The sky is chalky gray smog, so deep and dry I can feel it deep in my lungs. Being in the air makes it everywhere I can see and not see. This causes the color of the world to change to an old black and white TV view of the scene.

       As I walk the streets of Cairo in December 2010, I remind myself I’m a long way from home. But the longer I’m in this land, the more I feel I belong here. The streets are packed with cars, trucks and taxis all day. Their honking horns echo off the office buildings and hotels day and night. The horns are used for navigation much like Canadian geese might as they fly in formation to their destination. Not once did I see a turn signal being used.

       Like a pinball, I pop across a street to the next block, hoping not to get paddled by an oncoming car into a post light pole. One of thousands, I push my way along a wave of people going through eddies of a flood, into side streets and a current leaves me standing for a time in a pocket of stopped people, a market of food, leather and tea, trying to sell to me.

      “Where are you from?”

      “America. U.S.A.”

      “America, Obama, good. I like Americans. See this belt? I’ll give you it for an Egyptian price not the tourist price. Twenty Egyptian pounds.”

      “I’ve bought four belts already. I have enough belts.”

      “OK ten pounds.” He reaches out and puts it in my hand. “Ten pounds.”

      I put it back into his flailing hand. “No.” I dash off.

      “Five pounds, five pounds.” Fades into the hum of the city, I must leave this hive and find new lotus flowers to pollinate with my U.S. dollars. I need to fly by way of a train to other pastures. I head to Ramses station to take the midnight train to Aswan.