 

The club is the exact opposite of the luxurious restaurant. The upbeat pop replaced the elegant classical music and a blinding strobe the dim lights. 

The city’s multifaceted appeal is not lost on me. I love the ease with which one can find or lose an identity here. One minute you are seeping wine in a high-end restaurant; the next, you are drinking beer from a bottle while leaning onto the people next to you who lean on others farther away and so on. 

The club is unbelievably crowded. If somebody threw a needle, it would fall on the floor hours later. Everybody holds a drink and sings out loud in unison to whatever song the DJ plays. The uproar is earsplitting; the dancing a conjoint rippling. 

We give up and walk to a quieter cocktail bar, not far from the rowdy club, in less than an hour. Later in the week, we heard that other colleagues from the ship ended up paying four hundred dollars for a regular bottle of champagne at gunpoint in some crazy club in the city. 

No drama ruined our night out. Just languid sensuousness and slightly intoxicated senses in the light breeze past the twilight hour and one cocktail bar after another until the first rays of dawn.

It is close to four in the morning as we walk along the Bosporus, back to the cruise ship. Surprisingly, we find an open tavern with a few tables placed right on the shore.

Breakfast on the Golden Horn’s promenade seems the wisest decision of the moment. After all, the staff mess does not come complete with waves crashing at our feet and covered by a divine canvas of dark purple and pink hues that slowly extinguish the stars’ flickering. It is indeed a much better alternative for breakfast and one last opportunity to extract one more drop of the city’s charm.

I did hope that the night would work its magic – and it did. I did fall! I did get butterflies galore. Alas, not for the man. 

Istanbul, the alluring mistress, kept true to her reputation and worked her magic on me. I was forever ensnared under her spell. 

Jay knows but has the grace not to show it.

Before the city that never sleeps pulls the gauzy veil that magically metamorphoses the darkness into light, we take a stroll back to the ship.

The quotidian life continues as if no magic interrupted it. It is back to business, back to responsibilities. 

To me, it means some office work and dispatching Istanbul-day-two tours. Possibly jump on one of the buses and get lost in some museum galleries, if not disappear for a few hours to recheck the Bazaar. I will have to return in the afternoon to send more passengers on the excursions they bought. 

Most likely, I will end day two in the city, accompanying an evening tour to a belly dancing show and dinner. One of my many guilty pleasures in Istanbul. Alongside getting lost in the Grand Bazaar.

The alluring mistress has uncanny ways to uphold her spell.

Tomorrow, the ship will set sail to Rhodes. Who knows what story awaits on the beautiful Greek island?

The Spell of Twilight

The post Istanbul, Turkey. The Night’s Mistress on the Golden Horn appeared first on The World Is an Oyster.

Ignis

Music: Corazón Espinado, Carlos Santana

Movie: Genius: Einstein (Season 1)

Book: Killing Pythagoras, Marcos Chicot

_{This post may contain affiliate links, which means I will receive a commission if you purchase through my links at no extra cost to you. Please read the full disclosure for more information. Thank you!}

In the middle of the eastern Mediterranean lies Cyprus – an island divided between Greece and Turkey.

Cyprus was populated by a thriving civilisation as far back as the Neolithic era. Greeks, Phoenicians, Egyptians, Persians, a certain young Macedonian king who set to rule the entire known world, Romans, Arabs, Turks and post-colonialist Brits conquered or occupied it throughout millennia. 

Cyprus is today a place where the marks left by history are still present and beautifully preserved. A place where different nationalities have learnt to live in relative peace with one another. It is not even that odd anymore that you need to show a passport to cross a border in the middle of the street in the capital city.

The most straightforward access to the island is by plane. Larnaca Airport is located in the south-eastern corner of the island and Paphos Airport in the south-western one.

Apparently, the island’s current name derives from a metal (copper) exploited locally from times immemorial. In ancient times, the island was called Ledra.

This is all I know about Cyprus before the ship docks in Limassol, south of the island, courtesy of my Greek friend on board. Kostas knows I appreciate a bit of history and makes sure to share his opinion about the divided population on the island. My other friend on board, a Turk, will give me his view on Cyprus later.

Sixty-three nationalities are working onboard this cruise ship. Any differences, including the Greek-Turkish-Cypriot partition set aside when we meet and chat about everything and anything. We all know strife, conquest and dominion, regardless of the era it happened to our respective nations. 

I’m happy to see a new place today. The marvel of working on a cruise ship! Every morning I wake up in a different country, I see something new or return to a place I had seen before and yearn to revisit. I can never get tired of it!

Kostas has some time off and offers to join me onto land. I’m grateful for the company, more so because he’d been here countless times and knows his way around the city. 

The ship docks close to a gorgeous marina berthing exquisite yachts. I got into the habit of seeing and not watching, although it is flashy.

There is a short shuttle transfer to the city. We make it out of the port area in minutes. The modern city raises in the distance, with tower buildings aligned along the sea line. Limassol lies in between the azure waters of the Mediterranean and arid peaks on the horizon. 

Not far from where the shuttle drops us off, we pass Limassol Castle, which I cannot visit on this occasion given my friend’s limited free time.

Little gems in the shape of colourful houses with blue shutters line up the narrow cobbled streets. Some are well-preserved, others in great need of TLC. Not surprisingly, many have a few tables at the front: local taverns owned by the people who live in the flats above. 

At each turn, I can spot in the background orthodox church belfries or slim mosque minarets towering over the city and piercing the blue heavens above.

The sun shines differently in Cyprus, with added mellowness. Even the light seems different. More… idle!

It’s boiling, but the stroll around the old district of Limassol is enjoyable. I chose not to go on a tour today and instead spend the day wandering through the city. Kostas agrees with me that this little corner of the world has its undeniable charm. 

The colourful alley in the old town where we stop for lunch is incredibly intimate. An old man with grey hair and a walrus moustache approaches us jovially and hands out the menus. While we check the food choice, the man says his wife can cook whatever we want as long as it is a traditional dish. 

Both Kostas and I are asking for Greek hovoli coffee, slowly made on heated sand. It’s heavenly! 

Returning the menu, I ask the nice man if we could have whatever his family is having for lunch. His eyes sparkle; his tanned face brightens up at once. His moustache elongates towards his large ears, his smile showing a missing tooth at the front. “Leave it to me!” he says, all but running back inside the house. 

Kostas tells me that I just made the old man’s day. And that he loves that I like Greek coffee! 

Digressing, later that day, when I met my other friend on the way back to my cabin, he asked me if I had a proper Turkish kahvesi coffee made on heated sand. I replied yes, of course; how could have I missed the opportunity while in Cyprus!

I understand nationalism. It is alright to have roots, to belong. But in this century, we are moving too much and can choose to live anywhere on this great planet. ‘We were here first’ and ‘we did this’ and ‘we did that’ makes no sense anymore. After populating this planet for about four million years, who exactly out of eight billion people is the rightful owner of any patch of land, anywhere? Oh, no more digressing; it’s too hot for philosophy today!

The little tavern’s owner returns with a few dishes filled with foods that would alert one’s taste buds instantly. My eyes being bigger than my stomach, I greedily assess the offer and jump straight to the fried halloumi cheese. To me, it tastes better than grilled chicken breast! 

I devour all the grilled veggies with hummus (Kostas is not a great fan). We share a small pot of skordalia sauce (very garlicky!) with pitta bread and wolf down a helping of moussaka each. To this day, I wonder where it all fitted and how I managed to keep it down! But it was heavenly! I even had to decline dessert, something that never happens to me!

Between the two of us, Kostas and I wipe clean all the plates on the table.

The owner of the taverna grabs a chair and seats with us. We are his only customers. He brought a carafe of a local golden wine which he is now pouring in three glasses. The time flies amid Q&A about Cyprus, partition and integration, old and new, food, traditions, cost of living and life on the island in general, which the older man happily obliges.

When we ask for the check, the man says ‘don’t bother’ and that it was his pleasure to share this afternoon with us. We shake hands, and he takes the empty plates back to the kitchen. Still, Kostas and I decide to leave twenty Euro each under the little flower vase that decorates the table before leaving.

We take a different route back. Clothing stores, taverns, art galleries, jewellery and souvenir shops line up this quaint little old district of Limassol, vibrant and boasting with life under the lethargic mid-day sun.

The shuttle bus is half full. Kostas and I take two adjacent seats at the back and pass the time chatting as we do.

Slowly, crew members and passengers returning to the ship fill the bus. I don’t take much notice of the commotion. With the corner of my eye, though, I catch a tall contour moving along the aisle.

My head turns in slow motion, and our eyes lock for an eternity. Just saying; of course, it wasn’t this long; it only felt so. The humming of voices on the bus faded away. The faces blur. The only one I can see is his.

Olive complexion, full lips and straight nose, shaggy chestnut curls dangling in his face as he slides down on the narrow aisle. He is dressed as if he doesn’t give a damn about appearances and walks like an Olympian god on the catwalk! His hazelnut-greenish eyes and the perceptive piercing stare pin me down and entrance me all the while.

I thought that he was going to stop and ask me something. He didn’t. 

The spell breaks. The flow of times returns to a standard pace as he passes by and takes the seat behind me.

I take notice of Kostas talking but can’t hear what he is saying. My lust imbued instinct tells me that I have to speak to this guy, if not now, definitely later. Of course, there is a good chance we won’t even meet at all on the gigantic cruise ship that carries close to four thousand people on board. This would be tragic! I get annoyed that such menial thoughts bother me when just a backrest separates us. 

What the heck? I go for whatever I want whenever I want it! I half turn to say hello to the guy. Just then, a stunning Mexican young woman slips next to him, taking the window seat. I curse my slowness in reaction and turn back irritated, eavesdropping on their conversation. She is a chatter-box, but he keeps quiet. 

Suddenly, he pokes around the backrest and asks if I know the ship’s departure time this evening. I turn a little startled and find my face five centimetres away from his nose. 

I mentally thank Kostas for answering the question and allowing me to drown quietly in the hazelnut-greenish bottomless pool that started to swirl at the intense heat of the stare. 

He smiles a sexy pair of dimples (I drown a bit deeper while fighting for a lungful of air) and says he is Ignacio. 

I reply a tad out of breath: You surely are! My answer perplexes him, so I explain his name’s etymology as coming from the Latin ignis, meaning fire. And so it begins!

How long is a second? A scientific explanation would have something to do with some radiation of some numbered caesium atom, something I vaguely recall from a physics class at high school. Too bad I was reading a philosophy book rather than paying attention to the lesson. How could have I known back then that I would have to find the meaning of this equation now!

I can definitely redefine a second, though. It is precisely as long as it took me to fall. Desperately! Or the instant a massive atomic detonation of hormones in my brains released lava of serotonin. That, in its turn, rendered me so stupid as to believe he was the god Adonis staring at me in the darn narrow aisle of the bus! Estoy perdida!

One second, that’s all it takes to go through all stages, from flying to landing directly on a paralysed soul phase! There is no fight, only surrender. 

My solid defence wall is shattered. I knew right away that it would cost me a lot to walk out of this messy pile of shards and see the light of day again, but I could not help it! 

The soul floats when one is in love. I feel like I’m drowning!

Oh, but people call it falling for a reason. I feel as if I fell from a treetop right on my head. Only that I survived the fall, and I was not in pain but in love! I don’t know which is worse! 

I’m in the middle of my six-month contract. Why do I need to go through all the trouble of falling now when I know he will get off the ship at the end of the cruise, and I’ll stay behind to lick my wounds for three endless months?

We spent the entire duration of the short transfer getting acquainted. Ignacio introduces his sister, Lupe, the gorgeous Mexican whom Kostas is ogling shamelessly. 

Back on the pier, we walk to the ship together. I make sure to tell him where to find me on this enormous boat. I am working in a beautiful double-decked glass conservatory for the duration of this contract, which serves as the flower shop on board. 

I go straight to my cabin and spend the afternoon in a comatose state of prostration, allowing my paralysed soul to sulk all it needs. I wish I could stay like this longer, but I have to open the flower shop at five as the ship sails, so I get ready for work. 

I drag myself up to deck twelve, stop by the conservatory and lean on the handrail to watch the ship departing. I am not the only one up here; many passengers and some crew members among them enjoy the moment. 

The salty breeze is messing with my hair, limiting my peripheral view. 

As my senses are already paralysed, I fail to notice his presence. The first thing I feel is the electric bolt blazing through my veins. Then, I see his hand placed on mine that’s resting on the polished wooden rail. His body follows, and our sides glue together, all the effects of my earlier cold shower gone in an instant. The second redefined!

I am wearing my uniform; he is a passenger. Crew member-passenger closeness is not allowed on board, as per my work contract. I so ignore the bloody rule and don’t give a damn that other officers walk by throwing questioning looks! 

The world behind me ceases to exist. A metallic handrail it’s the only thing that separates me from the blue void. 

I look Ignacio in the eyes and say that it didn’t take him long to find me. He complains that I am late! He had come straight up here only to see that the flower shop would open in two hours! He was sure he would find me here waiting for him!

Bloody hell! This cruise ends in ten days, and I’ve already wasted two hours! I say that out loud. He’s rolling with laughter, and a sense of peace replaces my inner tumult.

It suddenly feels as if I had known him for a considerable time. He says out loud the same thing, and it is my turn to guffaw. Then, we launch in a dialogue that will not stop for ten days straight.

I find out that he is five years my junior, lives in Leon, Mexico and is cruising with his extended family (mother, father, sister plus uncle and aunt and their teenage children).

He asks me how come I speak such good Spanish. I answer I do because I studied it methodically for two entire weeks. A silence follows, then he says that it sounds like something I would do. 

He is freshly out of college and on the way to studying physics at a university in the USA. I tell him that it sounds like something he would do—a young man with a clear purpose. Someone straightforward to talk to. And boy, do we talk! 

He tells me that he tried to have a half-decent conversation with lots of girls, fellow cruisers during the first three days of the cruise. But the incessant chattering about the incredible baloney world they lived in got him bored and depressed in less than five minutes of acquaintance. 

He then tells me he is glad that I was on that shuttle bus and asks me why I didn’t turn to talk to him. Wasn’t that locked gaze enough impulse? 

I explain that the gorgeous Mexican who claimed the seat next to him threw cold water over my intention. He roars with laughter. He is so going to tell this to his teenage sister!

Three hours later, my hand is still covered by his, and I realise that I have never opened the flower shop! And that we were the last people on deck twelve, lost in conversation and enveloped in the crimson canvas of the light-giving star implacably drowning in the Mediterranean.  

He says that he should find his family; they must be wondering if he made it back on board before the ship sailed away. He is joking; his sister knows for a fact that he is back. They are on the second dining seating; the family is probably walking to the restaurant as we speak.

I suggest we meet later to grab a pizza at the buffet on deck eleven, which is open late evenings as an alternative for those passengers who don’t want to eat in the dining room. And for officers, such as myself, who are allowed to walk and use the public areas. Another of the onboard rules. Of a thousand crew members, only about two hundred have this privilege. 

My hand freezes the second his palm leaves it in the intensifying breeze of the evening. The curse of one second is following me! I nearly asked him to cover my hand again—the loss stings.

I chastise myself mentally: when he’s out of this ship at the end of the cruise, that will be a loss! You’re playing with fire! And my wicked alter ego smirks devilishly in my hardly conscious mind: I am! Why else would he be ignis?

It is getting dark and considerably cooler as I walk to the buffet, one floor below the flower shop, at the other end of the ship. Ignacio would take longer to get down to the restaurant on deck five and back upstairs. 

There’s a short line at the buffet, people pushing their trays in light conversation. Absentmindedly, I pick a plastic platter and ask for my regular four-cheese when a soft voice from behind asks the attendant to make that two. 

‘What the hell? Are you teleporting yourself around this ship?’ No, his sister was coming up to where she knew he was, and they met halfway, sparing him the rest of the distance and an explanation to the family. 

Time travel, time’s non-linearity, the Earth’s electromagnetic field, or the gravitational effect on light waves, plus which pizza base is better, are just as many exciting topics the bookworm and the intended physicist will debate while munching on our pizzas. 

It is almost midnight when we walk out of the now deserted buffet with the promise to meet tomorrow evening again. 

The ship will dock in Egypt in the morning, and I had already applied to escort one of the shore excursions to the Pyramids. He will also be gone for the day with his family on a different tour to Cairo. We might cross paths in the Sahara but will meet back on the ship in the evening. 

Before I ask him to look for me at the flower shop, he says he’ll be there ahead of the opening time, waiting. And asks me not to make it a two-hour wait again!

The next ten days pass in a haze. We spend together every moment I don’t work, and he is not on tours. On formal nights, dressed up to the nines, we go to the theatre to see the production shows with his extended family. I get to meet them all; cool people enjoying their time onboard and ostensibly content to see Ignacio happy in my presence. 

His father gives me a more attentive look than the women who are warm and chatty. He doesn’t say anything, though. They’re all laid-back. I work on the ship; they are cruising. I get close with one of them and lovely Lupe, who tries her best to leave us be – happy days!

Happy indeed! I push aside the thought that this will be over soon and enjoy the moment. Carpe diem! 

My friends onboard complain that I don’t show up in the crew bar anymore. Those who work in public areas see me in his presence all the time. I introduce Ignacio to some of them. Kostas stops by every time we meet in open lounges and joins us for a drink and chat, especially when Lupe is around! 

Ignacio ignores any other girl who tries to attract his attention, and man, there are stacks of them!

The two of us are a constant presence together. Given the semi-regimental regime onboard, I try to stick to the rules, if only for the sake of keeping a job I like. 

I report to the hotel manager directly; I introduce Ignacio and his family to him before he has a reason (aka ‘onboard gossip’) to call me to his office for explanations, so I’m safe.

That means the fire that ignited between us will burn to ashes in the most platonic way possible between two adults attracted to one another the way the two of us are. It’s another thing we talk about. That’s all we do, talk about everything. It does not change what I feel, and I see that it applies to him, too. It is not easy to accept the situation, but we know better than to ruin it. 

Days feel like months when so intense and filled with pleasant moments. I get to know so many things about him, about the things that interest him. He’s also asking me lots about my upbringing, culture, interests or life on cruise ships. He even wants to know how long it will take to replace him with a more feasible man when this cruise is over! 

Big or small, deeply metaphysical or mundane, no subject bores us, and we’re never short of ideas to discuss. 

We talk about how the ants walk following precise mathematical patterns and the Fibonacci sequence. The next minute the conversation naturally veers to old civilisations of Europe and how we feel strangely familiar in some places we’ve never been before, but we know from a different existence. 

I am a history and philosophy lover, albeit none were my university subject. He loves science. But we are both infected by the same bug: curiosity.

Time flies quicker when you’re enjoying yourself so much. The unavoidable last day of the cruise arrives too soon. 

Work gets busier for me as I have to prepare and email the end of cruise report and send a stock order. Ignacio goes on one last tour with his family.

We’ll meet again in the evening. It’s the last formal night of the fortnight cruise, so we’re dressed to impress again. The thing is, he could wear a hemp sack and still look like a god! I don’t give a damn about appearance but do I get a little vain for the night. 

We choose to see a movie after dinner, so we head to the cinema on deck three. Ten minutes into the film we got so bored we decided to ditch it and go to the club instead. 

The club is already packed with the youngest demographic of this particular cruise. A few male officers in white uniforms and female colleagues in sparkly evening dresses are dancing or sipping from a glass, with no worries in the world.

We do the same for a while, but we’re quieter than usual. Not because we can’t find something to talk about but because we know this is it! 

The music is banging loudly, and the strobe is blinding us. Before midnight, we decide to go out on the open deck for a little serenity.

We promise to keep in touch. We’d already exchanged emails and phone numbers. We rewind the past ten days, from the second we met on the shuttle bus until now, amazed about the staggering amount of memories we’ve created in such a short time. 

In truth, any relationship onboard goes at a different pace than one on land. It’s way more intense. It is also a lot harder to say goodbye. 

Even his family get emotional when we meet later. Lupe hands me a crumpled piece of paper with her contact details scribbled down. We hug and promise to stay in touch. And hope to meet again. 

I leave them all in a bar and escape before it gets too hard to breathe. Back in my cabin, I throw the heels and the glad rags in a messy heap to the floor and drop half dead in the shower, crouching under the relentless splash. Cold drops and hot tears become one, for a long time. Down the drain goes my will to live!

Later, the phone rings. It’s Ignacio. He wants to give me something. 

I am not allowed to walk in public areas in civilian clothes, and the passengers are not allowed in crew areas, so we meet midway on the staircase that separates the two worlds. 

He brought me something. I don’t have a gift to offer, so I hug him. He hugs me back. Really tight! I bury my face in his curls, he buries his nose in my neck, and that’s the closest we’ve got this entire time physically. 

I can’t let go! Streams of lead are coursing through my veins instead of the electric bolts of fire ten days ago. Grey, cumbersome and poisonous reminiscent of how life felt in that moment!

It is an understatement that it took me the rest of my contract on board the Millennium to get over him! I was so severely stricken that I probably never fully recovered from this fall. 

He started his university studies. I got a couple of months break before re-joining life on board for yet another six-month contract. Months and years passed. Somehow along the way, the emails became sparse, and we lost contact.

Diligent ants defined by the Golden Ratio continue to walk with mathematical precision. Half a world apart, I’m happy, and I hope so is he. And most likely, the sun shines over Limassol with the same intensity it did the day we met. With any luck, it will bring together many other people that are meant to meet. Fate must have a plan to lure the oblivious ones under the bright, languid and hope-giving light of Limassol’s sun.

I hope you enjoyed reading it! You can find more like this on my Pinterest travel board. Please share the love by saving a pin to your travel boards; it will help this blog grow and motivate me to write more for your enjoyment! Thank you!

Ignis

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Colossus. Glory And Oblivion

Music: Amaranthine, Amaranthe 

Movie: Colossus of Rhodes, a Sergio Leone classic

Book: The King Must Die, Mary Renault

_{This post may contain affiliate links, which means I will receive a commission if you purchase through my links at no extra cost to you. Please read the full disclosure for more information. Thank you!}

Rhodes, 226 BC

“Ebele, come greet Croesus! He has come to arrange the transport for the archon’s order!”

“Mother, I’m busy now. Tell Croesus I’ll speak with him later!”

Ebele rushed to the pot of stale water to rinse her hands of clay before checking the kiln. 

Dry clay covered her bare arms to the elbow. Her delicate face was also smeared in places. Many a time, Ebele would rub her forehead to wipe the sweat without even thinking that she was elbow deep in wet clay.

Her dark strands were just as messy, no matter how much care she took to tie it in a knot in the morning. The tresses will always rebel out of the knot and touch the wheel or some fresh pot. 

The original colour of her peplos was a thing of the past. In less than a week, any clothing would become a strange splotch of clay and paint.

She worked from dusk to dawn in the small backyard in merciless swelter and next to the kiln. To add to the day’s warmth, the beast spewed heat like a volcano every time she opened the door to stow a pot in or to take one out.

Ebele discovered pottery the day her father took her on his knees for the first time and held her tiny hands around a damp mould of clay. As the table trundled, the mould became an amphora with a long neck under the little child’s astounded eyes. Then, in a second, it fell right down in a messy pile as she jumped off her father’s knees. 

Everything occurred so quickly that Ebele had no time to process what had just happened. She was excited to show her mother her miraculous creation when suddenly there was none. 

Ebele cried, but her father dried her tears with his splotched hands. The man patiently explained to the little girl that pottery meant trial and error. She would ruin many amphoras before she would drink fresh water from one made by her hands. The tears dried on the little girl’s face. So did the clay. Since that day, she was rarely smudge-free.

Ebele was barely five when she had her first try at pottery. She remembered her father’s smile and patience with her. She remembered how in the years that ensued she would sneak in the courtyard at night when the house was sleeping and wheel any leftover clay from the man’s workday. 

The pottery shop was her father’s business. The pots he made were always in high demand, and the fame of his designs had reached many places outside Rhodes. His primary clients were the merchants that had flourishing export business with the island of Ledra and farther east, all the way to Phoenicia.

Phoenicia! Ebele left a sigh to escape her mouth while sweating blood at the kiln’s dragon mouth. Four large amphoras and seven smaller jugs were dry enough for the next step in her trade: painting. She removed them carefully from the kiln using a large shovel and placed them orderly on a shelf to cool down.

As her hands kept busy, her thoughts trailed back to her recent past. 

Twelve years after her father introduced her to the magic of pottery, the kind man departed from this world, overwhelmed by incessant work to cover his orders and a cough that racked him for months. Ebele found herself alone with her mother and orders that were piling up. 

In the past year, all she has done was work from the first ray of dawn until late at night. In the coolness of the dusk, she would squint her eyes while painting the vases with a steady hand. 

For light, she would use tallow lamps that came out of her skilled hands and were flickering in each empty corner of the courtyard. 

Her throat was always sore, her eyes dry, and her body numbed by the endless hours she spent bent over each pot. But no amphora left the tiny courtyard without an intricate design carefully painted on.

Since Ebele found an urn buried in the vineyard at the back of the house that belonged to her great-grandfather, Chares of Lindos, she fell in love with the older styles. She started using more often black and orange to paint her pots.

In a short time, she realized that the black figures looked much better on an orange background and that these specific colours were way more resistant to the tongues of fire in her kiln. 

Besides, the urn she’d found must have spent about a century buried in the ground and yet displayed the most vivid colours as if Chares had only painted it yesterday. Alas, the great architect who built the Colossus statue at Rhodes pier’s mouth had been dead and buried an eternity ago.

That was ancient history she learned as a little girl. It was her family’s heritage. Each generation after the great Chares made sure the sculptor’s most significant accomplishment would be kept alive. 

Many a time, as the family gathered around the dinner table, Ebele’s father would tell how the gigantic statue came to being. 

And each time, the wide-eyed listener was sworn to secrecy. The mystery of such an outstanding achievement was carefully preserved in her household. 

Ebele was holding a belly amphora on her lap, her thin brush dripping with ochre she liked to use for painting the clothing of the people who adorned her pots. She blinked as a drop of red got in her eyes. When she could see again, she looked down. 

Great! A splotch of red pain was now smearing her peplos. By the gods, what a mess she was! She realized that she desperately needed a new one. It was an excellent time to take a little break and visit the market in port. And maybe see what business Croesus had with her, other than checking the order she was still working on.

She would need to grow another pair of hands to work faster. Of course, she had enough coin to afford to hire an apprentice and teach him the trade. But it would require time she did not have. Besides, no apprentice will ever paint like her. That was something she could not teach. It was an innate gift, and she knew she was more than gifted with the brush. 

Her passion was her downfall as well. The merchants were queuing at her mother’s door to place orders for the beautiful urns. The old-style colours made the trade all the more attractive and soared the profits. From Rhodes, her long neck or belly amphoras filled with grains or spices were shipped as far as Carthage in the west or Phoenicia in the east.

Phoenicia! Another sigh escaped her mouth. Every time she was starting to form a thought about it, some mundane action required her attention. Nonetheless, the idea was always at the back of her head.

Her mother was a Phoenician, but Ebele, born and raised in Rhodes, has never visited her mother’s side of the family. She knew she had an uncle and cousins in Byblos but never had a chance to meet them in person. Since the business was booming and money was pouring in, she thought she would allow a more extended break and take her mother to visit her homeland and estranged family. Perhaps even selling the business and moving to the mainland would not be a bad idea at all.

Ebele loved Rhodes, but it was just an island always at the whims of a conqueror or another. It is true that since the last occupation of Alexander from Macedonia a century ago, nobody else could break the walls and invade la land. It does not mean that they never tried.

Thank the gods, all the foreign ships that docked in port these days were sailing to Rhodes for trade, not war, and for wondering at the magnificence of her great-grandfather’s Colossus. But still, a more severe attack would mean serious hardship for two women with no one to protect them or the business.

Ebele thought that her uncle in Byblos would provide more protection and comfort. And if anything were to change overnight, her mother and herself could always take refuge farther inland. There was nowhere to hide from soldiers in Rhodes, except for the caves that linked her village to the port. 

The limestone caverns were only familiar to the locals. As a child, Ebele used to explore them while playing with the other children in the village. 

A thought started to form in her mind. Perhaps she should take the path that led to the cave entrance instead of the busy road to the town. She could get to the port using the underground passage. Maybe it was worth checking if she could still find her bearings and see if the escape route to the port was still clear.

As soon as the idyllic scene of young shepherds peacefully watching their flock was ready and started to dry on the belly amphora, Ebele, content with her design quality, went looking for her mother. The good woman would be happy to know that her hard-working daughter decided to take the afternoon off and go to the market.

“Thank the gods, daughter of mine! It’s about time you look presentable. What would our neighbours think if they saw you at this moment? I cannot even fathom it! You look worse than a beggar and dirtier than one! Go and give yourself a thorough scrub before you step out of my house!”

Ebele giggled happily and hugged her mom. As expected, that produced another wave of lamenting from the good woman as she wiped the red smear the daughter’s embrace has left on her cheek.

It was all happy banter. The two souls left alone in the world would treasure such rare moments of contentment. 

Ebele, a Phoenician name that meant compassion, was more precious to her mother than life itself. It pained the good woman that the only child she had was working so hard to procure for both of them. What fate would this wonderful girl have? Would she find a husband to treat her right and protect her? 

Ebele was a wild spirit, an artist who needed to be free, not enslaved in the wrong matrimony or worse, at the whims of someone in power. The mother watched the daughter as she disappeared into the house to clean the clay and paint off, cheerful giggles still trailing behind her. 

The woman sighed deeply, concerned about her daughter’s future. Why has Croesus demanded to see her earlier? And why has he accepted her dismissal without much fuss? Perhaps the business he had with Ebele was somebody else’s, and the soldier was just the carrier of a message he was not happy to convey. He seemed a good man, but he was only a guard in the archon’s employ. And the archon was Rhodes’ most powerful person. 

The woman shook the worrisome thoughts off and went about her business around the house.

Ebele emerged fresh and radiant, a charming smile brightening her face like the God Apollo a summer’s day. How beautiful she was when she let her ebony curly locks free on her shoulders!

“Don’t stay too long and buy some food for supper as well. Spare me a journey to the market since you’re going anyway!” Shouted her mother from the door frame.

“I won’t! And I will!” Ebele’s answer echoed from the road.

Her mother has seen the small, tallow lamp the girl was doing such a lousy job at trying to hide in the folds of her clean peplos. If only she won’t get in trouble!

In less than an hour, Ebele was in the bubbling market. She offered the lamp to an older woman selling vegetables and remembered to buy some greens for tonight’s supper. 

She could quickly become distracted and forgetful when her mind was busy churning, which happened all the time.

The way through the caverns was precisely how she remembered it from years ago. A couple of times she was about to take a wrong turn, but she looked for the tiny stick man carved in limestone and familiar only to those who truly knew their way through the dark chambers. 

One thing solved. Supper supplies are sorted as well. Ebele looked around for a clothing stall and quickly bought a peplos without much fuss. Giggling, the young woman dismissed the merchant who seemed somehow offended by her lack of interest in his array of fabrics and colours. 

Ebele was practical. What was the point of picking? By tomorrow evening, the new dress will be splotched with paint and smudged with dry clay.

Shopping done, Ebele decided to take the usual road back to her village. That meant to pass by the castle. Even better! Croesus should be on duty and tell her why he wanted to see her earlier.

Before she even finished the thought, a firm hand pulled her arm and dragged her on a quiet alley. A rough hand covered her mouth to prevent her from screaming. She was not going to. Everything happened so quickly, Ebele didn’t even have time to react.

To her relief, though, the man who grabbed her so abruptly was Croesus.

“Apologies, Ebele, I did not mean to frighten you, but I do need to speak with you urgently!”

“You scared me and bruised my arm!” Ebele snapped, startled. She rubbed the red mark, thinking that she might find it difficult to lift the bigger vases tomorrow. “What is so urgent, then?”

“The archon likes your amphorae …”

“Yes, I know”, Ebele cut Croesus short, a tad annoyed. “I am quite busy working on a large order for him. The one you placed, remember?”

“Yes”, Croesus sighed deeply. “But has it ever occurred to you that he might have further reason to place this order?”

Ebele felt the hairs at the top of her head rising. The fact that the archon was the wealthiest and most powerful man on the island was well known. How he found pleasure in exercising this power in all aspects of life on the island was also known and feared by most, especially by young girls.

The archon has made a habit of inviting the most beautiful ones to visit him at the palace. Refusal meant their families were brought to ruin and castaway in the farther corners of the island to live a lifetime of misery. 

Many fathers found themselves in the impossible conundrum. And many young women ended up in the palace for a while, until the old satrap would get bored with them and look for younger ones.

“Yes”, continued Croesus observing the change in Ebele’s pose. “He asked about the artist who painted such fine vases. His weasel of a counsellor was extremely informative in his desire to please his master.”

 “Croesus!” Ebele screeched, forgetting that they were still close to the bustling market and could attract unwanted attention. “You cannot take me to the palace. I will not go!”

“Trust me, it is the last thing I would want to do! But you should try to hide somewhere, for a while at least, until he loses interest.”

“Hide? Where? Rhodes is only an island, and everybody here knows me. After all, I am the great-granddaughter of Chares of Lindos!” 

Ebele automatically turned her head towards the gigantic statue wearing a crown of rays on his head that guarded the entrance to the port. 

“I have his Colossus to thank that for!”

“True!” Croesus was visibly preoccupied. “But listen, isn’t your mother Phoenician”?

“Yes, she is. I have an uncle and cousins in Byblos.”

“That could work, then.” His mind was churning, trying to find a solution to this quandary. No way would he allow to see Ebele walking the shiny marbles of the palace to the archon’s private chambers! It would be his ruin. She was the first woman he ever liked, truly liked. 

“There is a boat in port that is due to sail to Tyre tomorrow. I can get free passage for you and your mother. Then you will have to find a way to travel from Tyre to your uncle in Byblos without attracting too much attention. I hope this will work. Anything is better than seeing you at the whims of the governor!”

Ebele looked at her hands that seemed like a child’s clasped between his strong, tanned ones. As her eyes lifted slowly to meet his, she saw why he was doing all this for her. At the same time, it struck the young woman that they would never see each other again. 

A sting in her heart at the realization brought a profound sense of panic upon her. In a second, her entire world has turned upside-down. 

To avoid a destiny many young women were sentenced to, Ebele would have to abandon her late father’s business and her passion, Rhodes and a decent man who clearly had feelings for her. She will go to Phoenicia in exile. All she wanted was to visit her mother’s family!

“Very well, then”, she spoke in a weak voice, “I will go home, tell my mother, grab all we can and be ready for tomorrow.”

“Take my horse and use it for your cart in the morning. Meet me here before the first light; I will be prepared to take you both to the boat. I trust the captain. He will help.”

Ebele straddled the horse, forgetting the greens and her new peplos left behind in a heap on the dirt.

The night was a blur of a rush to gather whatever was necessary for the unprepared trip.

Following Croesus’ advice, the two women left their house before dawn, watching with tears in their eyes how it was rapidly swallowed by darkness.

“At least, we did not have to walk all this way through the caves”, said Ebele absentmindedly. The dark covered the perplexed look her mother threw at her. The way her daughter’s mind worked was an enigma to the good woman.

The market was deserted in the darkness. Small lights were flickering from the boats docked in port. The only noise at the early hour was the hoof clatter of the horse pulling the barely loaded cart. 

In the shade of the corner where Croesus pulled her yesterday, Ebele saw a shape moving. It was him. She sighed in relief as the man approached.

“You will have to walk from here. Keep close to the wall, move swiftly and try not to attract the attention of the guards. Follow me closely; I will take you directly to the boat for Tyre!”

He grabbed the larger piece of belongings, grateful that the women did not concern themselves to pack an entire house.

As they walked hastily, keeping in the shadow of the pier’s wall, the water in the bay started to wobble and splatter at their feet. A first, barely perceptible shake of the ground increased by the second until the entire wharf was shaking so violently that it sent the three people tumbling down.

“It’s an earthquake!” Ebele’s mother screamed, terrified.

“Get up!” Shouted Croesus, who was already pulling the old woman’s arm to help her. “You have to board the boat and leave Rhodes immediately; the entire palace will get out in the streets in a moment, and all will be lost!”

Ebele grabbed her bag filled with coins and ran to where the boat was moored. 

The moonlight was casting a pale light over the metallic Colossus. Ebele lifted her eyes to the massive structure and saw it trembling dangerously over the port. A deafening metallic creak filled the air above their heads, stopping the three of them dead on their way. 

The gigantic statue’s left knee cracked open. The giant gave up his watch and fell with a thunderous noise over the boats moored in port. The Colossus’ ray-crowned head collapsed across the pier, taking it down to the bottom of the sea, together with the three souls that were desperately looking to escape destiny.

Rhodes, August 2011

I opened my eyes as the tour guide announced that the bus was approaching the Rhodes cruise terminal. I had to rub the sleep away and the weird dream.

I searched around for any sign of a fallen Colossus. Nothing! The two relatively tall bronze columns that towered at the entrance in Mandraki Port sported on top the two animal symbols of Rhodes: Elafos (stag) and Elafina (doe). Not as imposing as the thirty-three meters tall Colossus, yet stylishly adorning the sea gate.

Behind the cruise ship was moored a luxury yacht, complete with a pool and helipad. The tour guide said that it belonged to Abramovich. A big, flashy thing; everybody turned excitedly to take pictures of it.

I turned my eyes the other way, trying to make sense of that dream. I removed the wrapping of the amphora I have bought in Lindos and stared at the black and orange paint. It was a beautiful replica of ancient Greek pottery. 

I looked out the window again and wondered if a gifted girl of no importance was trying to convey a message across millennia. Maybe she wanted me to know about her ephemeral existence on this planet and her contribution to her artistic era. 

I wondered how many of the vases dug up or recovered from the bottom of the sea could have been her work of art. Alas, if she even lived, her name was lost in time immemorial. 

Meanwhile, the Colossus of Rhodes remained alive in humanity’s collective memory as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World together with the Pharos of Alexandria, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, all long vanished from the physical world.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story! Please share the love by pinning this to your travel boards; it will help this blog grow and motivate me to write more for your enjoyment! Thank you!

Colossus. Glory And Oblivion

The post Rhodes, Greece. Love in the Times of Ancient Civilisations appeared first on The World Is an Oyster.

Perfection

Music: Hospital For Souls, Bring Me The Horizon

Movie: The English Patient, the best Oscar movie ever!

Book: Transylvanian Sunrise, Radu Cinamar and Peter Moon (you will find the connection!)

Tour Name: Cairo – Pyramids, Museum of Antiquities, Lunch

Deck three is situated just above the water level. From my cabin, I can hear the waves hitting the outer shell. I can also hear the echoing, trudging hum of the engine that drags the cruise ship through the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean. The innards of the monster growl painfully, yet the beast is not defeated!

_{This post may contain affiliate links, which means I will receive a commission if you purchase through my links at no extra cost to you. Please read the full disclosure for more information. Thank you!}

Last night, the Captain announced through the ship’s PA that one of the propellers was damaged during our departure from Limassol, Cyprus. That explains why the water has turned so murky. The vessel took ages to get out of the port before sailing to Egypt. 

The floating hotel will dock in Alexandria at least four hours later than planned. That sucks! The tour to Cairo and the Pyramids was supposed to leave at seven in the morning! 

I’m still in two minds about my choice of clothing. I know that the heat will be a killer under the relentless midday sun. A cotton t-shirt with a picture of the Colosseum across the chest, a pair of linen trousers, sandals and a straw hat should do. An extra bottle of water in my backpack, the camera in hand, and I’m off to the gangway. 

Before I see the dock, I can feel the heat defeating the cruise liner’s AC system. The second I step on the concrete pier, sweat beads trickle down my back, drenching my Roman printed cotton t-shirt. It’s going to be a scorcher that makes one feel as roasting in the ovens of hell, but I can’t be bothered. I’m in Egypt, and in less than three hours, I will step on Cairo’s streets for the first time in my life!

Fifty-two buses gulp rapidly almost all the passengers from the ship. I am in awe of the entire Shore Excursions department’s five staff for dispatching thousands of people within minutes! 

I am the last to hop on the bus. Or so I thought. As I take my seat in the last row, I see a swarthy guy in a blue uniform wearing a Kalashnikov on his right shoulder. He remains on the steps and faces the now closed door. The tour guide takes the microphone and, before he introduces himself, makes a reassuring announcement that the presence of armed police is standard procedure in Egypt, but it’s more a precaution; an attack is not likely to happen. 

I hear a half-relieved collective breath and decide to ignore the guard and his gun. Then I see a police car behind the bus. There’s another one at the convoy’s front; I only saw it when the first bus moved out. Standard procedure, relax!

At twelve-fifteen sharp, our coach, the last of the fifty-two, finally starts moving. The convoy must look like a giant silver snake slithering through the dusty streets of Alexandria. The tour guide tells us that the medieval citadel we can see at some distance is where the Pharos (the famous Lighthouse of antiquity) used to stand. 

We get a quick glimpse at the massive new Bibliotheca Alexandrina and its sundial glass roof leaning towards the sea. The guide informs us that it is placed close to where the antiquity’s original library burnt to the ground. 

What a tremendous loss! A gradual destruction process that spread over a few centuries, obliterating knowledge that was already thousands of years old in antiquity. It boggles the mind to only think of it!

A panicked scream at the front of the bus erupts as a vehicle stopped to our right at the traffic lights, speeds up and cuts three lines right in front of our coach and turns left, no signal whatsoever! The automobile carries a giant haystack on its roof. Stranded straws float on the street taken by the wind flow thus created. 

The bus driver most likely didn’t even flinch. The tour guide says ‘this is normal Egyptian driving style!’ Jungle driving applies to the desert as well as crazy cities or insane mountaintop narrow paths!

Another car passes us, carrying two donkeys cramped on the back seat. One placid muzzle and one fat rump hardly pressed to the vehicle’s rear windshield ignite a few giggles among the Mexicans.

The bus convoy takes a few turns on Alexandria’s busy streets that I award with the craziest driving fashion medal. Before we realise it, we’re out of the city in the endless desert, on our way to Cairo, the capital city. 

The blue waters of the Mediterranean are replaced by an infinite, desolate and mesmerising at the same time ocean of golden ripples. 

We advance rapidly on what I imagine is a highway, in the middle of nowhere, among endless dunes. This is a scene from ‘The Mummy’, and I’m in it! It’s surreal even to think that I’m crossing the Sahara.

Every curve of the road (which I still can’t see, being covered in sand!) shows a glimpse of the massive row of silver busses crossing the endless desert. The sun is reflected by the metallic shields of what must resemble a giant reptile seen from above. 

Today I share the bus with a compact group of Mexican passengers and a Spanish-speaking Egyptian tour guide. Earlier, he was greeting the group by the door as we got on the bus. I couldn’t ignore his exotic charm and long, dark and thick eyelashes that would make any girl jealous.

I listen with excitement about how the day is planned and what we are going to visit before he launches into historical facts about Egypt. His Spanish is flawless. I will find out later that he perfected the use of the language in South America. He used to be an engineer involved in different construction projects.

A glance at my watch tells me that we are only half an hour through our two-hour drive from Alexandria to Cairo.

The guide’s mellow voice, the bus’s motion and the sun that throws scorching rays of fire over the desert induce me in a  hypnotic state. I slowly indulge in a trance. I have to let it sink: I’m visiting this fantastic corner of the world for the first time. I am going to witness extraordinary things I’ve only read about in books or seen on TV!

Gizeh Plateau at the Edge Of Cairo City

The bus finally stops. The abrupt end of the lulling motion helps me shake the lethargy that engulfed my senses. I suddenly feel incredibly rested and super-energised!

As we exit the coach, we are right on the Gizeh Plateau, on the outskirts of Cairo. The first glimpse of the Pyramids renders me breathless. I knew we would see them, but I was not expecting it to happen so quickly. I thought we had to hike somewhere far, in the sizzling heat, before being rewarded with such a magnificent prospect. 

Certainly not! The Pyramids are right here, all three of them! More shockingly, not far from Gizeh, I can see through a haze of Saharan dust and traffic pollution the modern city of Cairo. 

This is incredibly surreal! I covered thousands of miles to see the most famous archaeological site of antiquity. In contrast, others check the wind’s direction from their balcony without a care in the world about the thousands of years old constructions! 

I envy them for taking this place for granted, but then I think that maybe I’d do the same had I been born with such a view across my street! 

I turn around 360 degrees a few times over, slowly, to take it all in. The Mexicans had scattered to take pictures. 

A man dressed in a beige gallibaya and pulling the reins of a camel startles me: “Pigshure, madame? Zouvenir from Ezhybt!“

He pulls the camel closer while I retreat farther away. I’m not climbing on that unenthusiastic beast for a blooming picture for which the camel’s owner will charge me a small fortune! 

The poor animal stinks, spits and looks so annoyed by its predicament. I am convinced that it will bite me if I get any closer! 

My refusal has no meaning; the man repeats his offer at least five times, like a broken record. In the end, I had to leave the spot I claimed as my perfect viewpoint only to get rid of him and his camel.

It takes some time to realise that this place has a specific energy. For as harshly the sun burns the sand with rays of fire, it does not feel too bad. The heat is bearable; it does not bother me as much as I thought it would. I feel full of beans and do not worry about the world. I am looking at the Pyramids, after all. Life is good.

I make my way towards an open entrance at the base of the Great Pyramid of Khufu. The tour guide is by the opening, telling a few Mexicans that they can go inside if they wish, but they should expect high humidity levels and an even higher temperature than outside. That, plus the musty aroma wafting from the opening, deter me from even attempting to investigate the bowels of the massive construction. 

I ask the guide if he would take a picture of me with all the Pyramids in the background. He obliges so I move as far as I can from the objective. 

I hate selfies! I might be the only one on the planet who does, but I genuinely hate them. If I want to see my mug, a quick glimpse in the mirror in the morning is enough. Thank God I don’t suffer from the technological era’s compulsion to ruin perfect scenery with a mug plastered on it! I only want some proof that I was there.

The man asks me again if the angle is right and snaps a few. I won’t even see the result until a few days later. Digital cameras are not yet invented! This being a memoir and all, this story happened in a distant dinosaur era. Back then, pictures were made on films, developed later and printed on photographic paper!

I take the opportunity that the Mexicans are not assaulting the guide with historical questions, and I start a more private dialogue. At the end of it, I know how he had learned Spanish, that he now lives in Cairo and that he’s not married. I had already figured this out. 

I tend to check the ring finger of each man I speak with. He wears no ring, and there is no lighter mark on his skin to indicate he had removed it recently, so I believe him. In five minutes, I found out all I wanted to know; then I asked a few history-related questions as the Mexicans were regrouping. It was time to move to our next destination.

We get to see the colossal footless statue of Ramses the Great that was moved from Memphis (the old capital of Egypt) to Cairo and many other antique artefacts.

Next, the guide takes our group through a half-buried labyrinth of chambers. The floors are covered with fine sand; the limestone walls with chiselled hieroglyphs all the way up to the painted ceilings.

A few passengers ask about the meaning of all that writing. Of course, there’s not enough time to read it all, but the guide explains it actually describes ordinary people’s day-to-day lifestyle, most likely those who sweat blood to build the Pyramids.

I appreciate the shade, but it’s so hot among these walls! I try to make sense of the depicted stories, but as I turn around to see all the walls, the room starts to spin a little. I lean onto a wall, hoping I won’t activate some hidden mechanism that will open a secret (until then!) door that will swallow me without a living soul noticing!

The guide follows through the labyrinth, and we finally move out. No calamity befell!

One more stop at the Sphinx follows, accompanied by yet another fascinating history lesson. My question about what is under the Sphynx or why there’s no inside carving yet to see what is there renders the tour guide perplexed. He looks at me as if I were an alien, asking in Spanish (a very human language!) why there’s no research yet on the inside of the Sphynx. 

I find it hard to believe that the massive figure was built there for no reason. What if it holds clues to our ancient times that could enlighten humankind about our long-lost spirituality, Global energy currents, or explain why the Pyramids were built precisely where they were erected and not a hundred metres away? I take his puzzled look as my cue to leave the man alone and the ancient mysteries buried hereinafter. 

Museums Or Hospitals For Souls?

The next stop in today’s trip is the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. The minute I get in, I start walking as in a trance. Every single thing I see was made or lived many thousands of years ago. I easily ignore the hordes of visitors and only focus on the exhibits. 

In a way, I feel as if I had just stepped back in history. The atmosphere is strangely eerie. The fact that I walk through mummies is surreal! And still, nothing prepares me for what is to come.

If you watched at least one movie that shows the museum’s interior, you surely remember the endless galleries displaying countless exhibits. Well, the camera only captured tiny parts of it. This place is enormous! 

I’m overtaken by a bizarre compulsion to instantly grow five more pairs of eyes and ears to see and hear all there is to know. Even so, I would still miss something. 

Slowly, our group moves further along the corridors of the museum among hundreds of visitors. Gallery after gallery of wonders come into view. 

In the shade and coolness of the old building, we get lost through the busy galleries full of golden chariots, tools, weapons, jewellery, human and animal mummies and everything else that has been brought to light from under tonnes of sand. It is a vivid display of how life and death were as far as five thousand years ago.

A chilling thought crosses my mind: the darkened emaciated shapes soaked in ancient resins, covered in shredded linen bandages, numbered and placed behind glass panels we are staring at used to be people like you and me who lived, walked and left this world aeons ago. 

Is there in the afterlife, or maybe in a different dimension, a museum for souls? Perhaps a psychiatric hospital would be more in demand, given what they had to put up with! Or are the souls that were once captive in those mummified bodies still lurking through these galleries searching for their previous host body? Or perhaps looking for those who unveiled and allotted them an afterlife as museum exhibits? Maybe they were kindly invited to reside here! 

I mull over this chilling thought, and gratitude fills me at the idea that I won’t be a blonde relic stared at centuries after my departure. The secrets of mummification remain … secret to this day!

At a point, we get into a smaller room, dimly lit, unlike the rest of the galleries. I stare in awe at a hundred wonders, most of them of pure gold, exposed behind secure glass windows.  

In the middle of the room, the visitors suddenly split the same way the Red Sea split to allow his brother, Moses, to leave Egypt. People turn left or right as if to bypass something situated in front of them. The last person in front of me steps to the right. 

Out of the blue, I found myself speechless, breathless, all of my senses numbed, with people fading to volatile shades moving in slow motion, a step away from it. 

The room’s lack of light is compensated by a beam in the glass box that shows it in its entire splendour: the golden hand-made mask of the boy-king. Its little hammer dents and eye lines painted by a human hand have nothing to do with the present-day micron precision of computer programmed artefact production. No smooth lines and perfectly rounded curves; nonetheless, it is perfect. It’s the most exquisite thing I have seen in my entire life!

In one split second, I have again stepped back into a time I have heard about the entire day. I am only facing Tutankhamen’s mortuary mask. The most iconic and still controversial object recovered by Howard Carter at Luxor all those years ago. Iconic for the fame that surrounds it. Controversial for igniting vivid debates over its actual ownership; many archaeologists believe that it was not even meant to be this pharaoh’s mortuary mask in the first place! 

It is only an object, but it seems so alive. Perhaps even more than the boy-king ever was! Utterly mesmerising! It holds the kind of beauty that hurts to look at. The craftsmanship humbles me, and so does the purpose this mask had served and the mysterious owner who had worn it for millennia in his royal death. If perfection were to be defined after a human-made article, this should be it! Tut’s mask is absolute perfection!

The guide touches my elbow, and I come out of my trance abruptly, back to a crowded, dimly lit room. The man is watching me intently, with a broad smile. And tells me that the same thing happened to him, when he first saw it, as a boy. It’s something that remains with you for life!

Reluctantly, I make an effort to remove myself from the vicinity of the mask. I am sure I have seen thousands of other exhibits on the way out of the museum, but I can’t remember much; it’s all a bit blurry. What is important is that I was there. 

It is late afternoon when we depart from the museum. The sun had abated its merciless beating on us, mere humans. 

Cairo Class

With renewed energy and excited chatting among the group, we depart to an exclusive hotel in downtown Cairo for a long-awaited meal. Exclusive because common Cairenes are not allowed access unless if they work there. This hotel, we’re told, is designated only for wealthy Egyptians and foreigners.

Paradoxically, I’m a poor foreigner too hungry to emit a pointed opinion about class dissociation nobody cares about. Worse, the cookie monster I am forgets all about everything as I spot the desserts buffet at the opposite end of a massive and elegantly set dining room. I only glance in passing at the pear-shaped crystal candelabra hanging from the tall ceiling and make sure I’m one of the first to stuff my plate with samples of every single cake available. 

I get a seat at a table in a corner, and a few young Mexicans I got acquainted with ask if they could sit with me. I happily invite them to grab their seats when I hear the guide’s voice asking us to save one for him. The only free place happens to be the one next to my right.

He has a dry sense of humour, just like me. He glances at my plate with a dimpled smirk and compliments me on the healthy choice of food. I reply wittily that I’ll try the traditional Egyptian food later if there’s room left in my stomach! The one-hour meal break passes too soon. 

Return To the Port Of Call

I board the bus with regret that it’s all over. Cairo and its Pyramids remain back, unfazed in their eternity by the insignificant fact that I was there. On the other hand, I hope to remember this trip until my last day on Earth and beyond that!

After such a fabulous day, the time has come to bid intriguing Cairo goodbye and return to Alexandria. To my amazement (even though I read that hundreds of times!) there is a freshness in the air as the sun sets in magnificent hues of orange and dark pink over the hazy city.

This time I don’t go to the seat at the back of the coach. The guide invites me to sit next to him, in the front row. He grabs the microphone. More historical facts won’t make any sense now, so he engages in a happy banter with the energetic group.

Then, he produces two huge carton boxes of baklava. The Egyptian baklava, he says, is the best among the Mediterranean ones, and everybody agrees as they help themselves.

The man returns to his seat and offers me the open box with a few pieces left. In a most solemn face, he says that possibly I did not have a fair chance to sample the delicious Egyptian sweets today, and he can’t let me pass the opportunity! 

Sting all you like, mister! I’m elbow-deep in the box of Egyptian extravagance smothered in sticky honey syrup!

Cairo’s lights are far gone. The metallic snake of buses slithers eerily in the chilling darkness of the desert. I can hear a hum of voices and happy chatter behind me. It’s been a long day, but everybody seems so energised. I feel more awake than I was in the morning when I opened my eyes.

The tour guide and I spend the last hour and a half in a lively private conversation about everything and anything. At a point, he takes my hand in his and holds it for the rest of the trip. We gaze into each other’s eyes and can’t stop talking. 

The conversation naturally switches to English for no reason, even if we both speak Spanish as if we were Madrileños. An Eastern European and a North African. It doesn’t bother us that we’re from different worlds, thousands of miles apart, distinctive cultures going back to times immemorial, or leave such complicated lives. The now and here are happening at this moment in time, in the bleakness of a barely lukewarm Sahara. 

And just like that, he stops talking and kisses me! All humming and buzzing miraculously end. The time stops for a minute. Then, we talk some more. And kiss some more! Until the lovely elderly lady behind us asks why we didn’t tell them that we were novios. To which we both turned and replied at the same time, smiling, that we weren’t! The confusion on her face – priceless! The prejudice, if there was any, we didn’t give a damn about!

§

So Long, Tutankhamen, Cairo and Tour Guide!

The boy-pharaoh chose to live his eternity in a secret place surrounded by the Sahara’s hot sand. The location is not so secret anymore, but his wish is respected. His charred mummy is at peace while the ones who botched his mummification are dead sure (pun!) evermore haunted in the underworld.

Thousands of the belongings meant for his afterlife were moved to a new museum (The Grand Egyptian Museum) located on the Gizeh Plateau. For everyone to see and marvel at their beauty, incommensurable value and, beyond all, perfection. 

I so wish to see this museum as well one day! It’s on my lengthy bucket list.

The torrid July day I had spent there was a history lesson lived and witnessed where history happened and so much more than just a trip to a fascinating past!

Visit Cairo, even if only once in your lifetime! It is one of the many places on Earth every human must see at some point. And don’t stop reading! Read a lot. There are centuries worth of fiction and non-fiction books about Egypt. You’ll only re-discover it through the imagination (or facts) of others.

You may believe what you learn in history classes. Or that the Pyramids were there long before the Egyptians. Or that they are connected to the energetic vortexes of the planet. Or that aliens built them with outer galactic technology. Or that the world at that point was so advanced and eroded by greed that it reached the end of a cycle in the evolution of humankind (whatever human race dominated Terra back then, perhaps giants – whose skeletons pop up all around the world, but who ‘never existed’) and an atomic blast erased them from the face of the Earth to start afresh.

The cloak of mystery shrouding Egypt will not fall off her shoulders any time soon. Or will it? The information is out there; only more of us need to see it.

I haven’t gone back to Cairo in many years. I might never go again. But I will forever strive to preserve that unique feeling of my encounter with Perfection at the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities.

I hope that if it did not change in the many years since passed, it will last forever and will always be my special memory. Alas, Alzheimer still exists in the severely understudied human mind, as menacing as it ever was in this modern, civilised world. One never knows! One thing I’m sure of, though: I will always want to remember one tour guide who held my hand on the three-hour trip from Cairo to Alexandria!

Perfection

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