Miles To Go Before I Sleep (3 page)

Two weeks before going to Greece, I signed up for Arabic classes to improve my ability to communicate with the people I met. I'd already learned a few simple phrases. One of my favorite was “In Sha Allah,” which means, “If God so wills,” “It's in God's hands,” or “Whatever God wants.” Instead of saying “Have a good day!” the Egyptians said, “In Sha Allah!” when greeting me or bidding me good-bye.

As much as I loved the romance and adventure of living in Cairo, I was really looking forward to visiting Greece. Though I'd never been there, I knew Greece was more modern and Westernized, that it would feel more like “home.” I was ready for a change of pace.

In Cairo, the tasks of daily living took up a lot of energy. Because there was so much dust from the surrounding desert—it coated everything—it was hard enough just to keep clean. We had to dust our apartment every day—even if we kept the windows shut.

When I got home from grocery shopping, I had to spend three to four hours scrubbing ground-in dirt off the vegetables, soaking them in bleach for twenty minutes, and then putting them in boiled water to kill any remaining bacteria. Any meat we bought had to be frozen for the same reason.

Laundry was a big chore too. Like most teachers, we didn't have a washer or dryer, so we sent our clothes out with an Egyptian woman who lived nearby. She'd scrub our clothes with stones and hang them out to dry in the sandy air. They always came back stiff and faded. Scott and I often laughed at the way they looked and smelled.

Scavenging for simple housewares, like curtains, was a major headache. We couldn't just walk into a WalMart to get what we needed. To get curtains, we had to know somebody who knew somebody's brother who might be able to find fabric to make the curtains. I didn't give up though. Days before going to Greece, I had some curtains made. I was excited to finally have them up three days before we left and was looking forward to enjoying them when we got back.

I was saddened by the depth of poverty all around me. Most people in Egypt live at the poverty level. For example, the caretakers in our apartment building, a family of eight (including two parents, four kids, and two grandparents) lived in an abandoned elevator shaft in our building. It was a small space with no roof. It almost never rained in Cairo, but when it did, the rain fell on their one piece of furniture: a couch with a tattered plastic covering.

When we went down to the marketplace on Fridays and Saturdays—our weekends—we'd see mothers holding their half-naked babies in the streets, begging for food. The women were dressed in black, some with black veils hiding their faces. Begging was the only job they could get to survive.

There were frequent reminders that we were living in a tense and often unpredictable part of the world. Egyptian security police frequently patrolled the streets with machine guns in hand. There was often bitter infighting between Egypt's political leaders and Muslim fundamentalists who wanted Islamic law and codes of behavior to replace the nation's constitutional government. The rival groups were constantly at war. The government often cracked down on Muslim leaders by making mass arrests.

On August 15, 1985, the same day Scott and I arrived in Egypt, Israeli diplomat Albert Artakchi was murdered in a machine-gun slaying at the Israeli embassy in Maadi—only a few blocks from our apartment. On August 20, a group called “The Egypt Revolution” released a letter claiming responsibility for the attack. The assassins—from Lebanon, Tunisia, and Egypt—were linked to Libyan President Moammar Khaddafy and the infamous Abu Nidhal, the most notorious terrorist leader in the world.

The group vowed to carry out more attacks “until the Israeli colonialists leave the country.” It attacked Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak for keeping troops on the border with Libya but not Israel. The letter claimed that the group included Egyptian military officers who were angry because they were posted on the Libyan border.

Though we often heard news like this on the radio, it didn't greatly concern us. We felt safe.

I put in a normal day of teaching on Thursday, November 21, and went home that afternoon to pack the big blue-and-gray suitcase I bought in Baytown, Texas. I brought a sweater—the weather was supposed to be cooler in Greece—some short-sleeve shirts, and my favorite pair of blue jeans, the ones with the thin white pinstripes that fit just right, and my Pentax camera. I packed light because friends wanted me to bring back canned goods and other items that were hard to find in Cairo.

I took a cab to the airport in Cairo and then headed to check my luggage and present my round-trip ticket on EgyptAir, Egypt's national airline. It was a routine, two-hour flight. I sat in the front of the plane and met a businessman from Sydney, Australia.

He was a good-looking, sandy-haired fellow. I'd never met anyone from Australia before, so I was interested to find out more about his life. It just so happened that he'd lived in Houston for a while and planned to go back to do some work. We talked about our jobs, our spouses, and our lives. He seemed really happy.

Before we got off the plane in Athens, I turned to him and said, “If you want someone to show you around or you want some company when you're in Houston, I can give you my parents' number.”

“Sure,” he said.

I wrote down my parents' phone number on a sheet of paper and handed it to him. He thanked me, and we went our separate ways.

My Athens adventure began with an exhilarating taxi ride from Greece's Hellinikon International Airport to the Athens American School, site of the volleyball tournament.

If you've never ridden in a Greek taxicab, let me tell you, it's quite an experience. We zipped through the narrow, congested streets of Athens during rush hour, searching for the school. The driver didn't know where we were going and didn't speak English. My sign language directions failed miserably. Finally, we stopped to ask for help at the American embassy, where I found someone who spoke both English and Greek. They didn't know where the school was either. The cabbie stopped at a hotel while I ran in and found an English-speaking clerk who knew how to get there.

I was relieved when I finally reached the gym where the girls were playing volleyball. Scott came over to greet me and gave me a big hug and a kiss.

While I watched the game, I got to talking with a woman who coached the Kuwaiti girls' volleyball team. She was about my age and was from Minneapolis, Minnesota—Scott's hometown. She was teaching in Kuwait and described her life and work there. I was curious, because I'd gotten a job offer to teach in Kuwait too. As she described her life there, however, I had no regrets. It sounded too restricting.

Late that first evening in Athens, Scott and I sat out on the balcony of our hotel room overlooking a small park and a restaurant or, as the Greeks call it, a
taverna.
As we ate, we listened to the muffled sounds of the city below. It felt so great just being together, doing nothing. In Cairo, we were always so busy.

We'd only been married three months and were still basking in the glow of our honeymoon period. I'd met Scott the year before when I was teaching at the American School in Stavanger, Norway. The tall, dark, and handsome stranger from Minnesota immediately caught my eye. One year from the beginning of our whirlwind courtship and engagement, here we were in one of the most romantic settings I could ever imagine. It felt wonderful to have finally found someone who really shared my hopes, dreams, and passions.

The next day, Friday, I watched Scott and the team rack up victory after victory in the volleyball tournament. I watched most of their games, and in between matches I slipped away to do some shopping. The streets of Athens were busy and crowded. The little shops were filled with modern wares that were hard to find in Cairo. Most of the Greek shopkeepers spoke English and were very friendly and willing to help me.

I racked up a healthy Visa card bill on my shopping sprees. I bought a new skirt and a nice royal blue top, which I planned to wear at a big Christmas party put on by CAC. I also scored a special prize: a tape of Bruce Springsteen's “Born in the USA.”

I also went to a supermarket in Athens to buy canned foods, some chocolates, and Mexican ingredients to make Mexican food. I wanted to stock up for a Mexican dinner party I was planning to host in Cairo. The taste reminded me so much of home. In Cairo, I'd been living on a lot of care packages—which included refried beans, tortillas, salsa, chips, and so on—sent by my friends Barb Wilson and Debbie Reno in Texas.

When I got back to the gym on Friday afternoon, Scott had good news: our girls beat a team from the American School in London to qualify for the finals!

I'll never forget our last night in Athens. In the afternoon, Scott and I took the girls out for an early dinner at a fun, little Mexican restaurant to celebrate their success in the tournament.

After dinner, we all strolled through the ancient city's streets together, not far from the Parthenon and other famous Greek ruins. I was glad I'd brought a sweater to protect me from the chill in the air. Eventually, we wound up near the University of Athens and the Acropol Hotel where we were all staying.

My original plan had been to fly back by myself on Saturday afternoon. Scott and the girls were booked on a Sunday morning flight. But now that the girls had a shot at the championship, I wanted to stay longer to cheer them on.

That night at the hotel, I called the Athens airport to see if I could change my ticket. It was no problem to cancel my reservation and book a later flight.

Before going to bed, I sat down at the table in our room and wrote out some postcards to my friends back home and my parents.

“You may be getting a call from a man who is from Sydney, Australia,” I wrote in my card to Mom.