Road 213

All the cars are lined up by the sidewalk. The space between them is big enough to fit a grape. In the morning, the sun shines slowly and greets the dogs sleeping on top of all the cars that wait to be dusted before tea time.

One by one, the bawabs come out, some in sandals, some in rain boots, with their hoses and their rags. One of them holds a cigarette in one hand, and with the other, he begins to slap the gray Toyota. His rag, an old blue shirt, lifts the sand layer that accumulates each night in this ancient city. It glides up and then back down, like a strange dance against the piece of cloth.

I stood there, just looking at this Cairo memory in the making. In my head, other memories began to line up in chronological order. From this moment all the way back to a Thursday night in 2014, when I first walked across this road. That night, I chose it as a familiar way home after an evening out that became routine for several months—the beginning of my social life here.

That road was a way back home at first, then a way to the new grocery store, later on, the easiest way to walk across the train tracks. A wide road that often felt like a level in Super Mario, avoiding the huge advertisements in the middle of the sidewalk, like saying, “Read me or walk off.” Over the years, this road meant something new. A place for daily walks after moving to a new apartment next to it, where the same drivers would gather on a corner and wave at us as we passed by.

Today, standing in the middle of it, hypnotized by the fight between dust and rag, t I remembered how much I’ll miss walking around in this place I’ve called home for over six years. I stood there and felt grateful for the many things that became unnoticeable for so long. Then, I keep walking thinking about this moment I will probably write about once I get home.

Not too long after, a familiar car approaches, the driver waves his hand outside the window and slows down. I recognize the smile. Sabry stops next to me and greets me, “Anne!” he calls me; I hold his hand and tell him I’m leaving. “Take care, Sabry. Stay healthy!” I say as he stares at me. I see sadness in his eyes, and I smile back.

I wanted to say goodbye to so many people, hold their hands, thank them for everything they’ve done for me, the kindness they’ve shown me. I know I won’t be able to do that, so at that moment, Sabry was all of them. I held his hand for a while before letting him go. I’ll have to be ok with not being able to see everyone before I get on that plane, and I guess that’s okay.

Goodbye Maadi, thank you for so much.