Blisters, Bridges, and a Priest from Manila: Day Two on the Camino de Santiago

 

Waking Up in Arcade. Breakfast and the Locals

We awoke from our single beds refreshed even though it felt like a vintage Camino Way guesthouse out of Lucy and Desi’s 1950s sitcom (see The Lucy Show). This, we assumed, was because single beds were for people who weren’t necessarily partners. You saw a fair amount of that on the Camino Way. Personally, Cyn and I like to sleep in the same bed. You don’t necessarily get more rest, but it’s a lot more fun!

Once awakened and sensible, we descended to the restaurant downstairs for breakfast. A group of middle-aged men sat by the bar, sipping espressos, with buttered croissants, jacked on caffeine and talking in rapid Spanish over whatever newspapers they had clasped in their hands. It was a lively but good natured discussion, obviously a daily ritual, and I wished I could have gotten involved, but my Spanglish was no match for the latin phrases pouring so swiftly from their mustachioed lips.

Breakfast was served at the same table we had supped the night before: coffee and tart, pulpy orange juice with eggs over easy were placed in front of us along with spicy sausage, thick white toast and rice. We inhaled it, drank some more coffee and surveyed our situation. Next on the Camino Portugués route, our destination was the historic city of Pontevedra, a short seven-mile walk compared to the 14 mile Trail of Blisters we managed to survive the day before.

After breakfast, and back in our room, we re-stuffed our daypacks, I nursed my blisters with a couple of bandaids and we headed outside to bid the wood-sculpted pilgrim at San Salvador de Soutomaior, the church across the street, good-bye. He said nothing in reply. Apparently taking a vow of silence.

Statue of pilgrim of San Salvador de Soutomaior in paved courtyard

The Walk Begins: Roman Bridges and Morning Heat

We saw other pilgrims as we walked through the town, but there seemed to be less of them than the day before. They strode along the path in the sunshine with their backpacks strapped on, some with walking sticks or staffs, others hoofing it old fashioned way. Groups spoke excitedly in various languages, and loners moved over the cobbled stones quiet and determined. The morning was gorgeous but you could already feel the heat. At the edge of the town we crossed a long and beautiful stone bridge, the Ponte Sampaio, one of the most iconic crossings on the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago, with its ten elongated arches. The bridge was originally built by the Romans with masonry that would have done the castles of Camelot proud.

Meeting Father LaSana and His Students

Beyond the bridge, we made our way north, skirting the Rio de Vigo before heading into trees and hills away from the town.  Rivers or streams always seem to be near the Camino because once upon a time there was no running water, no hotels, no restaurants. It was nature or nothing. The streams also have the advantage of being relatively flat, having cut their way through valleys and passes over the eons. Not that “The Way” is ever utterly flat. There were always hills and valleys, ups and downs, much like life.

As we approached the woods, a man walked up to Cyndy speaking perfect English and asked if she was from Pittsburgh. Yes, she agreed, she was. The man knew because Cyndy often kept a sweatshirt stuffed like a little billboard on her back under her day pack that had the word PITTSBURGH emblazoned upon it. He knew the name because he was from Delaware, but currently living in the Philippines.

He was a tall man with a big smile.  How he had ended up in the Philippines and why he was walking the Camino Way was a little complicated. He was a priest—just one of many unexpected encounters you have when meeting people on the Camino. He had asked his bosses to move him from his previous job in the United States to a place closer to the East Coast so that he could be near his family.

“There was a discussion,” he said, “and after a few hours, my supervisors moved me a little further east than I originally intended — Manila.” He smiled his big smile. “I told them that was a little farther east than the location I originally had in mind, but I took the assignment.“

For the past 7 years he had worked as the chaplain in a school for students from kindergarten to grade 12. This explained why he had an boisterous crew of teens clustered with him as we walked.

Father Andre LaSana was a member of a relatively new Catholic priesthood — the Legionnaires of Christ. They sounded unusually similar to the Jesuits – The Society of Jesus — to me — priests who had taught me in high school. I had contemplated becoming a Jesuit myself so I was intrigued. The Legionnaires’ goal, said Fr. LaSana, was to engage not simply within the church, but outside of it – link with the real world. All members of the order take vows of humility, poverty, chastity, and obedience. Very much like the Jebbie’s. And like the Jesuits, it takes a long time to get from deciding to be a member of the priesthood to finally being ordained. Thirteen years in Fr. LaSana’s case.

Legionaires had been founded in the 1940s by a charismatic Catholic priest from Mexico named Marcial Maciel. He grew the Legionnaires quickly and effectively world-wide for over 60 years, but according to the BBC, a 2019 report found that he had personally abused at least 60 children, and that another 33 priests of the order abused minors as well. The total number of children abused by the order since its founding in 1941 came to at least 175, an appalling number and this from a report generated within the order! Fr. Le Sana was forthright about this history. In fact he brought it to my attention when we were talking.

The Legionaries of Christ eventually acknowledged their founder's "reprehensible and objectively immoral behavior" as head of the congregation. The "very serious and objectively immoral acts" of Maciel, which were "confirmed by incontrovertible testimonies", represented "true crimes and manifest a life without scruples or authentic religious sentiment", the Vatican said. Maciel was eventually defrocked and the order was required by Pope Benedict XVI to undergo a process of “purification.” Fr. LaSana told me he thought things had changed, but after 70 years of abuse, many questions remain about the church’s early efforts to hide the facts. 

We walked on through the morning and I talked with some of the young men in the group. There was Miguel, Emilio, Nick Reyes, Nico and several more, but Fr. LaSana said most of them had Filipino nicknames like BongBong and TenTen, and Jell-o (for Angelo). They came from well-to-do Filipino households mostly. Very bright with excellent English. One student planned to be a doctor, another a lawyer, maybe. He said he wasn't sure just yet which made sense to me. He was only 15. It's early, I told him, and suggested he keep his options open. He looked at me thoughtfully and then said, “Of course. That makes sense.”

I asked them their favorite foods and almost universally they told me it was the Filipino version of McDonald's – fast fried chicken with rice or french fries. They were big fans of American movies but didn't have much to say about the Camino Way, at least the religious aspects of it. According to them, it was just a cool opportunity, and a great way to see a part of the world they might never see again. 

Through Forests, Rivers, and Reflections

In time, we split off from Fr. LaSana and his brood, and climbed into low mountains through green forests that provided some relief from the rising heat. You find your mind undertakes little journeys of its own when wandering for hours like this. That was one the advantages of walking The Way. It becomes a spiritual journey whether you intend it or not for the simple reason that it gives you to hours to wander the pathways of your own contemplations. I’ve always found that time expands when I travel. When home we grow accustomed to the same things day after day, but when we travel we cram far more into our day than when we’re home. The first time I took a long trip to Europe in my 20s, I remembered waiting for my parents to pick me up at the airport and thinking surely I had been away for a year. It was only four weeks. But I had jammed so many fresh experiences into those for weeks that I felt time had expanded. This makes travel a kind of time machine, or at least a time expander, a way to get more out of the limits life normally imposes. That is surely one reason why I love travel so much and why Cyn and I were making this journey around the world. The Camino Way was a mini-version of our larger pilgrimage. We were filling each day with more of everything around us, which in turn led to more insights and surprise which made life even more interesting, more joyful, more satisfying, even on rough days.

The route to Pontevedra was idyllic compared to the day before. On day one our battered feet tramped on more pavement than dirt or grass and we saw more cars and trucks than birds or greenery. Today was the opposite. We passed a lovely little chapel as pristine as a cut diamond, and a small farm thick with grapes and peppers and tomatoes.  We found that This section of the Camino Portugués followed Roman Road XIX, a route nearly 2,000 years old and still bearing the worn rock and milestones from the era of the Roman Empire. Circles of yellow sunshine danced through the trees and over moss covered rocks, ferns and birches. If only these rocks could talk, I thought, what stories they could; these thousands upon thousands of pilgrims stretched across time and place in search of salvation and the final resting place of Saint James. At one point I heard a cowbell as we tramped along, and sure enough, there the animal stood among the bushes, indelicately scratching her hind quarters with her back hoof. Clang-clang-clang. I never thought I'd hear that sound in the 21st-century, which shows how much I know about the world.

An Unexpected Fall Near Pontevedra

After a couple of hours we had begun closing in on Pontevedra, but my feet continued losing their battle with the hard ground, and now, not only were my blisters yelping, but Cyn’s had begun to grow a crop of her own. “I hope not,” I said. “Not both of us. We need to find a pharmacy, and get some moleskin.”

Nevertheless, we continued on, in search of relief if nothing else. We were, at least, walking among shaded forest, and had found ourselves walking along a creek of cool water. Out of nowhere among the trees, I stumbled upon a small walled building that seemed to serve no purpose, except as a kind of artistic canvas because it was festooned with artwork, including the silhouetted image of another pilgrim determined to make his way to the grave of the great apostle.

He wore a broad-brimmed Franciscan hat on his head, clearly determined to complete his journey, but static, locked in time. I saluted him as I passed and continued following the stream which must have recently flooded because some of the path was muddy and rutted. For a second I thought I might sit and submerge my crippled feet in the cool water, but decided instead to check my GPS to see how close were to the Pontevedra. That’s when I stuck my foot in a hole and gave it a damn fine twist …

I fell like a sack of beans.

Over time I generally outpace Cyn on our walks. It’s a side effect of having legs considerably longer than hers. I never mean to leave her behind, it’s just that when I turn around to say something, she’s not there! But now she caught up and found me sitting on the damp ground, sock off my left foot, rubbing it as if it were a genie that might deliver a few wishes. If only. Cyn figured I had decided to dip my feet in the cool water too, but I was really checking to see how badly I had twisted my ankle because if it was bad, finishing the hike was going to be a problem. Just getting to Pontevedra was going to be a problem. It wasn’t as if we could hail a taxi and text Uber.

We looked the appendage over. It was nasty, but I had had worse. When I stood up and put weight on it, it wasn’t terrible, as long as I moved forward and stayed on the level. Any turn to the right or left, or any uneven slope or rock, and white shards of sharp pain shot down my leg — thigh to ankle.  I apparently had what doctor’s like to call a high ankle sprain. That was Dr. Walter’s diagnosis, anyhow. Good news. I could walk. Bad news. It takes a long time for this to heal. I put the foot in the creek water right away to reduce the swelling and after 15 minutes, we headed, me limping, into town.

Arrival, Pharmacies, and Finding Relief

Pontevedra is a charming city, larger than Arcade, considerably smaller than Vigo. We found our hotel, a very clean, modern affair located in a part of the town that lay right along The Way. Before we did another thing, we found a farmacia (pharmacy), easily discovered thanks to the neon green crosses that mark each store (essential knowledge if you’re wondering where to buy blister care supplies on the Camino). Inside we bought a few yards of the Compeed® that the store sold. Compeed is a clear, almost elastic tape created to fight blisters by protecting the skin before it’s irritated, or, if it’s too late, after a blister has formed. Either way it saves the skin from the shoe that wants so badly to rub your life miserable. The stuff was a godsend and once we showered we slapped it on with a vengeance. Immediate relief, but still not as good as moleskin in my mind. But as far as we could see Moleskin is not much sold in Europe.

Showered, cooled and thoroughly Compeeded, we ate at the restaurant downstairs. I have no notes to explain what we shoved in our mouths. I’m sure it was good because walking The Way builds the appetite of a marathoner and anything placed on a plate tastes good. Afterwards, with our feet feeling less fiery, we walked the neighborhood, stopped for a couple of cappuccinos as the sun settled toward the horizon and a listened a raucous flock of birds hidden in a nearby tree make a racket that would have done Lead Zeppelin proud. We didn’t last long into the night, charming as the area was. We were fried and sleep beckoned from our air conditioned single beds ending another unforgettable day on the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago.

FAQ

Q1: How long is the walk from Arcade to Pontevedra?

A: The stage is about 7 miles (11 km), making it a relatively easy day compared to longer stretches.

Q2: What challenges should I expect on this route?

A: The path includes hills, uneven ground, and cobblestones, which can cause blisters or even ankle sprains. Heat can also be a factor, so start early and carry water.

Q3: What landmarks will I see along the way?

A: Pilgrims pass the Ponte Sampaio, a Roman-era bridge with ten arches, and sections of the Roman Road 19. The route also winds through forests, chapels, and small farms.

Q4: Who do pilgrims typically meet on this stage?

A: Expect to meet a mix of international travelers, locals, priests, students, and solo walkers. Many walk for spiritual reasons, but others simply for culture, fitness, or adventure.

Q5: How can I treat or prevent blisters on the Camino?

A: Local pharmacies sell Compeed blister pads, which work well for prevention and treatment. Traditional moleskin is less common in Spain, so bring some if you prefer it. Cooling feet in streams, wearing good socks, and taking breaks also help.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/camino-de-santiago-day-2-arcade-to-pontevedra

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Frolicking Sea Lions in Trinity Island, Antarctica

 

Even after these past days of remarkable views, today’s may be the most remarkable of all. We walk among the penguins enjoying their childlike behavior, see a frolicking leopard seal and gaze on the mountains and glaciers gliding along on our zodiacs, and a solitary penguin wandering his own private glacier. The videos and images tell the story.

From Day 525 of the Vagabond Adventure. You can read more about our Antarctic Expedition here: https://vagabond-adventure.com/vagabond-journal/category/Antarctica

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Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid A Classic Movie Revisited

 Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was a breakout hit when it was released in 1969.  Over a half century later, it remains an enduring, beloved revisionist western.

There are a long list of reasons underlying its success, starting with the all-star teaming of Paul Newman and newcomer Robert Redford whose career was about to skyrocket.  And let’s not forget the casting of Katherine Ross who had appeared as Dustin Hoffman’s love interest in The Graduate (1967).  The Oscar-winning screenplay was written by William Goldman, who collected his second Oscar a few years later for All the President’s Men (1976).  It was directed by George Roy Hill, Oscar winning director of The Sting (1973).  Conrad Hall won an Oscar for his work on Burch Cassidy.

Suffice it to say that there was a ton of talent in front of the lens and behind it.

But that doesn’t guarantee a successful movie or a movie that will stand the test of time.

As with all the great Hollywood films, there is some degree of movie magic that enters in.

It was a movie of the times.  It was part of a curious chapter of Hollywood history in which protagonists often died at the end of the movie, as they famously did in Easy Rider, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? or The Wild Bunch, all released in 1969.

You could argue that Hollywood reflected the pessimism surrounding the Vietnam War in the late Sixties.

An interesting distinction regarding Butch Cassidy is that the audience was spared witnessing the brutality of the hero’s demise thanks to the brilliant decision to freeze frame Butch and Sundance as they run out into the courtyard, guns blazing, just before time stops and we hear the sound of the dozens of rifles that gruesomely gun them down.

It was a far cry from the slow motion “Ballet of Death” blood bath that Sam Peckinpah served up at the end of The Wild Bunch.

Aside from the famous ending, Butch Cassidy had much to offer.  It was essentially a comedy, a buddy flick about two likeable bank robbers, intent on robbing banks and trains and not killing anyone. 

They were good guys who were admittedly bad guys, but entirely forgivable due to their chemistry, charm and abundant good looks.  The pairing of Newman and Redford was a stroke of pure genius that perhaps remains unequaled to this day.  It was perfection.

Butch Cassidy certainly took some risks.  It was based on a true story that had a tragic ending.  You knew it wouldn’t end well.  And yet, much of it was played for lightheartedness and laughs.

I’m thinking of the famous bicycle scene played to the tune of Burt Bacharach’s “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head” (sung by B.J. Thomas).  It’s a quirky sequence that feels like it doesn’t belong in the movie, yet it works despite the strong resistance from studio management at the time. 

It won an Oscar for Best Original Song and the movie won another Oscar for Best Music, making a total of four Academy Awards for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

The song forever evokes the sequence of Paul Newman riding Katherine Ross on the handlebars of a vintage bicycle on a sunlit morning—a romantic little romp that ends with the bicycle crashing through a fence and unexpectedly landing in a pen of a snorting bull.  It’s the mix of romance and comedy that defines Butch Cassidy.

One of the biggest comedic scenes in the movie comes when Butch and Sundance are chased to the edge of a cliff and realize that they will have to jump to save their lives.  When Sundance hesitates, Butch discovers that Sundance can’t swim, prompting the now famous line, “Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill ya!”

The scene of the legendary jump is one of Hollywood’s greatest stunt sequences in which two stunt men jump from an elevated tower into a tank of water.  The scene is made to appear real with the use of a “glass shot” in which the cliff was painted on a pane of glass placed in front of the camera, obscuring the tower and tank of water, making it appear that Butch and Sundance were jumping off a cliff and into the river below.

The dramatic element of Butch Cassidy is the relentless pursuit of the unstoppable posse intent to bringing our heroes to justice.  They are the dark force always looming in the distance, despite the frolicking and fun.  That sense of inescapable gloom and doom might have been another reason that Butch Cassidy resonated with Vietnam era audiences.

Eventually, Butch and Sundance concoct a plan to escape to freedom by fleeing to Bolivia.

It is where they meet their fate, depicted in the famous standoff and shootout in the final reel of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 

It’s one of the truly great movie endings.  One that you never, ever forget.

In reality, there is still much debate as to whether Butch and Sundance really bit the bullet as the film suggests or whether one or both of them managed to escape.  The truth may forever remain a mystery.

In the meantime, the movie version and the Hollywood ending will continue to entertain audiences with its own charming telling of the tale.

55 years later, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid still entertains audiences -- a Vietnam-era revisionist western for the ages, starring perhaps the best talent paring of all time.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/butch-cassidy-and-the-sundance-kid-movie-review

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The Train to Marrakesh to Casablanca and then Rabat

 

The Marrakesh train station is broad, clean and organized. Cyn and I towed our baggage toward some passenger seats, tickets in hand awaiting the announcement of our train north to Casablanca, connecting to Rabat. Outside we could see the long nose of a high speed train gazing back at us. As we approached I noticed a slim, pretty woman, perhaps 35; sharp nose, dark eyes and perfect olive skin, sitting quietly on a string of chairs. She wore a black hijab, and I was certain she was Moroccan when she turned and out of her mouth came an Irish brogue that would have shamed a Dublin bartender.

 “Hello,” she said, “do yah need me tah move?” I nearly dropped my day pack.

Once we settled into seats next to her, I said I had to ask where that Irish lilt came from. Very prim, hands crossed on her lap, she explained. Her name was Zayneb. “But most people call me Z.”

Z was part Irish and part Libyan; a mother and a poetess. Both work and marriage meant bouncing between Ireland and Morocco, which explained why she was awaiting the same train we were. But what about the brogue?

It started with her Libyan father, she said, Mohammed, who was sitting in a bar in Ireland several decades ago talking with a group of Irishmen curious about Islam. Joanna, a coleen, all of 17 at the time, overheard the conversation and decided to share a few thoughts with the men along the lines that muslim women were enslaved and without rights and should liberate themselves from the tyranny of muslim men.  Mohammed begged to disagree and asked if she would like to meet some of the muslim women he knew in Ireland and see how they felt about these things. She agreed and spent quite a bit of time listening to their points of view. In time she liked what she heard and came back for more. Joanna was Irish, but not particularly happy with the Catholic faith; too many vague answers to her 17-year-old questions. Islam, on the other hand, felt more concrete. Six months more of these explorations with the women who became her friends and the little Irish girl from Dublin converted to Islam.

Around the same time, while at the mosque in Dublin, Joanna ran into Mohammed again. He was stunned at her turnaround (who wouldn’t be?). More conversations ensued, and it wasn’t long before they married.

“Ever since they have been inseparble.” Joanna and Mohammed brought 14 children into the world, one of them was Zayneb … “all while my mother ran an international development company with holdings as far away as Turkey.” 

“She was quite a woman,” I offered.

Z nodded, dropped her eyes. But now, she explained, her mother and father had been separated, and so were the other 13 children, at least from their mother. Two months ago Joanna fell while cleaning gutters at her house and broke her wrist. The x-ray of her arm led to revelations that there tumors in her liver and heart.  Inoperable, terminal cancer, and not a thing to be done about it. The family never told Joanna about the disease.

“She was gone in a couple of weeks.”

Cyn and I told her how saddened we were. Zayneb smiled a sad smile. She nodded. I had so many questions, but the announcement told us it was time to board. We shook hands and promised to stay in touch and then Z was up, adjusting her hajib and walking regally, roller suitcase in hand, to a coach somewhere other than ours. What a fine woman, I thought.

The Train to Casablanca and the Roots of Hatred

The ONCF train we boarded was a Harry Potter style affair, very British, except without the mahogany wood interiors. Multiple compartments, with sliding glass doors that opened to two long benches on each side. Room enough for six.  The six of us sat elbow to elbow, bags crammed in the compartments above our heads, or wherever we could fit them on our feet.

We were a quiet crowd as the train rattled out of the big station north toward Morocco’s largest city, the one famous for Rick’s Café Américain and the celebrated (if inaccurate) phrase, “Play it again, Sam.” Seated among us was a young man, slim, a black headset clapped over his equally black hair, phone in hand, smiling at whatever he was looking at on the phone. His mother sat beside him, wearing a turquoise caftan, gripping her leather purse for dear life. Her COVID mask was as firmly fastened to her ears as her ears to her head. She is silent. Also in the compartment is a strong, stocky black man around 40, and next to him a woman with shortish brown hair tinged with blonde highlights directly across from me, around the same age. 

The train accelerated past apartments seven stories high, and swinging cranes busy stacking new apartments like Legos. Next came the suburbs and then beyond mud huts trimmed with plastic roofs sitting among flat, scrub, and dry rocky land the color of Caucasian skin. I watched a donkey lying on his back rubbing the dirt like a dog with an itch. Here and there, thirsty trees sprouted from the dust. Beyond lay low mountains. Morocco’s summers are scorching, but luckily the train’s air conditioning was good enough to keep the sweat at bay. Once the train found the flat arid land, it made a kind of skating sound as it sped north into the scrub.

In the corridor outside, I watched a young man in an orange and black uniform pushing a cart of chips, drinks, and European-style snacks past our compartment. I thought again of Harry Potter and wondered if he had any Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs, or Jelly Slugs handy. But then I was pretty sure this train wasn’t headed to Hogwarts.

All of us in the enclosed room tried valiantly to shoo a pesky fly out of the cabin. It was interesting.  No one wanted to kill it, just send it elsewhere. I took this as a good omen. The stout man directly across from us sat in tan shorts, a red check shirt, black baseball cap beneath a handsome ebony face. His arms were thick and so was his beard, striped with gray at the chin. The woman with the brown hair, glasses perched on her perfectly upturned nose, often spoke in English to the man who turned out to be her husband. Her accent was Dutch or German, his … I wasn’t quite sure … British?

It was the obstinate fly that got us all talking. We had to laugh at six humans who couldn’t outfox a single bug. The woman across from us was named Corinna and her husband was named Mutawakilu Samori, from Ghana. I loved the sound of his name, but he said, “Just call me Muta.” 

Corinna has been working with Lufthansa since she graduated college — managing employment and human relations for the big company’s far-flung  North African operations. She grew up in central Germany and loved the trips her family would take to Poland and Hungary. She won a masters degree in geology, but quickly found she made a better living at Lufthansa. She and Muta met at a disco 20 years ago, each was just out for the evening, but while they were talking they found they were both about to travel to Ghana. So they decided to make the flight together, and fell in love.

All sorts of discussions then ensued and soon even the young man with the headphones joined in. His name was Tariffi and he couldn’t have been much more than 25-years-old. Soon we were all talking politics, Facebook and its algorithms, the importance of face-to-face encounters vs. social media and how conversations like this one knock down echo chambers and make it difficult to demonize others. Here we were, six people from five countries, openly exploring our thinking and no one once yelled at the other, or called them names (like a certain former American president routinely did). This then drifted into chats about the importance travel and other countries. Tariffi mentioned the ongoing border problems between southern and northern Morocco, not to mention Algeria, just to the East. I had to admit I didn’t know much about these disputes, but there is history among the people of the south. This part of the world was once known as Spanish Sahara and goes back to the end of 1975 after Spain relinquished control of the region.  Morocco and Mauritania divided the territory between themselves, but the pro-independence Polisario Front, backed by Algeria, proclaimed a Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic and launched a military struggle against what it viewed as two occupying powers. Mauritania withdrew from its part of the territory in 1979 after a series of military defeats at the hands of the Polisario, leaving it to Morocco to deal with the conflict. Meanwhile Rabat (Morocco’s governmental seat) consolidated control over most of the south. The Polisario still wants to be recognized as the world’s 196th nation.

This seemed to lead to views that conflicts like these can be resolved IF we aren’t so bent on hating people we don’t really know. “So many people don't think! Because it's hard to think for yourself,” said Musta, a sentiment that Cyndy and I heartily agreed with. “And people don't think they make mistakes, but they make them again and again.”

“It’s okay to make mistakes, “ I added. “But not repeat them. I remembered Buckminster Fuller writing somewhere that all of civilization was nothing more than the sum total of its mistakes. But we only grow if we learn from those mistakes. So often we don't.”

“People hate others without really knowing who they are, or where they come from,” said Corinna. “Without really seeing what we have in common, but only assuming that we are enemies.” She told the story of how South Africans would say when she traveled, “‘You're going to Nigeria? You'll die!’ And Nigerian would say, ‘South Africa? They will kill you.’” Yet, she said, here she was, still alive. “People are mostly good,” she said. 

We even touched on women’s rights. Corinna said that she’s always loved the different phrases cultures come up with. I thought of the Navajo shaman we had met in Monument Valley. “How much weight can you carry.” In South Africa, they say, “a strong woman can carry a lot of water.”

“I love that,” said Corinna. I knew that was true. Cyndy was proof every day, and so were each of my three daughters, and so many more women I’ve met.

With that, the train began to slow and we came to the Casablanca Station, just long enough to thank Corinna, Muta and Tarrifi (and his very quiet mother who didn’t understand a word of our conversation) and wish them well on their safari (Swahili for ‘journey’). We then waved in the general direction of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, and caught the next train to Rabat where more adventures awaited.

Rabat - Exploring A Moroccan Treasure

After a quiet ride of an hours or so, we  walked out of the Rabat train station completely clueless. My Arabic consisted of phrases like Salaam, Inshallah and Yella in an entirely Arabic speaking nation, and we had no more idea where we would be laying our heads this night than a blind man plopped in a Moroccan medina. Our cell service was non-existent, but I had preloaded a map of our route to the riad on my iPhone and it told us we were about 12 minutes away.  All we had to do was get a taxi to the right hotel.

Outside the station a cluster of taxi drivers clambered up to us ready to take us anywhere we wanted to go. A small boned driver with a black mustache elbowed his way to us. “Yella, yella!” He said. Let’s go!

“How much,” I asked, rubbing my thumb and forefinger in the universal signal of cash.

He spoke in rapid Arabic but I thought I caught the word for eight, and I had also roughly calculated that the trip would cost about 80 dirham. So I figured this was our man. That was my first mistake.

We loaded our bags into the small, battered taxi and crammed ourselves in the back. I noticed his meter wasn't running, but I figured we had settled on the price so off we went. Through some internet magic, even without cell service, we we were able to map our location on our phone, and the taxi seem to be heading in the right direction. Then suddenly it wasn't. Soon we were well past 12 minutes, pushing 20. I knew our riad was in the ancient section of town, the sorts of areas we always stayed in.  But as we looked around there wasn’t a hotel or riad to be found. We were in a nice residential area, nowhere near a medina. Cyndy and I were not feeling confident.

Finally, the taxi driver looked around then stopped the car. He pointed his finger outside. “Here,” he said.

He looked oblivious. I jabbed again at the phone with the name of the riad. "Riad Kalaa,” I said, maybe a little too loudly.

The mustached driver got out of the car and wandered around a bit. He seemed to agree that there were no hotels and got back into the car.  He was clearly lost, but I saw he had another idea. He put the taxi back in gear and headed off we knew not where.

Clearly we’re in a pickle. Our lack of Arabic isn’t helping. At one point the driver stopped, and invited a woman on the street who also apparently needed a taxi. WTF was this? Did he think she could help? Was he looking to make more money because he was losing money on all our fare? Five minutes later, he stopped the car and she got out. I punch the phone some more and called out the name of the riad. By now I’m fuming and he was getting rattled. He was now desperate, driving nowhere in particular. He pulled his ball cap off and wiped his shiny head with his sleeve. I felt badly for him. Here he was thinking he had a nice ripe fare from some American tourists and now he was thoroughly lost, stuck with an angry white man jabbering in a unknown language whose decibel levels seem to be rising every block. But we had now been driving for 45 minutes!

At last, the taxi driver stopped at a gate outside of the big building and walks out toward a man in a uniform. Many questions. The uniform points down the road and indicates a few turns. He seems to know his stuff.  Back to the taxi. Three minutes later we are standing in front of a very ritzy hotel. The taxi driver motions for help and gets out. I get out too. I show a man who works outside the big hotel the address of our riad. He nods. He turns to the driver and explains where the location is. The taxi driver shakes his head no. Yes, says the man at the hotel. Again, the taxi driver begs to differ. He’s defensive now. The hotel man waves his arms vigorously to clarify in no uncertain terms that he's wrong and I hear the word “ancienes,” the French for old. Again, he says it. A lightbulb goes off at last in the taxi driver’s head. He lowers his head in submission. Maybe he had the right address, but he is in the new part of town, not the old sector. 

“Okay, I say to the ritzy hotel man, does he know where to go, really?”

He then pulls the taxi driver over and speaks rapidly. He turns to me.

“Yes, he knows.”

I get back in the car, and the taxi driver puts the old car in gear.

“Does he know?” Asks Cyn. This is now the universal question.

“I think so,” I say. But who could say. This might be one of the world’s great riddles, like the mystery of the Holy Trinity or the location of Atlantis! To be extra certain, Cyn turns on her cell phone service. It’s expensive in Morocco and mine was out, but we figure it’d be worth it if we could find our beds before midnight. She dials the riad. The man on the phone says he speaks no English, but wait… Silence. Then a man gets on the phone and asks in English how he can help. Once again, Cyndy to the rescue. I explain our predicament and then put the phone in the taxi driver’s ear. The two men talk. Then back on the phone … OK. The man at the riad promises to meet us outside when the car arrives - 10 minutes. Ten minutes later he does. We’ve been driving almost an hour. At last we haul out our bags. The taxi driver looks like I put a knife in him. I pull the last bag out of our car and give him 50 dirham — about five dollars. He is absolutely elated, and hops into his car as fast as a mongoose, thrilled, I am sure to be rid of the Americans he had so assiduously pursued 60 minutes earlier. That’ll teach him.

Riad Kalaa

The pleasant gentleman who had been on the phone, guided us through the city’s old medina, by now a familiar site. Compared to Fez and Marrakesh, though, the cobblestoned alleys were peaceful except for a couple of children walking by, talking in whispers. Five minutes later our host escorted us into Riad Kalaa where we met Zachariah, Alexii and Rayna, and were given a key for a room right off the open air courtyard common to all riads. It was two stories with steep steps inside that lead to a large queen bed and a spacious bathroom. Perfect!

Soon we were walking the building’s many floors where we hiked up to the open-air roof garden to see the courtyard beneath. The sun was setting and a cool breeze drifted off the Atlantic. I took some pictures and then we returned to the courtyard for another spectacular tagine dinner. Fish, this time, because we were so near the sea.

 

Afterwards, sleep came fast. After all, we had spent three weeks cramming a lot of Morocco into our noggins and we required rest!

We lost much of the day to work the next day — you know, the quotidian business of paying bills, answering emails, preparing for our return across the Straits of Gibraltar and into Europe and Spain where there would be no guides, no tours, no inside information. We lounged on our bed, ate at the riad and had some clothes washed. I booked a Hammam, an islamic kind of bath cum massage because it’s what I felt should be done in an Arabic country.  (More on that in a separate dispatch. It was quite an experience!)  But by 7:30 PM, we were ready to get outside. We donned our day packs and wandered along the same quiet medina that brought us to Riad Kalaa. Soon we emerged into the broad street where the taxi driver had dropped us the afternoon before. Below us lay a broad harbor and inlet, a kind of small lake that led out to the Atlantic ocean. The atmosphere was festive but not raucous. The marina reminded me of the melancon in Loreto, Baja Sur, Mexico, joyful, filled with children, parents and young people.

We saw lots of children wearing t-shirts and shorts on scooters, the old fashion kind, nothing battery operated. They swung in great arcs among their mothers and fathers, giggling, waving. A dark-haired boy of seven, with eyes black as marbles, ran by at top speed, wand in hand, with his younger sister trying to keep up. His shirt read “Today Is My Day.” By the look on his face, it looked like it was.  Children everywhere scooted along the cement pavement in colorful, if battered, little plastic cars. These were battery operated. One looked like a Model T, another like a fairy princess carriage or a dump truck. They wove in and out as music crackled and blared out of a speaker the size of a gallon jug. It had seen better days. It's a small world after all, and If you're happy, and you know it, clap your hands rose into the air mingling with Moroccan drums and flutes and symbols being played by local street musicians. A young girl stood with virtual reality googles clamped over her burkha, gazing into another, virtual world. Everywhere, I thought, American culture influences the world.

We meandered along the dish-like cove toward the Atlantic. Small restaurants clustered on our side of the dock. French, Italian and Spanish cuisines were on the menus along with pre-made kiosks with families lined up to buy ice cream, teas or cakes.

On the other side of the inlet lay a broad beach where people languidly soaked up the last rays of summer sun.  In the channel, little blue wooden boats are strung out all along the docks. As many as 10 men members of a family pile in and its captain, oars in hand, hauls away toward the sea where he will shortly circle back and re-deposit his cargo to pick up another group. It’s a kind of working man’s gondola. They seemed to have no particular place to go, but they are having a good time doing it. Back and forth they plied the still waters, the sounds of laughter echoing around the wharf.

The people of Rabat seemed quite content.

After awhile, twilight set in and we walked back toward the end of the inlet, opposite the sea. Just beyond the setting sun, lay the gargantuan battlements of yet another old, but renovated, Portuguese fort. Its big stone jaw jutted out like the ones we had seen outside of Tangier and Tarifa. Scores of local tourists strung themselves in ant-like lines walking its breastwork, unaware of the battles fought there hundreds of years ago.

We swung back into the medina and found our riad. There would be more to see the next day — a huge jewish cemetery, clustered with hundred upon hundreds of monuments and tombstones, an odd site in a muslim country. A fisherman standing on gargantuan rocks, his long pole extended as the Atlantic crashed around him. Local families on a broad sandy beach wading into the waves, with a Moroccan flag whipping in the wind. And back at our riad, Chip’s exciting hammam experience. (Look for a separate article on that! Just what the doctor ordered after marinating in this remarkable land.)

This is Dispatch XXXIV in a series about a Vagabond’s Adventures - journalist and National Geographic Explorer Chip Walter and his wife Cyndy’s effort to capture their experience exploring all seven continents, all seven seas and 100+ countries, never traveling by jet.

If you’ve enjoyed this dispatch, please take a look at Chip’s other adventures (and misadventures) … and don’t forget to check the Vagabond Journal  and our Travel Recommendations to help you plan YOUR next adventure.

Sign up here to get our newsletters delivered to your email along with news and special offers in the Vagabond Adventure Store.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/train-to-rabat-visiting-morrocos-hidden-gem

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From Cairo’s Bustling Streets to Alexandria’s Tranquil Shores: An Egyptian Journey

 

If you’re ever brave enough to drive in Cairo, Egypt, you'll need to do it like schools of fish do — fluidly, dangerously close to other cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, busses and Vespas; on the shoulder of the road when possible, making certain to ignore the signals and lines that have been laid out by the Egyptian government whenever possible. Failing to do this is to fail to be a proper Egyptian driver, and Youssef, our driver, was a proper Egyptian who could fish with the best of them.

He threaded his Toyota through the mayhem of Cairo’s streets, boulevards and highways, never stopping, because stopping is a cardinal sin. We circled immense roundabouts, skirted scores of every kind travel conveyance known to man or woman — scooters, tuc-tucs, leviathan tour buses, great clusters of microbuses the size of Volkswagen vans, every one of them jammed to the teeth with humans, so crammed that you couldn’t put a piece of paper between the people inside. Yet they seemed as comfortable and calm as a litter of sleeping puppies.

The beeping and honking that emits from the automobiles of Cairo never ends. It makes the horns of Manhattan feel like a solitary walk through an English meadow.  In the Egyptian driving world beeping is not a sign of anger. It is a language, a code. Each sound carries its own subtle meaning and all drivers understand the lingo. There are beeps that say, “I’m here!” Beeps that mean move along, or get out of my way, or careful, or stop or coming through. There are signals of frustration and every so often outright anger, but that is rare. Everything is somehow understood. I never witnessed an accident, although everything I saw on wheels was as battered and crumbled as a tin can in an alley. Apparently when there is an accident most people just move on unless serious damage has been done because most drivers don’t have insurance.  All of this noise, I realized, serves the same purpose stop lights and stop signs and the lines on roads and boulevards serve, which was why they were all ignored.

The ride from Cairo to Alexandria captures some of the sights and sounds common in Egyptian traffic.

Good thing, I thought, I was not driving. it would have been a merry game of bumper cars and there wouldn’t have been a driver safe from the chaos. No, it was best to leave the whole insane business in the hands of Youssef, and sure enough 30 minutes after we departed our hotel we broke out of the city unscathed onto broad ribbons of asphalt thereto to gape at the three Great Pyramids of Giza looking as if they had been dropped like giant blocks against the dense, sand-colored high-rise apartments that have erupted on the other side of the Nile. How two things created 4600 years apart could be so physically near to one other, but so separated by time dropped my jaw. We would visit them later, but for now, as the broad highway took us North toward the Mediterranean, they quickly disappeared in the rearview mirror.

Arriving in Cairo: Airports, Customs & First Impressions

We were on our way to Alexandria by car right now, but that hadn’t been our original plan. The day before, we arrived at Cairo International Airport. Cyn and I rarely travel by air, but we were forced to this time, from Athens to Cairo, because the ferry we thought we would take from Crete was shut down by the COVID epidemic. Navigating the customs process in Cairo was easier than expected — thanks to a man named Osama.

A woman in white blouse and black skirt frowns at the camera while surrounded by a large crowd all lined up waiting and carrying bags.

So in we came the way most outsiders do, through the crowded airport to gather our bags and bustle to customs.

The moment we entered the customs area, we found a man, or he found us, wearing a lanyard hung on his chest that assured us he worked for the Egyptian government. He was all charm and cheer with a thin head of hair, mustache and perfect teeth.

“Of course, of course,” says the man. “You need to get to a hotel. Let me help you with that, but here, here …” and in a heartbeat he had us at the counter exchanging money while he stood obediently nearby. Once we had safely stowed our cash, the man said, “Now we shall get you through customs.” He walked to the booth where custom agents stood. We saw him nod at one of them and got in a very short line.

“What is your name,“ asked Cyndy. The man beamed. “Osama, as in Ben Laden,” he grinned, and inclined his head, … “but no relation.”

While waiting in the customs line, he asked about our plans in Egypt. We mentioned we planned to visit Alexandria four days and then return to Cairo to board a ship up the Nile.

“Very nice. Very nice,” said Osama. Then he pulled out his phone and there was a rapid discussion in Arabic. I was trying to figure out what this man’s angle was. It’s not that I don’t trust most members of the human race, but when someone is this nice, and you don’t personally know them, there’s usually some quid pro quo in the cards. Yet he wasn’t asking for money or anything else for that matter.

Osama pocketed his phone and said with great pride. “I have arranged a car for you. It is a perfectly reasonable price.”

What was the price I asked?

“Only $20 American.”

That was high, I thought, but based on how far away we were and knowing we would be dealing with the kind of traffic 18 million people generates, it wasn’t worth debating.

“Thank you,” I said. “How do we find the car?”

Osama almost leapt with joy. “Here is my card.” He scribbled a name on it and handed it to me. “This is Youssef. He will be waiting for you outside and will take you to your hotel.” Then he added, “He will also drive you to Alexandria tomorrow, if you like. $80 American. The same cost as a train, but the ride will be so much better.”

I wasn’t sure of that but we hadn’t yet arranged train tickets and who knew what it would take to find the ticketing booths at the Ramses Rail Station. I had never been to Cairo, and suspected getting to the train depot and arranging ticketing there would probably be bedlam … on steroids. (I had already discovered you can’t effectively buy tickets in Egypt online). I said we’d look into it, but secretly thought it might be a different way to travel through Egypt. We could then take the train back from Alexandria and board the ship up the Nile in Cairo.

Soon we cleared customs and walked outside. Youssef appeared as if out of nowhere. It was a warm day and we were quickly surrounded. Youssef, however, a small man with buzz-cut hair, smoothly guided us through the crowd. He was a serious young man. None of the bluff and good humor of Osama. Once in the car, watching Youssef battle the traffic, it finally came to me how all of Osama’s good humor and personalized offers of help paid off for him. Being the clever man he was, he could never chance losing his government job by asking for cash directly. Instead he would have minions like Youssef available. He would shower us with kindness and help to build a relationship and then arrange to provide a driver, a driver who could take newbies like us all over the country, to every museum, every restaurant or city we wanted. Youssef would (I guessed) be supplied a car, a job with tips and maybe a cut of the car payment (but probably not). We would get our ride at a high, but not outrageous rate and might become longer term customers. Everybody wins, but mostly Osama because he would take the lion’s share of the payments. I couldn’t be absolutely sure this was the deal, but if it was, it was damned clever.

Once in the courtyard of the hotel, Youssef asked when he should pick us up for our drive to Alexandria in the morning. Eleven AM I suggested. “Yes. I will be there!”

Our road trip from Cairo to Alexandria began the next morning when Youssef pulled up on time, ready to battle the traffic once more. he was soon doing his best imitation of schooled fish. Traveling by car in Egypt offered a very different perspective than taking the train.

An immense bridge swept us east across the great river and then bent us north. Once beyond the pyramids we watched acres of high-rises, cranes and the apartment buildings pass us by, all in various states of construction.

After nearly an hour, we could still see the evidence of new development on the far edges of the city. Cairo seemed to be outgrowing itself, like an adolescent outgrows its clothes. (The population has grown 25% to 23M in just the last 10 years). Highways here were ten lanes in each direction and often clogged. Yet Cairo was minuscule compared to Mexico City or Tokyo.  How big could the world’s urban centers get, I wondered? How much growth could the world handle?  How much could any city? Over half the world’s 8 billion people now lived in cities, and the trend was accelerating.

Eventually, the thick parade of vehicles thinned as the Toyota sped us on toward Alexander’s ancient capital.  The number of buildings thinned out too. In their place we saw resorts, some of which had not succeeded, clusters of homes and beyond that broad orchards brimming with date and olive trees. The highway as four lanes wide and every so often a knot of people would shoot from one side of the freeway to the other, as if they had apparated out of the desert.  Where they came from or where they were going was unclear, but a microbus was usually involved. At another point the Toyota zip passed an 18 wheeler that read “Love Jesus.“ In a mostly Muslim country, didn’t expect that.

Meanwhile, Youssef, as bereft of English as we were of Arabic, stayed to himself. In fact he seemed unaware of our existence, treating us, whether we wanted it or not, to his favorite (and loudest) music — Arab Rock would be the best way to put it — while smoking one Egyptian cigarette after another.  Now and again he would assure us, “You like my driving? It’s good!!” Or sometimes, “Water?” Otherwise we lounged in the back seat and felt the wind from our open windows rush past like the days when I was a kid in the family car making our way to Virginia Beach.

Exploring Alexandria, Egypt: Food, Streets, and Local Life

A six lane road bends along the coast of Egypt with cars strung end-to-end between blue water on one side and parks and buildings on the other.

By 2 pm we were weaving our way along Alexandria’s marvelous corniche, one of the most scenic promenades in Egypt, a great strand of road that skirts the Mediterranean, lined with cafes, buses, and the energetic rhythm of local Egyptian culture. It soon took us to the Steigenberger, Cecil Hotel. When I began to pay Youssef in Egyptian pounds, he was very insistent that he not only be paid for the cost of the trip Osama had arranged, but be tipped —Baksheesh in Arabic lingo. I hadn’t yet developed my theory that Osama probably owned the car Youssef was driving. I figured he owned the car, was being well paid and didn't require a tip. He did not see it that way.

“No, no!" He rubbed his thumb and index finger. "Tip. For airport, and here. I give you water. I drive good! It's a big long drive." It was my ignorance I suppose. But the way he demanded the money bothered me more than anything.  His lack of English probably didn’t help. He pushed hard and was almost panicked. I suppose I would have been upset too if I had worked most of day, hadn’t made a dime and had to pay for the gas. Frankly I was exasperated, but we agreed on 1000 Egyptian pounds, about $20 and then Youssef, now smiling enthusiastically and shaking my hand, asked that we have our pictures taken together. “I will take you back to Cairo. Take you all around Alexandria!” I passed on the photo, and assured him that if we needed any help, we would be in touch. But we really didn’t want to be chauffeured around either city and the plan was to take the train back to Cairo. I never saw him again.

Alexandria Dining Adventure: Fish, Cash, and Cultural Confusion

My tete-a-tete with Youssef wasn't my only financial misadventure of the day. Once settled in our sprawling room at the Steigenberger Cecil Hotel, grand building on the Corniche seemingly plucked directly from the 1930s, food became a priority.

We dropped by the front desk where Cyndy asked if anyone could suggest a good local restaurant, a place where we could find the sort of meal one of them might like to eat.

“Down the corniche, to the left, perhaps a kilometer,” suggested a tall man with perfect hair. “Very good fish. Many of our colleagues and patrons go there.”

We stepped outside. The sunlight was golden with a warm, stiff breeze coming off the Mediterranean as we headed down the uneven stone sidewalks that lined the inner walk of the strand. Alexandria’s corniche rims the great sea that made so much of the ancient world possible; a ten mile promenade of cobbled walks bounded by beautifully crafted rock. It’s one of the world’s more arresting sites, and was a riot of activity.  Alexandria always is. Hundreds of microbuses wended their way along the great boulevard with 16 people jammed into every one of the bus’ four rows. Local folks called the vans micro-bassats (mee-krow bah sat), basset meaning local, and they are used by the millions throughout Egypt. And why not? It costs $.05-$.10 to use one, and you pay in Egyptian pounds to the driver when you get on. They dominated the road as we navigated the sidewalks, and climbed its big curbs, working our way through the city’s denizens. There were no tourist here, not one we saw; only Alexandrians – men at battered cafes, smoking strong cigarettes and sipping stronger coffee; street kids, mostly boys, maybe eight-years-old, wearing worn shoes and tattered jeans; women, young and old, clad almost always their hijabs, often arm-in-arm with another woman.

We weren’t finding many restaurants on our walk and as the sun dropped toward the sea and were beginning to wonder if we had somehow missed the place. We were about to turn around when we found it – Kadoura, it was called.

We walked inside to a wall of recently living fish buried in great piles of ice that showed off a variety of piscine delights. Four men faced us and quickly figured out we weren't local. They explained the routine. We had our pick of sea bass, prawn, crab, lobster, pretty much  anything that could be hauled out of the Mediterranean. All we had to do was choose the fish we wanted. We would be charged by the kilo, about 350 Egyptian pounds each or roughly $12 a pound. We ask the man to choose sea bass. He did and then gently directed us upstairs to a dining area filled with local families. At the other end was a large griddle and soon the fish was in front of us, grilled perfectly along with bowls of brown rice, fish soup, hummus, tahini, pickled vegetables, salad, and pita bread. It was all delicious, especially the sea bass, flash grilled, crispy on the outside and moist on the inside. We picked it clean and scooped up all the rest. The soup was made of crabmeat, milk and butter broth, with small clams and shrimp thrown in. We wolfed it all down as we looked out the big window and watched the constant passage of people below. Then it was time to pay, and that was my second economic mishap of the day.

Egypt Travel Tip: How I Almost Couldn't Pay for Dinner

When traveling I keep cash in my right pocket. In cities where the exchange rate means you have great wads of cash on hand because of the exchange rate, I keep smaller bills on the right and the larger ones in a second left lower pocket of my Eddie Bauer Ascent cargo pants which can be zipped shut. When I searched my right pocket, I realized that after paying Youssef, I was short of Egyptian pounds. Certainly not enough to pay for dinnner.

How am I going to pay for this meal, I thought? I told Cyn the situation and then walked to the steps below to find the very dark, handsome man, who had waited on us.

“I’m so sorry,” I explained. “Is there an ATM nearby.”

“Of course,” he says. “Down the street.” He pointed down the street.

Off I went into the twilight, weaving through the crowd. In a couple of blocks I found the ATM. Not far away a woman was sitting with her son, wailing about something she was unhappy about and giving the boy, about nine-years-old a pretty hard time. She hit him once and he shrunk back. I felt badly for him. I wanted to tell him, “Come on, you can hang out with us. But what would that accomplish and he’d think I was nuts anyhow. I couldn’t tell if the mother was simply having a bad day or might have suffered from some mental or emotional disability. It’s a big world, I thought, much of it is filled with pain, and I felt powerless to make it go away. I waited for the man at the ATM in front of me. He was there for a long time. Finally he turned and looked at me. The machine was out of order. I tried it any way. He was right.

Now what? I stood in the Alexandrian darkness, marinating in the beeps and crowds and the distant sound of the Mediterranean’s pounding surf. I began to walk back to the Kadoura wondering what I would tell the people who ran the place. I had no solution really. Leave something behind as collateral until I returned with payment, wash dishes, clean the toilets, haul fish (I had once done something like this in London when I was stuck without and needed a place to sleep)? And then a light bulb! I felt for my left lower left cargo pant pocket, the one with the zipper. Yes!! That was where I had stashed the larger bills we had exchange at the airport with Osama at my elbow, the back-up, “fat” cash I did not keep handy in my right pocket. How stupid! But what relief! I could pay the bill! And I wouldn’t have to haul fish heads out of the brine all night to pay off the meal.

I walked back to hotel infinitely lighter on my feet and when I strolled in I saw Cyndy sitting on the steps, wide eyed. My God, I had walked off to work things out with the waiter and left the restaurant without letting her know I was in search of cash! The look on her face clearly said, “And you have been where?”

“I’m so sorry, honey” I said, with the waiter probably wondering what the big deal was. He didn’t know we had only been in Egypt for 24 hours and might have been hauled away by the authorities or worse. Too many movies where the bad guys are Arab.

I paid the man and Cyn and I sauntered back to the Cecil. She forgave me and not long afterwards we settled into out beds. I fell asleep thinking of great fish swimming all around me in the Mediterranean Sea with one continually coming back to me and saying, “Where’s my money?”

FAQ

Q1: Can tourists drive from Cairo to Alexandria?

A: Yes, although driving in Egypt — especially in Cairo — can be overwhelming for foreign visitors. It’s often easier to arrange a private car service from Cairo to Alexandria, sometimes right at the airport with help from a government staffer. Drivers are usually skilled and courteous, though English is not guaranteed. The trip takes about 2.5 to 3 hours depending on traffic.

Q2: How much does it cost to use a car service?

A: Prices vary, but expect something comparable to Egypt’s train fares for this route — often higher than buses, but with far more convenience. We paid $80 for two passengers, which was fair for a private ride with door-to-door service. A tip is expected — 20–25% is generous and appropriate.

Q3: What is the Steigenberger Cecil hotel in Alexandria like?

A: Built in 1929, the Steigenberger Cecil Hotel still feels like a grand, romantic Alexandria hotel from that era. Overlooking Saad Zaghloul Square along the vibrant Corniche, it’s hosted everyone from Winston Churchill to Al Capone. Rooms lean toward black, white, and bronze decor. The staff is welcoming, and the breakfast buffet is legendary — eggs, fresh pastries, hummus, baba ghanoush, fruit, cereal, and more. Just don’t expect decaf coffee.

Q4: What can we expect from the Alexandria Corniche?

A: The Alexandria Corniche is a sweeping waterfront promenade bounded by the Mediterranean Sea on one side and city parks and buildings on the other. It’s loud, energetic, and distinctly local — you won’t find many tourists here, or many restaurants though there is no shortage of street food.  What you will find are unbeatable views of the sea and skyline, especially near the distant Citadel of Qaitbay, built where the Lighthouse of Alexandria once stood.

This is Dispatch XXXVIII in a series about a Vagabond’s Adventures - journalist and National Geographic Explorer Chip Walter and his wife Cyndy’s effort to capture their experience exploring all seven continents, all seven seas and 100+ countries, never traveling by jet.

If you’ve enjoyed this dispatch, please take a look at Chip’s other adventures (and misadventures) … and don’t forget to check the Vagabond Journal  and our Travel Recommendations to help you plan YOUR next adventure.

Sign up here to get our newsletters delivered to your email along with news and special offers in the Vagabond Adventure Store.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/cairo-to-alexandria-travel-story

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