Free Tower of the Sun: Stories From the Middle East and North Africa by Michael J. Totten

subway a half-mile or so from our destination and walked through a concrete catastrophe of a neighborhood on the way. Most storefronts were either closed permanently or shut behind grimy metal gates that pulled down in front of the entrances like garage doors.
    “Don’t eat anything from these guys,” Big Pharaoh said as he gestured to a man selling food that was spread out on a rickety outdoor table. “If you eat that, you’ll die .”
    “I’ll die ?” I said. “From what?”
    “From a horrible disease.”
    I’m sure he exaggerated, but I duly noted his warning.
    “We’re coming up to the place where a bomb went off earlier this year,” he said. “Are you okay with that?”
    “I live in Beirut,” I reminded him.
    “Are you sure?” he said.
    “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said and laughed. “It’s not going to explode again. Who planted it, anyway? Al-Qaeda?”
    “Some guy in an extremist organization. Don’t worry, everyone hates them.”
    He complained about how some parts of Cairo that used to be beautiful became squalid, in particular one area where derelict European-style architectural wonders were blanked out by an octopus of freeway on- and off-ramps.
    “May God damn Nasser in hell all over again!” Big Pharaoh said.
    “Plenty of countries built ugly crap like that after World War II,” I said. “It wasn’t just Nasser. I know what you mean, though. Even most Westerners have no idea how badly he ruined this place.”
    “Some of them love charismatic dictators,” he said. “Like Castro and Qaddafi.”
    “Qaddafi is only charismatic if you’re outside Libya,” I said. “Inside he has all the charisma and charm of a serial killer.”
    Nasser wasn’t as bad as the mad scientist ruling Tripoli. No doubt about it: Egypt was in far better shape than Libya. Egypt had people who could say what they wanted without being yanked from their beds in the night, as long as they didn’t act on their opinions in public. Egypt had intellectuals. Egypt had art. Egypt had opera. Egypt had restaurants with menus. Most Egyptians didn’t partake of Cairo’s high culture, but at least it existed . In Libya it did not. Not under Qaddafi. He wouldn’t allow it.
    We walked past an old mosque set 15 feet below street level, built by Sharf el-Din and his brother in 1317–37 A.D. Just in front of the entrance was a courtyard of sorts created by the walls of the two buildings next to it on either side. The entrance was shut, and the lights set up to illuminate it were turned off. This mosque, unlike most, had no minarets.
    I walked down the stairs and tried to open the slender wooden doors in case they were open. They weren’t. Just to the right of the entrance was a plaque identifying the mosque as Monument Number 176.
    You can spend a lot of time gawking at extraordinarily well-preserved monuments if that’s what you’re looking for in Egypt on holiday. Cairo suddenly seemed a better tourist attraction that I had so far given it credit for. The city as a whole is pretty shabby, but Beirut—which is in much better shape—is effectively only 150 years old. It lacks the sense of history and wonder that Cairo, dumpy as it is, can rightfully boast.
    Big Pharaoh and I continued walking toward the old market on a busted-up sidewalk walled off from four lanes of traffic by a metal fence that looked like a 5-foot-tall, mile-long bicycle rack. Shuttered and boarded-up storefronts eventually fell away and were replaced by brilliantly illuminated shops selling all manner of oriental art, jewelry, housewares and textiles.
    On our left was an 800-year-old Shia mosque built by al-Saleh Talai in 1160 A.D. (This one was Monument Number 116.) Marble Roman-style columns flanked the entrance below a classical Islamic arch. The doors of this mosque were made of tarnished hammered metal and looked original. It appeared to be in pristine condition, at least on the outside, for such an old building. I thought of an old saying about