I’m sitting on a plane from Minneapolis to Atlanta, on my way to Egypt. My knee bounces. My knuckles whiten as I grip the armrest. The monitor embedded in the back of the seat in front of me flickers with safety instructions I don’t hear. My solo journey to the land famous for pyramids, hieroglyphics, and impossibly large Temples consumes my thoughts. I will see all these things and more on my nine-day tour.
I gaze out the window and the sunset distracts me from my ruminations about my adventure. I love sunsets on a plane. We soar over a billowing bluish white curtain that obscures the earth from view. Above the curtain, gentle wisps of horizon clouds are lit a pale pink by the blaze orange sun. I wonder, as I take in their beauty, how a bright orange ball can create a soft pink glow. A blue band of sky separates the milky floor of clouds and the wispy, pink horizon clouds. I would call it a slate blue, but that’s not quite right. It’s dark but still the color of daytime. The slight greyish hue gives it the appearance of formality, stoicism. It dutifully separates the layers of clouds like a guard at Buckingham Palace.
I turn my head and can just barely see the sunset through the other window of the plane. On that side, the sky is on fire. Huge swaths of fiery oranges, vibrant pinks, and deep, glowing reds streak back and forth across the sky. Glowing gold rays of light break through the clouds above the sunset, as if heaven itself has opened its gates, willing its inhabitants to enjoy this earthly majesty.
Gazing out the window is one of my favorite pass times on planes. The trip from Minneapolis to Egypt is long, 24 hours. One needs many pass times to get through it.
We descend into Atlanta for the first of two layovers and the sky gives way to city lights. The Atlanta airport throbs with activity. Travelers hustle to their gates or stand in long lines for coffee or cocktails. The loudspeaker blares with instructions for passengers headed to various destinations. The promise of adventure or home or loved ones hangs on the breath of every passerby.
“Would you like a glass of prosecco?” The Italian flight attendant coos in her lilting English.
“Yes, thank you.” I gladly accept the clear plastic cup of bubbling pale gold and momentarily feel like a queen, my cramped window seat suddenly a throne.
I’ve boarded the plane in Atlanta, headed for Rome. A man in a blaze orange Harley Davidson t-shirt and a camo print hat accepts a glass of prosecco too. He is sitting in the aisle seat. The middle seat is mercifully empty for our nine-hour journey. I smile at the man, a silent acknowledgement of the journey we are about to share. The Harley man returns the acknowledgment with a slight raise of his glass, a toast.
The safety video begins. I sip my prosecco and notice my knee is calm, my knuckles have regained their color, yet I return to my ruminations. Egyptian culture doesn’t foster rebellious independence in its women the way American culture does. It demands deference to men and a level of modesty that we Westerners generally object to. These are the things I’m most nervous about. Deference to anyone has never been a particular strength of mine but I feel sure I can muster it for nine days and I’ve packed what I hope is appropriate clothing. Ankle-length skirts, billowy pants, loose t-shirts to layer under long cardigan sweaters, and scarves to cover my head, if needed. I even bought a scarf that was officially designed to be a hijab. I feel strangely proud of this thing given my general ambivalence towards religion and my stark opposition to the policing of women’s bodies. Mostly, I just hope I blend. I’m not going to Egypt for attention, I’m going for the history and the beauty. But I’m a woman whose clothes, regardless of how appropriate, still scream Western culture. I’m bound to stick out.
When I arrive in Egypt, I will join a tour group led by an Egyptologist. What a fun job. I think, had I known it was a possibility, I would have considered becoming an Egyptologist when I was in college. I read The Book of Two Ways by Jodi Picoult before I left. This may be why I’m romanticizing becoming an Egyptologist. Ms. Picoult paints a searingly romantic portrait of the profession. If you haven’t had a chance to read this book, you must make time. I give it the highest of recommendations, whether or not you have a trip to Egypt in your future. But, the time for becoming an Egyptologist myself has long since passed. I am thrilled simply to have the opportunity to meet an Egyptologist.
I’ve awoken from my fitful airplane nap. It’s morning and we are close to Rome. Harley Davidson and I both eagerly accept coffee from the flight attendant.
“Where ya headed?” The Harley man asks as he dumps two creams and two sugars into the tepid brown liquid.
“Cairo.” I doctor my own coffee with three creams. No sugar.
“Cairo? By yourself?” A mixture of shock and deep concern for my safety creases his forehead and widens his eyes.
I expected this response, so I just nod, smile sweetly, and ask him about his journey in return. In America, it is almost unheard of for a woman to travel alone. I travel alone often, so I’m accustomed to the dismay. Maybe American culture and Egyptian culture aren’t so different after all.
As we begin our descent into Rome, I peek out my window again, the only TV I need. We’re flying over mountains. They must be the Alps. The clouds are settled in like pillows between the razor-sharp peaks. The vast snow-capped peaks give way to vast rocky red peaks which then give way to a misty, gauzy valley. The calm grey sky blends with the soft blanket of clouds so that it’s unclear where the sky ends, and the earth begins.
The flight from Rome to Cairo is short, about three hours. I’ve settled into my third and final window seat. The old Italian man is openly leering at me, a moment of foreshadowing I realize only in retrospect. I turn toward my window once again, hoping to avoid any conversation with him. In spite of the long hours of travel, I’m wide awake, my pulse quickening with anticipation.
There is a large group of Egyptian men behind me who are a bit unruly. They are standing up, walking around, talking loudly to one another. It’s a bit chaotic. The frenzy matches my excitement. The Italian flight attendants try in vain to reign them in. It’s a miracle they all return to their seats for our descent into Cairo. I peer out the window one last time and take in the vast gold expanse of Earth. My adventure begins now.
