Ugly food and catacombs

Our first dinner in Alexandria takes place at a famous seafood restaurant. Well, since the city is on the sea, all the restaurants are pretty much seafood restaurants, but this establishment reportedly is one of the best. Dinner consists of a preset menu, and the meal is being served at our table as we arrive. It’s a great restaurant, but it’s also a fast one. No lingering allowed here; eating is serious business. Get on with it and leave, so the next group can do the same. We get the picture and quickly sit down to eat.

On my plate is a large fish, identity unknown. Perhaps sea bass, perhaps perch, perhaps Ariel the little mermaid. What’s more, this is not just a simple fish filet. The entire fish rests on the plate. Body, tail, fins, head, eyeballs. I do like fish, the flat, anonymous, white variety that looks more like a flaky slice of pale turkey than a sea-breathing creature from the depths of Neptune’s kingdom. But this isn’t it, not by a nautical mile. On top of that, it’s looking at me, giving me the eye. It’s so fresh that it could virtually wink at me—if it had eyelids, that is.

And that’s not all. Nestled next to the fish are three huge shrimps, also with eyes, but with the added embellishments of whiskers, antennae, little legs, big legs, long legs, short legs, and every accessory necessary to make them ugly. The last corner of the plate—if there can be such a thing as a corner on a round plate—has been filled with a number of small fried lumps with dangly bits, proudly advertised as calamari.

I’m generally blessed with an open mind and will be adventurous when called for, but I also have a rule by which I live, and with which I’ve been pretty happy so far. I do not eat anything ugly, with eyes still attached, tentacles, or more than four legs. Alas, with the contents of my plate fitting every rejection criterion as snugly as blue on sky, I’m doomed to starve if I persist on applying this personal directive while in Egypt. I’ve not come this far, through the traumatic events of the last few days, only to die of malnutrition because of ugly food. 

Being a law-abiding citizen, I don’t break rules, even those of my own creation. I’m not, however, above playing favourites, and when one rule doesn’t suit the situation at hand, such as when my personal safety or wellbeing is in danger, another is substituted in its stead. The ugly food ordinance will therefore have to be supplanted with: “When in _______, do as the _______.” Directions for use: insert the appropriate city and populace. 

In the end, I eat the leering fish. I eat the ugly creatures with the 2403278 legs, and I eat the assorted blobs with tentacles. And I do not die. I must confess that the act of smothering the morsels of ugly food with copious amounts of hummus helped tremendously in this regard. I know, I know. Seafood lovers everywhere are, have been, and will forever be shaking their heads at my lack of affection for their beloved food group. But it is what it is.

The next day is spent touring Alexandria. Founded by Alexander the Great in 332 B.C., this grand metropolis is relatively new compared with the rest of Egypt. After Alexander’s death, the city was developed by rulers with wildly creative names: Ptolemy I, Ptolemy II, Ptolemy III, (yawn), Ptolemy IV, Ptolemy V, Ptolemy VI, Ptolemy VII, (sigh), Ptolemy VIII, Ptolemy IX, Ptolemy X, (will this ever end?), Ptolemy XI, Ptolemy XII, and last but not least, Cleopatra VII. 

Before you ask, the first six Cleopatras were queens, some of them ruling jointly with their husbands—or sometimes, their siblings—some of them ruling as regent on behalf of minor children, and at least one, other than Cleopatra VII, being sole ruler of Egypt, if only for a short time. 

Back in those days, people either weren’t blessed with great imagination for names, or suffered from severe narcissism. Boys were named Ptolemy, Philip, or Alexander, and girls went by Berenice, Arsinoe, or Cleopatra. In fact, Cleopatra VII—Julius Caesar’s girlfriend—had an older sister also called Cleopatra, and two brothers, both named Ptolemy. Her mother was Cleopatra and so was her daughter, the one she apparently had with Mark Antony. How anybody knew who was who, in that household, is anyone’s guess. They didn’t even use numbers back then. Those are a modern addition so we can keep them straight.

Of the ancient city, not many vestiges remain visible as most lay buried underneath modern Alexandria. Even Alexander’s tomb is buried somewhere and has yet to be found. Mulling this over, I momentarily consider digging with my crutch in an inconspicuous spot. You never know; I could get lucky and uncover the missing Macedonian’s grave. 

I fantasize about the glory of unearthing such a treasure, as the members of my group are busy visiting the catacombs. Yes, that’s correct. They are visiting the catacombs. Me, Pink-Mobile, sitting inside. I’m not allowed in the catacombs. Something about a metal spiral staircase not being compatible with crutches or wheelchairs, or some such folly. 

It doesn’t matter. I’m going to create my own private tour of the catacombs. I close my eyes and open the door to my imagination. Visualizing my journey to the forbidden underground cemetery, I approach the circular stairs, peer down into the gloom of a thousand years, and position the crutches on the first step, ready for the descent. Instantly losing traction, the crutches slip off the tiny tread sending me tumbling into the void, home to hundreds of ageless skeletons. 

With the shrieking sound of twisting metal, the crutches, with me still attached, weave and wedge themselves in the staircase’s treads and coiled metal railing. Finally coming to a halt, I’m left unhurt, but all tangled up, pinned within a mass of steel and aluminum, hanging between floor and ceiling like a fly in a giant spider’s web.

Continuing the daydream, someone—that would be me—calls out to the people in charge to get the Jaws of Life and free me from my metal prison. My repeated shouts spark a heated discussion amongst the People in Charge. After a few minutes of deliberation, the said People in Charge decide to leave me there as an addition to the catacomb display to serve as a grisly warning to future travelling visitors. They then add a beautifully painted sign with the words “Caution! Pharaonic curse recipient. Don’t let this happen to you.”

Slamming the door on the daydream, I come to a conclusion: I’ll stay in the Pink-Mobile. I don’t wanna see no stinking catacombs! I sulk. Soon after, Kareem, being the sweetheart that he is, presents me with a set of colour postcard of the stinking catacombs, a little gift to lift my spirits.