Wheeling and crutching around Alexandria

Finished with the catacombs—real and imaginary—and with lifted spirits, we visit Pompey’s Column, and it is precisely that, a red granite column flanked by two regal sphinxes on pedestals. It is the last standing structure of one of the main temples in Alexandria from the Ptolemaic period. That’s it. Out of the whole big temple, there’s only the one column left. The sphinxes were added later, having been transported from another site. Why?  To keep the lonely column company, I guess. 

During medieval times, the column was believed to contain—depending on which reference book you read—either the ashes, or the actual head of Pompey, Julius Caesar’s rival, hence the name. It was eventually determined that there was no head, no ashes, no Pompey whatsoever, in or around the column. Anyway, the name was catchy, so it stuck.

So, maybe the sphinxes were placed there to guard and protect Pompey’s ashy noodle, which then turns out not to be there after all. What a waste of time for a first-class pair of sphinxes. It seems to me that they would be of much better use relocated to a more suitable setting. Somewhere like, let’s say, my living room. Now that would be a conversation piece! But considering that taking antiquities out of the country is illegal, I’ll leave them where they are. Besides, there’s no room in my luggage for five thousand pounds of granite, so they’ll keep the column company for a while longer.

Pompey's Column and the two sphinxes

After a brief peek at the column—it doesn’t take long to visit a column—we say goodbye to Pompey, wherever and in whatever state he may be, and move on to the Greco-Roman museum. It contains three floors of artefacts, but the main floor keeps me busy for the whole visit. Since it wouldn’t do to knock over a priceless statue or display case, scattering the contents on the floor, I crutch delicately around the exhibits. I’m still learning the art of walking like a pendulum and forego entering the crowded little gift shop, making the visions that came to mind of a bull in a china shop vanish into thin air. 

Next, we head for the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, a huge and very modern library, inaugurated in 2002. Meant to recreate the ancient library destroyed by fire during Cleopatra’s reign, it contains countless books, but unlike its predecessor, it also includes meeting rooms, conference halls, and a planetarium. Wouldn’t Cleo and Julius have loved having one of those! At any time of the day—or night—they could have snuggled together, ordered the Star Ball projector into action, and watched the stars, planets, galaxies, comets, and black holes whiz across the artificial sky, while comfortably munching bonbons and discussing battle strategies. 

Speaking of bonbons, for lunch, we swing by King Farouk’s Montaza Palace and Gardens, where we savour a three-course meal in what used to be a hunting lodge, located on the palace grounds. The lodge, long ago converted into a luxury hotel, is small, but the ornate decorations and antique furniture succeed at imparting a feeling of kingly ceremony and anticipated pump and circumstance on our small group of hungry diners. Put another way, we feel like kings and queens. 

An hour or so later, we take a relaxing postprandial walk—wheelchair ride for me—around the grounds, and end up at a small seaside promenade. Despite the cool weather (windy, jacket-requiring weather), and the undoubtedly even cooler water, there’s a lone swimmer, bobbing in the waves. Either he’s very brave, very foolish, or very dead. 

For a while, we watch the never-ending movement of the deep blue sea. Its undulating rolls, following the dictum of earth and moon, grow taller and taller into white-crested waves, then seemingly losing all interest in their own existence, abruptly collapse onto the shore with a fury that can only be borne out of nature. As a final act, whether exhausted from the effort or repentant over the force of their onslaught, they cowardly retreat back to the liquid womb that gave them motion, sometimes leaving behind shells, smooth pebbles or other debris, mementos of their once-mighty presence. 

Forgotten until now, the foolish dead man captures my attention once again. Finished with the buoy imitation, he executes a feeble sidestroke aimed at the shore, probably hoping to reach it before turning into a frozen shark appetizer. 

At last, with feet on firm ground, the uneaten appetizer hobbles out of the surf looking like the body double of Papa Smurf: short and pudgy, white beard, and blue all over. Okay, he isn’t really blue, but by lunging for his towel and wrapping himself in it like a cabbage roll, he acts like he’s hypothermic enough to match the sea colour for colour. 

The show’s over; we make our way back to the Pink-Mobile. 

Driving through the Gardens on our way out, we pass by the palace itself, a handsome edifice with leanings toward Turkish and Florentine styles, built at the beginning of the 1900’s. It’s the same structure that I spotted from my hotel window the day before, the one being guarded—or stalked—by the fake palm tree. Maybe the stalking tree is what forced King Farouk to escape into exile, and not the Free Officers Movement, a group headed by Nasser, which seized power in 1952 by overthrowing the government of the king. Farouk was out. Nasser was in, although he wouldn’t become president for another two years.

We exit the Gardens and take the direction of the Fort of Qait Bey, a grand citadel, which saw the light of day around 1480. It was erected on the exact location of the famous lighthouse, destroyed by earthquakes in the early 1300’s. Obviously an adept of the Reduce-Reuse-Recycle Programme, the Sultan of Qait Bey had the actual blocks of the ex-lighthouse incorporated into the walls and foundations of the new citadel. Impressive as the Fort is, though, it doesn’t hold a match to the architectural marvel of the legendary lighthouse. Yes, esteemed reader, that was a conscious attempt at witticism. 

Also known as the Pharos of Alexandria, the lighthouse started its long life during the reign of Ptolemy the First, who commissioned it. It was completed some twenty-odd years later, around 280 B.C., by his son, Ptolemy II. At that time, it was not yet a lighthouse. The huge tower, parked on the small island of Pharos, in the city’s harbour, was basically a landmark, a kind of daytime beacon. It was comprised of three storeys and may have stood, by some estimates, over 400 feet high. Then, around the first century A.D., the ingenious and creative Romans added some mirrors, built a fire, and turned the landmark into one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. 

It certainly would have been an amazing sight during the day, the imposing structure of the tower and the crispness of its limestone against the deep cerulean of the Mediterranean. But at night, the powerful reflected glow of its mighty brazier, visible for miles, would have been a truly magnificent (and welcome) spectacle for the midnight tourist, noble and courageous sailor, or directionally-challenged blue whale.

As the day goes on, my crutching abilities improve. I must admit that for the long distances and extensive sightseeing, a wheelchair is at my disposal, pushed by kind souls in my group. Yet, when the opportunity arises, I delight in being able to amble along, upright, with the rest of my compadres for some of our activities. That is, until my old nemesis rears its ugly head. Stairs. Still stairs. Always stairs.

I’ve been told that it was more nerve-wracking for my companions to watch me navigate stairs, than it was for me doing it. Perhaps this was due to the fact that, during the ascent, I could not see the precipice at my back into which I could plummet. Nor could I see the razor-sharp edge of the steps waiting to meet with my head should I fall backward while descending. Ignorance is so bliss. Nevertheless, some of my braver tour mates would deliberately take the risk of putting themselves in front or back of me—depending on the direction of stair travel—to break my fall should I slip. Luckily, I never slipped, and consequently, never squished anyone.

On our last night in Alexandria, we’re driven to the Opera House for an evening of music. We’ve been told to dress up. Right. I wear a nice little black dress, a green and gold Pashmina, my black evening purse (which I can’t carry, so I have to loop it around my neck and one shoulder like a satchel), my big honking walking cast, one unattractive brown walking shoe, and two aluminum crutches. Is that stylish enough for you? I don’t care. It feels good to wear a dress that isn’t blue and split open in the back for a change. 

The Opera House is beautiful, like the old European concert halls, with little balconies and a lot of gold leaf everywhere. It’s an enchanting decor. What is not so enchanting is that we’re told that we cannot take photos during the concert and must surrender our cameras. Fine. Resigned, we hand in our cameras to the house staff. We find our seats and prepare to enjoy the concert. 

The musicians enter the stage and take their positions, followed by the maestro. We applaud. The orchestra plays an energetic rendition of the overture from Carmen. We applaud louder. The guest artist enters the stage. We applaud vigorously. He starts to play and camera flashes go off throughout the hall. Yasmin’s head spins left and right like an owl on crack, trying to determine where the flashes are coming from. She’s not happy. It seems that we’re the only ones who were told about the photo ban. 

Bent on capturing memories of the evening, but sans camera, Yasmin defiantly takes out her cell phone and proceeds to video snippets of the concert. She’s pleased. The concert is delightful. I’m pleased. Everyone is pleased. After the last notes and tremolos have floated away, disappearing into the golden curlicues of the Rococo-inspired woodwork, we collect our cameras, Kareem and Daniel come to collect us, and we zip back to the hotel. 

After the upheaval of the first few days in Egypt, I’m finally settling into the travel routine of hotels, buses, and sightseeing. Life has returned to a more normal pace, and it seems that Fate has gotten bored of meddling in my affairs. I’m doing what Yasmin advised me to do: I relax. That is, until I get introduced to a new mode of conveyance, one not on the travel itinerary.