Where Are We?

Here’s a story for you:

In January 2015, I flew from Venezuela to Egypt after spending Christmas and New Year with my family. It was the first one after moving overseas, and I wanted to be with them.

The flight landed in Cairo late afternoon. I waited for the luggage carousel to bring my purple suitcase for about an hour and a half (as expected), but it never came. Tired and worried, I drove to Maadi for almost an hour in typical, hectic, memorable traffic. I didn’t actually drive myself; I had a driver. I never dared to drive on the ring road, and I hope you never have to!

The problem wasn’t just the missing luggage, but the anguish of not knowing how I would go about such a stressful task or retrieving it at one of the most complicated airpots I’d visited. I didn’t speak a word of Arabic and it meant another late afternoon ride hoping to survive the fearless drivers in Cairo. No fun.

Trillian (yes! Aunty Trillian) offered to go with me. At first, it seemed like it wouldn’t be such a big deal—We asked someone, and someone led us to a small office, and the person there pointed to a hall on the second floor. “Take stairs and go there,” it’s all I remember, he said. We had to go through several police officers, but no one seemed to wonder why we were walking into that area. So we assumed that was just the way everyone located their missing suitcases.

After a few minutes of walking, we noticed we were the only voices hall after hall. We kept turning corners and looking into offices, but there was no indication that we were in the same direction or even in an area where civilians should be. At one point, we found ourselves in one more hallway that looked more like a hotel than an airport. A bunch of cream-color doors lined up on our left, and gold numbers identified them for whoever knew what that place was. Us? We had no idea if we were still in the same building: no one there but us.

When we reached the last door, we looked at each other and realized we should probably make our way back. The door seemed to have been forced open and closed again. What are we doing here? Let’s go.

It took us half the time to return to the ticketing area, thanks to some speedwalking and the unexpected rush that fear gives you. We got back in the car and went home. No luggage. On the way back, I called my TA Amani and asked for her help (which I should have done in the first place, but I’d soon learn). The next day, she drove me back to the airport, spoke her way into locating my purple suitcase, and waited for me while I looked for it in another random and creepy underground section of the arrivals terminal.

Here’s what I want you to take away from this story, Elena: get yourself some friends like Trillian who would go to creepy places with you (or maybe don’t, and go to breakfast with that friend instead). Also, if you ever live overseas on your own, learn the language!