Behold the glories of Franklin

To plan for travel includes all the necessary immunizations that lift the visitor well above the average level of local in terms of susceptibility to microscopic assassins. That is, to turn the visitor into something of a wholly unnatural fortress to at least some of the powers that be. That is, again, to say that to plan for travel should include all such miniscule moat-building exercises.

Unless, of course, you fail to get the most necessary of them all before travel: the yellow fever vaccine. Without such manipulated immunity, one is not only susceptible to the forehead warming coward, but will moreover be denied access to various prone regions of the world. Poor planning, it would seem, landed my travel companion in such an ill-prepared situation.

As we emerge from the Taxi, we can't help but notice the lack of significant signage upon the building towards which we have been pointed - we can't tell at first glance if this building is truly the hospital said to be described in the scribbly jibberish of Arabic inscribed on our little notecard. A random stranger on the street, however, calls to another random stranger, and soon we are weaving to the back of said building, though a dingy courtyard, past a mosque, and into a back room with no english sign, a one foot square arabic sign, two women, one man, a refrigerator, and a desk inside.

The process involves an overemphasis on the filling of necessary customs forms for safe passage between countries, and a decided underemphasis on the actual vaccination. The solitary male, in fact, nearly forgets entirely that a shot must be administered after having told Jenny to put her Birthday where her signature should be, and placing several postage-style stamps over the actual prompts for her Birthday and other pertinent information.

But, alas, the shot was summonsed from the kitchen-sized chilly bin, a fresh needle produced from packaging, a much too large test shot fired skyward, and an attempt to jab the western oddity right through her clothing was engaged in. Upon prodding, the white curtain screen was implemented, a shirt was removed, and the needle passed directly from air to melanin-impaired skin and muscle. All the while, these three stooges were obviously convinced that the terror on Jenny's face was inspired by the prospect of a temporary silvery addition to her body, and not to the blatant chaos of the clinic. But, at least her shot cost a fifth of what mine did in a nice, clean, orderly clinic back home. And, with a little luck, we're both equally immune.

Perhaps that experience does justice to the existence that is Cairo - a bustling center of chaotic community, uncaring and yet effective (somewhat) in living out lives. Here, the music scene thrives (as we learned from a hillarious 6 foot 4 white boy living out here playing Arabic music), variety of culinary divulgences actually exists, and, overall, travelers can somehow mingle in the madness without going as insane in the sea of humanity as in, say, Delhi. The latter, I should say, is attributed to some mysterious aspect of interaction. I have no idea how 14 million people can unwaveringly make existence downright miserable in India, while 16 million in Misr can be so refreshingly uplifting. Geography, it seems to me, has much more effect on being than my pre-trip American mentality of modernity and, with it, forsaken roots could have fathomed.

And Geography simultaneously seems to dwindle in its importance as the newest bit of travel advice rushes from a fellow adventurer in the Pitts (burg) named Franklin. Non-major college courses can, it seems, lend a bit of usefulness in one's future endeavors. Or, in the future endeavors of foreign-bound friends.

The City of the Dead, topic of just one of Mr. Braffets literary works, is now a permanent slum, where the destitute of Cairo settled down for an existence alongside tombstones and mausoleums of the city's surrounding cemeteries. Though images conjured through various author's depictions of clotheslines between headstones perhaps exaggerate the case in a very obvious sense of writers traveling to see what they already have planned to see, the area nevertheless provides stark contrast to the colonial architecture and more monetarily sound regions of Cairo's interior. Moreover, in keeping with the lesson on this trip that less economically sound humans tend to have the most welcoming hearts, we had not walked 2 blocks before our first invitation to tea - this one with a family of 5 women, infinite children, and two men variously peeling garlic, painting windowframes, and just rolling around in laughter. Three more blocks, another invite. Two more, and we play soccer with dirty children in the street. Two more steps, we smoke sheesha with a nearly blind man who keeps yelling "Fayoumi!" and laughing as we echo his calls. Two more, another invite. Three more, we're in a broken down van with more tea witnessing the attempted repair as they take turns holding live wires to random screws in a heinous disobedience to common sense (but, alas, it seems to work). And finally, mostly because we had to choose a destination to provide for an excuse for departure, we arrive at a nearby mosque. This worshipper haven is prominently displayed on the one pound note, it comes clear, and a trip to the top of its minaret provides a spectacular view of Cairo, and of the pharaonic monuments pointing skyward in the distance. From our perch, we also saw the big ball moving toward the skyline once again, and knew it was time to move back across the highway and back to our normal Cairo existence.

On this side of the tracks, we've seen the museums, we've wandered the Nile, we've smoked our share of Sheeshas, we've drank our share of tea. We've mingled with our share of travelers, we've mingled with our share of Egyptian Arabs, we've dodged our share of Papyrus-vending stalkers. We've seen sleazy belly-dancing, we've seen whirling dervishes. We've had our share of Stella, and we've certainly put in our time with Koshari and Tamiyya; not to mention Fuul and Abergine. So today as we awoke, we were free to relax and wander in a now more familiar arena of the present; and to ponder the odd culture shock and instigated thoughts from Hollywood's contribution to American thought, which we witnessed last evening: Syriana.

As comfort sets in, however, our minds refuse to settle and ache somewhat for the discomfort of the unknown once more. Southward....soon.