My first outing in Egypt is a brisk walk to Tahrir Square. From my hotel, a rather fine and reasonably priced former palace recommended by a former Finance Minister of this country, it is a 30-minute walk along the north shore of Zamalek Island and across a bridge. I arrive with some trepidation, given this is the equivalent of marching up to Place de la Concorde in 1794, but (luckily for me) all is calm today!
Cairo, it turns out, is much like Paris. The buildings are the same height, the boulevards are planned in a similar way (downtown Cairo was also laid out around the same time Hausmann was doing his thing), and people mill around in cafes and bars. The traffic is nearly as chaotic. Only difference - the service is better!
A couple of hours in and I'm already giving thanks to divine providence, in the form of Egypt's state airline, for my 48 hours here. EgyptAir (through generous subsidies I presume) was able to offer me JFK to Addis Ababa for $1000. I leave work at 4pm on Friday, and by 11am next day local time, a friendly cab driver is honking his way through Parisian-style traffic for me ("hear that?" beep beep, "Cairo music").
Tahrir turns out to be an ordinary looking roundabout, with students lolling around but not a burning tire in sight. I am nowhere near acclimatised to this country yet, and stories of Western journalists being beaten and robbed in this square weigh in my mind. But all is peaceful. As many chats with Egyptians will confirm, the country is about to vote overwhelmingly to elect General Sisi as president.
One mention of Morsi, the Muslim League leader now languishing in jail after the army overthrew his (fairly elected) government, has one courteous tour guide loosing a stream of expletives. No tourism, no business - only benefits the Santa Claus characters (ie. hard-line religious crew).
After pausing for a street vendor's cup of tea by the Museum, my next challenge comprises getting home without being flattened. 'Walk like an Egyptian', it turns out, means 'Jump headlong into a lane of oncoming traffic with only a prayer that you won't get squashed.' Choosing a seasoned looking street-crosser as my human shield, I dive into the traffic, coming out underneath a Nile bridge leading back to Zamalek (the high-class island suburb that I'm sure someone has called Cairo's Manhattan).
Three sights on the way back. First, the Nile. Driving from the airport you already see the fertility of the Nile Delta; it's a dusty and sunbaked city, but there is deep green vegetation, of the kind that could nourish the first big civilisation. Second, a big obeslisk on the Zamalek side. It is a twin to those I'm so familiar with from Victoria Embankment (especially), Central Park and Place de la Concorde. But it looks much more at home here. Thirdly, the large, gaudily decorated boats moored on the riverbank, enticing punters for drinks and dancing. Caireens like to party. These are also the boats I remember from headlines a few years back about gay venues being brutally raided by the police.
In the evening, after swimming, going to the gym and having a remarkably good sauna, I meet the talented and wonderful Mr. Ahmed Marii, teetotalling Karate-fighting Arab League diplomat, who promises me a 'real Egyptian night.' With an open mind, I get into a taxi, and arrive at Cairo Jazz Club where Bashir (a rising star) is playing. Instruments are Moog keyboard, 6-string bass, oudh, violin, saxophone and tablas, plus Bashir's poetic vocals. I am entranced, and completely unable to write about this music - pictures and video clips will have to suffice. They unfortunately don't catch the brilliant dancing. Ahmed pays for everything, and I head home with an opened mind.
A short walk to Tahrir Square