Along Kornish el Nil, the walk that runs along the Nile in downtown Cairo, couples walk slowly and stop for tea or chickpeas or roasted sweet potatoes.
On the bridges, they sit on plastic chairs or stand leaning against the rail, close, close together. As close as they can possibly get without breaking the law. You can't kiss on the streets. You can't embrace. But you can hold hands, stand so close so that your bodies touch. You can whisper things in each other's ears, and you can look dreamily into each other's eyes.
They smell sweet and fresh.
We go down from the bridge, zigzag our way between the cars and cross the street, walk passed an old lady hectoring people helping her into a taxi, go down to a feluka place and rent one of those small boats with a huge triangular shaped sail. He holds my hand.
I don't know. Cairo is innocent, romantic, crazy, loud, crowded, sweet and safe.
The feluka guy tells my date he can't put his arm around me. We sit with proper distance in between us, feeling cold in the chilly night air. Five minutes later the feluka guy offers hasheesh.
We float slowly, slowly on the black surface of the river Nile. Other felukas with engines speed past us. There's loud music from the shore. Honking cars. Winking lights and dusty Cairo air. Somehow the Nile eats up all the stress, all the noise, and leaves you with a feeling of perfect peace and calm.
I meet him first at Cilantro in Mohandeseen, by the way. He orders a cappuccino that comes out like this. Another sign, I'm sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment