By Mary Lynn Bahr
In Luxor it is a holy day. Tidal fists and turbans surge with flash white foaming eyes downstreet around your uncapsizeable bus. Don’t drink the water.
In Aswan you can sail in white faloukas and order French fries from the careful waiter in the garden by the pool and pay to see a troupe of Nubians dance in green and yellow, but the flour-armed baker and his dusty sons will give you unsalted pitas and the clothingstore boy with crooked teeth will call his little sisters. In the basement of the Cairo Hilton you can drink Coke at slim white tables and browse expensive imported boutiques where everyone knows English, all but some giggling black-haired girls from the university who smile and gaze and without words give you the silver rings from their fingers.
