2009-2010 were intense years when I was stretched too thin, trying (unsuccessfully) to scrape together money for a master's program, frantically applying for scholarships (unsuccessfully), and taking a full course load in Japanese Studies at the University of Leipzig, all while maintaining my usual teaching schedule. A typical day consisted of waking up at 6:30 a.m., studying til I left for class at 8:00, starting to teach at 2 p.m., and getting home around 9:30 p.m. to study again until around 1. My shoulders were stiff and my joints ached. I needed a vacation.
In the previous years I'd tried several times to visit Muslim countries: while in Andalucia, I wanted to take the bus across Gibraltar to Morocco--but my German friends had forgotten their passports, not needing them within the EU. A friend in Damascus invited me for a visit--but the Syrian embassy in Berlin ignored my multiple visa requests until that friend moved to Canada. I had another invitation from a friend in Dubai--the day I planned to book the ticket she e-mailed me saying that the police had banned guests in her apartment building (a residence for women only) and had cordoned off the place because someone there had been arrested for prostitution--"We could try bribing the guards...," but I wasn't going to risk spending a week in $300/night hotels! So, I tried to think of the Arabic country to get into...Egypt? I was a nerdy little hobby Egyptologist as a kid, but never thought I'd have a chance to go there--until I realized that it's a popular destination for European tourists. Totally doable. Not wanting to push my luck as a woman traveling alone, and really just needing to relax, I decided to break my own DIY travel policy and booked a package week at a delightfully kitchy hotel on the Red Sea.
At the Hurghada airport, charter planes brimming with lower-to-middle-class European tourists arrive every minute, dumping their load into impossibly crowded arrival hall, a sea of sun-seekers surging like a tide toward the exit. An Egyptian travel agency employee, shouting out clients' names through the chaos, hustled me over to a booth where the tourist visa was plastered in my passport--in all of the info about Egypt I'd read, it was supposed to cost 10 USD, on the sticker itself was written "$15," but they charged €20. Hmph. No time to ask questions, I was sent back toward the passport control and swept away again. In this mass, just slightly less overwhelming than a Tokyo subway car at rush hour, I soaked up the incessant babble around me: Russian, German, French, Arabic, scratchy Swiss German, and felt very aware of being the only American, and surely the only one traveling alone. My nerves piqued as the crowd pushed me closer and closer to the glass booth with the police officer inside--what if they didn't let me in? What if the guard decided to berate me about my country's foreign policy? Would he be as offended as I was by the cartoonish new US passport format, with garishly patriotic pictures on every page, even ending with the moon on the back cover? What if all that money, all that happy anticipation, were swept away? By the time I reached the booth, my heart was in my throat. I tried to smile politely as I slid my passport across the desk. The officer took it and glared at the dark blue cover. "American?!" I nodded apprehensively. His stamp thudded against the page, and he broke into a broad smile. "Welcome to America!" he declared, handing back my passport.
In the baggage claim area, the orange digital signs over the conveyer belts with the names of the departure points were in Arabic only, and the belts weren't moving anyway; the suitcases were lined up all around on the dusty floor. Venturing toward the bathrooms, I saw printed signs taped all along the walls, declaring "NO TIPPING" in about 20 different languages. In the ladies' room, one of these signs was hanging directly behind a group of bored-looking local women, holding out their palms and calling to the guests in Arabic. After closing the stall door behind me, I realized something was missing, but a slender brown hand shot under the door, offering me a handfull of toilet paper. And when I emerged, the same hand asked me for money.
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