We look at each other, puzzled until she explains.
“The Finnish Tour Company arranged a surprise for us. We are not going back to the city hotel in Helsinki to wait for tomorrow’s flight. We are going where Finnish families go for this special night, to a resort high in the hills above the city. There you will see how Finns celebrate. There you will be part of it. What do you think? Do you want to go with me?”
Unanimous.
The visions of sugarplums dancing now in our heads are nothing compared to the reality of the welcoming, wooden, snow-covered lodge. From a breakfast buffet unlike any we have ever seen—spreading across five long tables—to the young guests dressed in velvet and sitting beneath a massive tree, the resort is something nice children dream of.
The clerk shows us the indoor pool and saunas, tells us that more of the steam baths can be found in wooden sheds outdoors on Santa’s trail. “Don’t miss it tonight,” he says. “There will be dinner and carols indoors, but on Santa’s trail there will be surprises. Have you all been good?”
That evening, after a sauna and long, long nap, I leave Rudy slumbering. After putting on all of my clothing to face icy weather, I make a brief circuit of the dining room to be sure I haven’t dreamed it, then begin to walk around the side of the hotel. Candlelit lanterns lining the path distract me and I come face to face, rather face to nose, with a live reindeer. He is very nearly my height—and in fact has a reddish nose—and is accompanied by friends.
“Ho, ho, ho,” a voice calls out from a large sleigh behind a team of eight or nine of the large creatures.
I don’t know what one says to the genuine Santa and manage a feeble “Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Santa.”
I race to find Rudy in the dining room. “Come with me,” I say hurriedly. “This is no shopping mall Santa. That beard is the real deal. And you will not believe the reindeer.”
I take him by the hand and we walk along the path . . . and walk along the path. No Santa. No reindeer. Rudy is giving me that concerned look he gives me when I have bumped my head.
There may not be Santa, sleigh, and reindeer, but the candlelit path leads up the snowy hills to a series of saunas and warming huts. Inside each hut, women dressed head-to-toe in fur stir big cast-iron pots over the fire. Cups of mulled wine smell of cardamom and cinnamon. We have a choice for warming soup—reindeer stew or vegetable broth. Rudy tries a spoonful of reindeer stew. I, however, cannot, now that I have had a recent personal relationship with one.
We visit each of the six huts, walking uphill to the end of the trail, then start down. The team of reindeer and magnificent sleigh are in front of the lodge, patiently waiting to continue their night of flying and gifting. In the dining room, the sounds and smells of Christmas preside. Santa is on a throne, with children waiting in line to sit on the famous lap. I may be imagining this—I do that sometimes—but I am almost certain that, as he left, his last wink was for me.
THE next morning, Christmas Day, just in time for our airport departure, bellhops come for our luggage. But when they bring our cases to the bus, the luggage compartments are still locked. So is the bus itself. No heater runs to spare us morning ice; no windows are defrosted; no driver is in sight. Hanna looks worriedly at her watch and counts her passengers. One is missing: a teenage girl who wears sandals in the snow. Departure time comes and goes while Hanna confronts the teen’s mother.
“Madam, what is your daughter’s room number? No, madam, we do not have time to be discreet. Madam, give me her room key.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“SOMETHING’S WRONG,” RUDY SAYS. “THIS PLANE ISN’T taking off. We’re taxiing back to the Cairo terminal.”
Leaning across him to look out the window, I have to agree. Something is wrong when a dozen soldiers dressed in camouflage and with assault rifles at the ready advance on the tarmac toward our plane, and the stewardess unlatches the cabin door. Our usually talkative tour companions fall silent, reaching for passports and each other. We sit as still as we can as soldiers move slowly down the aisle, pausing at every row to look each of us in the eye.
Rudy takes my hand and risks a whisper. “Try to relax, hon. Take those deep breaths you take.”
I can’t remember how I do those. The soldiers walk past our row, stopping just behind us to remove at gunpoint two of our group members. We hear only one English word as the pair is escorted up the aisle and out the door: “prison.”
We had seen soldiers earlier when they ringed our airport boarding area, watching us intently as we waited for our plane to Aswan. The thoroughness of Cairo airport security shocked us, for in 1984 Egypt was already living on the edge of what we would one day call terrorism. We learn what has been left out of the travel brochures—Egyptian government officials and tourists are both popular targets. In American airports, we had come to expect more casual surveys, at most passing through a metal detector portal, while our carry-on luggage is X-rayed. Here in Cairo, armed guards direct us through three portals, open and X-ray our luggage multiple times, restrict our group to a small, guarded waiting area, and analyze our passports for earlier travel to enemy territories. Seat assignments seem a particular concern, and in several cases, our assigned seats are shuffled and families or companions separated.
This is why our two tour members go to prison that day: unlike the long-married couples in the group, this unmarried pair could not bear being separated for the hour-long flight.
“No,” the man says simply as the stewardess shows him his assigned seat across the aisle.
“No?” she checks her understanding. “You will not be in your seat?”
“I will not.”
She tries once more. “You will not?”
“I will not.”
When the soldiers disembark with the loving couple, every passenger has an opinion. Most agree it is good to see Egypt guarding its security and order, its priceless heritage. All agree that this is the couple we would have chosen if there had been a “who will get removed” lottery. None of us can stop wondering just what it is the Egyptians are expecting to happen.
Our guide Amun confers with the pilot and stewardesses before telling us that our flight will now proceed and that we will be respectful of the flight crew’s authority. No arguments there.
This day has not begun easily, but this guide has won Rudy’s favor. Rudy has a rule that says one must rise before dawn to see popular places before popular times. Amun wants us to see the temple at Abu Simbel near Aswan with the first rays of sun shining directly on the statues, well before any other tourist group reaches the remote location. Rudy and Amun are a match made in heaven.
Amun has roused us at two a.m. this morning, served Nescafé in the lobby, and sent us out the front hotel doors to the coach waiting to take us to the airport. However, there is no coach waiting and the hotel manager is yelling and gesturing wildly, indicating Amun should come to the telephone. Our bus driver has been arrested, our bus confiscated. There is no time for worrying about the bus or the unfortunate driver. We are on our way to sunrise at the temple.
Amun enlists the hotel drivers and calls every taxi company in a twenty-mile radius to get us to our flight. This is the drama drivers dream of: pushing us and our luggage into tiny cars until we can fit no more, setting off in the darkness with lights flashing and horns honking, passing each other in the quest to win the race and get the major tips.
Our driver knows a little English. “I help Americans,” he says. “I number one get to airport.”
In fact he is number two, and that is enough. As we pull up to the terminal, Rudy is just finishing his twenty-minute lecture on the significance of Abu Simbel, delivered when a woman sitting on the gearbox asks innocently if anyone knows where it is we are going.
It is true: the statues at Abu Simbel would be beautiful in any light, but at sunrise they are magnificent. Our group is alone there as the sun strikes each statue, bathing it in a red, then golden glow. Later that day, when we board
a simple, well-worn riverboat for our journey on the Nile, we realize it is time to toast sunset.
After a week of belly dancing shows, rides on camels (they do spit), and toilet repairs, we have bonded with the tour group and our charming crew. Ordinarily Rudy would be “champing at the bit,” as he liked to say, anxious to head off on his own to find treasures. I think the examples we have seen of military authority and our reliance on Amun to negotiate hard travel have mellowed my spouse. Only once do he and I collide.
At a very small village, our boat ties up next to a shaky wharf and we, with plenty of assistance, disembark. Rudy discovers a large outdoor market—in particular he discovers tablecloths made of coarse brownish fabric, embellished with fading stamps of Egyptian pyramids and royalty. There is no label on the wares; if there were, it would explain they were wrinkle guaranteed and color non-fast. Rudy selects one twenty-two feet long.
“It’ll look great on our dining room table. Bring back memories, you know?”
“But our dining room table is seven feet long.”
“Oh.” He thinks. “We can fold it.” He sees this is not a winning concept and tries again. “We can cut it up and give parts to our friends.”
“Well, I’m sure they’d be overwhelmed, Rude.”
The merchant overhears us and joins the discussion. Surprisingly, he has a deal for Meester Rude and the lady. The dramatic bargaining begins and I come to grips with reality: this twenty-two-foot tablecloth will be living at our house. It is exempt from Rudy’s rule against large souvenirs. The most I can hope for is that my husband can tear himself away from the sport of bargaining in time to get on our boat before it departs.
I am right to worry about that. I should also have worried about the twenty-two napkins that, according to both Rudy and the merchant, could not be separated from their tablecloth.
“What do you mean they can’t be separated?” I ask in a grim tone. “These are not newborn kittens looking for mother.”
In the end, Rudy accepts a deal on the large cloth, rejects a deal on the napkins, and reaches our boat just in time for sailing. The merchant also makes it to the boat in time. He leaps over the watery gap between wharf and vessel, holding the napkins aloft in a plastic bag, and calls out “Meester Rude, Meester Rude” as he runs through the upper deck. I go to our cabin for a nap while our captain and crewmen pull back to the dock to apprehend and disembark their stowaway. And the twenty-two napkins.
We have compromised Rudy’s independent travel mandate—his rule against group touring—and now face the consequences. We have grown attached to Amun and this group of Americans. It is early morning Christmas Eve and while they are flying home, Rudy and I are staying behind in Luxor to see more of the Valley of the Kings and the temples north of town. This trip is a childhood dream fulfilled for Rudy, and he is not about to leave the antiquities behind after just a short group tour.
“I’ll remember you every time I sit at a tablecloth,” one woman tells Rudy.
“I’ll just keep praying for you,” another says to me.
I try to reassure our new friends, fingers crossed. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be just fine here . . . alone . . . at Christmas . . . the only ones celebrating Christmas here in a non-Christian country . . . alone.”
I realize that we have had experiences with these people that make us all a bit somber and leave me wanting to go home with any one of them, maybe the lady from Nebraska or the couple from Arkansas. We stand in the dirt street, suitcases at our feet, waving good-bye as the tour bus pulls away. The hotel is directly behind us, and as the bus leaves, two bellmen come to help with luggage. The hotel has no special lights, no décor suggesting this might be a holiday. The bellmen don’t smile, but they seem efficient, helpful. What more do we need? We need our busload of tour members, that’s what we need. Rudy reminds me we have been in a cocoon, sheltered from meeting Egyptians, and that these days ahead are our chance to learn.
When we realize there is no public bus to the remote northern temples, we look for a driver for the day. The hotel manager highly recommends Rashidi. From what we can understand, Rashidi has references, recommendations from Americans, even some from California. Amazingly, this experienced driver and his experienced Plymouth are very inexpensive. Rudy signs us up.
Rudy and I are trying to close our car doors and locate missing seat belts when Rashidi speeds out of the driveway, darting around wagons, donkeys, merchant stands, and pedestrians, reaching at last a one-lane, unpaved open road where the car can show its true power. With one hand lightly on the steering wheel, Rashidi stretches out, reaches into the open glove compartment, and pulls out a thick stack of letters that he hands to Rudy.
“Theese Ameri-cain. What you say, recommends.”
Rudy shuffles through the letters, apparently sorting them by rating.
I protest. “Hey, are you censoring those?”
“Well,” he admits, handing them over, “they’re all about the same.”
In fact, these were letters left for us by fellow Americans who had gone before us and cared about us.
“You will never have a faster ride to the temples.”
“We’re race car fans, but this beats that.”
“Just close your eyes. Good luck.”
“If you think the ride going to the temple is terrifying, wait until the ride home.”
Rudy is not one to ignore information. He successfully conveys to Rashidi that we will pay more for more hours, for a slower ride, so that we can see the land. As it turns out, Rashidi is not merely a driver; he transforms into a tour guide who proudly shows us each camel, petrol station, and banana plant along the stark back roads. The poverty in the villages is far more pervasive than we saw last week on our group tour. This is not yet an area profiting from tourism—there are few other visitors, and no souvenir shops or food stands.
The temples sit out in the desert nearly alone today, Dendera honoring Hathor, goddess of love and joy, Abydos with its preserved bas-reliefs holding the Lord of the Underworld. With the tour group, we would have been here a few minutes at most, for despite their elegance, these are, in tourist literature, considered “lesser” structures. Ordinarily the heat of the day would have made us yearn for an air-conditioned bus, but the goddess of love and joy and her Lord of the Underworld distract us.
Our visit complete, we leave to go back to our hotel. Starting out on the main but narrow dirt road, we come upon a scene of mourning—a cow, hit by a car or truck, lying on the road. Men, women, and children walk from all directions to kneel at its side. Perhaps twenty are here now, encircling the animal, and we can see more in the distance, making their journey.
Rashidi pulls over to pay respects to the family and the cow, saying in a few English words that the animal was all the family had and the village was sad for them. He cries, embracing an older woman standing closest to the cow. We stand far back on the edge of the mourners, keeping our heads bowed. When Rashidi returns to us, we show him the coins we have. He selects only one and takes it to the woman.
OUR ride home is slow and subdued.
That evening the headwaiter shows us to the only table for two in the dining room, positioned in a dark, distant corner. As we eat silently, sadly, remembering the day and the village and our tour friends, we see the waiters pointing toward us, looking worried, conferring with the manager and with Rashidi.
The next morning, Christmas Day, we come downstairs for breakfast and know which is our table. In the center of the dining room, under its chandelier, sits the table for two, and on it a rangy little bush encircled by a strand of colorful beads and topped with a paper star.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT IS TRUE WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT NEW ZEALANDERS. WE step off the early-morning flight into a still-dark Auckland, more luggage than usual surrounding us at the airport curb. We plan to camp our way through the islands; Rudy has read about that style of touring here and is sold. I have insisted on a first-night stay in a real downtown
hotel, but van after van passes us by, none from our hotel. At last one driver stops.
“I don’t go to that hotel,” he says, “but you look tired. I’ll make a detour.”
At the hotel, the desk clerk makes a few phone calls, then tells us we need not sleep in the lobby until check-in time. At six a.m., a room is ready for us. I nap, but restlessly. I have a premonition that this will be my last comfortable bed for four weeks.
THE tired cab-over Daihatsu truck stands pitifully alone in the Auckland rental yard. I have been the last one chosen for sports teams all my life so I know the feeling, but it is hard to be empathetic with this aged, dingy gray camper. My questions come fast.
“We’re going to travel in this—this thing—for a month?”
“Where’s the shower?”
“Is that a toilet seat in the closet?”
“And about the upholstery—just how old is it?”
Rudy offers some defense. “Well, I have to say the description the agency gave doesn’t quite match Duke Daihatsu here, but he was the cheapest and now he’s the only one left.”
He has christened the traffic-beaten old thing, naming it Duke, undeniably beginning the bonding process, and I know where we will sleep this month. I settle for small improvements: a brake check, clean linens, slipcovers for seats and mattress. I also make a bargain, that we will play crib-bage each night and after three wins, the loser will do dishes and the victor will decide our entire next day of touring. I do very well at cribbage.
Our maiden voyage is north to the Bay of Islands. We have not realized, however, that to reach the rural haven we must drive, in the unfamiliar left lane, straight through congested, narrow streets of downtown Auckland. Neither have we realized that Duke has large collapsible mirrors on all sides, and that, since we did not collapse them, they tend to rub up against the sides of passing trucks. There is no easy way to pull over on this road. While Rudy navigates stop-and-go traffic, I take advantage of the pauses to tackle the mirrors, all the while guarding limbs of my own. Our next experience with the legendarily polite New Zealanders is that truck drivers help me without a sarcastic word.
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