Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
a dip. We—all of us—converge with the push of gravity. A Tweety Bird blanket hangs high
over the fray, too high for anyone to grab. Right when my foot has found the outer banks of
thedipandIamclimbingout,ahandfindsmyassandsqueezeshard.Iwriggle,shoveahead,
and nearly take Tori down.
It's the first time anyone's groped me in Cairo. Kate was right. Men don't need a figure or
face to treat a woman like meat. Someone with imagination pushed right through the
niqab
.
We exploit our anonymity at this
souq
, and so does some guy's hand.
Backonlevelground,itbecomesclearthatsomeone'sfollowingus.Toriveersusdownan
alley toward the cemetery, hoping to lose the stubble-cheeked man, but he keeps up, asking
in Arabic, over and over, “What are you doing here?” In a whisper that she hopes hides her
accent, Tori says, “Leave us alone.” I don't speak Arabic. I just sweat. My
niqab
is gaining
sweat weight. Tori leads us deeper into the City of the Dead, a maze of mausoleums, until
finally the accuser falls away. Again: Kate was right. There were reasons not to do this. The
man was ready to yank Tori's
niqab
right off.
Nothing, though, can spoil this
souq
for me. Not the sweaty fabric, not my fury at men,
not my indignation on behalf of women, not a veil slipping, not an ass grabbed, not even a
stranger who wants us shamed. There are places that feel like the answer to the question of
why we travel in the first place, why we bother to trespass, crossing the lines that look like
fences. This place is one of my few.
We're leaving, reaching the homestretch. We see Mahmoud looking straight at us, bless him,
as if he's been scanning the edge of the market for twin black blobs ever since he lost sight
of Tori and me hours ago. Still, Tori can't wait to reach the finish line to say aloud what
she enjoyed most about wearing the
niqab
. I think of the other American women who wear
blinders,whobeigeout,whostareatarandompoint100yardsaway.I'msuretheywouldall
nod, as I do, when Tori says the best part was looking strangers square in the eye.
We collapse into the back seat of Mahmoud's car with a tremendous ruckus. We phew and
sighandbreatheairlikepeoplewhojustcrawledoutofgraves.Weyankdownveilsandsuck
down water, making the transformation back to Westerner, back to blond and green-eyed,
with a quick yank.
I watch Mahmoud watch Tori become Tori in the mirror; I catch him smile as he sees for
the first time the dimpled cheeks that match the little voice. Tori later tells me how strange
thiswas—notbecauseshecaughtourbabysitterpeepingbutbecauseshewantedtointroduce
herself all over again,
“Esmee Tori.”
Mahmoudisreadytodriveoff,butIcan'tyet.Icannot leave without taking pictures. Tori,
knowing I need a companion, offers to come. And so we head back into the
souq
without
coverage, straight into what, at our approach, now sounds like a motel room full of male ath-
leteswho'vejustlocatedthepornchannel.ItakeTori'shand.It'sperfectlynormalforpeople
