Free Around the World in 50 Years by Albert Podell Page B

and hit the jackpot—with Iftitani, our beautiful chambermaid at the Continental. She was everything plus: bewitching and desirable, with flashing blue eyes, shiny black hair that fell to her shoulders, flawless olive skin, and a body that would make even the Sphinx cry out in envy. We were all captivated by her, but Iftitani didn’t speak a word of English. Yet X was so sure that she was attracted to him that, when she came to straighten his room on our third day in the hotel, he invited her to dinner. Using pantomime, he pointed to her, then to himself, and then to his mouth as if he were eating. So what did Iftitani do? She called room service for him.
    X decided to try a direct approach. After she had dusted his room, he pointed to himself, then to his bed, lifted up the thin blanket, smoothed the sheet, then pointed to Iftitani, then back to the bed. On his third attempt, she understood. And nodded her approval! He’d been worried that she might be angry with his bold approach, but she smiled.
    Then she turned to leave his room. X rushed after her and pointed to the bed. Iftitani nodded reassuringly and pointed to his watch, then walked over to the wall calendar and pointed—and thus, without a spoken word, the lovers agreed to consummate their relationship at two o’clock the next afternoon.
    X was deliriously happy the entire day, but the rest of us were unsportingly, albeit secretly, jealous and rather depressed by his good fortune. The next forenoon, all but X left early for lunch at Rex, not out of any sense of discretion, but from an inability to bear to see this romance unfold.
    At two o’clock Iftitani, wearing her tight blue uniform, entered X’s room and closed the door behind her. X could barely contain himself. She went right to the bed and pulled back the blanket. She wasn’t wasting any time, and X was fine with that, so he started hurriedly pulling off his clothing.
    Which is when Iftitani screamed and ran out.
    X was utterly puzzled and totally frustrated because he’d been sure she liked and desired him. When the others returned they commiserated with him, but hypocritically, wallowing happily in schadenfreude.
    Later that afternoon, the irate hotel manager came up to complain about X’s behavior. It seems that our innocent Iftitani had thought he’d just wanted his sheets changed.
    From their misunderstanding, I learned valuable lessons that helped me through years of foreign travel: If you speak a different language than the other, make sure—unmistakably sure—you and the other person are in agreement. Be sensitive when you’re in a position of power, as a hotel guest is with an employee. Never assume that a member of a foreign culture will readily undertake an act that is proscribed in her society. And avoid presuming that just because a person is poor or working class, they’ll do anything you want—even if you’re the head of the IMF.
    It was hard to move around Cairo without encountering the indicia of a police state: army camps, ordnance depots, and communications installations ringed the city. All bridges and many factories displayed signs banning photography. When we picked up our mail at the American Express office, most of it had been opened by the government censors, and we later learned that the letters we’d sent home had also been opened and then resealed with the censor’s stamp. When we’d checked in at the Continental, our passports had been confiscated and held for several days while the secret police checked us out. When our film came back from the processing lab, the photos showing the poverty of Egypt had mysteriously vanished. When we made large purchases, the merchants demanded proof that we’d acquired our Egyptian pounds at the official rate, and signs warning of penalties for changing money on the black market were omnipresent. The newspapers and radio carried the official government line, and