My last day in Cairo was going to be fairly routine. First, have a nice breakfast with my wife, play a little with the baby, and then start packing. With a departure time of four p.m., Lufthansa to Frankfurt, I figured it would more than suffice if my ride picked me up at 1:15. It would be a routine flight day like hundreds before.
The driver shows up fashionably late, about 1:30 (fifteen minutes), and we immediately start navigating the busy streets. Although the driver says he is thirty-one, he looks like he is still attending middle school. If he wasn't gripping that steering wheel, I would guess him to be half his age. He looks like he shouldn't be driving anything more powerful than a bike, preferably without a motor.
We cross the Nile and run into our first problem, an apparent accident a half a kilometer up the road. We have already been driving for forty-five minutes, a spin around the block in a huge city like Cairo. The traffic is at a complete standstill, meaning we will not move until somebody moves the wreckage ahead of us. This is duly performed a half hour later. By the time we pass the scene, the clock reads 2:30. Here I started to get nervous. My plane will be leaving in one and a half hours, and the manifest will probably close before that. In other words, I will not be able to check in on time.
"We're not going to make it," I tell the driver slowly.
"Don't worry," he says. "No problem."
Tick, tick, tick.
I have heard that phrase from too many Arabs to feel reassured by it. According to Babyface, we will probably make it with time to spare. The problem is that he has probably never flown anything in his life other than a kite.
Ten minutes later we run into more traffic, the stop and go kind that would even make L.A.'s freeways look like the Indy 500. I have never seen traffic like this in my life, and now I knew that I had made a mistake with my timing. I have little hope now.
"Don't worry," the driver repeats. "No problem."
Big problem, kid, I think to myself. Even though the driver is sure they would hold up the plane if we politely asked it, I can only pray for a miracle, like a delay. People can be fashionably late. Planes will not be, nor can you flag them down like at a bus stop.
As we inch forward some more, the clock reads 3:30. There is no way I am going to fly. Though the kid bravely bobs and weaves his way through the nastiest jams since the days before traffic lights and signs, we eventually arrive at the airport at four o'clock sharp. The miracle I prayed for doesn't happen. The plane is gone. For the first time in my life I have missed a flight.
Dejected, I make my way to the CS office, where I am charged a 100 € fee for re-booking and re-schedule my flight for four o'clock the next morning. I will have to take another ride back into the city and go through the entire spiel again twelve hours from then.
Needless to say, the kid driver has already left. The driver who takes me back drives like a berserker and curses at everyone and everything in his way. This is like another sequel of 'Speed'. I wonder if an explosive is attached to the engine that will blow us to kingdom come if we drive anything less than eighty miles per hour.
My wife has already been notified by Lufthansa that I missed my flight and greets me somewhat dryly when I returns, more than anything because the baby is acting up. She will be leaving in a couple of hours herself.
I eventually attend a private Independence Day party in Cairo, then drive to the airport with almost no sleep and the first signs of a hangover. Without any further incidents, the plane takes off. Germany and a cool summer rain will be waiting for me in less than four hours. That, and a train that couldn't get caught in a traffic jam if it derailed. So long, Cairo, I thought. Thanks for the memories. You might want to spend those billions of dollars in aid money on something practical. Like trains.
The driver shows up fashionably late, about 1:30 (fifteen minutes), and we immediately start navigating the busy streets. Although the driver says he is thirty-one, he looks like he is still attending middle school. If he wasn't gripping that steering wheel, I would guess him to be half his age. He looks like he shouldn't be driving anything more powerful than a bike, preferably without a motor.
We cross the Nile and run into our first problem, an apparent accident a half a kilometer up the road. We have already been driving for forty-five minutes, a spin around the block in a huge city like Cairo. The traffic is at a complete standstill, meaning we will not move until somebody moves the wreckage ahead of us. This is duly performed a half hour later. By the time we pass the scene, the clock reads 2:30. Here I started to get nervous. My plane will be leaving in one and a half hours, and the manifest will probably close before that. In other words, I will not be able to check in on time.
"We're not going to make it," I tell the driver slowly.
"Don't worry," he says. "No problem."
Tick, tick, tick.
I have heard that phrase from too many Arabs to feel reassured by it. According to Babyface, we will probably make it with time to spare. The problem is that he has probably never flown anything in his life other than a kite.
Ten minutes later we run into more traffic, the stop and go kind that would even make L.A.'s freeways look like the Indy 500. I have never seen traffic like this in my life, and now I knew that I had made a mistake with my timing. I have little hope now.
"Don't worry," the driver repeats. "No problem."
Big problem, kid, I think to myself. Even though the driver is sure they would hold up the plane if we politely asked it, I can only pray for a miracle, like a delay. People can be fashionably late. Planes will not be, nor can you flag them down like at a bus stop.
As we inch forward some more, the clock reads 3:30. There is no way I am going to fly. Though the kid bravely bobs and weaves his way through the nastiest jams since the days before traffic lights and signs, we eventually arrive at the airport at four o'clock sharp. The miracle I prayed for doesn't happen. The plane is gone. For the first time in my life I have missed a flight.
Dejected, I make my way to the CS office, where I am charged a 100 € fee for re-booking and re-schedule my flight for four o'clock the next morning. I will have to take another ride back into the city and go through the entire spiel again twelve hours from then.
Needless to say, the kid driver has already left. The driver who takes me back drives like a berserker and curses at everyone and everything in his way. This is like another sequel of 'Speed'. I wonder if an explosive is attached to the engine that will blow us to kingdom come if we drive anything less than eighty miles per hour.
My wife has already been notified by Lufthansa that I missed my flight and greets me somewhat dryly when I returns, more than anything because the baby is acting up. She will be leaving in a couple of hours herself.
I eventually attend a private Independence Day party in Cairo, then drive to the airport with almost no sleep and the first signs of a hangover. Without any further incidents, the plane takes off. Germany and a cool summer rain will be waiting for me in less than four hours. That, and a train that couldn't get caught in a traffic jam if it derailed. So long, Cairo, I thought. Thanks for the memories. You might want to spend those billions of dollars in aid money on something practical. Like trains.
0 comments