It was a sleepy morning, and Magdy wasn't to pick me up until 10:30, so I took it easy. I cleaned my cameras and lenses and made sure the batteries were charged and that I had empty memory cards loaded. Then I took a long, hot shower and dressed. I packed my camera bag and toted it down to the fifth floor, where I indulged in the breakfast buffet one more time.
After stuffing myself, I went down to the street and explored the surrounding area that I hadn't visited before.
When I got back to the hotel, Magdy was waiting in the parking area. He greeted me with his usual friendly smile and we talked about what we were going to visit that day.
The first order of business was to make a fast run to the Seoudi store and Café Tabasco in Zamalek so that I could get some stuff for my refrigerator. It was an easy ride, it was Friday and all the schools were closed, so the streets of Zamalek were nearly deserted. I ran into the cafe and ordered three tuna sandwiches to go, then ran a diagonal pattern across the street to the Seoudi store, which is where I used to shop when I lived for a short while on the island. The old Seoudi owner would sit in a chair at the entrance and greet you, and then thank you for your purchase when you left.
Back at the hotel, I stored my food stuffs away and ran back down to the car. Our next stop was the Kahn el Khalili (the old Turkish Market). Dating from the 14th century, it is one of the major shopping areas of the city. Today it's mostly a tourist trap but is still very enjoyable to visit. Magdy drove the circuit around the area and circled back to find a parking space. It is always important to have an experienced driver with contacts in the Kahn that allow him to find a parking space. It cost somewhere between 5 and 10 Egyptian pounds. It was 10:40 when I left the parking area and headed into the bazaar. Friday prayers wouldn't start until noon, and I didn't want to be there when services ended. The police have trucks filled with young men dressed in riot gear, ready to keep the peace.
I walked past the Mosque of Sayyidna al-Hussein, one of the holiest Islamic sites in Cairo. Parts of the compound date from 1154 A.D. and house very sacred items like the oldest complete manuscript of the Quran.
My first stop was Al-Fishawy Coffee Shop (also known as the cafe of reflections or cafe of mirrors). It's been open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, for hundreds of years. It used to be the haunt of Egypt's artistic elite, but today it's a favorite spot for tourist groups to recuperate.
Travel Tip: On February 22, 2010, a bomb blast very close to Al-Fishawy took the life of a 17-year-old French girl and injured 20 others. So you always have to be on your guard when you are near or in an area where large groups of tourists gather.
I ordered some tea and got my shoes shined. I photographed the place, but the Orientalist romance has been overpowered by the swarms of Westerners who now populate the place. I paid my bill and headed north and to the west to an area that's a little less crowded and less stuffed with visible tourist trinkets. I shot for about two and a half hours, then headed back to the car.
Magdy was glad to see me, as there were lots of other drivers coveting our parking space. Magdy paid the attendant and slowly edged out of the parking area onto a main thoroughfare.
Our next stop was the Gayer Anderson Museum, a 20-minute drive through crazy traffic. Once there, we encountered soldiers who wouldn't let us enter the area surrounding the museum. It was too close to lunch time, when the museum would close for an hour and a half. They were adamant that we'd have to return at 3 p.m. This was the first I'd heard of the place closing for lunch, but that's the way it is in Cairo, you've just got to roll with the punches. Magdy and I discussed the matter and decided to return to the hotel and take a rest until 2:30. Then we'd head back to the museum.
I had visited the place a few years ago and knew my agenda. What had hung in my memory were the Egyptian room, especially one sarcophagus, and the magic room on the ground floor.
We drove through the mid-afternoon heat to the museum, and this time, the police let us through. Magdy found a spot to park, and I said I'd be back when I'd found what I was looking for.
I paid my 35-pound entry fee and was immediately accosted by one of the guides, who started to verbalize his memorized history. The spiel I got was completely different from the salacious story I'd been told on my first visit — nothing of the practice of magic, the attempts to communicate with the afterlife, or the living arrangements. The history of the place had been completely sanitized into a recitation of architectural history, with none of the personalities who had once inhabited the place.
Major Gayer Anderson was a collector of artifacts, and the house is populated with his exquisite acquisitions. From Persian miniatures to pharaonic inscriptions, the place is a treasure trove. The one room I wanted to revisit most was the magic room. On my first viewing, I'd been fascinated with the charms and ritual objects that had been brought there by a young Nubian boy who shared the house with Major Gayer Anderson. Now, I found the door padlocked, and when I asked about it, no one knew what I was taking about. It's a good thing I have some blurry slide of it somewhere in my archives, because to everyone there, it had never existed.
I exited the museum and found the car. Magdy was AWOL, so I found a snack shop and bought a cold drink. In the late afternoon heat, I sat in the shade and watched the day come to a close.
