Thursday’s are my Friday night.
This Thursday, I had a belated Happy Hour engagement with a good friend. He talks about things that no one else I know talks about. He speaks in the tongues of the less traveled lands. He speaks in the tongues of places I want to go. Like Egypt. We sat on the porch of a restaurant and had margaritas and chips. The sliver of a moon, too new to stay long, rose and then dipped quickly into an indigo sky as I listened.
He has seen the pyramids. THE PYRAMIDS. I asked him, in all seriousness, if he thought the touristy factor and the pollution and general OOOH, HONEY LOOK, IT’S A WONDER OF THE ANCIENT WORLD hype ruined the Pyramid experience. My concern is that when I make the trek across the seas and down the Nile some obnoxious tourists’ presence would block any ancient mystery and magic the stones have to offer. And I so want that magic.
Within the next year I may get to cruise down the Nile in a Felluca to record the spots that a certain artist painted and to photograph the contemporary companion views to his paintings; a dream come true for this romantic mind.
Apparently, according to my reliable source, amidst the tourists, smog, and ancient sand-dust is magic. The mystery remains. The sheer size and presence of these enigmatic beasts belittles any other force on earth. No flashy, American tourist can dull the eternal force of the Pyramids.
At least that’s what I got from the conversation.
Anyway, just another Thursday night talking about the Pyramids while having a margarita. We’ve all been there.