I was in Cairo in December 2013 after the revolution and before the collapse of the newly elected government — in a narrow window of time when the very air in Egypt was buzzing with optimism. Amid peaceful, organized protests and very public police presence, the palimpsest that is Cairo was set to reinvent itself once again.

As our taxi maneuvered through traffic, I noticed the coexistence of dusty and glitzy, fast and slow, past and present. Apartment buildings appeared simultaneously abandoned and bursting at the seams, and humongous billboards lining the highway advertised the latest products while others were bare with flickering, naked tube lights, waiting impatiently. I craned my neck to peer at the street market near the Railway Station.

“From China — cheap shoes, clothes, and toys,” The taxi driver commented. “You go to Khan-el-Khalili for Egyptian market.”

Medieval Cairo bazaars would have been flush with the best from places along the Silk Road. Shops would have lined the streets from the northern gate to the South, dotted with mosques, hospitals, schools, rest houses, water dispensaries, and mausoleums. The vibrancy was palpable even in my imagination.

And the reality did not disappoint. Tiny shops huddled on the street — goldsmiths together, spice merchants crowded an alley, perfume vendors with capsules of essential oils squatted together, sheesha (water pipes) and lamp sellers sat at the intersection of two streets marked by tall arched entryways. Back alleys lead to pulsating artisan workshops.

I continuously negotiated between the dazzling shop displays, the thick aromas, and the enticing calls of the vendors. On a single street, lessons could be learned in urban accommodation — use of triangular plots of land to locate an ornate water dispensary, the overhanging balconies reducing the glare from the sun, intricate wooden screen windows (mashrabiyas and mashrafiyas) for view and air circulation.

We were at a standstill in traffic (a part of life in Cairo) near Tahrir square, squeezing past the army tank toward the old American University and the street with graffiti honoring the martyrs of the revolution. I watched a man dressed in traditional jellabiya in the back of a small delivery truck texting on his cell phone, and a cart piled high with loofa wove expertly through the gridlock.

An Arabic pop song played on the radio. With inquisitive looks in the rear view mirror, the taxi driver said, “Shah Rukh Khan? Kareena Kapoor?” He smiled triumphantly when I nodded. He had figured out that I was from the land of the popular Bollywood stars he mentioned. 

“Welcome to Masr Egypt. How long you stay?”

“Ten days.” 

“Not enough. But Inshallah, you come again.”

I smiled — God willing.

I woke up to the early morning azan, the call for prayer. My friend’s house was quiet. From the foot of the bed, Fluffy, the cat, glared disdainfully at me. I peered through the shutters of the 1950s villa. A layer of dust blanketed the bougainvillea-covered pergola, the yucca plants, and the blue cushions. The neighborhood had consisted of villas set amidst lush gardens but was now littered with tall apartment buildings.

It was a sunny but cool morning, and we were going to see the pyramids. I ate a breakfast of champions consisting of ful (fava beans) and tamiya (felafel) in the fresh belladi (pita bread) over conversations regarding the 2011 revolution. Egyptians from all walks of life had marched side by side, full of optimism and hope.

Nearing Giza, the geometrical tops of the pyramids towered over the organically mushrooming reddish brick buildings, creating a bizarre landscape. As soon as we had bought our tickets, we were offered cheap rides into the desert, postcards, and even photographs posing on a camel printed within the hour. I pointed sheepishly at my camera and shook my head mumbling, “La Shukran.” No thank you.

Squinting to look up at the top of the great pyramid, I marveled at the yellow limestone that was as tall as a horse tethered near it. The Sphinx, with centuries of erosion lines etched on it, sat docilely with its back to the pyramids. Climbing toward the entrance to the innards of the pyramid, I turned to look at the encroaching metropolis. It appeared menacing under a dark lugubrious cloud.

Rain came suddenly as we started toward the panorama point. Decked out camels and horses led by Bedouin boys scrambled to find shelter, all the while looking up at the sky and laughing. For a brief moment, the intruding city faded, and I glimpsed the majesty of the pyramids uncluttered in the desert.

As we drove from Giza to Sakkara, I saw the ruins of pyramids dotting the landscape — testimony to the experimentation in building techniques. A wind had whipped up, whirling the sands and remapping the dwindling desert. Walking toward the Serapaeum, in the shadow of the earliest successful step pyramid, we were engulfed in a sandstorm. Wrapping a scarf around my face, I walked zombie-like, pushing against the gritty wind as the guard unlocked a small, ubiquitous brass lock.

My eyes adjusted to the dark affording glimpses of the uncanny catacombs. I visualized a procession with the powerful decorated bull, fed for the whole year prior to its sacrifice, led through the streets as people cheered and jostled. I blinked when the lights were turned on, taking with it the aura of enigma and revealing an unending labyrinth of raised wooden floors and steel trusses supporting the vaults, under which were the humongous stone sarcophagi for the bulls. 

The pyramids, the market, and the Serapaeum were from historically different eras, but they were woven into the fabric of modern Cairo, where cheap souvenirs from China, films from Bollywood, and local artisans thrived. Here a revolution had shaken the country to its core, yet amid the layers of history, the desire for change was unmistakable.

Dedicated to my dear friends Mariam, Amr, Abdallah, Ameena and Fluffy for their generous hospitality, exuberant company and delicious home cooked food.