Its Good To Be Back

About 25 minutes ago I found myself sitting up in bed talking on the phone. The voice of the other end pieces together enough English for me to understand that he is delivering my lost luggage to me. Allow me to set the scene.

When I arrived in Cairo International Airport on the evening of January 6th, I expected to jump through customs, grab my bags and be on my way with a matter of 20 minutes. But why would that be any fun? Instead, my excitement rises when I see the first of my two luggage items gliding toward me on the conveyor. Little did I know that if that luggage could speak it would have been screaming frightfully terrors about how he and his younger brother were separated in Paris.

Because of his years of travel experience this bag knew how to handle the situation smoothly, without showing his raging anxiety. His sibling was not yet weathered enough traveling storms to know trouble when its coming. The old bag got out as soon as he noticed a problem and jumped the plane to Cairo. The rookie was not so lucky. He was left like a forgotten, unloved child.


After expectant many moments of waiting and watching for my beloved luggage, an eerie bell buzzed out, sounding the end of the luggage line. On the verge of tears, my brave one bag and I toughened up, dabbed the corner of a misty eye and marched over the the mob of people growling about their similar circumstances.

"I can't wait til tomorrow; I leave for Alex!" snarled one Frenchman. "I've precious cargo in mine," piped another short white-wigged gentlemen. And so we waited. But to add to the confusion, one round faced Egyptian came by wearing an Air France work coat and stout mustache that identified him unmistakably as a native. He nabbed out passports cracking over his shoulder, "I be back," and refusing any of my gestures of curiosity.

Time passes slower when you think you might be living in a baggage claim area for the next several day. But just as irritation with our swift-handed fiend overwhelmed me, I began to notice the clerks distributing some belongings among the crowd. Passports. A sigh of relief and arm extended to accept back the conceivably prodigal document.

With no avail, I made my claim to this ambiguous luggage. Upon the consult of the clerk, I called the next day to check the status. "Tomorrow night it should be in to... (pause)... 17 Port Siad, Maadi. Correct?" Oh crap. They have been confused by the address. No, ma;am, its the corner of road 17 and Port Siad, where they intersect. Okay, thank you sir. Click.

Tomorrow night was tonight. Expecting it might be nearly midnight or 1 am before they deliver the alleged bag, I entertained my wits with a few hours of Wii entertainment. By this point, I've only slept 3 and a half hours in the last 24. Its now 3 am and exhaustion claims its rigged prize. A dark room with the blue glow of only the digital alarm clock as lamp cues the confused man suddenly talking on the phone in his sleep. 4:06 am.

He tells me he is at Port Siad and Road 17. "I'll be there in one minute," I mumble. We meet. He inquires about his tip, because every man who is awaken in the midst of glorious rest instinctively grabs for his wallet. Except me. The man announces his Christianity to me as if that will have an impact on his tip. I free only my wallet and phone from the warm shelter of my pocket as evidence to my stupidity. The polite disgust covers his face and thank him for his service to return with my bruised but not beaten treasure.

And if you were wondering, everything that started in the suitcase found its way here. Again the sweet song of 5:00 am call to Islamic prayer lulls me to a weary sleep. Good night, and good luck.