From Here To Mediocrity

Pop tarts, check. Frosted blueberry, two to a crisp silver pouch that reminds me of astronaut food. Sustenance for a long voyage ahead. I travel nowadays with these tasty, processed treats as reliable in my kit as chapstick or sunglasses. Something from my childhood, maybe? I don't specifically recall Pop tarts in the station wagon, jammed with sleeping bags, puzzle books, and siblings. I'm sure Mom bought them a few times as durable, mess-free car snacks, so I connect them with travel. Same with those single-serving boxes of breakfast cereal, shrink-wrapped within an inch of its life, and my sisters and I anxiously waiting for tomorrow's morning meal, 500 miles from home, just so we bust open and grab the coveted Froot Loops or Sugar Smacks. Conversely, we knew the trip was coming to a close when the only losers remaining were Corn Flakes and Product 19. Pop tarts, likewise, are travel food in my head. I dont think I've ever eaten one at home. Busting out the travel bl...

     On the long flight home from Istanbul to Washington, DC, I watched the movie "Wicked" on the little seat-back screen. The obnoxious kid in front of me insisted on reclining his seat for most of the trip, so I got to watch it about eight inches in front of my face. I had heard it was an excellent adaptation of the stage musical (that Becky and I saw on Broadway way back in 2004 with the original cast of Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenowith). One thing I noticed this time was the clever way the writers played with the word "good." There was the obvious theme of Good vs. Wicked, and the fact that Glinda was known as the "Good Witch." Was she really good, you had to wonder, with the path that she had chosen? Was she a "good friend?" Who's good in the movie vs. who's right? Is honesty good? Is being nice good? Is being wonderful good?      The writers also played with the phrase "for good." (The sequel, in fact, is called "Wi...

     T raffic in Egypt and Malta is, to use a technical term, "nuts." I didn't get behind the wheel of a vehicle for two weeks. I'm thankful for that and, I believe, most of the motorized population of the Mediterranean should be thankful as well.      The best way to describe street traffic in Egyptian cities is to think back to science class when you watched films of red blood cells zooming through healthy arteries and veins. Everything is bumper to bumper, but not flowing in straight lines. Rather imagine little steel blobs slipping between other steel blobs to get in front.  Bulls through Pamplona.    Most urban highways in Cairo had no white dotted lines, and if they did, they were regularly ignored by every single driver. Three designated lanes on the highway could easily fit five cars side by side. Shoulders were just another lane. And why bother with turn signals if you're never really going to commit to staying in a lane for longer t...

     On my day in Gozo with Edward, we drove together and looked around and chatted, but then at times, he dropped me off at a site to explore on my own; when I was ready to move on, I could call him to pick me up. At my leisure, no pressure. Previously, I had told him I wanted to see the "cart ruts." Strange grooves carved into the limestone bedrock under your feet, parallel lines that run for miles like long-forgotten train tracks. Like a proper tour guide, he made it part of our agenda. What I didn't know was that unlike all the other ancient sites I had visited in Egypt and Malta, the cart ruts weren't really a tourist attraction. There was no signage, no "exhibit," no exit through the gift ship. They're just these rock formations out in the middle of nowhere. Edward had dutifully printed a Google satellite map for me with bright yellow arrows showing where the cart ruts might be found. No words, no signposts, no help as to where these things might b...

     Blame Jay's wife, Kathy.      From our first meeting Hany was very clear about how we should avoid the inevitable swarm of souvenir sellers. They're looking for folks exactly like us, ready to pounce. At each ancient site, we would need to run a gauntlet of pushy vendors, maybe twenty or thirty booths on both sides of a narrow outdoor passageway or sidewalk, chocked with scarves, t-shirts, magnets, dolls, pyramids, cats, crocodiles, and creepy plastic King Tut heads.       Don't engage with them, admonished Hany.  Don't window-shop or lookee-loo at the colorful displays of trinkets. Don't be enticed by their offers to "come inside, take a look, no hassle." Don't answer their questions: "Where you from? U.S.? England?" Don't fall for their compliments: "Hey, pretty lady," or "Hey big American, like Rambo, hey?" Don't be polite with this scourge, even though everyone in the tour group seemed like a nice person. ...

     Two aspects of the Egyptian financial culture I had to wrap my head around were 1.) the value of the Egyptian pound, and 2.) tipping.      Side note: Egyptian money is gorgeous. Shorter but taller than U.S. bills (like the euro), they come in a variety of colors with national icons of sphynxes and mosques and ancient statues on them. I don't know, maybe foreigners think U.S. money is lovely (I doubt it), but I thought this stuff was frameable as artwork.      Also, I never saw any coins in Egypt. Hany, at one point, mentioned a "piastre," and 100 piastres equals one EGP. But those coins are essentially worthless, because 1 EGP equals about two cents USD. A can of soda typically costs 150 EGP, that I'd pay for with a 100 pound note and a 50. Nothing improper about it, but the concept of paying 150 anythings for a drink takes a while to get used to. My American brain sees a bill with a 50 or 100 on it, and automatically interprets it as a ...