In June, 1979, my ship, the USS America, made a port call to Alexandria, Egypt. Even though tensions in the Middle East were starting to simmer, the powers that be (or should that be "the powers that were?") nonetheless felt it was safe to inflict several
|It's fallen on hard times since. |
It's like you're in Detroit now.
|"Huh. Says here that, if I can pull off this Argo thing, |
they'll let me play Batman. Sweet."
But, that June, it was still okay for hordes of goofy Americans dressed in blue jeans, tee shirts, and cowboy boots to crawl around the city streets looking for a good time. Or hepatitis.
Hoping to get away from the typical sailor entertainments, I
|Egypt, not Missouri. |
Try and keep up.
|"Sting like a butterfly.|
Float like a bee.
That dead Ali
ain't pretty like me."
Once in the city of Cairo, we toured the Muhammed Ali Mosque (I was disappointed it had nothing to do with boxing), visited the National Museum (which had more mummies in it than I thought possible), and, of course, walked around the pyramids.
It was a fascinating trip and one I'm so very thankful to have made. Especially since there's no way I'll ever go back there again. If I wanted to hang around crazy people, I could go to an Eagles game and save the air fare.
However, one of the more relaxing things we did was take a
|Velour shirt, corduroy pants. |
In Egypt. In June.
I clearly didn't think this through.
In sign language and the bits of English that he knew, he told me that I could take his picture if I gave him some money. I'm sure he would have been very happy if I gave him only a dollar. But, being the cheap slack-ass that I was (I hope it's not "cheap slack-ass that I am"), I refused. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and directed his attention to the front (NOTE: The "bow." You're welcome).
Figuring I was going to take his picture anyway, I took one of his back. Screw him, the greedy little money grubber, I figured.
|Death to America started in Iran. |
Or did it?
Is it any wonder why I'll never go back?