Nearly twelve hours (and only one pee break by the side of the road) later, the bus pulled into a bustling city. I felt like pudding. I couldn’t even imagine what I looked like.
The locals quickly dispersed, and left us tourists standing there with our bags at our feet, and our mouths gaping. The bus hadn’t stopped at the main bus station, but rather a secondary one, that was, according to my guidebook (who writes these things?) less crowded. I had serious doubts that any place could be less crowded than this bus station. My trusty guide book (the very one that said the bus ride from Mount Sinai took six hours) said the secondary bus station was within walking distance of the main station—but after my Sinai fiasco and the bus ride from hell, I was in no mood to maneuver through the mean streets of Cairo with all of my crap.
Which is exactly what I ended up doing. Naturally. For some reason, I had a sense that I’d be better off following a map than taking my chances in a cab. So I slogged through the heat and the crowds until I saw my oasis: the Nile Hilton. Oh! I’d heard stories about this hotel and the luxuries it proffered! And I was ready to treat myself to every one of its five stars! Woo hoo!
I went up the to the front desk and asked for a room. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we have no rooms available.” “You’ve got to be kidding me! This place has, like, two hundred rooms. Surely, you have one room available.” The man looked me over, cocked his head, and calmly repeated his statement. Yes, I realized that I hadn’t bathed in three days, reeked of hash and sweat, had desert sand caked on my face like an action hero, and that I was carrying all of my worldly possessions on my back (and front)—but dammit! I had an American Express card burning a hole in my pocket and I wanted a room!
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