Looking through all my pics has made me a little sniffy and nostalgic. Photos are sneaky that way–that’s exactly how I got talked into going back to Burning Man.

Come to think of it, Cairo is sort of like Burning Man–lots of dust, everyone wants to talk to you, and a lot of people want to have sex with you. And seriously–some of the getups are amazing. Also some scary crowd-control issues.

But enough belabored metaphor. What I like in the end is that people there are happy, and they’re ready to make you laugh too.

Part of my attitude readjustment re: Cairo came from reading an excellent book: Max Rodenbeck’s Cairo: The City Victorious. It’s a broad history as well as commentary on contemporary life. Somehow, reading that Cairenes were exceptionally proud of how they completely ripped off the king of Mali or somesuch, many many centuries ago, made me feel better about all the tedious little shopping scams you encounter today.

Another thing I enjoyed immensely was going to the Souq al-Gumaa (Friday Market), which is this mass of shopping insanity that takes place weekly in the southern cemetery area. As our de facto tour guide, Anna, described it, the line between what’s for sale and what’s trash is pretty arbitrary–there will be some old woman presiding over a blanket covered with broken telephones, used-up ballpoint pens and one shoe. The other shoe may very well be in the trash pile that’s just a few feet away.

Beyond the random junk-sellers is the animal market–where it was sad to see desert foxes in cages, but hilarious to see people excited about buying fluffy white Persian cats–and also a long row of the dustiest antiques you’ll ever see. And that sort-of road winds up in a section selling nothing but toilets. The overpasses are soaring overhead, the din is shocking, and the crowds are so oppressive it’s not clear how anyone actually buys anything–you’re basically forced to walk at a slow shuffle, or else be trampled. Nonetheless, Anna came away with three pairs of great vintage sunglasses, and I nearly expired from the heat. It was everything to hate about Cairo, but also everything to love.

As a place to do guidebook research, it was surprisingly not too difficult. Perhaps half the information I was given will turn out to have been absolutely made up on the spot–but I did my part.

One interesting detail was how quickly I was picked out as “the Lonely Planet person.” When I was checking out hotels, I genuinely was looking for a place where Peter and I would bunk down for a while, so when I said, “I’m just looking now–my husband’s coming next week,” I was not lying. And in that case, it made perfect sense that I didn’t have any luggage with me. But nonetheless, at least five hotel guys said, “You’re the Lonely Planet person, aren’t you?” and then proceeded to shower me with tea and sodas. I have never had anyone call me out as a guidebook writer before–either because people in Mexico don’t care that much, or don’t have a keen enough eye for a disheveled person with a pen in one hand and a compulsive need to pick up business cards.

And incidentally, the fact that guys guessed I was specifically from Lonely Planet was based not on extra-cunning detective work on their part, but the fact that, in Egypt anyway, “Lonely Planet” is right up there with Kleenex or Xerox. (LP marketing should be doing high-fives at this point. Other publishers are gnashing their teeth in despair.) For once, I could see how being a guidebook author is actually sort of close to being a celebrity, in the way that Mr. Killing Batteries depicts his glamorous lifestyle.

One last note about the Cairo trip, and I’m sure you’ve all been wondering: I was only mildly sick, for about a day. I only count sick as incapacitated and unable to leave the hotel room–I spent this one day lying around thinking I might throw up, but never did. Other days I did have a few, um, urgent moments and some discomfort, but overall nothing akin to the gastrointestinal devastation I experienced ten years ago.

But unless you think Cairo has somehow improved its hygiene or generally become less of an assault on the system (my nausea could have just as well been from the heat and dehydration as from food), think again: The very next day, Peter was felled by vicious vomiting that actually required drugs to make him stop. Also, two other visitors I met there required IV drips because they’d gotten so ill.

Sigh. That’s just never going to make the tourists excited to come. Perhaps if you’re carried around in an air-conditioned litter and fed only sterilized grapes? I guess that’s what tour buses are, essentially–and that’s no way to see the world. Wading into the Souq al-Gumaa, sucking pigeon meat from the little leg bones, being invited to weddings by random people on the street–I’m willing to suffer a little incapacitation for that.