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

Europe and the United States, where Egypt can stand in for Europe. In Europe (and Egypt), 100 miles is a long way. In America, 100 years is a long time.
    “You see those men in white robes and white hats?” Big Pharaoh said and pointed with his eyes toward two traditionally dressed men crossing the street. “They are Shias from India who moved here with Sadat’s permission to live next to the Fatimid mosques and take care of them.”
    The Fatimids founded Cairo and built the oldest remnants in the historic center. Some parts of the ancient city walls still remain, along with an enormous metal door—impenetrable by medieval armies—at one of the gates.
    “Khan el-Khalili is just up ahead,” Big Pharaoh said. “You will love it. It is very exotic.”
    “Is it exotic to you?” I said.
    “No,” he said. “But it will be exotic to you.”
    I’d spent enough time in Arab countries by then that the exoticism had worn off, but I could still appreciate it. Khan el-Khalili is exactly, precisely, what I always imagined the Middle East would look like before I went there. Shopping—or buying things, I should say—never interested me much, but getting lost in the twisting narrow streets while gawking at gold, silver, hookahs, spices, jewelry, antiques and dramatically colored bolts of cloth reminded me that I was far from home and that I should savor my time while I could.
    Some of the hustling shopkeepers could be endearing and entertaining when they weren’t annoying.
    “Welcome to my country!”
    “How can I take your money from you?”
    “I don’t cheat as much as the others!”
    Neither of us wanted to buy anything, though, so we set off for food.
    I saw small birds the size of my fist being roasted by an ancient man at a food cart.
    “Do you know what those are?” Big Pharaoh said. They looked like tiny chickens.
    “Nope,” I said.
    “They’re pigeons,” he said. ‘They are stuffed. The cooks stuff rice—” he broke off laughing. “They stuff rice up its ass.”
    “Do you want a kebab?” the cart owner asked. “A pigeon kebab?”
    “No, thank you,” I said and walked on.
    “We don’t waste food in Egypt,” Big Pharaoh said. “We eat every part of the cow here.” That seems to be the case almost everywhere in the world except in the U.S. and Canada. “We eat the brains, the testicles and even the eyeballs. But I have never eaten an eyeball.” Every man has his limits. “And I never will.” He didn’t mention testicles one way or the other.
    “The brains are delicious,” he said. “You would love it!”
    Perhaps. But neither of us particularly wanted bovine noodle for dinner that night. So he took me instead to a restaurant called Egyptian Pancake near the entrance to Khan el-Khalili.
    “This is the best pancake place in all of Egypt,” he said.
    Egyptian pancakes are more like slabs of thick pita bread than the breakfast fare of the United States. I ordered mine stuffed with white cheese and tomatoes. Big Pharaoh ordered his stuffed with beef. We ate at an outdoor table and talked about travel.
    “I went to the Greek side of Cyprus when I was 5,” he said.
    “I didn’t like the Greek side of Cyprus,” I said. “The Turkish side is more interesting. The Greek side has no identity. It’s like a gigantic outdoor frat house for British louts on a budget. It could be anywhere. If I flew all the way across the world just to go there, I would be pissed.”
    “I got lost on the beach,” he said. “I was 5 years old. I remember screaming for my mother, and of course I was screaming in Arabic. I went up to all these Greeks asking if they had seen my mother, tears streaming down my face, and none of them understood me. I remember thinking I was going to spend the rest of my life here in Cyprus.”
    “Obviously your parents found you,” I said.
    “My father found me, and I ran up to him and hugged him like crazy.”
    “Where else have you been?” I said.
    “Bulgaria,” he