It was a cold, meandering winter and I was coming to the end of my second month on the road, rounding the Great Lakes to my dad’s house in upstate New York. It was January 25th, but the spring was already here.
On the other side of the world from the cold highway I was on, heading south through Ontario, my car radio was fixed upon a revolution. Days later, dad, Sue and I were watching the dramatic images from the dinner table. I was completely fascinated and inspired by it all—the peaceful pride of the Egyptian people, and the passion and courage they demonstrated. Seeing their movement transpire in real time from this idyllic country place, didn’t seem real at all. Selfishly, I wanted to feel why this was happening, and I wanted to drink what they were drinking.
The news cycle would sometimes pan away from the battle of Tahrir Square to all the Egyptian tourist workers standing disconsolate in the midst of so many wonders of the world. The embassies were shuttered, and a groundswell of tourism unabated for hundreds of years, had now vanished overnight. I would half-jokingly say aloud, “Ya know, now is probably a good time to visit. Someone should go there.” As if I was talking about anyone else but me. I was testing out what I already knew.
Then it happened. The martyrs from Tahrir Square, along with the rest of the civilized world would celebrate. Conceding to the unity of Egypt’s citizens, Hosni Mubarak, their brutal dictator for three decades was now gone. It was at that moment, my decision was made as well. A week later I was walking amidst the intense and wonderful chaos of Cairo.