I knew I was in trouble when I saw the Ettihad Airways 777 trundling up to the gate ahead of us shortly after we landed at Cairo Airport.  Terminal 2 — referred to in cruel ironic fashion as the “new” airport, even though it is now the oldest and smallest of the three terminals — is notoriously cramped and the arrival of two or three airplanes at once is a sure way to gunk up the works.

It was worse than I expected.  Just down the gangway, where arriving passengers descend to the first floor for customs, a uniformed security official was distributing health declaration forms.  Egypt has had its share of cases of the H1N1 virus, and the country is in full lockdown, beginning with the airport.  The passengers off of the Ettihad flight, arriving from Abu Dhabi in their Hermes headscarves and Dolce and Gabbana thobes clustered around three small podiums filling out the forms (why Egypt, unlike Turkey, seems to be unable to give these forms out on the plane is beyond me), and jamming up the narrow hallway.

Then all 500 of us — for by then the Ettihadis and those off of my flight from Istanbul had been joined by a third flight arriving from Brussels — headed for one of two checkpoints.  The one I found myself waiting for was staffed by a tough woman with henna colored hair sticking out from under her hijab, who pointed a thermal camera at every single passenger, testing for fever.  Of course, by this point, we were all hot, sticky, and sweaty.  Who could tell what was fever?

A bottle-blond behind me tried to smarm her way forward.  “Please,” she said, “My kids are tired.”  By way of emphasis, she gestured to the two children, who seemed to be having fun playing with the stantions.  I considered suggesting the trick would have worked better if she hadn’t waited until she was at the front of the line to try it.  By that point, I was ready to bodily prevent her from getting in front of me.

Apparently fever-free, I stopped in at the Banque Misr, where a bored looking woman took $100 from me, handed me my entry visa, and an amount of money in Egyptian pounds that I’m not sure was correct because she didn’t offer me a receipt.

From there, the line for passport control took another 45 minutes.  Every so often, someone would complain about the wait, and would be set promptly in their place.  But it slowed down the process.  And this is Egypt, where things never run quickly.

The good news is that by the time I got through passport control, my luggage was sitting there waiting for me.

And off I went into the arrivals hall, surrounded by hundreds of anxious people waiting for arriving friends and family, wondering where they were (still in line, most likely).  The usual line of limo company reps popped up out of nowhere like a bad date.  “Taxi?  Where you go?”
“Zamalek.”
“I take you for 80 pounds.”
“EIGHTY?  Are you KIDDING me?  I’ll take a cab.”

I did eventually realize that I wasn’t going to win, as every limo company quoted the same price.  80 pounds to the city center.  Last time, I paid 60 and knew I was getting fleeced.  Back in my day, I would have paid 30.  But it was hot, I was sweaty and tired, and I had no idea where the taxi rank had been moved since Terminal 3 was completed in the parking lot of Terminal 2.

In the back seat of the air conditioned Lexus, I tried to strike up a conversation with the driver, but he wasn’t having it.  Fine with me.  I wasn’t feeling like talking anyway.  I looked out the window and noticed how unlike Turkey Egypt is.  While in Istanbul, several people asked me which I like better, Cairo or Istanbul?  Istanbul’s prettier, that’s for sure.  But there’s something about Egypt …

My room wasn’t ready when I got to the hotel, so I left my bags at reception and decided to go down the street to the supermarket for water and other supplies.  A British lady held the door at the elevator and we rode down together.

“First visit to Egypt?” she asked.
“No,” I said.  “I’ve been here many times.”
“Me too,” she said.  “I just keep coming back.”
“There’s something about it … ” I said.
“Exactly.  It’s chaotic, dirty, and nothing works-”
“-and you miss it the second you leave.”
We stepped out onto the street and bid each other good day.  I walked up the shady sidewalk, taking a moment to appreciate that I’m back in Cairo, a place that is, for better or worse, near and dear to me.

When I got to my room, I opened the drapes and found this:

Yeah.  I’m hooked.

Tags: blog, cairo, children, egypt, family, fashion, friends, fun, health, ice, istanbul, khowaga, luggage, me, men, money, news, SHE, turkey, work, zamalek