India

For me all of India was summarized in this one experience. I saw many things, such as the Taj Mahal (which was beyond amazing) and a beautiful hotel. But when people ask me about India this is the story I tell them.

~~~~~

It was like a claw tapping on the bottom of my car window. His hand was darkened tan, rough, and wrinkled. His fingernails were long, chipped, and nasty. They looked like they hadn’t ever been cut and the dirt had become so ingrained that they were stained the color of mud. And there it was, tapping on the window of our rental car. That was all I could see of his body.

For a long time I had nursed a romantic version of India in my head. It was a place of seductive holiness, where gurus mediated all day, and men and women were always in search of enlightenment. I had often said that India seemed like a place where people truly believed in the religions they professed. It was birthplace Hinduism, Buddha, and Gandhi. Many of my favorite books and authors were deeply influenced by Eastern ideals. Emerson and Thoreau both revered the eastern aesthetic. Schopenhauer (and sequentially Nietzsche) used Eastern ideas to help move past the narrow constraints of pure rationalism, which even a 150 years ago was a mess. But more than that, it was the personal stories and novels of enlightenment that captured me. There was Kipling’s Kim, Hess’s Siddhartha, and my personal favorite, Maugham’s Larry from The Razor’s Edge. All of them featured isolated holy fools, who at any cost were searching for Truth. How could I not love a land with people like that?

Yet there I was, sitting in the back of a White Mercedes surrounded by a mob of vendors and beggars while our driver went to go pay the road tax. And still, the hand tapped on my window. I had seen him on the other side of the road. His legs were broken, crooked, and mangled, so he had to crawl on his hands, and the worn nubs that were his knees. His body was gaunt, tough, and his bones stuck out beneath his skin. His hair was a grayish tangle of dirt and grease. His face was weather-worn, with bulging eyes—to most children he would have been a monster.

I had seen him cross a four lane road, dodging camels, donkeys, speeding cars, mopeds, semi-trucks (with large graffiti letters saying to honk your horn when you pass them), and Tuc-tucs (which are three wheeled taxis, that are green and yellow and look like they have the motor of a lawnmower) packed with about 30 people crammed on top of each other’s sweaty bodies.

Where was my romanticized version of India? Where were the chanting ascetic monks? Where was the nation that had championed the non-violence movement? Where the booming economy, which I had read was surging along at over 9% growth? Where was the smell of spices and jasmine perfume?

All I could smell was sulfur, dust, burnt curry, and shit.
Welcome back to reality David.

There was a man tapping on my window, praying and hoping that I, dressed in my designer clothing and within my air conditioned car, would reach out and help him. It was like a faceless humanity, reaching out to me.

I then realized that I wouldn’t find the idealistic version of India I had constructed with my head. Instead, I found something more powerful and incredible. I realized that that faceless humanity was comprised of real, individual people with stories, names, and parents. And here he was, with mad bulging eyes, and dirty, dirty fingernails.

I wish I could say that I boldly reached back towards humanity, embracing it even in its grim and debased state. That would be a lie though. I panicked. My gut reaction was repulsion. My first response was to flee. My reply was so typical of a spoiled child of luxury. I averted my eyes, and pretended that the people tapping on my window didn’t exist.

People have asked if I liked India. I give them an ironic smile. I tell them it’s not that simple. They ask if I would go back. My answer is always a resounding yes. Only this time I would go differently. For I thought that simply going to India was the reason my heroes from the stories had gained enlightenment. I thought that I could waltz into India take a whiff of its air, and then speed away in my air conditioned car with a higher sense of Truth in my pocket. But I had gotten my heroes all wrong. It was only when they were able to embrace the crazy, chaotic, faceless humanity and walk among the people, hearing their names and stories, serving where they could, and trying to learn everything everyone had to offer that they truly experienced the land of great India. That is how I want to go back to India.

The Passage to India

The next morning we woke up early. Our plane left at around 7:00 o'clock a.m. and took us from Egypt to Germany and then onto India. The trip only seemed to be starting. I felt that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach that I was about to experience something novel and exciting. And there was a slight feeling of apprehension, India was a far cry from the modernity of England and I didn't have the comfort of reading about it before hand from a textbook like I had about the Land of Pharaoh.

The adventure begin as we grouchily entered the airport. For there was an army of men in blueish-gray track suits, with vacant and hungry looks on their tan middle-eastern faces. They swooped in on the foreign travelers, insistent that they take your bags to the security check point, a mere 100 meters away. The first man, with a slightly unshaven face, easily took our bags with barely more than a nod. Since we were by now quite used to first class service, we assented happily, although Jeff told me that he was down to his last 2 Egyptian pounds (which is about 40 cents).
After passing through the security gate (in which they scan your bags before you check in), two men with particularly desperate looks on their faces, raced up to our cart and despite Jeff and my refusal to give up our cart (because we had not money for tips) literally pushed me away and walked our baggage the last 50 meters to the first class check out line. Somehow they didn't believe Jeff when he told both the large and burly and the scrawny and angular one, quite frankly, that he did not have any money left. Undeterred they waited for us as we checked in our bags, determined to get their 50 cent tip.
With sheepish looks we again told them that we really and truly did not have any cash to give them. They countered with a slight vehemence that we go to the ATM to get more money. This was something Jeff was resolute against. He would have to withdrawal a large amount of money from a country that he no longer needed currency and on top of that, pay for the fee to use the ATM. It would have been highly wasteful. Yet, even still they dogged us.
Jeff told told the larger and the smaller man that we would go into the first class lounge, to put down our carry ons, and we would try and come up with some money. They doubted us, and with a whine in their voice said that we wouldn't come out and that we were cheating them. Awkwardly, again we gave them our assurances that would do our best and that we were not just trying to get rid of them.
After entering the lounge, Jeff began a thorough search of his bags, looking for any spare change that he could give them. Triumphantly he pulled out 500 rial from the country of Oman. He smiled, and told me that this would be perfect. He thought that it was worth about 20 dollars and that I could go exchange it and give the two very persistent men their tip.
Timorously I walked out of the door, to be greeted by two shocked and stony expressions. They evidently had only waited around to prove that we had lied to them. They quickly jumped up, eagerly expecting what they by now had imagined into a large tip. I told them, somewhat defensively, that I had to go to the money exchanger before they would be paid. So I strode up to the money exchanger's window and confidently asked the 500 rials to be changed into Egyptian pounds. The money exchanger looked at the banknote and with an early morning ridicule said in broken English, "This is worth nothing. Nothing!" He clearly thought I was an idiot.
Abashed, I tried to explain to the two men that that money was the last chance, the last option, and verily I had no other money to give them. With a great deal of grunting, dirty looks, and probable Egyptian swear words under their breath, they demanded that I at least give them the Oman rials. With a genuine, feeling of guilt, pity, and helplessness I handed it them.

And it was with that, that I truly had to do deal with the fact that there are those who are the haves, and there are those who have not. It was no longer some distant, cold or sterile idea that I could imagine with my limited experience. As I walked back into the first class lounge, it was at hand, it was up close, it was warm, and terrifyingly alive. For days--even to this day-- those two men haunted me with their piercing eyes, and persistent pleas for the 50 cents I did not have to give them. This was the tone that was set for the passage to India.

Egypt Part 4

The next day, we decided that we would explore the Muslim part of Cairo. In honesty, I don't remember many of the names, (I never really internalized them to begin with), so for this post I will post pictures with anecdotes that enhance the story.


This is the amazing Mosque of Muhammad Ali (no, not the boxer). It was very impressive, both outside and inside.
This is the courtyard area of the Mosque.
This was the inside, which Joel, Jeff and I sat down in and drilled our tour guide on the fundamentals of Islam. He was somewhat reluctant to answer, and he continually told us to ask an Islamic priest if we were really interested. But we learned a lot about how Muslims believed that Judaism and christianity were revelations from God, but Islam was the most "updated version" as Jeff rephrased it, and so now all other Islam was the only way to God. Both Joel and Jeff then asked him some very hard questions about this concept (Joel's "so at what point exactly did Islam become the only way and Christianity stop being effective?" being the hardest). In many ways this conversation confirmed many of the things that I already knew about Islam (such as how it is so centered on works, opposed to grace), but it was very enlightening conversation nonetheless.

Here is a picture from outside the Mosque overlooking Cairo.
This is the north part of Cairo, where poverty raged rampantly. I don't think I can accurately describe how I felt about this area. In some ways it was shame, that I have been blessed with so much, and often times I felt very guilty for making a spectacle of their suffering. I wish these pictures could better portray the gruel reality that so much of the world has to live in.
This was a Mosque in the Northern section, where right outside its walls people slept on the street which were covered in trash, dirt, and apathy.

This is the inside of the Mosque. It was a particular sect of Islam who believed that their leader was going to return to earth at this Mosque.
Another picture of the inside. It had a very beautiful courtyard area with a fountain in the middle. In many ways it felt like we had returned to the times of the Bible, although I guess that is just because this is the way I picture that time.

This is the streets again. We saw very few people who were in the complete garb, so I decided to get a picture; I guess that is somewhat ironic.
Two boys.
I like this picture a lot, because it show the contrast of both Jeff and who Joel, who are both well dressed and are looking around at the squalor that surrounds them.
Often times because I did not what to make a big deal of taking a picture (I felt that would be somewhat insulting) I would hold the camera down at my waste and just snap pictures. This was a major street that ran down this section.

This man was incredibly striking. In many ways he symbolizes the opression of the area.
This is the oldest known pyramid. It was actually the only pyramid that we went into. It was incredibly eerie, mainly because we had to walk down a tunnel that went down at about a 45 degree angel, there was no lights (which when Jeff realized this, he bailed on me and Joel), our tour guide could not go down with us so we had to crawl through a tunnel about 25 feet long with a very scary guy who spoke no English with a tiny flashlight, and because about 40 Italians decided to go down the ramp into the pyramid when there was only room about for 5 people, oh and also he would only led us back out if we tipped him, but neither Joel nor I had any money. I made a dash for it with no lights, but Joel fumbled around in his pockets until he found some Israeli money. It was scary.
These musicians were here to meet us at the resturant. They stopped playing if you didn't give them a tip.
These ladies were very happy to their pictures taken, which I thought was very nice of them until I realized that they wanted a tip, and I had no Egyptian money. Again it was awkward.
That concluded our touring, after which we sent Joel on another 14 hour bus ride back to Israel. Jeff and I got massages. I almost felt bad considering what we had seen that day, but they came with the room....

This was a final shot from the balcony of our hotel room.

Egypt Part 3

Someone recently mentioned to me that it seems as though I had forgotten about my blog sight. While that is not true, I almost wish I had so simple an excuse to explain the tremendous lack of posting. As a person this blog site has been a uniquely painful experience. The fact is I have no excuses that are plausible. The fact is that I should have had this travelogue finished months ago. The fact is that I broke my word. I am tired of offering excuses. I am only left with my apologies. My apologies and the knowledge of my failure. It is true, and I am sorry.

I don't know what else to do but to press in. So, here it goes. I have failed, but if I give up, it will haunt me for longer than I would like to deal with it. This still was the best trip of my life. This still was the most amazing experience thus far in a life that has been blessed with a multitude of blessing. I don't want this to be the crimson stain on a friendship founded on generosity beyond compare.

The Camel Ride through the Desert

Following our enlightening conversation with our Egyptian friends, we engaged in something which, while cliché and touristy, was definitely necessary and probably the single greatest event that I experienced on the trip. It was a Camel ride through the desert.

We entered into a new era, or maybe it was an old era with our modern perspectives. We did not arrive on the smooth wings of Angel’s, but the constant jostling of Camel's toes. The sand was our destination. The great pyramids of Giza were our map, and our ever-present backdrop. Our ride lasted for hours, although we mostly just went in semi-circles around and near the pyramids, wandering from gate to gate which were guarded by the police (which we paid off with a smile). Our Guide was mostly silent, and his son, Mohammad, even more so as he clung to his father's back. The sun began to set as the new found night was welcomed by Islam's prayer. We were not supposed to be out after dark in the sands and national park around the pyramids, but still we rode on in search of Arabic tea. We laughed at ourselves, as we imagined how silly we must have looked holding onto the handle like it was a life vest and the camel's bouncing humps were the sea.

We continued to ride for 20 minutes more as the sun sent its last rays of fond farewell, and the desert sand soaked them all up with the lust of a madman who thinks that he will never get enough water and drinks himself to death. And still we rode on.
Finally after crossing several dunes, we reached what we were looking for. A small hut, made of sticks and stones rose up out of the desert to a humble 4 foot height. It had only one wall and a roof and two pillars to keep it standing. There were only logs for guest to sit on. Yet, we climbed off our camels feeling like we had reached Aladdin's palace.

We watched as the fire was stroked and the tea was prepared. Dusk waltzed across the sky and slowly stars began to creep from their hiding places. We talked and speculated about the desert, and we each felt like we knew what Abraham must have felt like when he was alone in the desert and it was only him and the stars and God. We were far enough away from the city that we felt like we really were in the desert, and all we knew of the world was the stars burning like a thousand candles and the wind--the wild, wild wind that blew across the sands and made the fire for the tea dance like a belly dancer. And we were mostly silent, as our eyes wandered from the Pyramids imposing shadow and city lights and the sand.

When the tea leaves was all that was left in our cups, we climbed back onto our camels and lumbered off towards the bus. The desert was dark and quiet, and all we had to rely on was the guide in front of us. But then the light show on the pyramids started, and we were awed as one of man's greatest wonders was lit up blue, red, yellow, and green. And we were awed by one of God's greatest--the sky.
We bumped and jumbled along the city's impoverished streets, looking in on the locals watching Al-Jazeera, with an occasional one staring up with us, not with contempt, not with jealousy, and not with hatred, but mostly with a bemused look of surprise and perhaps a bit of kindness. I could only feel wonder towards them.

Egypt Part 2

The next events that we experienced fulfilled the highest goal of traveling.

Trans-culturalism
The first thing we did after the aforementioned events of the day was to engage in a very informative and interesting dialogue with a group of Arabs.

The events unfolded like this:

We were on our way to a perfume shop (which was odd, since none of us particularly wanted to go to a perfume shop) but before we could enter we were hailed by an "intensely warm" (in the words of Jeff) group of Arabs inviting us to partake in the ritual smoking of the hookah pipe. The instigator, a 6:4 or 6:5 Arab with gray hair, a friendly smile, and near perfect English, quickly began by asking us where we were from and when Jeff told him that he was from California, he swiftly produced his own California driver's license. He causally asked us if we wanted one for $100 or a passport for $100 with just enough seriousness that it made us ask him several times if he was joking. He was. I think.

All the while the hookah pipe was passed around with varying degrees of success. Jeff inhaled a little bit too deeply and a quickly and began coughing. Joel inhaled a little bit too expertly, and was the ridicule of a few friendly jokes. And I didn't inhale too deeply, so I saved my lungs (although the Hookah pipe supposedly is a lot safer because fruit and spices are usually mixed together with the tobacco) and engaged in a very important cultural activity.

After that, the brother of the man who invited us to join them took up the heated thread of politics. He began with the unforgettable line, "Do you want to know what I honestly think about George Bush?" And from there began a very well-informed (at least of the basics) attack on how President Bush was not someone he disliked personally, but he thought his politics were not only destructive for the Middle East, but also for America. He then supplied us with completed statistics about how much money President Bush was spending on "Occupation type military activities." From there he jumped into current events and boldly (yet still nicely) proclaimed that Blair and Bush had orchestrated the whole scare in London to boost approval ratings (this was just days after the thwarted attack). They all showed great indignation that Bush had, in their mind, called all Muslims (1.3 billion people) fascist. (This was a little bit of a stretch, what Bush actually was trying to say was that the terrorist who were trying to pull off the London bombing were “fascist Muslims”, but evidently that doesn’t translate very well.

At this point, Jeff paused the conversation (although all through the conversation we had been asking questions and clarifying) and he asked how many of the 10 or so spoke English. They replied good-naturedly that “they were not as stupid as they looked” and all but 1 person spoke at least 2 languages and some spoke 3 or 4.

From there the conversation moved to the nefarious topic of Israel and how it was a terrible situation with Lebanon. This is when their politics were revealed and it showed exactly where their sympathies lay. They definitely sided with Lebanon who had no standing army and they felt the people were being victimized by Israel’s over zealousness. In many ways they blamed America just as much as Israel for the tragedy, because, as they were always quick to point out, America was Israel main supporter and the one who sold them weapons, but were hypocritically calling for a cease fire. They followed with a series of logical question, which when taken from an Arab’s perspective were hard to deny. The most interesting one was comparing to how America and Israel had made a very huge deal about Iran selling weapons to Hezbollah and had in essence equated Iran with Hezbollah as responsible for the horrible atrocities, yet we do not understand how Arabs consider every act of Israel to be an act of America, because America had sold the bombs to them in the same way.

And interestingly enough (in retrospect at least), he went from the war in Lebanon to the ubiquitous and always controversial topic of 9/11. He agreed first and foremost that it was an extraordinary tragic event for both America and Muslims alike and he wanted to make it clear that Egypt and Arab nations had suffered from Al-Qaeda and other similar groups, but he then went on to express his doubts that Al-Qaeda could plan and pull off such a huge attack as 9/11. He first noted the general ineptness of Osama-Bin-Laden and the puzzling fact that none of the gargantuan planes which take thousands hours of flight hours to fly were able to send out a distress signal. At this point, Jeff went right out there and asked if they thought America had done the attack. They all dismissed it as nonsense. But they did strongly hint at someone else’s intelligence, which we didn’t really press at the time, but later we realized it was a thinly veiled accusation that Israel did it.

Which is exactly where the conversation led back to. They claimed with great sincerity that they did not in any way hate Jews, but rather the harmful policies and choices of the State of Israel (which granted not one foul or anti-Semitic word had been said). And in the same way, they in no way hated Americans, but they felt that some American policies had some very negative consequences, and they hated them.

After that, Jeff asked them who they thought were Egypt’s closest allies. Somewhat ironically, they listed America as the most important and without a moment’s hesitation. The others they listed were: France, Jordan, and Syria.

Our conversation then came to an end because we had to go, but not before they gave us an intensely warm and friendly farewell full of handshakes and blessings and pictures.

Egypt Part 1

We awoke lazily at around 10:30 to the continual sound of horns and traffic 17 floors below our window. Some might have found it obtrusive, but it is Egypt and that is just the way it is.

We began slowly, with no sense of urgency. We meandered around the hotel, checking our email, taking long showers, or writing a short journal entry until around 2 o’clock. However, despite its lackluster start, in retrospect, that first day in Egypt was probably the most memorable and amazing day of the entire trip. We engaged what Jeff correctly dubs Macro-tourism. Which basically means, we want the big picture-the high points and the things that you would regret not doing if you missed them. We got our bus, (oh yes it was a 20 passenger bus), at around 2:15 which came armed with a bus driver and our tour guide named Ahmad.

There was something very ethereal and otherworldly about this first day. Part of it was just being around Joel who I hadn’t seen for almost 6 months, but more it felt like for the first time I really was in a foreign country. On one hand, we were looking at these ancient artifacts from a culture so vastly different from our own, and on the other, we were also surrounded by a modern culture which was vastly different from our own. It wasn’t that the people were so different, most of the people we met were pretty similar in most represents or that their religion was so different (although it definitely was to a degree) but rather that it was just different. The air was different. The mindset was different. Maybe it was just that I was waking up to a new perspective.

The first place we visited was the impressive Egyptian museum, which is the largest holder of ancient Egypt artifacts and the famed King Tut tomb. The area was strictly secured with guards, gates, and metal detectors with no cameras allowed. Upon entering I become so over-awed by the amazing artifacts (err…or something like that) that I stupidly left my bag (which I shouldn’t have brought anyways) on the security X-ray. It was not until 5 minutes later, when we were already into the tour that I suddenly grabbed, my butt, my thighs, and said “Where the heck is my bag!” Ahmad, our new acquaintance, burst into action moving like a jack-rabbit towards the security guards. Passionately (on the verge of furiously) he demanded what was in my bag. Scrambling through the contents of my head I was desperately drawing a blank on the contents of my bag. “Just some clothes and a book” (wrong). “Just some clothes, a book, and a wallet” (closer). “Just some clothes, a book, a wallet and an Ipod” (Ahmad froze, “What is that?”). Crap. How do you explain what an Ipod is? It is an MP3 player! That meant even less to him. Dang it.

Of course by now I am feeling slightly sick to my stomach for being such an idiot. I can easily read the expression on Ahmad face (“Ugh Americans”). Joel is giving me the evil glare and Jeff is wandering around looking at the statues. And I am standing by Ahmad and the security guards with a perturbed look, staring at my gray bag (which is most definitely mine) but they won’t let me have until I can fully inventory the contents. Finally, they reluctantly give it to me. That was a great way to start off the day. Luckily that was near the height of my stupidity for the trip. It could have been much worse.

The museum itself was very impressive. We learned about the kings and the northern and southern kingdom, and saw the statues and golden trinkets to prove it. We saw how they viewed death and judgment. And we saw how they imagined life began. What was most interesting was how they viewed death and judgment. In many ways it only differed in ceremony from Islam, Christianity and Judaism. It showed that in every culture even on thousands of years old, they still had a concept of judgment day and an afterlife. It was quite extraordinary.

King Tut’s Tomb was elaborate and gaudy. And the sheer wealth and grandeur was impressive—but to me rather unwarranted. The mummies we saw were interesting, but not spectacular or anything other such superlative. Overall, the museum was a star in my journal, but not a highlight. It was definitely worth wandering through, but it wasn’t a defining moment.

Afterwards we got some lamb sandwiches from a local fast food type restaurant which was very pleasing. Lamb is wonderful in case you were wondering.

After that we went to see how papyrus was made and how the ancient Egyptian’s made paper and saw replications of some of the most famous and amazing paintings that found on the walls from thousands of years ago. It also happened to be a shop which sold such replications. Jeff half-jokingly said to our salesman “aww and your name is Mohammad correct?” (Which as it turned out was correct, but it might have been Osama or Akmad or any other typical Arab names if Jeff had said so). And for the next half hour we were treated to a wonderful display of salesmanship and near perfect English. Joel’s comment to me was that there are probably few BMW salesmen who were more smooth than Mohammad. I smiled and agreed.

Naturally, we had both bought something.

Jeff later told explained to us the inner-workings of the tourism business, for you see Ahmad (our tour guide) and Mohammad had an arrangement and Ahmad got a cut on anything sold. This explained why Ahmad pulled out a few sales tricks of his own (most notably the passive “don’t feel you need to buy anything” trick) right before we entered.

And later we will see how the rest of the day unfolded.

Joel's Experience.

Up coming we will have guest contributer, Joel Parker, who will give some insight into his experience on his first day in Egypt.

November 5, 2006 Joel Parker

From Tel Aviv to Cairo: by Bus, Foot, and Taxi to the Four Seasons Hotel on Giza Street.

Entry number one: Life wouldn’t be nearly as interesting without some problems. I am a non-guest at the Four Seasons on the Nile right now Friday, at 8:30 am. The fun started yesterday, the tenth of August, about noon in Tel Aviv, after a relatively smooth trip to get my ticket and Egyptian visa.

I was a bit late to get on the bus because my friend who is studying at the American University of Cairo showed up to stay with me two hours before I was supposed to leave to go to Cairo. Never mind, we had a laugh and he will watch my bird for the weekend.

I decided to take a taxi to where the tour bus was so I wouldn’t be sweaty for the first part of the thirteen hour bus ride ahead. It was comfortable, and an Arab Christian lady shared some of her cucumbers and pears from Jerusalem (she was reading the New Testament in Arabic and English), while I chatted with Ori, a High School Teacher from California. He was on his way to Malawi, next to Rwanda. He uses all of his vacation time to travel all over Asia, Europe and South America, so this was his Africa trip. We had a great chat about politics, music, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and his views on medical marijuana in California.

We made it to the border, and I got through fine, although our bus coordinator wanted to use my passport to buy him three bottles of whiskey right before he let three extra people on our van to Cairo on the Egyptian side of the border.

We bounced and rocked through the Sinai to Cairo listening to Arabic pop music and at times holding lively conversation in Arabic, at least everyone but Ori and me. I enjoyed it, but probably would not have been so into it if I knew the challenges I was going to face in a few hours.

Arriving at the Sheraton in Cairo with blood-shot eyes and with no Egyptian pounds was only a half-relief. Because I had withdrawn too many shekels yesterday my ATM card had some sort of freeze on it. So all I had was three hundred Israeli Shekels (about 75 dollars) and I needed to get to the Four Seasons on the Nile, where I thought Jeff and David would be arriving in a few short hours.

The bank at the Sheraton didn’t accept my shekels, so I set off to find a phone card and call my bank. None of the little shops were open except for one which didn’t take credit cards. So I came back with the idea that maybe the photo shop in the hotel would take my credit card and I could buy something and return it to get the cash back. But my immediate concern was to get to the hotel, and Abd al-Rahim at the photo shop just gave me ten Egyptian pounds (two dollars) to take a taxi.

In a way it was a good thing that I went to the wrong Four Seasons hotel, because I went to the new one, which is bigger and has more people and they were not so suspicious of my outlandish claims. They arranged for a courier to take my shekels to a bank somewhere in Cairo that would exchange them for a 30 pound (six dollar) cut. I agreed and they let me sit in the Tea Lounge where I first started writing about all the craziness.

Entry number two: Of course, when I got my three hundred Egyptian pounds (sixty dollars) my brain was not working too well as I had been living off of almonds and chocolate and had had no sleep. So I took a taxi back to the Sheraton and paid Mr. Abd al-Rahim at the photo shop back for the ten pounds and bought a disposable camera. I got back in the taxi and he returned me to the four seasons where we left from, which I kept insisting was the wrong one, but he didn’t understand. We finally made it to the correct Four Seasons on Giza Street and he tried to take a hundred pounds (20 dollars) for a ride that should not have been more than 25 pounds (five dollars). Welcome to Egypt.

Other than getting ripped off, I did have a fun time riding in the cab with no seatbelt and my window open as we nudged our way through the three or four lanes of traffic and around people on the side of the road. I have concluded that the most important safety feature of an Egyptian car is its horn. Brakes are entirely optional in a manual transmission car with in a city with few traffic lights, only roundabouts. You just put your head down and hope everyone sees or hears you, especially the people walking into the street.

I convinced the staff at the ghayer (other) Four Seasons to keep my bag and I discovered that Jeff and David would be in at around 9pm, and it was currently 9am. So twelve hours in the big Egyptian-African-Islamic-Third World-Capital City…

Entry number three: I walked to the Nile then began to go south. It was looking a little deserted and I was not sure why. Eventually though, I saw an inviting coffee shop with sheesha (Arabic fruity tobacco in a Turkish water pipe) and a TV. So I had two great Arabic coffees, you know the kind with the mud at the bottom that can make your stomach burn for hours but tastes like fine bitter chocolate on the way down. The music television was very entertaining and had “We Love Lebanon” scrolling across the screen every so often. I saw some news of the war against Lebanon and heard something about the American-inspired Israeli attacks on the Arabs and decided to be Canadian from here on out. The guys at the shop were great, and tried to speak to me in simplified Arabic, which didn’t work because I only knew how to read my phrasebook and didn’t know how to understand them. I’ve been learning fusa, the formal written Arabic for translation, so I don’t speak very much street Arabic, which is virtually a different language.

Then, energized, I began to walk away from the river into the heart of Cairo. This is where I saw some amazing sights, and smelled some exotic smells, and heard, well, a blend of shouting, singing, and horns that is etched into my mind as “Cairo.” I don’t really want to describe the people, because I can’t first of all, and because you should come here and find out for yourself. The people were beautiful, as all people are in a way, but the conditions were tough. I’ll describe the conditions:

It was about ninety five degrees Fahrenheit I would guess, and sunny with a slight haze in the air. I had sunglasses on so I was seen as a tourist immediately, but they were absolutely essential for me, as it there was a mind numbing glare from a mixture of the pollution and the African sun. The trash on the ground was mostly just papery goods, although I tried not to dwell on it too much. The cats and I suppose some of the dogs get most of the little scraps that might be there, so sometimes I saw a dry chicken bone or two. But the amount of trash varied from a few dirty napkins to a whole pile of rubbish that one could either climb over or walk into the street to avoid. I chose the latter, risking my life, numerous times.

I had lunch somehow after going through the market with potent smells that ranged from sweet, to savory, to that pervasive raw meat smell. The sights were pungent too, with whole carcasses of chickens, cows, and sheep, as well as various severed body parts dangling sometimes in the middle of the walkway. It was dizzying at times trying to comprehend 360 degrees of action happening all around me. Not understanding, or choosing not to concentrate on the conversations, arguments, and chatter around me may have helped make it both more surreal, and less insane at the same time.

Around this time, I realized why so many of the shops had been closed earlier: it was Friday, and I found myself in downtown Cairo for the noon prayers. That was a realization of how Islam is intertwined with the everyday life of the vast majority of people’s lives. I accidentally walked into a gated park of a woman’s college that I was not supposed to be in, but the security guard had left his post to go pray. He ran in while I was admiring the courtyard and garden and told me to leave, but was not too angry when I indicated that I didn’t know what was going on. This would not have happened in Israel. There are security guards everywhere including in the local grocery stores and even some small cafes, and they would get fired for leaving their post for a moment. I saw large crowds of men praying in nearly every side street, and heard the impassioned voices of Imams preaching most likely about the glories of Islam and the Prophet Muhammad and the dangers of western materialism and debauchery. It was amazing to see the young and old, educated and not, rich and poor, stop everything for an hour or so to be built up in their beliefs. Because of the fact that virtually every male was in a mosque or praying in the street, one got the impression that everyone was part of this religion for better or worse and there was no apology about it.

Then I walked a lot more and made my way to another sheesha/coffee house. By then it was almost five in the afternoon, so it was the normal time to be in a cafe. I met the second English speaker outside of the hotel there—Mr. Nabir. (The first was a Coptic Christian from visiting from Alexandria who wanted to introduce me to his daughter who was about 16). He came and smoked some sheesha next to me, and after I told him I was Canadian he asked about the immigration process, and how easy it was. In between the employees yelling, (really yelling at each other, and not at the required volume to transfer information), as well as typical road sounds like twenty-some odd guys banging on percussion instruments in a ten seat bus, he asked me what I think about the current Israeli acts of aggression and about what we can do to end the lack of Arab unity to solve this problem. Then a boy came and asked for some water from my cup which I didn’t refuse. I was a bit confused at first, but his mother was buying bread at the shop next door and smiling at my good etiquette—he and his brother were wearing soccer uniforms, so I guess you could call her the Egyptian soccer mom.

After this amazing experience of Egyptian culture and the thoughts of Mr. Nabir, I set off to walk some more. I went back to the Nile and walked over it as the sun was going down. On my way back across the bridge I realized I was hungry again, and there were two teenagers selling some kind of stuffed sweet bread, so I bought some at top dollar. One of them, Austin asked me where I was from and we had a short but sweet conversation. It turns out he was a Christian from Southern Sudan, and that is how he knew English I suppose. I didn’t really know how to respond to that information—pity, sadness, or some kind of solidarity. It was kind mixed into a surprised “wow…uh…that is such a hard situation…uh…I whish you all the best, man.” I think he understood that more or less, and I went on after shaking his hand and saying “Take it easy man.” He reminded the most of an American of any person that I encountered, possibly because he both spoke English, and because he didn’t seem to be as hardened by the city as some of the other people I met.

With only a couple of hours left until I was expecting to see Jeff and David, I went looking for some place to round off my raging apatite I had developed from about seven hours of walking in the Egyptian sun. I didn’t find any place that looked appealing until I passed a Pizza Hut. I wanted more Egyptian food, but I settled on a clean, overpriced, and thankfully air conditioned place. That was great, and I got to practice my Arabic as I ordered and paid in Arabic, for the most part.

Entry number four: The last leg of the journey was back at the Giza Four Seasons Hotel at 8:30 pm, where I asked if there were any messages from Jeff, and was told to wait in the tea room. I took out a book that I had started in Pizza Hut, Talmudic Lectures in French, by Emanuel Levinas. It was amazing, and I managed to finish a sixty-five page section about the importance of our outward actions towards others in tandem with our inward relationship with God. It was referring to sins that are done against God directly which will be forgiven of the truly repentant, versus the wrongs that we do to others which require reconciliation with the other person before God can forgive us. The physical context was nearly as refreshing as the spiritual one. I was so absorbed in the book, and seeing that the Four Seasons tea room was practically an isolation chamber compared to the streets of Cairo, that nearly two hours went by before I thought to go find out if Jeff and David had arrived. They had indeed arrived, and didn’t see me in the tea room, so I received the message to find them upstairs at the pool and lounge bar. The next thing I know I was standing on a patio bar open area with the Nile on the horizon and Cairo far below and greeting Jeff in his Speedo with David in the pool…

I'm leaving on a jet plane, and I don't know when I will be back again..

The aroma of Coffee and the warm breathe of pan-o-chocolat was what greeted me at my first moments of consciousness. Jeff in all his magnanimity and general kindness brought my breakfast over to me in bed, and laughed with his good natured smirk and told me to make sure "you put that in the blog." ((It should be noted, that it would have made the blog either way)).
We packed our things, doing all that we could to rearrange our bags to fit our carry on's into them. Security was on high alert because of the attempted terrorist attacks. And the only possessions that we were allowed to have was the contents of a small translucent ugly plastic bag. Jeff gave me a look that was something like, "Can you believe we are really walking around with these plastic bags?" And I was thinking the same thing.

Traveling with a Rock Star:

Traveling with Jeff is an experience of its own. He wears just the right clothes to be both comfortable and give off an air that tells people to do what he says. He wears casual blue jeans, a white polo and a nice suit jacket, which combines to make him seem both professional and a nice guy to know. He knows the travel industry in and out, so when he talks to you, he knows what he is talking about and if he asks you something--he knows that it is possible and how the system work. It seems like to me if I was someone in the travel industry, Jeff would be the type of person I would want to deal with, someone who knows how to use the system to his best advantage, while never asking the impossible or abusing your services.

We got to the airport several hours earlier than when our flight left and we warned of the perilous lines that awaited us at Heathrow Airport. Which, as it turned out as 100% correct. My first reaction was to boldly prepare for the long, slow, boring 2 hours ahead of me staring at someone else’s butt. I mean—not that I would stare at anyone’ bum. I mean staring at the ground, or the ceiling or our bags or anywhere other than someone’s bum. Moving on. Anyways, luckily I was blessed to be with Jeff. Who calmly took in the mile long lines, swamped ticket counters, and disgruntled drones waiting for their number to finally be called. He quickly swiveled his way to the front of the line at the first class ticket counter, and I by this point had a slightly incredulous look on my face which only heightened when Jeff motioned me to follow him with the bags. This time I really did stare at the ground as I walked past all the other mere mortals who had to wait in line and who gave me a stare of death when I politely said, “Excuse me, I have to go to the front.” 15 minutes later we were in the first class lounge, eating a second breakfast and dozing on the soft leather couches they have.

The trip to Frankfurt was uneventful and would have boring because the terrorist had stolen our carry ons away from us. Well, practically. Jeff and I talked to pass the time. I am not sure about what, I think it had something to do with golf communities and how they are bigger money than ever. I will have to remember that if I ever get mountains money to invest in something.

At Frankfurt we bypassed several more lines, and I was severely embarrassed in a good way. I just tried to follow Jeff’s smooth and suave lead. We spent another couple hours in an amazing first class lounge that looked like something out of a magazine with its modern furniture and wide windows that looked out as the dinosaur planes evolved into flight. They also happened to have a full gourmet buffet at our disposal and I was asked what I would like to drink several times before I could even sit down, “Would you like a coke sir? Would you like champagne? Can I get you anything to drink?” Jeff and I ordered some shrimp, amazing meat balls, fried mushrooms and calamari, and Jeff taught me how to say, “I would like a coke to drink please” in German. I never quite got it. I did get 'thank you' down pretty well though.

The flight to Egypt was pretty long, and I got to sit by a boy about 13 or 14 years old, who was from Egypt and spoke both German and English well enough to converse with me comfortably. His name was Mustov and he really liked Football (soccer). I like soccer too, so we got along well.

We arrived in Egypt around 8:00 o’clock and we were met by a representative from The Four Seasons, who cunningly guided us through lines and customs with us doing little more than smiling occasionally. Yet again, Jeff’s powers and quality of travel amazed me.

We got to the hotel around 9:00. And after hanging around the room for an hour or so, we started to wonder what had happened to Joel who was supposed to meet us at around 9:15. So, we decided that we must go searching for him….at the pool area, actually in the warm pool on the starry night. Joel eventually found us, and we ate a delicious dinner by the pool and laughed at all of Joel’s crazy adventures that he had.

A belly dancer came out (by this time it was well past 12), but we left shortly after that so we could get some sleep, so we might be fresh and ready for the perils that comes along with exploring Ancient Egypt.

London, Day Two.

I woke up with warm, soft comforters around me as if I was in an embryonic state. Jet lag and a lack of sleep had somehow forced my body to fall into the bondage of comfort and rest for longer than I had planned. I blinked. And then looked at my watch and was slightly shocked to see that it already read 9:30. I took a deep breathe, anguished to get on with adventure, to conquer new streets, to talk to new people, to save more damsels in distress--and then! I closed my eyes for just another 5 minutes of reminiscing about those 9 months of heaven.

By 10:30, I was out the door and on my way to another day of London (with just a hint of an attempted terrorist attack buzzing in my ears). I think I saw more things on the second day, but there were few things which I felt I truly experienced. I decided to take one of those Double Decker red buses which kindly take you from famous site to famous site, but somehow it felt less intriguing and less adventuresome then my honest two feet. From the corner of my eye and through the glass of a bus window, I saw places the Beatles had lived, and cafes the Rolling Stones had started and heard a constant stream of gibberish facts about such and such building. I saw a statue of St. George, which I thought was pleasant and random, considering it practically just sprang up from the middle of the road and seemed to have no greater purpose than to provide a dragon shadow on the wall of the Royal Court of Justice. I then walked down the street, and a lady decided to ask me if she could ask me a few questions for a survey. And since I was halfway around the world, exploring ancient and modern marvels I said, "Sure, I don't have anything better to do". As it turned out, the survey was about shopping in that particular side of London, which, as I have already mentioned I had never been before. So, yeah, I guess I am a sucker. Go ahead and laugh.

After walking up and down the street (which was a semi-important bypass from one side of tourist London to another) I finally found the Templar Church, which I thought would be interesting to go visit. The architecture was interesting and I think I almost felt like I was near something mysterious and magnificent--but that was only for a second, and it was quickly gone when I realized that I couldn't go in and all I could do was look at the building from afar. 15 minutes later, I was back on the bus, wind in my hair and an entire level of the bus to myself, while I tried to figure out where to go to next.

My next destination happened to be the British Museum, which was quite spectacular, I have to admit. It began well, because I had to walk through a park in order to get there--and lucky day, there just happened to be a Starbucks promotion handing out free espresso. I cherished it like a squirrel cherishes his nuts. I gurgled it down like music. And I was severely tempted to ask for another shot.

I resisted.
Barely.

The British Museum was an amazing entourage of history, with artifacts and displays about every major civilization from around the world from the beginning of man kind. The most prominent section happened to be about Egypt, which I avoided with a smile as I thought about the fact that I would be there a little over 24 hours later. I heard a classic Arabic tale told and enacted by a very talented actress. The story was very disturbing, and had far too many people eaten or poisoned for my taste. I think in the end it had a good moral. Something like make sure you check what/who you are eating before you dig in.

My favorite part of the British Museum was by far the breath-taking reading room in the middle of the museum. It rose before my eyes with its arched dome, and 10 foot high and 5 foot wide windows lining the domes edge, and then rows and rows of books around the wall, with a maze of other bookshelves on the floor. I wandered around for at least half an hour, stopping ever so often to scribble down a name of a classic that I was planning on looking up when I got home. There are few places which I feel as comfortable as a library. I could have stayed there for hours—for days. I am continually amazed at the power of literature over me.

From the British Museum, I moseyed down to the bus and was greeted with a glare from the bus driver and was informed that he was on break, which I responded with a smile because I was on the trip of a lifetime and I could put up with a lot. Finally, the bus sprang to life, and I didn’t even care where the bus was taking me.

Eventually, I sauntered to the London Tower, which was not nearly as appealing as the name made it sound ((and yes, I did know it was a castle/prison and no I still wasn’t very interested)). Especially after I saw that it cost 15 pounds to go in--which is a rip off in any country or culture. However, I still had pounds in my pockets so I decided to see London from London Bridge. Which was nice—perhaps not amazing, but I was pleased with my choice and I think it is a pretty interesting bridge.

By then, my time was up and it was time for me to start my epic trek back towards the hotel.

I got to the hotel about an hour later, and Jeff and I quickly got into a taxi. We went to the real downtown London and went on a guided tour, from middle-aged to older man named Peter who did touring in his spare time from acting. He was nice with gray hair and blue eyes, had a deep fascination and love for architecture, and had enough facial expressions to fill a book—and he randomly quoted Shakespeare throughout the tour. On the tour I learned a lot about London, which as it turns out is one of the Capitol cities in the world, being just a little more than a square mile. It was nice to have a real guide there, but I enjoyed things on my own too.

After a couple hour jaunt around downtown London, Jeff and I got back into a taxi and went in search of food. Jeff and I talked about Peter and London, and other things which I have no forgotten, and after taking a walk around our hotel we found a delicious Lebanese restaurant, which was full of Muslims talking about Israel attacking Lebanon and the supposed terrorist attack. The food was wonderful. And the company was too.

And then we went back to the hotel, packed up a little and entered back into our embryonic state.

London is Calling

Transatlanticism:

The flight was mostly uneventful, with the exception of mid-twenties American girl who had the shy look of someone who had never traveled out of the country and a mouth that politely deceived you into thinking that it was worth listening to, but after about 2 hours of talk about being an aid in Washington, and how she was responsible for such and such bill and how no one knew how to do anything at the office while she was on vacation and how worried she was about all the work she left behind, I realized that it wasn't worth trying to make conversation, and that even though she was nice enough, she never listened to me beyond figuring out when she could talk again. I guess that is typical of most people. Within the quagmire of her words, she did mention to me some places I should visit in London, which I was thankful for. The next four hours passed in a contained state of anticipation, a desire for sleep, and the uncomfortable feeling of a crick in your neck from staring at a screen that had nothing worth watching. But before I knew it, the seats were in their upright position and the tray tables were back and our stomachs had dropped several thousand feet. And then we were in England.

Day One:

I don’t think for any traveler there are any feelings better than taking that first step at the first stop on your journey and the last step on the last stop of your journey. It’s a pervasive feeling that speaks of a thousand more steps, a hundred new faces, a new language, and an endless amount of adventure. Within it’s sacristy it is bold. Beneath your sole, it is new. About 500 steps later, however, I was greeted with all the graciousness that big brother could muster and with a dozen questions of interrogation. “Why are you in England? Who are you traveling with? Are you aware that minors are not allowed to travel alone? Do your parents know that you are here? Who is this Mr. Lavender? How old is he? Where are you staying? How are you getting there? Etc. etc”. I confidently answered his questions, pulling out papers, smiling nicely, giving him phone numbers-- which he then used to go wake up my parents at 1:30 in the morning with heavy breathing and a British accent that asked, “Hello, I am sorry to disturb you, but are you aware that your son is in England with a stack of tickets about a centimeter thick?”. I was relegated to a row of uncomfortable chairs by myself as the custom’s area slowly emptied, except for a Japanese couple who looked in love and had things to laugh about even when they were waiting. I smiled inwardly to suppress a slightly squeamish feeling that was trying to break loose. I pulled out my book and with an air of determination, I pretended to read and act clam, act casual—as if this happened to me everyday, and that a few phone calls, a few stamps would take care of it all. Naturally, I was right. But if all else had failed I figured I could probably have bust past the customs man, made a dash for the underground, and used my bags as protection from the whizzing bullets. Walking threw the gate seemed so boring after I had thought of that. But I was lost within a few minutes so I had a bit of an adventure to keep my spirits up.

On the train, I looked out the window, hoping that stereotypes would be broken and that the sky would be a perfect blend of aqua blue, foamy milk, and a splotch of lemonade yellow that warms your insides—for you see, I felt that it would only be natural that the rest of the world would reflect my inner satisfaction and exuberance. Sadly at that time of the morning, the sky was still melancholy and grey, and the sun had barely had the energy to make the dew on the train tracks rise from the dead.
I was surprised at how industrial the landscape was. The buildings were a mesh of red bricks, industrial steel, smoke stacks, and an occasional broken window. It seemed odd that there were still so many signs of the industrial age, but I guess every culture keeps its relics to its most prosperous age.

Our Bedroom:

A taxi cab later, and I had finally arrived at the world famous Claridges Hotel. There were bellmen to greet me and hold the door open, there were sweeping entrances with exalted chandeliers, and there enough snobs to fill the Titanic. I guess I was guilty by association. The room was a suite with two doors to the outside, its own hallway, a living room with a Victorian couch and desk and another exalted chandelier, a fireplace that was in both the bedroom and living room. There was crown molding all along the walls and climbed up to the top of the 14 foot ceilings. The armoire was a delicate mixture of beige and gold, with mirrors on the front. The sheets were soft and fine. The bathroom was state of the art and the shower felt like a message.

And I entered like a conqueror even though it was barely 9 o’clock, but then I was alone. Then comes the paralysis. Immobilization. Quicksand. Suddenly, a shower and a day in bed reading seemed like perfection. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t know where to go-- where I was-- who I was going to rely on. Justifications for why it would be ok to wait around for Jeff who didn’t arrive till 4 were flooding my mind like the water beneath Noah’s ark. I was tired. I had had a long flight and a tough ordeal at customs. The bed was so soft. And all I could think of was curling up in the fetal position. I was scared.

Luckily, that only lasted about 20 minutes, before I had that moment; you know what I am talking about. That moment in the movies, when the hero is tempted to stop, to remain, to give up, to go back, but then knots his fist and smiles a belligerent smile that everyone in the audience reciprocates. I remembered that I was on a trip around the world. That I, alone of my friends, was on this journey. That this was a trip of a life time and it didn’t matter how high class the hotels were or if I was tired or scared, but I was not going to squander it. And I was on my way.

Armed with a map (which I promptly lost), my bag, my Ipod, my sunglasses and my ever-faithful camera and I began what was probably one of my fondest days of sightseeing. I took no buses, no taxis and spent hardly more than 5 bucks, but I saw an excellent balance of the everyday streets and the grand landmarks that are renowned around the globe.

Green Garden:

The Statue at Buckingham Palace; The Royal Gaurds

At first, I was just planning on taking a nice stroll for 30 minutes or so, just to get a feel for the streets and figure out my way around a little better and my feet secure beneath my legs. So I wandered into Green Garden, which I mistook for just one of those random parks that they have around downtown Westminster. This was a direct result of me losing my map. But after walking around the park, taking pictures of people sitting on benches, listening to my Ipod while I stared at the sky, and finally reaching the other side of the park, I was quite surprised to be greeted by Buckingham Palace and the Royal guards in their crimson coats and dead animal hats. The building itself wasn’t that impressive, and it held my attention very little, but as I
continued to walk around the government buildings, it put Washington D.C. in perspective and in many ways it dwarfed the monuments and the buildings of D.C into a smaller size. There is a much greater sense of reverence, grandeur and pompousness in England than American will probably ever achieve. The buildings and monuments reek of age and the rising and falling of an
empire. There are glimpses of gold from the most prosperous age, and there are marble pillars that are larger than many men combined. I imagine that America’s founders would be quite pleased to know that our heads of State haven’t wasted so much of the public’s wealth on petty monuments, but from the aesthete’s perspective, one can not deny there is beauty in majesty.

St. James Park with Buckingham Palace in the Background:

From Buckingham palace, I continued to walk in a knowingly lost sort of way. I walked past St. James Park. And within the half of kilometer of walking I probably heard a half a dozen different languages being spoken. I walked under a large arch with a Latin inscription, which if I
had had my map I would probably know the name of, but I never found out. The arch, it turned out, happened to lead straight to Trafalgar Square, which has a statue on top of column that reaches one hundred and fifty feet into the sky and four lions sitting at its feet.

Nelson's Column and St. Matin in the Fields Church:

From there I walked up to St. Martin in the Fields church, which in many ways was like a thousand other cathedrals in Europe, but even in its monotony it had a certain atmosphere and mood which has moved men through the ages.

The National Gallary:

I crossed the street, only to discover (and it should be noted, I didn't really discover it, because it was only after someone had asked me to take their picture that I realized where I was) that I was at the National Gallery, which was undoubtedly one of the highlights of the trip. For one, it was free, and there were just enough people to be able to wander around unnoticed, and yet never feel crowded. They had pictures by Monet (whose colors were even more amazing in person), Van Gogh (whose visionary power never ceases to amaze me), Salvatore Rosa (who has power in his every stroke), Degas (who I have a new found appreciation for) and my personal favorite: J.M.W. Turner (who is the painter of light). I wandered around there for a couple hours, and was very thankful for the seats they provided and just barely skived off falling asleep in the glow of Turner paintings and leather seats. And I listened to the Art Teacher.

Ben and I:

House Of Parliment's Tower:

All the day, I had seen Big Ben towering over the city, and I knew that it was inevitable that I would be captured in its gaze. And so finally, I decided that I would brave the unknown and find out how to finally reach the House of Parliaments. Which after about 20 minutes of walking and several detours, I finally reached. And I was most impressed with its gothic armor and I think it is probably the most impressive government building that I can imagine, as it stretches upwards on both ends. Its golden hue, shimmers in reflection of the Thames River like a lion’s mane and its ominous, almost threatening look is the ideal mixture of power, eloquence and mystery.

From there I walked past Westminster Abby with hardly a second look, for its emptiness could be felt from the stones that made up its walls. And it was also something like 11 pounds to get in.

But I continued on, and somehow managed to find Westminster Cathedral, which was a jewel hidden behind modern buildings, McDonalds, and clothes shops. At that moment my camera decided to die, so I don't have any photographs of it, but I remember it was covered in beautiful red brick and marble and it had a Byzantine feel to it. Inside it was comforting; it was overwhelming without appearing over the top or gaudy. Tasteful red and white marble covered the floors which were covered with seemingly ageless oak pews. There were stained glass windows with murals of Jesus’ life in kaleidoscope colors. There was rose mosaics enlaced into the marble floor and there were dead saints with scriptures above their encased bodies. I lighted a candle, said a prayer and then walked away.

From there I walked back to the hotel, always guessing the general direction and following my gut. The day was magnificent, and in many ways it was the beginning of not only an amazing journey, but a spiritual and mental journey that we must all take. It was about being alone, and being confident. It was about adventure, and not giving up. It was about life, and empires. It was about being, and on that day I felt like I embraced it.

After I got back to the hotel, I took a well deserved nap. I talked and greeted Jeff. And then we went to an amazing Italian restaurant where we revealed a bit of our soul. I would share what we said, but this is non-fiction, and I will have to save it for one day when I write a story and I need an amazing conversation about life, religion and friendship.

Never give up.

So, I had this really fantastic paper all written up about most of my experiences in London. Then, computers failed me and it somehow ended up being completely deleted, which was very depressing and demoralizing to say the least. This post is to say that I have not given up, and I am extremely sorry for the extended delay of my story.

"Never give up. Never Surrender."

So You Wonder What Happened Next?

Where have I been? What have I been doing? Why haven't I updated my eager audience with more petty stories of my junketeering? The answer has many layers, but the basic principle comes down to the fact that there are only 24 hours in a day (unless you are traveling, then there is sometimes less and occasionally more) and sometimes life suddenly becomes an explosion of activities, family gatherings and an endless pile of school and petty responsibilities. Some might say that just documenting my trip is an easy task, because all I have to do is right down the things I saw and felt, but it is actually quite a bit more difficult than even I was expecting, and writer’s block seemed to have stuck with unusual malice since I have returned to the great land of America.

But fear not my yowling bunch; I will complete my assignment and I will tell my story. I just need to figure out where to take up my thread again. Ahh yes! There it is: page 2 of my journal…

So there I was. Still stuck in the no man's land which airports and travel companies have ironically called lay-overs but if we are going to be at all honest, who the heck ever actually gets any sleep or actually anything done during those interminable periods. But enough about the depravity one experiences during a lay-over, because there are some quite swell things about lay-overs. For example, I met a very unique and interesting individual which after our conversation I was sure to scribble out my thoughts as a token that he was the first person I had a real conversation since the beginning of my trip, and perhaps more pertinently he was the first stranger who I let the sacred words: “well, actually I am going on a trip around the world” fall to.

I had seen him walking around the airport. And my first remembered thought about him was: “if you don’t want to be discriminated against in airports, don’t go around looking like Osama-freaking-Laden”. For he was a big man, probably 6:1 or 6:3 with a tangled beard that bristled and brushed against his wide chest and a dirty blue turban that give him the Lincoln effect. (Which is that his turban made him seem much larger and imposing than he probably was). He had dark skin, and it seemed like he was wearing a black power shirt, although I was never really able to get a good look at it and the glances I took of it portrayed no clear message. The conversation began like any of those type of conversations begin, I sat down, and he sat down near me and was reading a book. Naturally, I was interested, so I asked him what he was reading (which was a book on Sikhism). Which he recommended I read. I asked where he was from and he told me he was from Northern India (which I later found out is where most of the Sikhs live). Due to my nearly complete ignorance of Sikhism, I naively asked if Sikh was a sect of Hinduism and when I was returned with a vaguely blank and to some extent mocking glare, I quickly changed it to a sect of Islam, which--of course, was wrong again (but not totally, as I later found out). But I think he was probably used to people misunderstanding his religion and cultural background. But since I was trying to save face and avoid looking like a complete ignoramus, I quickly changed the subject to India, and began asking questions about how Muslims and Hindus got along in India and about the relationship between India and Pakistan. Which served as a good transition to talk about India’s economic growth and oil usage, and he then informed me that even though Sikhs occupy less than 1.9% of India’s population the Prime Minister was actually Sikh and he has a doctorate in Economics and is doing a very good job. Which of course led me back to what the heck it meant to be a Sikh, which he was slightly unclear about, but from what I could gather they are very similar to a very, small sect of Islam Mysticism called Sufism and was monotheistic and they have to wear a turban all the time to remind them of their devotion to God and they worship God through music at their temples.

After this I was interrupted by various phone calls, which left him to return to his book. Finally, when the voices from 500 miles away had ceased their chattering, I wanted to return to the conversation with my friendly and still slightly imposing new acquaintance. So, I re-began with probably one of the toughest question to ask someone, especially when you had just been talking about religion. I asked him (in a shaky voice) “Do you actually believe in Sikhism? Or is it more of just a cultural/family type thing?” He paused, perhaps because he was surprised that I would dare to ask that type of question or perhaps because he was really searching his soul, trying to come up with the most honest answer. He smiled a little and then said “Yes, I believe in Sikhism”. I was interested in what the full of extent of that answer meant, but since I didn't really know how to draw it out further, I moved on.

I asked what he did, (he is getting his masters in Modern Indian Literature written in English, which I found pretty impressive). And I asked why he was going to London, and he said he was going because someone in his family was getting married. He asked me if I had seen Bend it like Beckham, (I had) and he told me that the wedding was going to be like that. That of course, brought up the mental image of a thousand different colors, dots and turbans and lots of dancing and curry. He in turn asked why I was going to London, which is when I let it slip that I was going around the world, and that I was even going to India. He told me that three days was far too short of an amount to see India (which I couldn’t deny), but he said I was very lucky and blessed (which I also couldn’t deny). And from there our conversation went freely back and forth about books and travel and education and family life. I told him I was a homeschooler, and that I was a passionate reader and that I had read some about eastern religion and mysticism and he told me a few of his favorite authors (his favorite being Dostoevsky, which automatically meant that I liked him more than 80% of the population). By this time the lady at front’s gargled message was played on the loud speakers, which causes the herd mentality to win out as 300 people push and shove to form a glob of a line. When we were finally in line and after we had discussed religion, education, economics, politics, families and books I smile, stick out my hand and say “Oh by the way, I’m David Parker”. He smiles, in a knowing sort of way, as if to say that he too realizes that we had been talking for almost an hour and a half and neither of us has introduced ourselves. “I’m Pennu” he returns. (Of course I had to ask how you spell that, but he was kind enough to repeat it several times and to spell it out for me).

And then, my ticket was taken, I said goodbye to Pennu and never saw him again and I walked down the ramp to a new world ahead of me and a seven hour flight riding along with Helios as he carried the sun across the sky.