Central Park, NYC

A Day at the Beach

I have come to discover, quite recently, that I am a creature of habit. I find a dish I love at my favorite restaurant and even though I always look through the same menu, my eyes lingering over different gastronomic delights I would like to try, I ultimately order the same thing over and over again. 

On my most recent trip to London, I did not want the same-old same-old of Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, The British Museum-- been there, done that... numerous times. I wanted to try something different from the vast menu of the United Kingdom, something unusual and something truly local. I knew I needed to get out of the city for the day so with the help of my ever trusty Google search engine, I researched "Country Walks Outside of London." The selection of different treks was like a whisky list at a Scottish pub.

As much as the "Jane Austen" hike lured me with visions of a soaking wet, brooding Mr. Darcy meeting me somewhere along the hilly journey, it's the 21 km part that killed the romance for me. I only had one afternoon so I chose the 9.5 km "Hastings Circular Walk" that runs along the coast of the English Channel in East Sussex.

"Oh, hello Mr. Darcy…"

I had heard of "The Battle of Hastings" but knew none of the details of this decisive, 11th century Game of Thrones like battle between crowned Anglo-Saxon King Harold and the Norman usurper of Viking descent Duke William (the Conqueror). All I knew was that there was a crumbling 1000 year old castle and I was sold.

My Medieval journey back in time began at Victoria Station where I easily purchased a Southern Railway round trip ticket from one of the numerous self serve kiosks located in this busy hub of the London railway system. I made my way through the hundreds of stressed out Brits coming into the city for the weekend and boarded my East Sussex time capsule. I had already made my typical thematic playlist for the journey (Celtic selections sung in Gaelic this time) so I settled into my seat and pressed play as we departed-- Altan's "Gleanntain Ghlas Ghaoth Dobhair" moaning wistfully in my ears. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGqvZTIcMBI)

I love trains. Of all the different types of land travel, trains are the one of the only kind that take you through parts of the countryside one would miss on the painfully dull highways that cars and busses occupy. The Southern Railway is not your great grandmother's train: it is smooth and fast. I found myself transfixed with the endless greens of the English countryside. Sheep, horses and nonplussed, cud chewing cows zoomed past me as I struggled to snap a picture. The food cart clinked through the aisle as I crossed my fingers for some chocolate frogs but alas, Harry Potter and his every-flavour beans were nowhere to be found.

Interior of a Southern Railway car

Stunning countrysides zoom past

Country paragliders

1 hour and 35 minutes later we arrived at our destination. The doors slid open and the cozy interior of the car was flooded with the salty chill of the English Channel in October. The lamenting calls of ever hungry seagulls was a welcome change from the clatter and rumble of London traffic.

I made my way out of the station and began the long downhill path to the main village. I referred to my map several times trying desperately to figure out where I was but the layout of the town looked like a mass of veins and arteries of the human body. Some streets were so small they were just left out altogether. I decided to just wing it. I knew if I walked far enough, I would eventually get to the heart of the sleepy costal town, Hastings Castle.

My kingdom for a Google map!

As I strolled through the ancient hamlet, worn smooth 13th century cobblestone paths fought for their lives as modern asphalt roads encroached on their 900 year old territory. Every alley had its own distinct charm-- like the ivy lined walls of Cobourg place where a weather beaten fisherman repaired his nets and called out "Afternoon darlin!" to me as if I'd known him all of my life.

It was a pleasure to get lost here

One must not Foul the Footway...

Colorful wooden beach houses take up every scrap of land along the steep paths of endless steps carved into the existing rock. A rusty sign warns residents of the price they will pay if their dog "fouls the footway."  I came to a fork in the path, took the left steps and ended up at the bottom a cave like enclosure of homes with a 15th century iron door barring my further exploration. I was then met with a mixture of wondrous smells. Sweet sugar covered apples, hearty fish and chips and the ever present odor of ale reminded me that I had not eaten yet so I followed my nose through more vine choked lanes until I reached the main thoroughfare of George Street.

I was truly transported back in time at this point. Shopkeepers shouted over one another for the patronage of the outlanders that don't know which way to look first. We were all dazzled by the Pirates of the Caribbean like quality of this place. There are no "chain" businesses here. Small, family owned shops rule the road. Pubs, sweet shops, fishmongers, antiques, tobacconists, perfumeries and restaurants are all doing brisk weekend business even in the "shoulder season" of mid-October. The Hasting accent of the locals is a clipped mixture of cockney and pirate and everyone knows each other. Groups of chain smoking teenagers bemoan their fate of being trapped in a small town while older generations know how lucky they are to be a part of a seaside clan such as this.

George Street

The lure of ale and pub grub was just about to take me over when I spotted the crumbling facade of Hastings Castle high on a cliff just beyond George street. Like a siren who beckons a sailor to follow her into the briny deep, the castle called me to pay my respects first. It seemed so lonely perched precariously high on it's hill as it watched over it's descendants.

I made my way to the West Hill Lift entrance. 

The Hill Lifts are funicular (also known as inclined plane) railways that transport people up and down steep slopes. Hastings is one giant slalom course of hills and cliffs. Just my luck, it was closed. I had spent so much time in town pressing my nose against the gleaming store windows, I had missed the last cable car by 10 minutes. So I chose the old fashioned by foot method. By the time I reached the entrance of the castle, sweating, panting and making deals with the Almighty I would get to the gym if She/He just let me live to see the top, my legs were on fire. I now understood why most of the locals looked so fit.

The Cliff Railway

Getting to the entrance of the castle takes you through a packed sand and dirt road lined with pine trees, vines and sea grass. A hush falls over the entire area as you enter through the spiked, medieval iron gate. A sign on the gate says, "Choose to be happy." It is this kind of whimsy that is prevalent throughout Hastings.

Main entrance

As I reach the small wooden admission booth I am met with a Zen like young man hunkered down with a pint and a footie game on the telly. "Afternoon, miss. Here for the castle?" I pay my 8 pound admission fee and am told I have the run of the place. I am the only customer. I am in heaven.

Hastings castle began it's life as a motte-and-bailey fortification. A wooden keep situated on raised earthwork called a "motte" with an enclosed courtyard or "bailey" surrounded by a protective ditch. After the Battle of Hastings (1066), William the Conqueror ordered the castle to be rebuilt in stone (1070). 

As I explore every brick and dungeon, information boards explain the original layout. The current remains of the castle are a part of a once larger collection of towers, bridges, cathedral and dungeons that once stood there. In 1287, violent storms battered the coast for many months and eventually large sections of the castle fell into the sea. Though it was now a shell of it's former glory, the sections that had survived 1000 years of occupations, 2 world wars and nasty weather were still impressive and with the aid of Enya's "Boadicea" humming in my ears, I began to imagine a fully functional castle with all of it's politics and intrigue of the day. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKQwgpaLR6o)

After 2 hours of paying homage to the ghosts of the castle, it was time for me to get back to the living. The best part about climbing a steep, seemingly never ending cliff is the journey down hill.

The plethora of pubs to choose from made me dizzy with delight and a little pissed off that I didn't book a room for a longer stay. I was now in the grips of mild anxiety as I tried to choose which establishment to wet my whistle in so I let my gut do the choosing. To my right was an ancient looking hulk of a building whose foundations were made of old bricks and bottles. The main structure was a tan and black half timber beauty with large faded skull and crossbone flags that flap in the sea breeze as if they are beckoning me to patronize their establishment. "Aaarrr... It's a sign," I whispered to myself in my best Bluebeard accent and I ducked into the 300 year old Ye Olde Pumphouse for a pint.

Ye Olde Pumphouse

A lovely dread locked barkeep met me just inside the dark and cozy tavern. She was surrounded by nautical themed artifacts: fishing nets, skull and crossbones flags, snap and crackle fireplaces, lime encrusted buoys that hung from the darkened wooden beams in their rope covered cradles. I stayed for an hour in my cushioned corner observing locals that wandered in. I listened with great curiosity to their exchanges regarding footie matches, "Bollocks!! CFC not Man-Ure!" Other tourists were not amused by this and left, off to find the real pirates they came for.

Interior of the Pumphouse

Before I get too sloshed, I make my way out and make a b-line for the large glass jars of sugar mice that filled the window of the C.& S. Chamberlen Sweet Shop. The pleasant young man behind the counter, I discover, is the son of the current owners. He was born in Hastings, grew up in London and came back to his hometown 5 years prior to help run his family business. Upon further investigation of the various businesses around town, this seemed to be the norm: they all came back for family.

C. & S. Chamberlen Sweet Shop

My pink and white sugar mice in hand, I then made my way towards the beach. Seabirds glided and hovered over gleeful children who taunted them with bits of food. Just then, a delicious fried fish smell beckoned me into The Old Town Fish Bar. "Evenin' luv, what's your fancy?" I ordered Cod and Chips take away and made my way to the shore.

The beach itself is difficult to walk. It is not the standard soft sand of my hometown of Hawaii, instead it is made up of millions of tumbled pebbles that crunch and give way with every step one takes. I almost dropped my fish'n'chips 4 times as I tried to find a soft spot to eat. I finally settled on a mound of large wet pebbles and happily munched away as I watched children run and shout, chasing the starving seagulls into the lemon yellow sunset.

Sunset in Hastings

Fully satiated, I made my way back up the steep climb to the small train station. At the top I purchased a cold beer to take on the train back to "civilization."

As I boarded the train, a lone seagull followed me. His eyes never leaving my leftovers for a second. "Arrrr... sorry mate!" I call to him as the doors close, "Maybe next time!"

Mr. Seagull waiting for my fish & chips

As I took my seat, I realized there will most certainly be a next time. Hastings had put a spell on me and I was the happiest of victims of this siren of the English Channel.

Further info:

Southern Railway: www.southernrailway.com

Day Hikes out side of London: http://www.timeout.com/london/things-to-do/country-walks-outside-london

Day Hikes outside of London: http://www.walkingclub.org.uk/book_1/

Official site for Hastings: http://www.visit1066country.com/

Post Travel Blues

I've been thinking a lot about travel. "No shit Sherlock..." you say, but I have also been thinking of what it's like after you come back home.

A few years ago, I did my first solo trip to London. I spent 10 days there, exploring, discovering, getting lost and talking to anyone who would talk to me. It was one of the best travel time capsules of my life.

Yes, I'm a nerd.

The day I left London was like when your best friend moves away--devastating. I couldn't stop crying. I cried on the way to Heathrow, I cried in customs, I cried on the plane and I cried all the way up 8th avenue to my apartment in midtown Manhattan.

I wanted so badly to be back there: to be discussing the state of music today with the owner of The Lime Tree (my favorite B&B), sharing war stories about travel with the young Aussie, Andrew, who brought me my breakfast (an avid traveler himself), listening to Alan the night watchman's jokes... though I never understood a word he said, I laughed when he did nonetheless.

I am well aware there is a difference between visiting a place and living there. I hear it all the time in NYC, "I wanna live here!!" Yeah. Good luck loving this city after a month. I even said that to a friend I spent the day with in Brighton, "I wish I could live here!" Tasmin just sighed, "No you don't. Just keep traveling."

Brighton

It's true isn't it. I don't want to live there per se. But when I travel I like to live as a local. I observe and absorb everything I can about the culture. I only patronize local establishments. I watch how they pay for things, how they speak with each other, how they argue with shop owners.

In Egypt, I was introduced to the hard sell and how one NEVER pays full price for an item from a street vendor. Bargaining is a way of life there. I was never good at it until one day in Kom Ombo, I was trying to buy a new gallibaya and the shop owner told me it was 300 Egyptian pounds (about $60). I remembered one of our tour guides' advice on bargaining: "He says 300, you say 5 and you meet in the middle at 10. If all else fails, walk away." This is how it went down:

Me: "150"

Him: "300!!"

Me: "140"

Him: "280!!"

Me: "120!!"

Him: "270!!!"

Me: "100!"

(I knew I was being unorthodox but whatever, I had been paying attention)

Him: "250!!!!"

Me: "50!!!!!"

Him: "What are you doing, habibi?? That is too low!! No sale!"

So I turned on my heel and walked away. He came running after me with the dress, "Okay! No problem! 50!!" I took out a 100 pound note and said, "do you have change?" He was really annoyed but when he gave me my change he said, "You tricked me! Well done, habibi."

Smokin' hookah in my new gallibaya

I am always in a state of awe and wonder when I travel. In my everyday life, I am sometimes scared of leaving my comfort zone-- I suspect most everyone is. But traveling is the one thing that does not scare me. I relish the chance to try something new in a foreign land, connect with the rest of humanity and to be a good ambassador for my country. I am free when I travel. When I return home, I go through withdrawal. Every time.

And yet, it comforts me to come back to my apartment in midtown Manhattan. The things that are familiar. My most comfortable bed (I call it The White Wizard). I am glad to be home and yet, as my head hits the pillow after a long day of travel, I can't help but miss those other places.

I suppose the world is my home and my Manhattan apartment is my sanctuary between homes.

(When in London, I always stay at The Lime Tree! www.limetreehotel.co.uk)

Merde Alors!

Ah, Paris. City of Lights. A lover's paradise... and the worst place to be if you have to use the toilet. 

On on a recent day trip to Paris for a class on the finer techniques of French pastry making at La Cuisine Paris (www.lacuisineparis.com), I discovered the malaise one experiences when gripped with the necessity of the Parisian public toilette.

My long day began with a 4 am taxi ride to St. Pancras station in London. I had slept a grand total of 10 hours in 3 days which is not not ideal for the digestion. I was determined to be as alert as possible for my class so I decided that drinking a Red Bull and chasing it with coffee was a good idea. Quel dommage… ("such a pity")

This was the first time I had traveled to Paris without my dad. He always took care of everything. He was a master of arguing with the French-- the hand gestures, the shrugging of the shoulders, arguing with the bad tempered maitre'd as a distraction as I scurried into the toilette to do my business... He was not there this time. I was on my own in one of the most beautiful, busiest, and (at times) rudest cities in the world.

On the 2 hour train ride to Paris, high on nerves and caffeinated beverages, I had already used the loo 4 times-- I knew it was going to be a long day in search of les toilettes.

My baking class was wonderful! I did use the bathroom 3 times there. I thought I was done: I was wrong.

In the class, we made croissants, pain aux chocolat and a wonderfully decadent pastry cream: all of which we consumed, along with more coffee, like a pack of ravenous wolves. It was this gastronomic gluttony that tipped the scales for me from mild discomfort into digestive nightmare.

Some of our French pastry creations at La Cuisine Paris

After our class was finished, the lovely proprietress of the school was asking me about my job as a hairdresser on Broadway but all I heard was the "wah wah wah" assigned to an adult in the Peanuts animated cartoons of my youth: I had to go. Now.

Sweat started to form on my upper lip. I wanted so badly to use her toilette again but this next time would have polluted her precious école beyond repair. Thankfully, la poste (the mail) arrived and distracted the headmistress. I thanked her for the class and left quickly.

I hobbled along the Seine, cursing my excessive carb and caffeine consumption. "Toilette gratuit, s'il vous plait?" ("Free toilet, please?") I moaned to a craggy looking Frenchman complete with a fisherman's hat and Gaulish hooked nose. "HAHAHAHAHA!" Was all he said. I was on my own. The City of Lights was turning into the city of the cistern.

I searched desperately for a coin-operated public toilet to no avail.

Public, self sanitizing, coin operated "pissoir" in Paris

I looked to the heavens and asked my dad for help. We had a running joke about this very thing. Every year my mother, father and I would take a holiday to Europe to see "the old country." Being raised on Hawaiian/American foods, I was always unprepared for the inundation of high fat delights that met me in Europe. This caused me, like Pavlov 's dog to be "moved" right before supper, much to the chagrin of my father. One fateful evening I was, yet again, in the bathroom holding up supper. From the dining room I heard my father curse in French and make his way down the hall to where I was hunkered down for my pre-supper ritual. Pounding on the bathroom door he said, "Alright cheri, this is it. I forbid you to go and shit before we eat." Now, it seems, he had the last laugh.

I suddenly heard the bells of Notre Dame. I felt like Quasimodo, hunched over and in pain as I saw this as a sign from God. I looked across the river and there it was: the gargoyles, the stained glass, the flying buttresses... buttresses... butt... I snapped back to reality then.

Notre Dame: no toilette

I crossed the bridge to Île de la Cité: the original Paris. As I made my way to The Lady of the Lavatory, tourists began to swarm around me, asking me for directions. Bent over as I was, perhaps they did think I was Quasimodo after all. I had no time to direct them, "Ehhh... I no speeek ze eengleesh..." I said in my best Inspector Clouseau and dragged on.

Stumbling into the house of god, I fell onto the information desk and shouted, "LES TOILETTES??" The volunteer was not amused. "Madame, zees ees not a toilette, zees ees zee 'ouse of dieu." I was now moving into flop-sweat territory, "Well then, monsieur, maybe dieu can let me use his throne for a bit!" Well I thought it was funny anyway…

Now back outside, I noticed a brasserie across the street. I stumbled through the entrance to the bar, "Monsieur.. s'il vous  plait, les toilettes!!" He gave me the well known Parisian stare down over his reading glasses, "Il faut manger avant." Great, I'd have to order more intestine-blocking food first. Oh, the irony. I asked if a beer was enough to pay the toll to les toilettes. Monsieur le troll thought about it for awhile, relishing his position over my relief. Eventually he agreed to the price of freedom: une bier.

I ordered a beer and drank deeply-- hands shaking as I watched him through the funhouse-like beer glass. I slammed the glass down on the cold marble counter, waited again for the "all clear" and finally he nodded his approval. Taking the winding staircase to the basement, I finally reached the bottom of the steps to find... a pay toilet. Merde.

Tears welling up in my eyes, I searched desperately through my bag for a 50 cent Euro, mumbling my disapproval to my father.

Suddenly, the dulcet hammering of a Bronx accent pierced my troubled mind and a gaggle of women from New York City descended upon this pay toilet from hell. The leader of the party was a short, well groomed sassy broad named Barb. As she entered the small alcove she screeched, "What kind of chicken-shit operation is this??" I knew right then and there, my father had sent her to teach me how to work the system. "Hey!" she barked at me, "You put your money back, doll. We ain't payin' for shit if you know what I mean. As soon as the next broad comes out, you're in, babe." 

I almost rushed into her arms to thank her but in my current condition I was too terrified to make any sudden movements. As soon as the current customer opened the door of the stall, Barb got a firm New York grip on it, "I'll hold the damned door for ya if ya hold it for me. Savvy?" Savvy.

I ran into the tiny toilette only to find something akin to ancient Rome: a porcelain bowl with no seat and toilet paper littered all over the floor. I didn't care. Millions of people around the world still squat to do their business so this was a step up from a hole-in-the-ground.

After my sweet release, I exited, held the door for Barb, thanking her profusely and climbed the stairs giving the maître d' "l'oeil du boeuf" ("Eye of the Bull" or a "dirty look").

I had learned my lessons: never pay to poo in Paris, never combine caffeines and know where the toilets are before you wander the city.

Post Script:

I have since learned that there is indeed une toilette on the south side of Notre Dame. Of course there is.

Below are some links for information on toilets in Paris. 

Know before you "go."

1) www.ricksteves.com/travel-tips/health/toilet-tricks

2) www.slowtrav.com/france/paris/rl_restrooms.htm

3) www.budgettravel.com/blog/paris-loo-la-la-toilets-are-hard-to-come-by,10915/

Before Stonehenge - Graphic: Ness of Brodgar

Some fascinating new information on Neolithic stone circles!

Before Stonehenge - Graphic: Ness of Brodgar

The Longest Mile

I listen to a lot of different music when I travel. I love putting in my earbuds and having a soundtrack for the daily adventure that is in store for me. For example, last October I went to The Cloisters here in NYC. 

(http://www.metmuseum.org/visit/visit-the-cloisters)

Interior courtyard of The Cloisters

The Cloisters is a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art located in Fort Tyrion Park in northern Manhattan and is dedicated to the art and architecture of medieval Europe. For that visit, I made a medieval playlist which included, some Loreena McKennitt, Anonymous 4, selections from "The Pleasures of the Royal Courts" and various classical works by Handel. Sometimes I try to match the music to the venue, sometimes it is more of a feeling or mood (i.e. McKennitt and Handel). Strolling through the lush gardens and outdoor courtyard on that warm October afternoon with my playlist was a wonderful meditation and somewhat surreal. It was as if everyone else who was there was removed from my experience. It was heaven.

If you really want to experience a place, make a soundtrack for it.

At the end of December, 2009, I traveled to Egypt and Jordan with my dad. It was a trip that we had dreamed of all of our lives. We are both history buffs and armchair archaeologists so those 2 countries are a historian's/archaeologist's wet dream. We spent a week in Cairo visiting ancient sites like the Great Pyramids at Giza, the Sphinx, the stunning Mediterranean city of Alexandria (one of my favorite day trips), and the Valley of the Kings to name a few. The soundtrack for Cairo: Led Zeppelin.

Cairo is one of the busiest and most frenetic cities I have ever been to. The air smelled of diesel fumes. My dad and I almost died 3 times in one day trying to cross the street until and old Egyptian woman clad in all black motioned for us to follow her into "The Wall of Death" (what I had come to call the hundreds of cars screeching and honking and speeding towards us). Somehow everyone stopped for her. Their horns blaring at her audacity but never coming close to hitting her.

"Wall of Death" (Cairo traffic)

After a week of pollution and mayhem, I was ready to depart for somewhere quieter and less stressful.

On New Year's Day, still hung over from our previous night of beer consumption (it was a part of the daily diet of Egyptian Pharaohs over 5000 years ago, so I just went with it) and hookah overdose, we took a very early, bumpy flight down to Luxor for a 5 day cruise down the Nile. The soundtrack for the flight: Nancy Ajram

Happy New Year!

Luxor was a welcome change from the cacophony of Cairo. Much more quiet and laid-back and no diesel fumes.

Smile!

Our boat, the M/S River Anuket was a welcome sight after a long day of airport hell. We were exhausted to say the least.

Wasted on the Nile

So after checking into our cabins, which were graced with elaborate towel art, we went down to a fantastic spread of food and beer and turned in early for our explorations of Karnak and Luxor Temples for the next 2 days.

Towel Art: A Retrospective

Karnak and Luxor Temples, located near the banks of the Nile in Egypt, are both UNESCO World Heritage Sites and comprise one of the largest open air museums in the world. Karnak itself is the 2nd largest ancient religious site in the world after Angkor Wat Temple in Cambodia and the 2nd most visited site in Egypt after The Pyramids of Giza in Cairo.

Dwarfed by the massive columns in the Hypostyle Hall at Karnak Temple

It took an entire day to get through a small portion of Karnak Temple. I explored every block and hall I could.
At one point our tour guide told me it was time to go. We were off on yet another shopping excursion. This time to a perfume factory. These "excursions" really started to piss me off. I was ripped from The Valley of the Kings to go to an alabaster factory, dragged away from Dendera Temple (dedicated to the Goddess Hathor) to go to a papyrus factory… I would just begin to discover the beauty and marvel of the Sacred Geometry of a site when, bam. Time to go shopping! So this time I flatly refused to leave this holy place to waste time lining the pocket of my guide with "kickbacks" he would receive from the revenue created by our purchases at said "factory." Plus, Karnak was just across the street from where our boat was docked so there was no need for me to board a bus this time!

Other people in my tour group saw what I did and followed suit, staying on and exploring Karnak. Our guide was not amused. In fact he ignored me for the rest of our stay in Egypt and left me alone to wander at my leisure. Which was fine with me. Myself and the other anarchists in my group, spent the rest of the day, until the Temple closed, exploring. Later, back at our boat, those who went to the perfume extravaganza wished they too had broken free from our guide's "great hard sell of 2010."
The soundtrack for Karnak Temple: Nancy Ajram

Day 2 was Luxor Temple.

Luxor Temple entrance

1.7 miles down the road from Karnak is Luxor Temple. Founded in 1400 BCE (New Kingdom period) several theories exist as to it's purpose. The most accepted theory is that it was mainly used for the Opet Festival which coincided with the annual flooding of the Nile. The temple was dedicated to the Theban Triad of Amun (father), Mut (mother) and their son Khonsu. Every year a statue of Amun was paraded down the Nile from Karnak Temple to consort with Mut in an elaborate fertility festival. Earlier festivals had the Statue of Amun paraded along the Avenue of the Sphinxes which connects Karnak and Luxor Temples.

Several Pharaohs built upon and expanded Luxor Temple over hundreds of years. Ramses II (the most celebrated Pharaoh in Egyptian history), Tuthmosis III (son of female Pharaoh, Hatshepsut) and Alexander the Great all left their marks at Luxor.

Ramses II and I, just hanging out.

We explored all morning. We stood, slack-jawed with awe at the engineering marvels all around us. As we made our way through to the end of the complex, we came to a small sanctuary built by and dedicated to Alexander the Great. In antiquity, no one was allowed into this most holy shrine. Only Alexander could enter. Our guide told us that the further we went into the temple, the more holy it became. Non-royals could only wait outside. The further a procession went in, it caused less important individuals to drop out, until only the Pharaoh himself was left to enter the most holy place in the temple.

I was mesmerized. I wanted to walk that procession. From the Avenue of the Sphinxes that connected Karnak and Luxor Temples all the way into the inner most sanctum of Alexander.

Our guide informed us, as usual, it was time to get on the boat and go shopping. Again.

We got back onto the bus and headed back to the boat. My dad knew I was fuming. He hated the shopping trips as much as I did, but his metal hips (he called himself the $6.40 man) prevented him from keeping up with my 7 hour exploration marathons. I turned to him on the bus and said, "Dad, this is bullshit. I want to go back to the temple! I want to walk the mile like the ancients did!" He smirked and said, "Then do it. Just cover your hair and be careful."

We went back to our cabin, I got my trusty iPod, money, cell phone, passport, head scarf and a bottle of water and just before the boat took off for yet another "kickback extravaganza" I ran for it. I was stopped by the guard at the entrance of our boat. He asked me just where I thought I was going. "Back to the Temple! I'm sick of shopping!" He laughed at me and said, "Oh habibi, you are brave! Okay. Cover your hair and be careful. Do not talk to any men and walk tall. You make me proud with your love of my country."

I was free. As the boat sailed out onto the Nile, I looked back and saw my tour group friends stunned at my moxie. Shouts of, "Hey!! What are you doing?? Come back!! You can't go out there alone!!" And my dad, smirking, just waved and took a picture.

Now I was alone in a man's world.

Nothing but men along the Nile

As I walked the longest mile to Luxor Temple, I began to feel like I was being watched and I was. I looked around: men everywhere. Staring, leering, making comments about my short hair. Apparently short hair is very sexual in that part of the world. I remembered that I had my scarf and quickly covered it up. Tourist policemen started to follow me and talk in Egyptian Arabic about how audacious I was being: a woman walking alone. I don't speak Egyptian Arabic, but I got the gist. I live in New York City: one does not have to speak the language to know what intimidation sounds like.

I started to get really nervous. Then I thought about the guard who told me to "walk tall" and I did just that. Instead of cowering, I stared right back at the men who tried to intimidate me on my walk. I thought of what Pharaoh Hatshepsut must have gone through being a female Pharaoh in a mens only club. I thought of Cleopatra VII and how she tried so desperately to keep her kingdom together by consummating a liaison with Julius Caesar. Who was I to allow myself to be intimidated by these men? I'm no Pharaoh, but I'm a broad just like they were. I had every right to be there. So I uncovered my hair, turned to the men who followed me and said, "Shukran, habibi! Youm Sa'eed!" (Thank you darling(s)! Have a nice day!) They stopped dead in their tracks. They couldn't believe I spoke their language. They began to laugh and walk towards me again so I held up my hand and said, "La." (No.) I stared them down and after a few seconds they turned their attentions to other females who were less intimidating than me.

At this point I was almost back at Luxor Temple. I felt empowered. I knew Cleo' and Hatshep' had my back. I made my way to the temple, paid my entrance fee and prepared myself to walk the ancient procession of the Pharaohs.
The soundtrack for the walk of the Pharaohs: "Gladiator" (music from the film)

The Avenue of the Sphinxes with Luxor Temple in the distance

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was starting to turn everything a deep golden color. The crowds had died down so I was mostly unimpeded as I made my way back along the Avenue of the Sphinxes as far as I could. The breeze from the Nile had died down and all became strangely quiet. I turned to face the Temple and realized I was about to do something that had been done for hundreds of years, thousands of years ago.

I put in my earbuds, centered myself and pressed play.

As I began my own private processional, I began to go into kind of a meditative state. I could feel the stone eyes of the Sphinxes watching my progress. I wondered if they thought me arrogant. I wondered what it must be like for them to watch their great empire crumble around and on top of them-- to be buried under sand and silt for hundreds of years, only to be uncovered 2000 years later to the sounds and smells of 19th century Egypt.

Every step took me closer to the entrance of the temple. I could almost see the tousands of ancient Egyptians lining the edges of the complex, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the Pharaoh and his or her priests dressed in their finest attire: gold and jewels glittering in the sun. Did they hate him or her? Love? Did they care?

Ramses II

Now past the main entrance, watched by impossibly large statues of Ramses II, I continued on, the soundtrack to Gladiator humming in my ears. I reached the large empty inner courtyard and paused in the middle. 

Courtyard

I took in every statue and every column surrounding the area: heiroglyphs praising the virtues of the pharaohs past and present. I tried to see the colors of the pigments they used to decorate their great temple. Blue: The Nile and the Heavens, Black: the fertile soil around the Nile, Green: The vegitation that issued forth after the annual flooding, Gold: their life giving Sun, Red: the deep color of Egyptian skin.

Further along into the temple, dwarfed by granite pharaohs and limestone pillars topped with lotus flower capitals, I saw the innermost sanctum ahead. This would have been the point when only the pharaoh and his or her priests would have continued on. I paused for the imaginary lesser mortals to drop off, and continued. The warm breeze from the water began to pick up as the music in my ears changed to a lamenting woman, bemoaning the loss of her beloved. I imagined Cleopatra VII and what she must have felt upon the loss of her empire to the Romans.

Innermost sanctuary of Alexander the Great

I was now at the entrance to the innermost sanctum. The priests had left, their incense hanging in the air like a veil between worlds.

As I reached the innermost sanctuary of Alexander the Great, I began to cry. I'm not sure why to this day. Maybe the emotion of the ritual, the mourning for a great empire lost-- destroyed from within and taken over from without.

As I contemplated 7000 years of history, my playlist ended, a great gust of wind blew through the small sanctuary and Abu Haggag's call to prayer began to sing across Luxor.

The veil had been lifted and I think the Pharaohs were pleased. It was the best day in my time in Egypt.