If you have traveled to other parts of the world, you might have noticed that there are a variety of toilet options which might be presented to you.  I first experienced the squat toilet when I traveled to South America in the mid-90’s, but I was with the Navy and I was used to roughing it a bit.  When Sara first took me to Taiwan and Hong Kong in 2002, she had a very frank discussion with me about the fact that I would be faced with this type of bathroom fixture more often than not.  I told her that I could handle it, and for guys, it’s mostly not an issue…until it is.

Throughout our travels, Sara and I have come across some interesting bathrooms, some of which we still talk about.  Most recently, on our trip to Japan, at the Narita Airport, just outside of customs, we found one that could have been right out of Star Wars.  It opened like an elevator, with buttons and a sliding door.  Then, the actual toilet had at least a dozen buttons for different options for flushing and bidet.  I regret not getting a picture, but I was just so intimidated by the whole experience, not only from the numerous choices presented to me, but also the fact that everything was in Japanese.  I was afraid that I was going to hose myself down by accident (I did that on a train in Egypt by hitting the bidet pedal instead of the flush pedal on the toilet).  It turns out there were options for a small flush or a big flush, seat warmer, and front and back bidet, both hard and soft.  It seems the Japanese are easily embarrassed by the sound of themselves in the bathroom, so there was even a button that turns on artificial running water to mask other sounds which might emanate from the bathroom.  I think there might have been even more.

There is a bathroom in China that Sara still refers to as ‘A River Runs Through It’.  Let me explain.  We had just visited a very historic site, in Suzhou on the outskirts of Shanghai, and while inside, I had visited the Men’s Room.  It was one of the nicer bathrooms I had been to in China, very polished, white and gleaming, and I remarked on this fact to Sara after I exited.  Sara did not have to go at the time, but as we were leaving the park, she decided she did need to go.  We noticed a sign just outside the gate pointing to a restroom, so she just decided to go there.  Unfortunately, it was not the same experience.  Having grown up in Taiwan, Sara is used to the squat toilet and actually prefers it in public places as it is more sanitary.  This squat toilet, however, consisted of a series of six stalls, just like in the U.S., but at the back, instead of a toilet, or even a hole for that matter, was a trench which extended from one end of the bathroom to the other, passing through each stall.  Water constantly flowed down the trench from one end of the room to the other.  I guess it is not so bad if you are in Stall #1, but if you get unlucky enough to end up in Stall #6, well, let’s just say that you probably won’t be reading the Sunday paper while you go about your business.

Sara is really a trooper when it comes to bathrooms, but she met her match in Egypt.  We were on the bus ride from Dahab to Taba and the bus driver had pulled in to a rest area because the toilet on the bus was not operational.  Sara went in to take care of business and there was a man standing outside of the restroom collecting money to enter.  It is common practice to have to pay to use the public restrooms in Egypt, so Sara handed him a one pound note (about 20 cents U.S.).  She walked in to the Ladies Room and was greeted by a toilet overflowing.  Not overflowing with water, mind you, but overflowing with, well, poop.  Flies were all over and I would imagine the stink was unbearable.  Sara calmly turned around and walked out.  She plucked the pound note out of the attendant’s hand as she casually walked back to the bus, boarded and held it until the next stop.

I just read in this month’s National Geographic that in Cambodia, the authorities post signs to show how to properly use a sit-down toilet.  It seems the natives were climbing up on the seats and squatting, resulting in footprints on the seat for the next guest.

The point of all of this is that the unwary American can be caught off guard when overseas and needing to take care of business.  If you have ever camped in the woods (not a campground), then you should have no problem.  However, if you have never had to squat to go to the bathroom, you might check out our instructional post, How To Use a Squat Toilet.  Just keep an open mind and always carry a spare roll of toilet paper.

So, what is the best strategy for using this toilet?  If you have ever camped in the woods (without a bathroom nearby), you probably have your own technique.  However, if you are new to the game, here is where to begin.  First, bring your own toilet paper.  Most squat toilets do not have any because most of the locals do not use it.  Yes, that’s right, the left hand was created for something after all (sorry to all of you lefties out there).  Check local customs, but in many countries it is very offensive to offer to shake hands with your left hand for this very reason.

Once you enter the stall, you will notice an oval bowl built in to the floor.  You will want to position your feet on either side of the bowl, drop your drawers and squat, being careful not to let your pants hit the ground, but making sure they are out of firing range.  Try to position yourself over the bowl as much as possible for accuracy.  I have found that maintaining this position can be difficult unless you relax.  Rest the backs of your thighs on your calves so you are not straining too much.  Then, let nature take its course.

You might notice a small trash can inside the stall.  If it is present, this is the receptacle for the toilet paper.  The plumbing in many countries cannot handle toilet paper and you will clog the pipes if you flush it.  I was in South America and managed to clog up our hotel toilet.  I wasn’t confident in my Spanish, so I asked my roommate, Gary, to see if the maid could help.  She fixed the problem, but became a bit irritated the following day when I did it again.  “Otre vez (again!?),” she said as she shook her head.

Speaking of flushing, sometimes you might find that there is no way to flush.  Look for a hose or a bucket of water with a ladle to accomplish the same thing.  You might also just have a trench with constantly flowing water.  Whatever you encounter, just go with it.  Remember, it is all part of the adventure.

On a side note, if you have ever been to Vegas and walked down the Strip, you will inevitably be handed paper advertisements for local entertainment.  Most people just throw them away.  In Asia, from time to time, you will be handed advertisements that are really packs of tissues.  If you see someone handing them out, don’t avoid them, grab as many as they’ll give you.  They make excellent emergency toilet paper and are easy to carry around in your pocket.

I found a video that is quite informative and entertaining if you would like visual details on what to expect from the whole squat toilet experience.  We also have a companion post on some of the more memorable bathrooms that Sara and I have encountered over the years.  The main thing to remember is that the whole point of travel is to see and experience new things.  It’s all about your attitude.

In the 1920’s, Hachiko, an Akita, walked with his master every day to the Shibuya train station to see him off.  Then, every evening,the dog would return to the station to await his master’s arrival home from work.  This was a pattern that repeated every day until he was 18 months old.  One day his master, a professor at the local university, had a stroke and died at work.  The dog waited for him, but he never came home.  Undaunted, Hachiko returned the following afternoon at the time of the evening train, only to go away disappointed.

Hachiko never gave up.  He returned to the station for the evening train every night without fail.  When people began to notice him regularly, they began to feed him.  His story became known throughout Japan when a newspaper article about him was published in 1933, after he had been returning every night for seven years.  He finally passed away and re-joined his master after ten years of never giving up.  A statue was erected of him at the station, but was torn down when the metal was needed for the war effort in World War II.  Another was commissioned after the war and has stood in his waiting spot ever since.

Sara first told me this story years ago and I have thought of it often.  Even though it was pouring down rain, we made the trek across the city to see the statue.  So if you are ever meeting someone in Tokyo, meet at Shibuya and wait with Hachiko, he will be there.

Before I tell you about our adventure in Japan, I should talk a bit about my previous time at an onsen, as it was eventful.  My first experience was in Taiwan in 2004, where we had traveled by train to a hot spring resort in Chih-pen, Taitung.  Sara and I were accompanied by her parents and sister and were all staying in the same room at the Royal Chih-pen Hotel, sleeping on the floor on Japanese style tatami mats.

Sara had instructed me on the proper etiquette and on what to expect, so once we arrived, I did what I was told and changed into a robe with nothing underneath.  This is where my problems started.  For those of you who have never been to Taiwan, you should know that most Taiwanese are fairly short.  I am 6′ 2″.  I don’t think the resort has many foreign visitors, because their robes are designed for 5 foot tall people.  Consequently, my robe came to mid-thigh.  I felt like a Go-Go dancer from the sixties.

I am generally not one who is comfortable naked around others.  In the gym, you won’t find me shaving at the sink buck-naked like some guys.  I get in, change, and get out.  So, when it came to walking around the hotel room with all of Sara’s family present and my butt cheeks nearly popping out of the bottom of my robe (I was terrified to drop anything and have to bend to pick it up), I was less than happy.

Then came the announcement that we would be eating in the room, again, Japanese style:   on the floor.  We would all sit around a low table.  I sighed and then contorted my body this way and that, while clenching my fists around the robe in strategic locations to keep the good stuff hidden.  I finally got settled on the floor and comfortable, when, Michael, Sara’s father, emerged from the bathroom in his robe…with his pajama bottoms on underneath!  Oh ha, ha.  Pick on the white guy.  Everybody had a good laugh at me as I carefully struggled to my feet to find my pajamas.

Once we got to the actual bathing area, the men and women went their separate ways.  As the bathing is done in the nude, the sexes each have their own areas that are completely separate from the other.  Michael and I were on our own and he showed me the ropes (among other things).  The rules are very strict and even though they are not posted, everyone knows them and follows them.

When one enters the locker room, one is given a full sized towel with which to dry off at the end and a small wash-cloth sized towel to take into the bath.  However, the small towel is not allowed to touch the water.  It can only be used to wipe sweat off of your head and face, but must never be rinsed off in the bath.  Consequently, the most common place to store the towel when not in use is folded on top of one’s head.  I thought for sure that Michael was joking about this and once again I would be the object of much laughter by all of the other patrons, but indeed it is true.  Almost everyone had their towel on top of their head.

Before one enters the bath, it is necessary to wash completely from head to toe.  To accomplish this, the facility provides hand-held showers, a small bucket and a stool that is actually smaller than the ones that my two-year old has at her school.  One must sit on the stool and wash completely, using the provided soap and shampoo.  I think the bucket is to pour water over oneself, but I found it easier to just use the hand-held shower.

Once I was clean, I got to enter the water.  There were several large pools, each two to three feet deep and each a different temperature.  They ranged from freaking cold to unbelievably hot.  I tried all of them, moving from one to another and trying to find just the right one.  I finally settled on just plain hot.  As I grew hotter, it became necessary to wipe my face.  Of course, I used my towel and then dunked it in the bath, wrung it out, wiped my face again, “Man, that feels good,” dunked it again, this time did not wring it out, but washed my face with a full wash cloth, dunked it again, wrung it again, and then noticed Michael virtually sprinting from the other side of the room to me.  This is when I found out about the first rule I told you about.  He had told me to keep the towel on top of my head, but had not really explained why.

This trip to Taiwan, in 2004, had been a special one.  Not only was it my first trip to an onsen, it was also when I had chosen to ask Sara to marry me.  We were going to Kyoto, Japan after we left Taiwan, and I had planned to ask her there.  Before that, however, I wanted to do the traditional thing and ask her father’s permission.  This little visit to the onsen was the first time I had been alone with Michael, so now was my chance.  He had come all the way from the other side of the room to warn me about the towel thing and now he was sitting right next to me.  I was nervous, but I had to do it.

I am a bit of a history buff, but Michael is a history aficionado.  I am always interested to hear his stories, particularly of World War II.  He started telling me about the origin of the term ‘kamikaze‘.  As most of you know, the Japanese suicide pilots of WWII were referred to as kamikaze pilots.  “The term is actually from long ago,” he began.  “When Kublai Khan tried to invade Japan, he launched thousands of ships from the mainland.  But he and his generals were used to land warfare, not sea battles, so they had flat-bottomed boats, ill-suited for the ocean.”

I was getting more and more nervous.  I just wanted to ask and get it over with.  He continued, “The Japanese saw the invaders coming and prayed to their gods to protect them.  They went to sleep knowing that they had a great battle ahead of them in the morning, but over night, a great storm raged and when the Japanese awoke, all of the ships were gone.  The word ‘kamikaze’ means ‘divine wind’ and it was this wind which saved them from the Mongols.  In World War II, the Japanese believed that the kamikaze pilots would save them as well.”  Once again, I was very interested in his story, but my mind was on my task.  I had to ask permission to marry this man’s daughter.

There was finally a break in the conversation.  I took my chance, “Michael, in the United States, there is a tradition that when a man wants to marry a woman, he must first ask the woman’s father for permission.”  He looked at me expectantly.  “I would like to marry Sara and I am asking for your permission to do this.”

I sat naked in a bath with my hopefully future father-in-law, who was also naked, and waited for his response.  He barely paused and said, “Of course, now did I ever tell you about when the American planes bombed Taiwan?”  Apparently, the tradition does not carry over to Asian culture.

Now flash forward to Tokyo, where we all went to a local onsen for the day.  Once again, it was Sara, her parents and sister, Sophia, but this time we added Daniel, Sophia’s husband, our daughter, Ender, and Soph and Daniel’s son Charlie.

To be continued…

The previous day, before crossing into Israel, we had found a little hole in the wall in which to eat lunch.  After looking at the options, I chose to eat crackers and cookies that I purchased at a nearby shop, whereas Sara opted for chicken, rice and bread.  I warned her that we were both getting over our earlier battle with ‘King Tut’s Revenge’, but she claimed to be famished.

Now, flash forward to this morning’s debate:  should Sara take our last two remaining Imodiums, or take one now and save the other for later?  Yes, King Tut was back!

The sun was just coming up when we joined Mike and Maya in the dining room and all four of us looked as if we had been run over by something large and fast.  The hotel provided breakfast for us and what a feast it was.  We had a buffet which consisted of a very large bowl of watery yogurt, boiled eggs, bread and sliced fresh cucumbers (?!).

After breakfast, we headed over to Petra.  Our hotel was within walking distance to the entrance, so there was no need for a taxi.  However, we would need a taxi later that evening to get to Amman and our flight home, so Mike began the long process of haggling.  He found a taxi driver and talked him into 45 Jordanian dinars for the trip.  The Lonely Planet suggested 80 was a fair price, so Mike was in top form.  The driver agreed to meet us outside the entrance to the park later that afternoon.

For those of you who cannot quite place what Petra is, remember back to the third Indiana Jones movie, the one with Sean Connery.  Do you remember the final big scene where they ride their horses down a long slot canyon and end at a temple carved in the rock?  That is Petra.  The slot canyon is called the Siq and the temple is called the Treasury.  The whole site is known as Petra and it turned out to be a lot more interesting than we had expected.

Mike had a guide book which detailed several less popular paths that we could take to explore the park without all of the tourists.  Sara was more into just walking down the Siq, checking out the Treasury and a few other sites and then calling it a day.  She reluctantly agreed however that we would follow along and see Mike’s sites.

A few hundred yards into the park, Mike found the trail that he wanted to follow.  Instead of walking downhill with all of the other sheep, we followed a nearly unmarked trail up and over a hill to our right.  The terrain was very rocky, with little vegetation, not extremely difficult, but definitely the road less traveled.  As we crested the hill, we became the only ones in the park.  The isolation was almost immediate and complete.  Mike was referencing his book and as we scrambled over and around huge boulders, we felt sure that we were lost.  He kept assuring us that we were most likely going the right way and, it turns out, we stumbled upon a slot canyon that was on the map.  It was the long way around to see the Treasury, but it was definitely free of tourists.

We had the perfect day for our hike through this desert:  highs in the upper 80’s, bright and sunny, but enough of a breeze to keep us cool.  The slot canyon had steep, sheer walls that also kept us in the shade for most of the way.  As we walked, we saw evidence of flash floods, trash and debris pressed up against rocks creating barriers for us to traverse, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I would do if a ten foot wall of water suddenly appeared in front of me.  There really was no escape, the canyon stretched for miles and we were in the dead middle of it.  It was only two or three feet wide in places, so there was no where to run.

A couple of miles into the canyon, we reached an impasse:  the path was knee deep in water and the only way around was to climb a ledge that was seven or eight feet up and then jump across to another ledge, past the water.  Ordinarily I am not too scared of a puddle of water, but this particular puddle had a certain look about it.  It was a bright green, not mossy or algae infested, but nuclear, like a big puddle of lime Gatorade.  I could just hear my doctor now, “Remember when I told you guys about Hepatitis?  Remember when I said not to go in to any questionable swimming holes?  Well guess what…”

So, we only had two options, go up and over, or go back.  Unfortunately, I suffer from the same affliction that almost every other man has:  I will not go back and retrace my steps unless I am utterly and hopelessly lost, and even then it is a huge battle.  Up and over it was.

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We lifted Mike up to the ledge and he scouted ahead to determine that we probably could make it, so next we lifted Maya and then Sara.  Uh oh.  Looks like I was on my own.  After trying to climb it with no luck, Mike was able to lean far enough over to grab my hand.  He pulled and I climbed and somehow I made it up.  We walked along the narrow ledge and jumped the chasm to the other side.

After another mile, the canyon opened up into a valley and we were treated to an incredible desert scene.  We were surrounded by cliffs and in the cliffs were dozens of man-made caves.  Apparently, we had stumbled upon the dwellings of the people that had lived at Petra:  the Nabataeans.

The Nabataeans built Petra along a major trade route starting around 100 BC, although there were settlements there dating back to the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt (around 1500 BC) and it is even referred to in the Bible.  They mastered the art of water conservation and were able to live easily and freely in the desert, even selling their water to travelers.  We witnessed several of their elaborate cisterns used to collect and store water, and some of them did have water even today (along with empty bags of potato chips, Coke cans and such).  Roman influence can also be seen throughout the park, as they eventually extended their empire to include this area.

We had brought along some lunch, and we picked an incredible spot in which to eat it.  We had to climb some stairs carved into the rock to a large platform outside a huge man-made cave with various rooms dug out inside.  There was a large cistern that was carved out of the rock and covered by an arch.  The arch had a two foot diameter hole in it and channels leading to it from different directions, all to gather as much water as possible for the cistern.  It was brilliant in its design.

Sara, Maya and I ate our lunch, but Mike disappeared further up the cliff.  After a while, Maya went to find him.  When she didn’t come back, I climbed up to see where they had gone.  I walked along a path cut into the rock, high above the valley floor, rounded a corner and found Mike and Maya hanging out on what can only be described as a throne, also cut into the rock.  When I sat on the throne, I had a commanding view of the entire valley, even seeing dozens of other caves carved into the cliffs on the opposite side.  It was breathtaking and I had to get Sara to come see it.

After lunch, we made our way in to the more touristy areas of Petra.  By this point, we were not as impressed with the caves, as we had seen dozens already, but Mike kept telling us of the Monastery, a must-see.  Already pretty tired, we agreed to go.  It didn’t look too far away on the map, but it was getting hot and it had already been a long day.  As we progressed down the trail to the Monastery, we got our second wind.  Then we came to the stairs.

It was difficult to tell how far up the stairs went because they wound around the cliffs.  We started climbing, and climbing and climbing.  We had been going up for at least a half an hour when Sara pulled off to the side.  “I need a rest.  I’m not really sure I can go much further.”  Sara was wearing walking sandals with no back, so her shoes were giving her problems.

As we sat there and Sara was facing an internal struggle about whether or not to go on, a very large, red-faced woman chugged by us, going up.  “There’s your competition,” was all Mike had to say.  Sara took off her shoes, a defiant look on her face, and promptly marched on, barefoot, no more complaints were heard from her.

On another rest stop, we were greeted by a local boy who desperately wanted the remains of the soda in the bottle I had been carrying all morning.  I gave it to him, feeling very Peace Corpsish, and he promptly dumped it into the dirt so he could make mud.

850 steps to the top of the mountain.  It is not the furthest anyone has ever climbed, but it was a good feeling to get to the top.  Until, of course, we saw all of the people already up there…and the restaurant/convenience store which, to keep stocked, required people to regularly not only hike up all of those stairs, but to do it with boxes and boxes of food and drinks.  Oh well, I bought a Coke and some Doritos and enjoyed the view.

Just as we were getting settled in, the crowd looking at the Monastery was starting to get excited.  We looked and saw a man on top of the building, looking as if he was going to jump. The edifice is over 150 feet high, so he was quite a ways up.  Suddenly, he was doing acrobatics, jumping from one rooftop to another, hanging over empty space and walking on his hands.  One wrong move and he was toast (or maybe a pancake), but he was very graceful, as strong and lithe as any gymnast you’ll see, and he made it back down without a hitch.  Apparently, he is a local and does this regularly.

On the way back down the stairs, Sara twisted her ankle.  Her shoes had gotten tangled up under her again, so she removed them for the rest of the way down, limping and leaning on me at times.  We got to the bottom and it was time to head out.  We still had not seen the Treasury, but it was on the way.

Once we reached it, we immediately understood why this was one of the New Wonders.  It was absolutely incredible.  The detail was still evident even after 2000 years.  We could only look inside, but it was surprisingly plain.  We didn’t find the Holy Grail, but were impressed nonetheless.

We made our way out of the park, grabbed a bite to eat and then met our taxi driver for the three hour ride to Amman.  There was an attempt at renegotiation by the driver, but Mike would have none of it, so we set off.  Almost as soon as we left, the driver lit up a cigarette.  Sara suffers from asthma, so smoking in a small car is not an option.  The driver thought we were kidding when we asked him to put it out, then told him to put it out, but eventually he complied.  About an hour into the trip he tried to light up again, claiming he could just roll down the window.  We fought him off once again, so he decided to pull off at a restaurant to have a smoke.  He went inside while the four of us sat in his car and waited…and waited.  He stayed in for a half an hour before emerging to continue the trip.

We finally arrived in Amman and the plan was to find a hotel for Mike and Maya, eat another quick dinner and then Sara and I would grab another taxi to the airport for our midnight flights.  Unfortunately, our knuckleheaded driver could not find the hotel.  We went around the same half-mile circle six or eight times, stopping to ask directions periodically, having the person asked point in a new direction that we had not yet tried and then continuing on in the same direction that we had already been a half dozen times already.  It got to the point that even I (who doesn’t speak a lick of Arabic) knew where the hotel was, but the doofus driving our taxi still could not figure it out.

We finally found the hotel, and after some hard negotiation by Mike on their rate, walked to get some food.  Our final meal in Jordan was at an outstanding Armenian pizza shop.  We said our goodbyes to Mike and Maya and flagged down a taxi.  On the way to the airport, we passed a McDonald’s, but there wasn’t time to stop.  So now I have to go back.  I officially have eaten at McDonald’s in every country I have visited except Ecuador and Jordan (also substituting McPollo’s in Colombia, a Golden Arches knockoff located right next to Bennie’s, which looked exactly like Ben & Jerry’s).

The airport security at Queen Alia airport was fairly tight, and since Sara and I were on different flights an hour apart, we were not allowed to check in together.  Sara went first, while I sat in a waiting area.  Just enough time for one more attempted scam.  I was approached by an airport employee who offered to “get me in”.  Of course, at this point, I was wise to the tricks:  once I “got in”, I would owe him a nice tip.  Seeing as I only needed to wait another half an hour and I would see Sara again, I politely declined.

We met up again for a few minutes before Sara boarded.  We were both quiet.  I’m sure part of it was because we were tired from such a long day, but most of it was because we both knew that we had to return to civilization and responsibility.  Normally I am happy and a bit excited to return home after a trip, but this time was different.  If I could have, I would have kept going, perhaps South, further into Africa, perhaps East, or maybe back to join Mike and Maya as they continued on into Israel.  I still had the dirt of Petra on my feet and that comforted me.  Finally, my flight was called and I boarded…and slept.

Author’s Note: We hope you have enjoyed reading about our exploits in Egypt, Israel and Jordan.  Please check back soon as we are about to visit Japan and Taiwan (next week)!  Also, please recommend us to your friends.  We are trying to build up a following and will be expanding the blog to include more photos and videos.  If you are still reading at this point, thank you!

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We had already made it through the checkpoint and were fully inside Israel, but our friends, Mike and Maya, had been stopped and pulled into a little room for further questions.  Mike had warned us that this might happen and that we should continue on as if we did not know them, which we had done.  Now, Sara and I looked at each other and she asked, “So, what exactly did Mike say he did for a living again?”

There was a lady sitting next to us on the curb, so I asked her what the woman had said over the loudspeaker.  “I think they have discovered a bomb inside the building.”  Oh.  Um, OK.

Our original plan was to travel from Egypt to Jordan via a ferry, but our new friends talked us in to taking the overland route through Israel.  It wasn’t difficult to convince us, as we are always up for a new stamp in the old passport.

The four of us took a bus up the coast to Taba, the northernmost town in Egypt on the Red Sea, for the crossing to Eilat, Israel.  We were dropped off at the bus station, which was walking distance to both the border and the beach.  Since we had a few hours to spare before we felt it was necessary to cross the border, we decided to walk to the beach and found a nice access road right next to the Movenpick Hotel.

As we walked down this road, Mike told us stories of the recent bombing, right here in Taba.  On October 7, 2004, terrorists bombed the nearby Hilton Resort and killed 34 people.  Up until that moment, the entire area was quickly becoming a popular tourist destination for Israelis and others.  The bomb effectively killed this and the after-effects can still be seen all along the coast from Taba all the way to Dahab in the form of nearly completed resorts that will, most likely, never be finished.  One can debate whether or not this is actually a good thing, keeping the seaside free from development, but one cannot debate the terror felt by the victims that evening and the helplessness felt by the rescue teams standing across the border in Israel, watching the flames.

The irony here is that the Egyptians actually allowed the Israeli firefighters and rescue workers to cross the border that night to help with the disaster relief.  The very act of terrorism, seeking to divide the countries, actually brought them together for one unprecedented evening, when all animosity between bitter enemies was forgotten and they desired solely to help one another.

Once we reached the beach, we found that we were alone, save for a few buildings and picnic tables, whereas the next beach over, a few hundred yards or so at the Movenpick, had a few dozen families playing in the water and enjoying the sun.  Mike and Maya opted to change into bathing suits, while Sara and I just went in the water up to our knees.  We were all enjoying the day when suddenly we were joined by two young Egyptian men.

They seemed very friendly, but we had fallen for this before, an act of kindness, followed by a whammy in which we were parted with a significant amount of money.  When they offered to bring us drinks, we politely declined.  One of them kept trying to talk to us (without knowing any English), while the other disappeared.  It was all very awkward, when the first man reappeared with four sodas.  Apparently, he didn’t understand English either.  “How much for each,” I asked.  The man held up six fingers.  “Six pounds?  Holy crap, that’s expensive.”  I did not feel like arguing, so I paid him.  He looked at me funny, actually like I wasn’t too bright, and handed me back most of my money.  “Oh.  Six pounds for all of them.”  Now I got it.  The four drinks cost us $1.20 total.  Now this was the pricing I had been looking for the entire trip…and no haggling.

We still felt a bit uncomfortable with the two guys just hanging out ogling Maya in her bikini, so after about a half an hour of this we decided it was getting late and it was time to pack it up and make our way across the border.  As we were packing, a third man came up to us, speaking perfect English, “Why are you leaving?  Was someone not nice to you?  Was it something we said?  Please don’t go.  Stay and enjoy the beach.”  We assured him that there was nothing wrong, we just needed to get going.

The whole situation made me feel like I was in an old Twilight Zone episode and if we stayed much longer, we might never leave.  As we walked back down the path to the road, I couldn’t help but say, “Man that was weird.”

As we approached the Israeli border, Mike began to prep us.  “They’re probably going to give me a hard time because of my occupation.  One of my coworkers was stopped here for three hours a couple of weeks ago.  If that happens, you guys just keep moving and pretend you don’t know us.  We’ll meet you on the other side of the gate inside Israel.  It might be a while, but we should get there eventually.”

Sara and I went first, trying to be as friendly as possible.  All of the border agents looked like they could be college students in the U.S.  They were not nearly as intimidating as the Egyptian border guards, all seasoned men, looking gruff and unfriendly, but ultimately cordial and quick to wave you on.  The Israelis, an even mixture of men and women, looking young, fit and healthy were ultimately very strict, unsmiling and quick to delay you for the ever-so-slightest perceived offense.

After sending my backpack through the x-ray machine, I was pulled to the side to unpack it.  Apparently there was something inside that they didn’t like, so together, we emptied it, all of it, x-rayed it two or three more times to make sure that it was empty, and determined that the extra set of AA batteries that I was carrying for my flashlight was serious cause for alarm.  Funny, because later in the trip, on my return through Germany, the very same flashlight would get my bag re-inspected there as well.

During my delay, Mike and Maya managed to get ahead of us in the process, but as we were moving towards the exit, they were seated on a bench outside a small interrogation room.  As we passed Maya rolled her eyes and waved her hand ever so slightly to signal us to keep going.

We took up a seat on the curb outside of the gates and had been sitting there for about thirty minutes when the sirens went off.  There was a flurry of activity inside the compound, but on our side, everyone seemed unfazed.  We decided that it was probably nothing to worry about, so we sat bravely in our spot, waiting and wondering if Mike and Maya were really some secret spy team that had finally been caught.  Would we be involved in some international incident, brutally tortured by the Mossad (the Israeli version of the CIA) with our release negotiated personally by Bill Clinton?  I was getting excited, what a blog post that would be!

It was about 5 pm, so we decided that we would give them three hours to come out.  At 8pm we would leave and make our way to Jordan on our own.  I mean friendship only goes so far, right?  Well, shortly after all of this, the sirens stopped and the gates reopened.  False alarm.  Another thirty minutes went by and Mike and Maya emerged with all of their fingernails intact.  It turns out they weren’t spies after all.  It seems that Maya had been to Morocco before and this had raised red flags.  At least she wasn’t carrying any batteries or we might still be there waiting.  Apparently, the bomb scare was a result of an abandoned bag in the building, but it ended up just being an abandoned bag.

We caught a taxi and made our way into town.  Since we were just passing through, we only had time for one meal in Israel.  If you have read some of my earlier posts, you know that I have been to McDonald’s in every country I have ever been to (except Ecuador and I had to settle for McPollo’s in Colombia), so I managed to talk everyone in to going to the McDonald’s at, of all places, the Mall.  We were definitely back in the first world again.

After that gut bomb, we got back in a taxi and headed to the Jordanian border.  If you have ever seen any of the old black and white Cold War movies showing the Berlin border crossing, you can picture this particular crossing as well.  In the old movies, there are two sets of fences and gates, probably two or three hundred yards apart on a very open plain, with nothing in between but a small, two lane road.  In the movies, the spy escaping from the East runs between the borders and inevitably gets shot by the bad guys and falls in a heap at the feet of his girl/handler/fellow spy.

This was the same.  Sara and I passed through the Israeli gate and then walked, all alone, only the two of us, down this desolate road, approaching the Jordanian gate some two hundred yards away, with three armed guards watching us the entire way.  We looked back and the Israeli guards were also watching us.  It was eerie to say the least.  I kept waiting for the shot, but, well, of course they didn’t shoot us.  After all, they still had Mike and Maya, international spies, who would be coming along in about five minutes.

On the other side, we all regrouped and the four of us caught a taxi for the two hour ride to Wadi Musa, the town outside of Petra, our final stop on this amazing journey through ancient history.

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Since our bus did not have a working bathroom, Sara took the opportunity to visit the Ladies Room at the bus terminal.  She was late getting out of the bus and, consequently, when the bus driver was ready to leave, she was nowhere to be found.  I was getting worried, not for her safety, this was a pretty safe area, but I wanted to make sure they didn’t leave her.  I walked up to the front of the bus as the driver was starting it up.  “Excuse me, sir, but my wife is in the bathroom.  Do you mind just waiting a minute?”  He sort of looked at me, but it was obvious he did not comprehend anything I was saying.  I started using hand gestures, pointing to myself, saying, “my wife” and then pointing to the terminal, “bathroom”.  No good.

The driver called some friends over.  At first I thought maybe one of them spoke English, but later realized that they really just wanted to laugh at me.  They all stared as I pointed to my wedding ring, “my wife” and then “bathroom”.  They just looked and then one of them said something in Arabic and they all broke out laughing.  Needless to say, I was getting a bit frustrated, when the driver sat down in his seat and started to pull away.  The doors were still open, so I jumped down as if to get off of the bus.  He made a motion to stay and his friends pushed me back on.  Geez, what was going on here?  I looked around the rest of the bus to get some help, but I got the quick ‘look away’ as I scanned the faces in the now mostly empty seats.

The driver drove across the parking lot with me still pointing and now yelling, “bathroom…bathroom…bathroom.”  Then a sudden thought hit me.  “Toilet,” I yelled.  “She’s in the toilet.”  He pulled over and stopped at the other side of the parking lot.  Add that to your list of things to learn about a country you are visiting:  what do the locals call the restroom?  Toilet, WC.  Definitely not bathroom.

A few minutes later Sara ran up huffing, “I thought you guys left me.”  I just looked at her and shook my head.

Now that the bus was less crowded, we took the opportunity to get to know some of the other passengers.  The first couple was from China, but they were currently living in Holland and were in Egypt on holiday.  Their goal in Dahab was to learn SCUBA diving.  They had traveled quite a bit and made us jealous with all of the countries that they had seen.

The second couple were brother and sister, Mike and Maya, from Switzerland, but they spoke to each other in Italian.  When they spoke to us, their English was so perfect that the could have been from Michigan.  It turns out that theirs is a very complicated story.  They were born and grew up for a while in Switzerland, but ended up moving to the States when they were still young.  In school they had been forced to speak to each other in Italian, so that was their habit, but they also spoke German and French.  Mike also worked in a field that allowed him to learn an obscure African dialect.  He was currently living in Israel, so he had picked up some Hebrew and was taking Arabic classes.  Sara speaks Chinese (Mandarin) and understands Cantonese and Taiwanese.  Me, I speak Southern, so it looks like all of us together can go just about anywhere in the world.

The six of us got to talking and decided to share a taxi to our hotels in Dahab.  Since Mike had the most Arabic experience, he was elected to do the bargaining.  This was a job that Mike would take on many, many more times throughout the rest of our trip.  He did a great job and got us an excellent price for a ride in the back of a pickup truck into town.  We all exchanged hotel information and separated with a plan to meet back up for dinner.  We never saw the Chinese couple again, but ended up spending the day snorkeling with Mike and Maya.

I would be lying if I told you that Dahab had the most beautiful beach in the world.  However, there was something alluring about the Red Sea (actually the Gulf of Aqaba, part of the Red Sea) that made it an absolutely incredible experience.  The reef came right up to the shore, so it was necessary to walk on it about 50 yards until it dropped off to about 35 feet.  We had rented snorkel gear and walked south out of the city to a highly recommended swim spot.  Most of the reef was dead, but there were enough fish and a few corals to make it interesting.  Plus, it was great just getting wet after the heat of the desert.  And, again, it was the Red Sea!

The main street in Dahab runs along the beach, with hotels and restaurants on either side.  Our hotel was across the street from the beach, but they had another hotel with a pool right on the beach that was available for us to enjoy.  We swam in the pool and enjoyed lounging by the beach for the rest of the day.

After a nice shower (our room was awesome, the shower was fully enclosed so we didn’t have to squeegee the bathroom), we met Mike and Maya for drinks (they had juice, we had tea - wild bunch) at Funny Mummy and then walked down the boardwalk to find a restaurant.  We found one that Mike had visited on his last trip here and got a table on the water, literally.  The restaurant, Aladdin, was an outdoor deck built out over the water.  Our table was on the edge of the deck, so we could reach over and touch the water.

It was a memorable night and Dahab definitely lived up to its reputation as a laid back beach town.  I can see an argument that it is getting a bit more built up and touristy, but we enjoyed it thoroughly and would recommend it to anyone who is into no-frills relaxation.  Now off to bed, for tomorrow we go to Israel and Jordan.  I can’t wait to tell you about the bomb scare at the Israeli border.

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During the planning of the trip, there was no question that we wanted to see at least a little bit of the Sinai Peninsula.  But we had a choice.  The two popular destinations on the Red Sea were Sharm El Sheikh and Dahab.  After reading much on the Internet and our trusted Lonely Planet guide book, we decided to forgo Sharm and go to Dahab, for a more low-key and authentic “Red Sea Experience”.  Then there were the two choices of how to get there, a fast ferry to Sharm then bus, or a straight bus ride from Luxor to Dahab.  The price difference was steep, with the ferry route costing more than double.  And the departure time of the bus gave us an extra day in Luxor.  So, with the knowledge that we would have to be cramped up in the bus for 15 to 17 hours, we decided on going the true independent traveler style, the bus.

So to pick up from our last post, we finished our tea and sheesha, walked over to grab two shwarma sandwiches for the ride and headed over to the bus station.  We had learned that Luxor now has a new bus stop near the train station instead of the one that is a half-hour outside of town.  So we confidently walked over to the train station.  However, when we arrived at the train station, there was no sign of the bus stop.  We walked around the station several times and found no signs and no buses.  Just when we were getting a bit nervous, we saw a couple of backpackers sitting in front of an unmarked store right next to the station.  We approached, then realized that the store was in fact, the bus station.  OK, now that we had found other travelers, we felt more relaxed.  I think it’s a “safety in numbers” thing…

While we were waiting for the bus, another couple showed up and they looked obviously East Asian.  Then I heard them speaking Mandarin, so I introduced myself.  Turned out they were a Chinese couple living in Holland, heading to Dahab to learn scuba diving.  Just about now, the girl of the second backpacking couple (with whom we have not  yet spoken) showed up in tears telling us how her ATM card was eaten by the machine.  She tried to go to the bank and get it back, but they told her that she will have to come back on Monday…  And this was how we met our new travel companions Maya and Mike, sister and brother, with whom we traveled for the rest of the trip.

About two weeks before the trip, I had thought perhaps I should learn a few words in Arabic, so I borrowed the Pimsleur Egyptian Arabic CD set from the library.  It turned out that I didn’t learn anything useful at all.  The whole first CD was to teach you how to say, “I don’t speak Arabic” and “Do you speak English”, in Arabic.  I thought that was incredibly useless.  Do I really need to say “I don’t speak Arabic” in Arabic?  Wouldn’t people just get that? Anyway, but I thought that at least we wouldn’t have to worry about reading numbers.  After all, the numeric system that we use in the US is the “Arabic Numbers”, right?  Wrong.

Apparently Arabic countries have a different numbering system…  So on this bus, which had assigned seats, we had no way of telling where we should sit.  We decided to play dumb tourists and picked the most comfortable seats right behind the back door and plopped our stuff down.  No one said anything to us, however there was obvious confusion on the seating for other local passengers since we did not sit in our assigned seats.  So everyone else just sat wherever the bus director told them to sit.  And whenever the director looked at us, we gave him the dopey ignorant tourist grin, he just left us alone and probably thought it easier to just find seats for the other passengers.  The bus departed on time around 4 pm, leaving Maya’s ATM card in Luxor…

The bus rolled on into the desert.  We passed some pretty heavily armed check points along the way.  The desert changed colors as the sun set, from brown to warm yellow to bright red, then finally pitch black.  Hours later and after a couple of very dingy rest stops, they turned out the lights and started a movie on the two TV screens in the bus.  It was of course in Arabic, but I was able to understand the plot of the movie from the action.  It was a B-rated movie at best, but I was thoroughly enjoying the movie.  That was, until the hero of the movie became a freedom fighter and started guerrilla warfare against the military…  The military guys did not have flags to identify what country they were from.  For some reason, I had a panic that this was an Anti-American movie.  But truly, I didn’t really sense any Anti-American sentiment while we were traveling.  The military guys were probably the Israelis…  I would later find out from Mike that it was in fact the Israelis and not the Americans.  But at that moment, I wasn’t sure,  so with an uneasiness, I scooted down lower into my chair and tried to sleep.

Somehow, it was a lot harder to fall asleep than being on an airplane.  I must have finally dozed off, because I was awakened suddenly by a gust of fresh air.  We had come to another rest stop.  I got up with my hair now looking like a bird’s nest and shuffled my feet to the grotesque scene of a usual Egyptian restroom.  I realized we were on the coast now.  The desert heat had let up a bit and the wind was howling, still reminded me of a hair dryer, with a fishy scent of the sea.  I stood outside for a few minutes, actually enjoying the strangeness of it all.  After the bus started rolling again, I fell asleep.

From my calculation, I must have slept for a couple of hours.  When I woke up again, it was about 6:30 and bright out already.  From other blog posts that I have read, the bus’s arrival time is uncertain, kind of depends on the road condition.  So we did not have a clue where we were and when we would arrive at Dahab.  The trip should take “15 to 17 hours” the posts concluded.  However, our trip would prove to be just another hour longer than that, since we finally rolled into Sharm El Sheikh at 8:30 am.  Dahab is now just 1 1/2 hours away…

Mohamed, our tour guide, recommended that since we had seen the ‘major’ attractions the day before, we should see the Tombs of the Nobles, the Workmen’s Village and the Medinet Habu.

At our first stop, the Tombs of the Nobles, there was literally no one there.  If you are looking for an authentic ancient Egyptian site without all of the tourists, this should be your first stop.  The tombs were located in between and under current dwellings.  However, our tour guide expressed deep shock as we drove up and then complete amazement as we parked and walked to the first tomb.  It seems that the government’s interest in turning Luxor into one big outdoor museum had taken its toll here.  All of the houses had been razed.  There was nothing but barren hillside and holes in the ground going to the tombs.  Mohamed had been there two weeks prior and the houses had all been standing.  He was not sure where the government had relocated everyone, but there was no one around.  No one.  It was eerie to say the least.  At last, an old man showed up to let us into the tombs.  The tombs themselves were beautiful and well-preserved.  We enjoyed our time here, but Mohamed assured us that this was nothing compared to the Workmen’s Village, our next stop.

The Workmen’s Village was just that, a village filled with the workers who built the tombs for the pharaohs and nobles in ancient times.  It was one of the few areas located on the west side of the river where people actually lived.  People mainly only lived on the east side due to their association of death with the setting sun and, consequently, the west.

Art in ancient Egypt was a strictly regulated activity.  The Egyptians were very, very conservative people and their art reflects that.  Its style remains virtually unchanged over several thousand years.  The only period of innovation was during the reign of Akhenaten, but after his death, it quickly reverted back to the traditional style.

In order to accomplish this, there was a strict routine established and followed for every painting.  First, a group of men would establish a grid pattern on the wall to be painted.  There was then an artist responsible for each part of the painting.  For example, there was one artist for the eyes.  That is all he did, paint eyes.  There was another that was in charge of knees, another for feet, and so on.  You can imagine that this somewhat limited creativity.  The artist would show up, paint eyes on the wall and then go home.  All eyes, all day.  Henry Ford could not have come up with anything more efficient.

We found that the artists really went all out, though, when it came to their own personal tombs.  While the style was still the same, the attention to detail was impeccable.  The colors were still bright and robust, as if they had been painted the week before we arrived.  Once again, if you want to get away from the huge crowds and see some truly stunning work, the Workmen’s Village is at the top of the list.  Our guide book warned us that there might be crowds, but we were the only ones there.  Memorable to say the least.

We stopped for a Coke and while Sara was in the restroom, I discovered a new scam.  I was feeling a bit run down, so I wanted a big Coke to last a while (Super-Size me).  I asked our waiter how much the liter bottle of Coke was.  10 pounds ($2).  OK, a bit high, but we were in the boonies (literally BFE) so I had no choice.  He delivered it to the table.  I twisted the cap and heard that wonderful ‘psht’ of a cold Coke opening on a very hot day, caught the wiff of the, well the smell of Coke, and then, interrupting my bliss, got tapped on the shoulder by the manager saying that it was the waiter’s first day and it was really 20 pounds.  Not having had my morning caffeine, my head exploded, but I withheld every dirty expletive (where was my potty-mouthed wife when I needed her?).  I calmly paid the extra 10 pounds and drank my Coke in silence.

Our final stop with our guide was Medinet Habu, a temple complex built by Ramses III.  It was a very imposing structure with very well preserved artwork inside.  Most current surviving carvings in temple walls are just that:  carvings.  Consequently, the impression that they give is one of very bland temples, all the color of mud or rock.  However, the truth is that most of the walls were painted a variety of vivid colors, bringing the imagery to life.  In modern times, the paint has just washed away, leaving only the outlines.  But at Medinet Habu, much of the original colors, while a bit faded, still exist and give a dramatically different impression of Egyptian temples.  While this is not a must-see, it is close.  If you have the time, go.

After our tour, we checked out of our hotel, but had several hours to kill before boarding our bus to the Red Sea.  We found that our hotel had a very nice restaurant in the alley next to it…literally, in the alley.  They had several tables lined up under umbrellas and if you sat in one, a waiter would appear as if from nowhere and bring you a menu.  Once you placed your order, she would disappear again, we never did see where, and a few minutes later, she would reappear with food.  It was some of the most delicious we had yet had on the trip.  Then, still hours away from the bus, we opted for some hot tea (yes, it was over 105 degrees out, but someone else had appeared while we were eating and had turned on an air conditioner that blew crisp, cold air right on us…it was heaven).

Then, Sara talked me in to trying a sheesha.  She had been wanting to try it ever since we arrived in Cairo.  A sheesha is a huge water pipe for smoking flavored tobacco, at least three feet tall, with a metal bowl for the tobacco and a glass enclosure for water, used to filter the smoke, and a tube coming out with which to inhale  ( a big water bong for those of you who know what that is).  It is customary for men to go to clubs scattered throughout the cities and hang out, play board games and smoke sheesha.  Women generally are not allowed, although that is changing in some of the more liberal clubs (what is this world coming to, next thing they’ll be allowed to show their hair in public, or maybe even vote).  Anyway, I had been avoiding this as best I could.  For one, I cannot stand smoking.  I love the anti-smoking laws they have passed in California.  If it is improper for me to fart in public, and believe me, I could clear a small stadium, it should be improper to smoke in public.  But also, not being a smoker, I was a bit afraid of it making me sick, right before a long bus ride.

Well, I decided to try it, rationalizing that it is the local custom and I could then say that I had, in fact, experienced it.  We opted for the apple-carcinogen-flavored variety.  I nervously took my first ‘hit’, inhaled deeply and coughed it all out.  Sara tried it and behaved like a professional, even looking sophisticated.  I tried again, wheezing and coughing, and drawing a crowd of onlookers.  The thing about sheesha is that it is a fairly large ball of tobacco, supposed to last quite some time.  After my fifth attempt, I actually felt one of my lungs pop up into the back of my throat, and I called it quits, much to the dismay of the restaurant and hotel staff, some of the other restaurant patrons, an old man watching in the distance, and a couple of cats ready to pounce should I manage to liberate my lunch.

At last it was time to head to the bus station, a short walk away.  I was really dreading such a long bus ride, but how bad could it be, eh?

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In Luxor, known as Thebes in ancient times, almost all of the pharaohs from the New Kingdom (the last major period of ancient Egypt before the Ptolemies) can be found buried in the Valley of the Kings.  It is important to remember that the Pyramids are mostly from the Old Kingdom, over 1000 years prior to the New Kingdom.  The pyramids were as much of a wonder to the people of the New Kingdom as they are today.

We took a ferry to the West Bank and toured three tombs in the Valley of the Kings.  One thing to remember about ancient Egypt is the extreme conservatism of the Egyptians.  With the exception of Akhenaten, they did not make much progress or take risks in their art for thousands of years.  Consequently, if you see one tomb, you’ve seen them all.  There is no real need to visit all of the tombs, including paying the extra pounds to see King Tut’s.  We opted to visit the standard fare and were quite amazed by the handiwork inside.

What I found even more interesting was watching a current excavation taking place.  I have no idea what they were uncovering, but there were dozens of workers moving buckets of dirt from one area to another.

We also discovered why the Egyptian army seems to get its butt kicked by the Israelis from time to time.  Throughout Egypt there are armed guards posted at various strategic spots, I would guess, to deter terrorism.  One such guard was posted in front of one of the tombs at our next stop, the Valley of the Queens.  Except, he was asleep.  Imagine, if you will, a man sitting upright, between his legs rests his rifle, with the butt of the rifle on the ground between his feet and the rifle pointing straight up.  Lacking any comfortable place to rest his head, he decides to rest his head on the end of the barrel…of his rifle.  I happened to do a bit of weapons training during my time in the Navy and I can assure you that this is frowned upon.

Our final stop of the morning was the Temple of Hatshepsut.  This is incredibly beautiful from a distance, very grand and striking set against a mountainous backdrop.  However, upon close examination, it loses a bit of its luster when one realizes that it has mostly been rebuilt in modern times.  Still, one can imagine what it must have been like during ancient times with its carvings and statues intact.

We took the ferry back to the ship and I must admit, I was a bit sad to leave.  We had really grown to like our new friends, Bob, Paula, Eli, Alex and Maria.  We had also quickly adapted to the luxury of a 5-star cruise ship.  But alas, it was time to move on to our new hotel for our final night in Luxor.  Our tour guide mentioned that if we had time, we could grab one more meal in the dining room before we left, so we decided to have a nice lunch before we hit the road.  Screwed again, of course.  He forgot to mention that they would charge us for this meal, and it would be the most expensive meal we would eat in all of Egypt times two.  Oh well, we made up for it with our $17 hotel later that evening.

The rest of the day was spent napping in our new room, wandering the streets of Luxor and eating in an amazing open air restaurant, Sofra, that really gave us a feel for authentic Egyptian cuisine.

I will say that our hotel was one of the more ‘interesting’ ones I have ever stayed in.  We certainly got our $17 worth.  To start, the sheets on the bed did not quite actually cover the bed, so the mattress was ever so slightly visible on each side of the bottom sheet.  Luckily, the air conditioning worked, but we could not turn it too high because the top blanket also did not cover the bed, so you can imagine with both of us under it, there would be parts of us sticking out.  The bathroom was about four feet by four feet, with a sink, toilet and shower head.  It was situated such that while showering, you had to straddle the toilet (there was nothing to catch the water, save the hole in the floor).  To accommodate our European friends, they had fashioned a makeshift bidet, which was a small metal pipe coming up and around and extending over the  toilet bowl.  I stayed clear of this, however, having shot myself in the crotch with one on our night train from Cairo to Aswan.  I was fully clothed at the time, so that was a bit embarrassing.

Aside from the room, however, the hotel was a fun experience and the people were very nice.  We didn’t come to Egypt to hang out in our room anyway.  Before bed, we arranged for a guided tour and private van to some of the lesser visited sites on the West Bank for the following morning.  We had one more day in Luxor and then it was time for hell on wheels:  an 18-hour bus ride across Egypt and the Sinai to the Red Sea…not a tour bus…not a chartered bus…the Egyptian Greyhound.  But that is for tomorrow.

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