Cairo

(Forgive typos, Bush. In haste.

These words are written from the balcony of our twelfth floor hotel room, overlooking the Nile River. A spectacular view. A pale moon, nearly full, surviving into the dawn. The bridge across the river crowding up with early morning traffic. Across the other side of the river, a mass of monumental buidlings, apartments, offices, mosques… And one the river itself, two fishermen in a scull, plying the calm water for an early catch.

People, Bush. That’s the first impression of this metropolis. Millions of them, crowding the steets, the shops, the cafes. Some, particularly the women, in traditional Arab—ranging from a simple headdress to the full burkha, depending, I suppose, on the orthodoxy of their religious views. And many in jeans and t-shirt. A wonderful, teeming mob of them, everywhere.

And the next first impression: satellite dishes. Driving in to town from the airport, these were the most prominent feature of the landscape, sprouting from the roof of every building, rich and poor. And we passed through them all, Bush. Past the mansions of the very wealthy—including President Mubarak’s. And the tenements of the very poor, great blocks in row after row of them, rising in the dark- and golden-brown colors of the desert sand, with their balconies, their lines of washing and, in many cases, their peeling paint and crumbling plaster. And on top each of them a dozen satellite dishes. The information age. No wonder so many in the Arab world are growing impatient with the regimes that keep vast numbers of the people in poverty even as they enrich themselves.

Interesting, then, that as we approached the center of town we found our way blocked by batallions or police in full riot gear, helmets, riot sticks, heavy shields. From the raised highway, we looked down into one of the major city squares and found it crowded with demonstrators, carrying mostly primtive, home-made signs. The police called in by the government to contain them within a few square blocks, we discovered later. Nearing the hotel, we found serried lines of them blocking every street corner. But not grim. They were grinning, some of them sheepishly for how they must have seemed to us, mugging for our photos from the bus, giving the thumbs up sign. Americans. A strange breed, in our tourist bus.

It took us a good while to get to our hotel and, when we finally did arrive, there was considerable delay getting to our room . They had overbooked. Had been overbooked, we learned, for weeks, with the influx of tourists in the spring season. Sat in the lobby for an apolgetic mango juice (delicous, fruity) and, for me, a strong and equally delicious cup of Turkish coffee. Then up to our room for a brief rest before dinner.

Dinner at the Sea Horse, a huge restaurant on the river bank, empty at this early hour except for the twenty-five or so of us. The sun setting across the other side of the river, with the glimpse of the tip of one of the pyramids of Giza popping up beside the minaret of a mosque. It all seemed very exotic and, in our exhausted state, quite improbable. Fishing boats with their slant sails tacking up the river. The glow of the sunset. Waiters, scurrying with trays and drinks. In one corner of the huge space, a whole adjacent space with row after row of hookahs. Asked our guide what they smoked in them and he joked that they’d be smoking hasish. Would I like some later? He had me going for a moment there. Of course, all drugs and alcohol are strictly forbidden in this Muslim society, and the penalties are steep.

Couldn’t eat the dinner. Too tired. And glad to get back to our hotel room. One of the assistant managers came up to help me get online. Will it work this morning? We’ll see. Have a good day in Washington, Bush—if you’re there. And think of us, flying this morning to Aswan.