Twinkies on the Nile

It’s before dawn and very dark. Jim and I follow a fast walking guide who isn’t groping his way down seemingly ancient stone steps or stumbling over rutted flagstones. Finally we join 10 other tourists aboard a tiny ferry draped in fringed cloths. We are crossing the Nile River. It’s a wow moment, one of those you won’t need pictures to remember.

We travel in an early morning fog and as the sun rises we hear the call to prayer echoing in the distance. It's a bit chilly and we are offered tea in tiny cups and a plate of pastries is passed around. I’ll be darned if they aren’t Twinkies. So this is where they disappeared to.

It is Egypt in April 2012 after all. The spell was broken for the moment but there was still enough of the ancient and awesome around us. This was the Valley of the Kings and we were on our way to a hot air balloon ride.

As I look back on this wonderful trip, I realize that the entire nation of Egyptians was on a hot air balloon ride of its own. It’s just that no one knew how soon the nation would be forced down to earth.

There was such an air of hope and confidence among the people we talked to. Just a year before, in 2011, The Arab Spring had felled a dictatorship. The people had gotten rid of Mubarak and were jubilant. They talked about the truly democratic elections coming up.

Our Cairo guide proudly pointed out Tahrir Square.  “ See, there are still tents, the whole square was covered with them. I was there. The people spoke and now we are free.”

“We have shown them,” our next guide, Aladdin, smiled. “They know we are watching and will rise again if they wrong us.”

I liked the Egyptians I met and observed.

I think of those happy, hopeful faces. I think of the years of subjugation these people had endured only to find themselves once again, under a new dictatorship.

We had signed up and paid for a tour of Egypt in 2011when the uprisings of the Arab Spring caused the State Department to cancel all travel to Egypt.

By 2012, and even though the situation had quieted down, we believed that we had lost our chance to visit there. Some friends of ours traveled to Cairo and assured us it was safe. They had lived in Egypt for years and felt it would be a great time to visit. They told us that, especially as tourists, we would be gratefully welcomed.

By this time the State Department lifted its travel ban. We found an agency offering guided tours to Egypt and signed up.

When we arrived at the Cairo airport, we found that our tour consisted of a party of two: us.

The tourist industry had definitely shriveled. We encountered very few Americans during our 10 days of travel but there were a number of groups of French and German tourists.

Vendors besieged us. We felt we needed to tip much more than we would normally give on a tour. It seemed we were supporting families single handedly.

If getting individual treatment is a sign of a good tour, we got that aplenty. We were given our own guide at each stopping point. We were treated to private vans and exceptional hotels.

Egypt seemed to me to be a rather benign place. Driving through Cairo and Alexandria’s snarled traffic, the thing that struck me was that there were almost no horns honking, no screams of frustration as we had seen in Delhi, Istanbul or for that matter New York City. These people just seemed to cope with the situation. Maybe everyone was in a good mood, or it was a good couple of days but it was noticable.

Besides feeling a bit lonely, I loved every minute of our tour. The pyramids were actually right across the street from our hotel in Giza. The brand new Library of Alexandria was a marvel. Sailing the Nile on a felucca manned by two very young teenagers was exhilarating. Seeing the Sahara and walking through the splendor of the massive Temple of Karnak at night were all unforgettable.

The country is now under a new more repressive dictatorship. The tourist industry must be all but totally closed down.

What a pity for the world to be denied these ancient splendors.

Not to mention Twinkies.

Grandma Proof

One of the advantages of youth is the ability to open childproof containers.

I have never met a kid who couldn’t. I just spent five minutes trying to open a simple plastic card of AAA batteries. It even had an ‘open here’ place. But I knew better. 

If possible I don't step up to the opening of any container without a kid within pleading range. Frequently grandchildren will look up from Minecraft to respond to grandparently distress signals. Especially if accompanied by their favorite brownies.

Without them I have to use scissors or screwdrivers. I don't dare put what’s left of my teeth in peril just to open a parcel. USPS delivers only packages bound with that tape that has steel threads running through it. Sometimes even a pair of scissors isn’t strong enough.

Soup cans have only one end that accepts a simple can opener. The other one is rounded and impenetrable. Or has an easy to use pop-top thing. Sure.

Opening seltzer bottles requires herculean strength in my opinion and by the time I do get one opened, I have forgotten that seltzer fizzes all over the place while I am yelling “I got you open you wretched excuse for a bottle…” by that time I am soaked.

I could go on with a litany of impossible jars, medicine containers, tea packets and even ketchup bottles, which have been made impervious to blood, sweat and tears. Is this in the name of safety? I wonder if those manufacturers are all childless. Don't they know how marvelously clever and nimble young fingers are?

Are they so afraid of hearing that “Oh grandma, here let me do it” that they have never tried these gizmos out on a panel of expert ten year olds?

On the other hand, if these things really were childproof, everyone would be starving, unmedicated and thirsty. Better they don't know.

So far I have not dealt with the importance of grandchildren in the electronic age. This need for assistance with one’s computer has come to outrank the need for help in opening things.

There is a commercial running on TV now, showing a pair of grandchildren being greeted not by grandparently kisses, but by a pile of dead electronics. In my opinion, the grandparents aren’t properly grateful. I mean we don't want to alienate our little saviors.

Computers are getting more and more complicated in the name of identity theft. Soon even children won’t be able to open them.

Electronics will be so hacker proof that only the hackers will be able to get into them. I wonder how old those guys are? And if they like chocolate chip cookies.

Death in the Tiergarten

“If Death starts coming toward us, let’s get the hell outta here,” Jim whispered to his sister, Mary, and me.

We were in Germany, taking a break in the Tiergarten after a long walk across Berlin. A short distance from us, one of those living statues was performing for a small crowd.

Performing might not be the exact word as the tall gray and silver draped figure glared at the passersby who dropped coins into a silver basket. Death’s face was obscured by a dark cloak and a silvery cowl-like hood.  The figure held a very long, very heavy looking broadsword, which it occasionally arced menacingly through the air.

Mary and I were in total agreement with Jim: one step in our direction and goodbye bench, goodbye Tiergarten and especially goodbye Death.

We didn't have to flee because exactly at 6:00 PM church bells began ringing and Death descended from its height.

The silvery cloak and cowl were removed, carefully folded and stowed in the pedestal, which proved to be just a milk crate. The sword collapsed nicely and disappeared. Death washed its face and revealed an attractive young girl who attached the box to a bike and pedaled away.

Death was outta there.

And with a collective sigh of relief, so were we.

Me and the Umlaut

The umlaut and I have never gotten along.

I don't seem to be able to wrap my tongue around the particular sound of a long “o” and along “a”, pronounced simultaneously with my lips pursed. It just doesn't come out right.

 This problem began with a college course in the Romantic period of literature.

After sighing sadly over the losses of Keats to tuberculosis and Shelley to the Mediterranean, we moved on to the German Romantics.

I was intrigued. They were appealingly healthy and robust and not inclined to die easily.

I read the sorrows of Young Werther and Faust, written by the supreme German Romantic writer. His name was G-o-e-t-h-e.

I suppose you noticed that I spelled rather than pronounced his name. I happened to be dating a fellow who was studying German. I proudly told him about my reading. I named the author.

He winced. “ Whoa. That's not even close to the way you pronounce his name. The vowel sound is like an umlaut – a simple diphthong – and you have to purse your lips and say the “o” and the “a” together at the same time. Let me show you.”

Needless to say, this small achievement eluded me. And continued to every time I attempted to pronounce a German word with an “o”, “u” or “a” followed by an “e” or with an umlaut over it.

My date, who I was seeing quite a bit of, just couldn't believe that I couldn't master such a simple concept.

So I did what any pronunciation challenged person would do: if I couldn't skip those umlauted words I just spelled them out.

It’s 50 years later and that same guy is sitting across from me muttering at a newscaster who is mispronouncing the German chancellor’s name.

That's fine with me. After all, I can say her name pretty well. There’s no umlaut in Angela Merkel.

Blogged

Just back from the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, which was held not only in my hometown but on the campus of my alma mater, the University of Dayton, UD. Back in the day we pronounced it uhd.  Erma was both a native and a grad. I remember her column in the local newspaper. She was my heroine.

I can’t say I got a whole lot out of the workshop since I came down with one of those monstrous debilitating colds, which does not encourage interaction with other people.

What I did learn is that my blog needs a new name. When I did find anyone willing to talk to me, the question invariably was: “What do you write?” The response to my blog’s title - Heroine Addiction - was usually a blank stare. Maybe I should have had little cards made up like the ones other attendees were passing out. The heroine thing is just too much like the more lethal addiction. Besides that, I almost never write about heroines. I mean I am not really addicted to heroines, let alone heroin.

So I am trying to choose a new name for my blog. And I need help. I have put together a list of the titles I am considering and am pleading for input.

Notes from a Retired Reader 

This has the sort of the same problem my former title did: it doesn't say anything. Or what it does say doesn't make any sense. I mean I haven’t retired from reading or does it mean I am retired and reading and if it does mean this shouldn't there be stuff about books?

How about Shy and Retiring?  

Or Retired With Benefits?

I thought I would look over former essays and find some possibilities. So this one came to mind. But it sounds like financial advice, which I have none to give.

The real contender is

Not Much Ado About Nothing which says nothing and is actually a double negative but really does have the flavor of what my essays are about: nothing – in a Seinfeldian sense, of course.

I also kind of like

View from a Room or A View of My Own

There are a zillion blogs with titles paraphrasing Mrs. Woolf. How about Much Ado About a View from my Window?

Twinkies on the Nile

When we went to Egypt a few years ago, we were served breakfast on a tiny Nile River ferry boat near the Valley of the Kings and Twinkies were offered. In case you wonder where Twinkies have disappeared to, I can safely say they are doing quite well in Egypt. They tasted like the real thing. I have never written the essay for this title. My blog is certainly not about travel.  So why would I use it?

There’s Just Looking. I like that one since it is a phrase I have overworked over the years in a myriad of shopping situations.

Life is A Food Fight? I think that says quite a bit.

Or Butter Made Me Who I Am Today? I love butter. It really does make everything better. If I had a coat of arms it would have a stick of butter on it.

Doesn't Work Up to Potential? The nuns always checked this on my grade school report cards. I think I’ve lived up to the assessment.

How about Once I was A Search Engine? Before Google, people sought out librarians for information. I’ve been replaced, erased and deleted from that role. It really is so much easier now. But it was fun while it lasted.

Any ideas? I’m open. More like desperate.