Upper Egypt Trip - Part Four - The Journey to Luxor

We were all up early due to city noises and insect bites. Richard went to the lobby to see if we could get our car to the airport earlier than we’d booked it, eager to put the Boutique Paradise Hotel behind us. He returned saying they’d looked a bit hurt saying, “But we have the coffee on.” Shortly afterwards they arrived with trays of eggs, fruit and freshly brewed coffee and tea, at no charge. I guess breakfast was included. We wolfed down our food, a bit chagrined about the amount of time we’d spent searching for breakfast the day before.

The car arrived and we were off to the airport. I was excited about this part of the journey. We were headed to Nile Compound in Luxor. It’s a little piece of heaven on the west bank that we’d visited in November. This trip was about to get much better.

We arrived at the airport, nice and early, and breezed through security. It was all going to get better from here. A short flight and we’d be picked up the airport and taken to a real paradise, sipping cocktails by the pool, surrounded by fragrant colourful flowers. 

The check-in lady looked at our tickets for an inordinate amount of time. A thread of worry started to creep into my poolside reverie.

“Go there,” she said brusquely, gesturing towards a closed counter manned by a dude who was doing a lacklustre job of trying to look busy.

The thread of worry started knitting into a light sweater. We fumed and fretted quietly while moving the next counter. The check-in dude looked up at us. No Arabic was needed to understand his look said “Why are you here?”

“She sent us,” I said, indicating the lady who’d just passed the buck. She studiously ignored him. Maybe he owed her one.

Heavy sigh.

Another inordinate amount of time was spent staring at tickets and I was getting a little peeved at the lack of service.

“You need to go to the sales counter,” he said.

You’re kidding.

My parents, Oscar and I sat and waited while Richard went back out though security in search of the sales counter. After a long time spent fidgeting and trying to unravel the caftan of worry knitting in my brain, I called Richard.

“We have to get on the the next flight,” he said. The flight wasn’t for another six hours.

I launched into a tirade about how they should upgrade us to first class and this was ridiculous. Richard was suspiciously silent.

“Actually, they are doing us a favour.”

Turns out Rich had booked the flights for May instead of April.

All I could do was laugh and feel grateful that it wasn’t me who royally screwed up. Fortunately my parents were cool about it. We had a 6-hour wait at the domestic area of terminal three with has a total of one exorbitantly expensive cafe and one ridiculously pricey duty-free shop.

Thank goodness for devices. I collected a good amount of Candy Crush boosters.

A good seven hours later we were picked up at the airport. The driver regaled us with fables about his 25 kids and five wives. Mom was having none of it.

“Don’t you believe me?” he asked.

“Honestly, no,” she replied bluntly.

No flies on her. I was so proud. Turns out he has one wife and two kids. We ain’t no gullible tourists dude.

We finally arrived at our little paradise and I was pleased to see it had only changed for the better. We had an apartment this time, with a balcony overlooking the Nile. Heaven.

Rich probably thought he was redeemed now that we’d arrived. My parents thought the place was fantastic.

“Would have been better five hours ago,” they agreed.

Upper Egypt Trip - Part Two - Paradise in Cairo

The street was lit like a Christmas tree. Music was pumping. It was uncomfortably loud and the taxi vibrated a little with every bump of bass. I covered my ears. I was really looking forward to getting to the hotel after our stressful train journey.

The taxi pulled over.

No no no, we told the driver. We want to go to the hotel. This is some main drag retail/party area. 

We drove a bit further on. Our driver pulled up to the Cairo Paradise Hotel. I looked at our reservations which showed Paradise Boutique Hotel. Surely this wasn’t it. Richard called the hotel manager who spoke to our driver. We drove on and I breathed a sigh of relief. We were almost there.

We pulled over at the very same music blaring, lights flashing spot.

Oh gosh, our hotel is here.

My legs refused to propel me out of the car. Even when the hotel manager arrived to take us to our room.

Ok, maybe it is a hidden gem. Maybe there is a garden paradise with sound proofing, just around the corner.

Nope.

The hotel manager led us down a dark alley, through a decrepit doorway and into an ancient elevator. It was one of those old designs where you can see out the wrought iron gate at each crumbling floor we passed. 

Then a beach came into view. Or rather it was a beach mural plastered over the entire wall of floor 5. Still, it was an improvement. The lobby looked fairly decent. As the manager led us towards our room I was starting to think a little more positively. Then we got to our room.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

How was it possible for my teeth to be vibrating with each beat of the music playing SIX FLOORS DOWN? The Cairo party scene was challenging the laws of sound waves. Richard immediately tried to secure a different room but apparently this particular paradise was so popular there were no other rooms available. Bloody hipsters paradise.

We sat down dejectedly, our dour countenance at odds with the upbeat party music thrumming through our molecules.

When the manager came back we were still sitting there, frozen with misery. A new room was provided. Hooray! It was still loud but not bone-vibratingly so.

The next morning Richard picked up my parents from the airport. As he left the hotel and waded through the garbage littering the entrance he realized the entrance looked way better at night than in the light of day.

I have to give my parents credit though. After an 11-hour flight they arrived at this rough budget hotel and they rolled with it.  They were seemed unfazed by the surroundings and excited to be with us and embarking on this adventure.

On the plus side, the hotel was only $30 a night and it was very central. The staff, while largely unhelpful, were pleasant. The rooms were nicely decorated. There were ill-fitting screens on the windows which were wholly ineffective in keeping out bugs, but the thought was there.

There was a McDonalds a block away which was brilliant for breakfast to lessen the culture shock a bit. We only had to wait half an hour for our fast food. Then we took a short walk to the Egyptian Museum, which was amazing. We saw Tutankhamen’s death mask, ancient statues, sarcophagi and mummies and finished with a lunch of Egyptian food at Felfela.

I’ve known my mom for a long time, my whole life in fact. There are a few fundamental aspects of my mother. One, she likes ice in her rum and coke. A lot of ice. Two, her ideal museum visit duration is about ten minutes. Three, she’s a meat and potatoes gal. Foreign food is not her jam. So, I was a bit worried after we came back from our two-hour tour of the museum followed by foreign food and the ice situation at the hotel was not looking good. The hotel staff responses to our multiple requests for ice ranged from “no” to “yes, in ten minutes” to “check in an hour.” A walk down to the shops was equally unsuccessful.

That night, while sipping on warm rum and cokes in our budget hotel room, with the music pumping in the background and mosquitoes trying to suck some fresh Canadian blood, I was surprised and pleased to hear my parent excitedly recounting how much they loved the day, including all two hours of our museum experience.

As we turned in for the night and the mosquitoes prepared for their evening buffet I reflected on what troopers my parents were and resolved to make this an epic trip for them.

Upper Egypt Trip - Part One - Train to Cairo

It was a long wait at the train station, and now I had found my row, son in tow, but there were people in our seats. I’d heard of this happening in Egypt. I squared my shoulders. 

“You’re in my seat,” I proclaimed, in what I hoped was an authoritative tone. 

My tone had approximately zero effect. The interlopers trying to steal my way to Cairo stared resolutely ahead. More passengers were pressing in from behind me. 

“Look!” I said, brandishing my tickets which clearly stated these exact seat numbers.

“I have the same seat numbers,” said a voice behind me. It was one of those matter-of-fact no-nonsense sturdy Egyptian ladies that you do not want to mess with. She was wearing a jaunty pink hijab, somewhat at odds with her stern demeanor.

Oi, is it possible they triple-booked these seats? I pictured my parents arriving at the Cairo airport early the next morning with no one to greet them. I trembled.

“Let me see those tickets,” said the not-to-be-messed-with Egyptian lady. Of course I handed them over, a split second after she snatched them from my hand. My 6-year-old son Oscar started getting a bit twitchy, sensing my tension. I could feel sweat starting to sprout from my pores. I glanced desperately towards the other end of the carriage where my husband was waiting with the bags.

“This is the wrong date,” the lady informed me, indicating the tickets. I stared at the Arabic numbers on the paper but my brain stubbornly refused to translate.

“I can’t read this,” I said to myself.

“It’s in English here,” said the lady dryly. “See, it says Apr 4, and it’s Apr 14.”

You know that sinking feeling, the dread, when you realize things are about to go horribly wrong.

Yeah, I had that.

The next few minutes are a bit of a panicked blur. I remember looking over the heads of the passengers trying to get past me, towards my husband, who couldn’t see me. At some point my son’s twitchiness turned to distress as we got pushed into the treacherous space between cars. Richard managed to make his way to us as I tried to explain our situation to various people, hoping to find someone who worked there or knew something. Oscar started crying in earnest and attempted to flee the train despite my iron grip on his slippery, sweaty hand.

Then the train pulled away.

Oscar screamed, I sweated, and Richard fumed.

“You will have to pay a fine and there will be no seats,” a man said.

Great, three hours standing on a train with three suitcases and a screaming child. Richard and I looked at each other in despair.

Then, the pink hijab lady came and saved the day.

“There are lots of seats here,” she said, regarding the ill-informed man disdainfully. “Come with me.”

She sorted out seats for us, checked on us during the journey, booked us a cab to get us to the hotel and even directed us out of Ramesses station, waited for the car and made sure we got in. All while wrangling a large family group with small children, pulling her luggage with one hand and carrying a baby in the other arm.

She brushed off our thanks saying she knows what it’s like, having been lost in Europe before.

As we piled into the car while issuing additional profuse thanks, I wished I’d gotten her name, but it is nice to know there are good people out there.