Safely Home

Arrived in Los Angeles @ 7:45 PM. Now home in Ojai.

What an incredible journey!

Disconnecting the phones and going to bed. It's been a very long day...

Good night!

Last Day in Egypt

Today is our last day in Egypt. It's also my birthday (57, just like Heinz flavors). We're taking it easy. No museums or sight-seeing. We went walking around Zamalek Island a bit at lunch time, window shopping, and grabbed some grub at a local cafe. Window seats, great for people watching. We'll go out again for dinner later on. Now just sort of relaxing and vegetating at the hotel.

We have to re-pack our bags for international travel. A taxi will take us to the airport at midnight. Flight is not until 4:00 AM, but ride to airport could take anywhere from a half hour to two hours. You never know. Better be there early. So we will be home-bound in a few hours.

Home? What is home? It's been over a month and I am not sure what home is anymore. In my current state of mind, home consists of a few concepts, like my cappuccino machine and my bed, but beyond that it is totally abstract. I know I'll have to hit the ground running when I get there, as the demands of professional life are already infiltrating the back door of my consciousness. But not yet.

This adventure has been everything I had hoped for, and much more. Even with the down time caused by that dreaded infection in Luxor, what I have seen and experienced here more than fulfills the dreams I held for so long. As an artist, every fiber of my being has resonated to the deep vibrations of this land, its art and history, its rich & verdant fields, its beautiful people.

Egypt is nothing like what we are used to in America. But that's the whole point, stepping out of the sterilized, streamlined North American mindset. Notwithstanding the desperate and overly rude vendors at some of the archaeological sites, I have found the Egyptian People to be warm and welcoming, full of humor and quick to share a smile and a laugh. They are also proud and hopeful for the new direction their country is taking, despite the hardships of societal change.

I do wish them a bright future, one I hope to experience again.

Signing off.

Costco

Second full day at the Museum. This time the plan was to systematically go into each gallery, scan the contents, and perhaps linger a while on some select pieces.

There is NO way someone can really SEE everything, let alone absorb the sheer magnitude of the collections. This is not so much a Museum as it is a dusty Costco warehouse specializing in Egyptian antiquities. Except that at Costco, items are better labeled and identified. I'd say that 2% of all the priceless antiquities here have an actual descriptive label, although the factual accuracy thereof is often fanciful, and written in French. Oxymoron if there ever was one...

My knowledge of many of these treasures comes from books - you know, the expensive coffee-table tomes I usually get on my birthday or Christmas mornings - and I am often surprised by what I see. Scale is one such challenge to my pre-conceptions. Many items are *much* smaller than I had envisioned, showing a level of exquisite detail that defies logic, whereas some are quite a bit larger. Monumental, really.

I spend some delightful moments scrutinizing the scale models of the middle-kingdom, miniature scenes carved out of wood that show the daily activities of a well-run country estate. Here women are weaving linen; here men are driving cattle, catching fish or doing carpentry work in a well-appointed workshop. Imbued with magic, these models insured their owners of a prosperous afterlife. Having spent much of my childhood building scale models of boats, homes and castles, I take great pleasure imagining how the craftsman created these, held this or that part while the glue dried, his choice of material or color. It all speaks to me.

I can't show you pictures of my favorite pieces. First, there are too many and, secondly, photography is not allowed inside the museum. Didn't used to be the case, but I can understand their policy. Some of the priceless artifacts are so fragile that one flash too many could turn them to crumbling dust.

We spend a good six hours at the museum, with an intermission for lunch at the Movenpick Hotel-operated cafe outside.

Again, I've turned into a babbling idiot. I cannot stand on my legs anymore, but am afraid to sit down for fear I'd never get up again.

My brain is beyond full, like a sponge that cannot possibly absorb one more droplet of artistic bliss. Total saturation. It will take months and years to process it all. After I tell Denny that I'm done for the day, we slowly stroll through some of the galleries, saying our goodbyes to our favorites.

I will be back.

Some day.

Soon.

King Tut-ed Out

The gentleman at the hotel desk tells us we can either walk to Tahrir Square and the Egyptian Museum in fifteen to thirty minutes, or take a cab and be there in an hour... Really.

We decide to walk it. Last night's foray into downtown Cairo has done a lot to allay my fears of this huge city. It's really not all that far, and the directions are rather simple. Down the street, over the bridge crossing the Nile, down the riverside Corniche and left after passing the burned out government building! See, easy!

Our first visit to the Egyptian Museum was over two weeks ago with Medhat, Dr. Kemp and the rest of the tour group. That visit was a great introduction, but limited in time. Now I want to splurge.

Upon entering we immediately turn right and go up the stairs. I want to go directly to the Tutankhamun section and spend all the time necessary to see all I want. Sort of getting it out of my system. I can't remember how many artifacts Howard Carter retrieved from that tiny tomb in the Valley of the Kings. I know it is thousands. Most of them are here at the museum.

I'm going to have myself a time, as our dear friend Lang would say.

The late eighteen dynasty was a high-water mark in the applied arts. The inlaid boxes and chests, stools, chairs and beds show consummate craftsmanship and artistry. Every day objects rendered beautiful beyond the necessities of function.

I work my way slowly. There's a crowd ahead, clustered around the famed golden throne. A Japanese television crew is swarming around the all-too-familiar figure of Dr. Zahi Hawass, who is mugging it for the camera, probably claiming to have discovered it all himself single-handledly...

I eventually get my own private face-to-face time with the self-same throne. There are very good reasons why it is famous. The richness of the decoration and the uniqueness of the scene on its back rest are just mind-boggling. Two additional large chairs displayed nearby are no less sumptuous to my eyes. Working my way down the large gallery I find a large display case filled with ceremonial walking sticks. There, couched rather unceremoniously, are two sticks, one of gold and the other of silver, that throw me back almost fifty years to that first trance-like encounter I had had with things Egyptian. Each is surmounted with a tiny solid metal statuette of the child King, and would have been used during the rituals of his coronation. I remember seeing the silver one as a child of nine years of age. I'm getting all choked up again.

In what I'll call the "treasury room", I work my way from the periphery, looking closely at the jewelry and other artifacts while pretending to ignore the 800-lbs gorillas in the middle of the room, namely the golden mask and the solid gold coffin. That's OK, I'm circling like a shark, getting ever closer.

Along with Nefertiti's head, Tutankhamun's golden mask is today perhaps the most recognized symbol of ancient Egypt's splendor. There's nothing else quite like it, even though about a dozen other solid gold mummy masks from various kings have survived to this day. This mask shows the idealized features of Tutankhamun as he would have appeared to the gods upon his rebirth into the afterlife. No mortal eyes were ever meant to gaze upon it after burial. We are intruding. It is also an exquisite, sensitive portrait of the young king. I try to remind myself that this is just sheet metal that's been hammered into shape, looking for signs of the artist's hand. So strong is its power that it nearly blinds me to its details.

If the mask evokes the pathos and poignancy of a young king's life cut short, the gold coffin projects pure opulence. It dazzles and shimmers. The chased decoration, covering it from head to toe, is testimony to the goldsmith's art. The inlaid cloisonné forms of Nekbet and Wadjet, spreading their wings over the king's torso, add color to the otherwise continuous expanse of solid gold. Close inspection reveals that the winged goddesses forms had been chased and incised in all their feathery detail into the body of the coffin before being added as a cloisonné overlay, as if the latter was an afterthought, or something to be done if afforded the leisure of time.

My brain is on overload.

Conga Line

Skipped a chapter here, or episode.

That of transferring from Luxor to Cairo yesterday Friday. It all went rather smoothly and uneventfully, so not much there to write about. Even the taxi ride from airport to the hotel on Zamalek Island had lost much of its original impact, perhaps due to it being on a holy day with much reduced traffic.

While on the plane the Egypt Air in-flight magazine Horus had caught Denny's eye, especially an article about Grammy Award winner musician Fathy Salama, a Cairo-born sensation who weaves a fusion of jazz, house-digital, African and Muslim genres. He was playing last night in Downtown Cairo. Once we got to the hotel, Denny looked him up online, found where he was playing and how much the tickets were and called the box office. No need for reservations. We'd take a cab there.

Friday night in downtown Cairo is like Saturday night at the county fair, on acid. I think I even saw some tri-color cotton candy sold to celebrate the revolution on Tahrir Square. The population is definitely young. All the stores are open. Vendors spill out from the sidewalks and onto the roadway, selling piles of clothes, electronics and assorted nicknacks. We go around in circles, not finding the venue, stopping thrice to ask for directions. Our driver, arranged by the hotel, neither speaks nor reads English, and the address is handwritten in English on the page Denny tore out of the magazine. Once we find it, the concert is already underway. We slip in.

The music is very good, I think, but not a genre we would go out of our way to attend a concert of if it were in our hometown. The musicians are excellent, especially the drummer and the tabla player - divine. I appreciate stepping out of our comfort zone and am grateful Denny suggested it. After the concert, we still have a bit over a half-hour to kill until midnight when our driver is to pick us up, so we stroll the human carnival that's moving like a conga-line on both sides of the street, leaving little space for vehicles in the middle. Methinks we're the only Westerners in this sea of Egyptians. We do stand out.

Intense.

Sennedjem

I was not going to leave Luxor without having seen the tomb that Sennedjem -- "Servant in the Place of Truth", master draftsman and architect for Pharaoh in the Valley of the Kings -- had carved and decorated for himself and his family some 3,400 years ago. A simple courtesy call between artists is the way I see it. He has provided me with such inspiration over the years, I was not going to miss this.

Which is to say, Denny and I have resumed regular programming today, albeit at a reduced scale, part of which is due to the sudden turn to summer-like temperatures after a rather mild spring. Now it oscillates between HOT, TOO HOT, and WAY TOO HOT.

The ancient village now known as Deir El Medina was tucked in a separate valley away from the cultivated floodplain, a few hills and ridges over from the Valley of the Kings. There lived the stone workers, carvers, artists and painters that dug out and decorated the magnificent tombs of the Kings, Queens and high nobles privileged with burials near their Kings. The workers lived separately from the general population, given the sensitivity of their work. We'd call it high-security clearance stuff nowadays. They were well-paid and taken care of (though they are known to have staged the first recorded workers' strike in history), with wages being distributed in foodstuffs, clothing and other necessities of life. Here they lived, worked, taught and trained their progeny, prepared their own tombs, and died.

And what incredibly beautiful places of eternity they prepared for themselves!

When the cream of the crop of funerary art architects and artists get together on their free time and collaborate on their own private sepulchers, the results are bound to be outstanding.

We first visit the burial chambers of Inherkhau. The place is tiny -- by pharaonic standards -- but the paintings are so lively and fresh, devoid of the formality found in the royal hypogeums. The painted ceiling of the antechamber is a delight, reproducing what I believe would have been woven textiles in a rainbow of colors. One can almost do a thread count...

The burial chamber itself is a pure joy. Yes, there are funerary themes explored on the walls, but the general atmosphere is that of a family celebration, and we are invited to join the party. A fleshy harpist plucks the strings of his instrument and one can almost hear the guests clapping their hands in approval while the children run around the room.

Wow.

And this was just an appetizer.

When we start into Sennedjem's tomb next door, a guard at the entrance tells me that there are 'officials' in the tomb, but that it's OK to go in. Climbing down, I do indeed find four men in suits and one woman in the already small chamber. They are engaged in rather animated discussion. With my non-existent knowledge of Arabic, I cannot tell whether they're congratulating themselves into a frenzy or chewing each other to pieces and spitting out the bloody bits. I suspect the latter. Eventually they stop and leave. The last one to exit turns to tell me: "Sorry about that."

Sennedjem was probably Inherkhau's boss, or father-in-law, or both. They may have worked on each other tombs. Sennedjem's burial chamber is the most beautiful painted space I have ever seen. It was found intact and piled to the rafters with high quality funerary equipment -- which I will be looking at very closely at the Cairo Museum in a day or two.

On the walls of the simple vaulted room, the colors, composition and draftsmanship all speak of the highest care and dedication. One is transported into the vision Sennedjem had for his afterlife and that of his loved ones. It is a serene, peaceful yet responsible life he is preparing for, as we see him and his beautiful wife harvesting wheat and flax, tending a garden or sailing the cooling waters of the canals that encircle the Elysian Fields. Even Sennedjem's judgement and encounter with Osiris is treated in joyful colors, the great God of the afterlife surrounded by festoons of flowers and placated with heaps of offerings. The ceiling is mostly reserved for scenes of Sennedjem encountering various deities of the afterlife, and apparently satisfying their curiosity, as he and his wife are last seen meeting the Lady of the Sycamore, who greets them and offers them libations of refreshing water.

This is the stuff many dreams will be made of.

Two Moustaches And No Woman? Marry Me!

Capitalizing on our steadily improving health, we took the ferry across the Nile this morning to go and conduct some much needed financial transactions at the Thomas Cook office located just outside the Old Winter Palace in Luxor. This also meant having to run the gauntlet of taxi and horse-drawn carriage drivers, private boat operators, fellucca sailors and other such entrepreneurs plying their trade.

Being cooped up sick in the hotel room for a week had sheltered us from the daily onslaught.

Some are discreet, some are rude, many are simply not understanding that we may actually want to walk the half kilometer between the ferry landing and the grand Victorian-era hotel.

I mean, if they need the money, how could we possibly not want to ride with them?

I know, I know, we Californians are so illogical.

Also, and most importantly for me, this half-kilometer stroll happens to skirt the west side of the Temple of Luxor, giving a clear view into the temple itself and the later period constructions that are being excavated and conserved by teams of archaeologists. I want to walk it slowly and take pictures.

Fortunately for us, a large influx of fair-but-soon-to-turn-pink-skinned tourists seems to have requested the services of -- or fallen prey to -- the horse carriage drivers this morning, as most are trotting along the Corniche with full payload. Not that we totally escape attention, however.

There's still the taxi and boat operators to deal with...

Just before we reach the hotel, this tiny, attractive younger woman swathed in black linen greets us on the sidewalk, complimenting us on our beards and saying: "How come? Two Moustaches And No Woman? You should marry me!"

We just burst out laughing.

Of course she's trying to sell some merchandise, following us, she's got a bagful of nicknacks she's already digging into, but we keep walking, daring not to slow our pace for fear of the consequences.

How would we explain the Egyptian wife to our friends and families back home?