Yearning to see the Land of the Pharaohs and explore the richness of this ancient civilization in person, I've always known that one day I would journey to Egypt, and it would prove to be the ultimate experience of a lifetime. To see the pyramids and temples, sail down the Nile, feel the age-old sand under my feet, and breathe the musty air of a king's tomb: this is my Holy Grail. That and returning home alive and without any missing or inoperative body parts: the one objective of this mission which failed almost totally.
This is all nice and poetic, but I'm getting ahead of myself. The story begins in the fall of 2008, when I decide to launch the quest for the Holy Grail, and set about planning the perfect expedition. My travel philosophy consists of visiting a country once and seeing everything, while maintaining a certain level of comfort. With Egypt as the target destination, this is contingent on my budget and the amount of vacation I'm allowed to take from work. Therefore, I carefully select the tour package to ensure maximum luxury, while seeing as many of the innumerable sights and attractions as humanly possible in twenty days.
As a pharmacist, I pack medications for every possible calamity that could befall a tourist. Diarrhoea? I have three different cures. Cuts and lacerations? Antibiotic ointment and bandages to the rescue. Earache? Here come the ear drops. Headache, allergies, mosquito bites, motion sickness? Check, check, check, check. The mini-drugstore is fully stocked and ready to go.
Painstakingly, I compile a packing list using, for inspiration, five different lists available on internet travel sites and from travel brochures. I purchase cancellation and medical insurance - just in case, you never know - and acquire every travel book I come across.
For fear that my old suitcases might explode, liquefy, or evaporate when passing through the airport's X-ray machine, they are promptly replaced with brand new luggage.
In anticipation of the hot desert sun, I stock up on hats, all of which make me look geeky. In addition to my fashionable but nerdy headgear, I pack clothes for every weather system known on the planet as well as for every social occasion, from opera attire to digging-for-mummies outfits.
To save space in my already bulging bags, I purchase shampoo, conditioner, soap, and laundry detergent that come in dry little sheets, much like the breath fresheners that you put on your tongue, albeit not as tasty. I also acquire every implement that can be remotely useful: a passport and valuables pouch to wear under my clothes, a second pouch that is water resistant, a third pouch in case I lose the other two, safety straps and a weigh scale for the luggage, a clothesline, travel clock, corkscrew, sewing kit, plus a few items that might only be useful on Venus, during a solar eclipse.
Moving on to the electronic supplies, there is the camera with the extra memory card, extra battery, charger for the battery, and voltage adapter for the charger. There's not a sight in Egypt that will escape digital capture from my fully charged Olympus FE-300.
In an effort to foil Mother Nature's attempts to incapacitate me with an array of maladies, I make a stop at the local travel clinic. There, I get jabbed with the recommended typhoid vaccine and tetanus, polio, and diphtheria boosters. Rabies is not an issue. I was awarded that vaccine the previous year when a psychotic cat of dubious virtue invaded my house, bent on lodging its fangs into my hand. So, thanks to Psycho Cat, I'm already protected from inadvertent mouth-foaming and other unbecoming rabid behaviour.
Still, I'm on a roll - and a bit of a buffoon at times - so I enquire about shots for heart worm and distemper, earning, in response, a raised eyebrow and a perturbed look from the public health nurse. My making little woof-woof sounds at the same time does not help my cause. I'm summarily dismissed with instructions to see my doctor (read: never ever come back to this clinic ever again) should I develop bothersome side effects from the vaccines such as pain, fever, or the growth of a second head.
My next undertaking is to make arrangements for my house to be looked after in my absence, thus creating Marie's Comprehensive House Protection Plan. A trusted friend is in charge of monitoring the house in case it burns down, gets squished by a falling tree, blown away by a rogue tornado, or flooded by a monsoon. Most importantly though, she's in charge of feeding my fish, happily swimming in their tank. Will the fish even notice that I'm gone? Unlikely, since they're probably not aware of anything outside their rectangular glass world. If the house does burn to the ground, would the fish tank, being full of water, be saved? Will the fish notice then?
Putting these thoughts out of reach of my overly inquisitive mind, I return to the Plan. Since I'll be leaving my house to the mercy of a Canadian winter, a young neighbour is assigned (via a monetary bribe) the task of shovelling the driveway and walkway should there be a snowstorm, or two, or ten. He's hoping for no snow and easy money. I'm hoping for at least two good blizzards to help keep his muscles nimble and get my money's worth.
Another neighbour offers to periodically check the perimeter of my property for signs of intruders, robbers, trespassing raccoons, and illegal circus clowns, and this is incorporated into the Plan.
On the day of departure, the thermostat will be lowered, the water shut off, and the lights put on timers. Finally, after weeks, nay, months of organization and planning, I'm completely prepared. And completely jinxed.
Thinking back on all of this, I can picture Fate and her henchman, Pharaoh Ramses (and his curse), watching my every move, observing my systematic efforts to organize every detail of the odyssey, all the while rubbing their hands with glee, waiting for just the right moment to initiate their macabre scheme.
I won't have long to wait.
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