Temple of Hapshetsut   January 2, 1999 We are in Luxor, the land of the Valley of the Kings, the Valley of the Queens, and the mass murder of 56 tourists at the Temple of Queen/Pharaoh Hapshetsut. It has been almost exactly a year since the massacre. Luxor is even more dependent on the tourist trade than Giza, and the area was hit hard by the drop in tourism due to the attack. However, Luxor has a registry office where tourists can get married. My father and the FLS hate tourists with a passion, and get very unhappy whenever more than two other tourists are around. Or any tourists are around, for that matter. There are about 2,000 tourists at the Temple of Hapshetsut and in the Valley of the Kings when we visit those sites. Neither place has any cover at all, I note. Well, I figure I could probably dive behind some of the fatter tourists if necessary.

Each tourist site has policemen armed with rifles at the entrance, and handsome Egyptian men in very nice suits and large rifles within the sites. The suits aren’t uniformly dark and dull like those of American men. They’re teal, matched forest green and brown, all very classy. These men look like some kind of Mafia. I smile nervously at them. They will protect me if fanatics come, shooting tourists. Maybe they will be especially conscientious at protecting me if I smile at them. Many of the guards have bullet-proof vests on. I later discover that the nicely-dressed men are policemen as well, but the Tourist board insisted they be dressed in suits so as not to scare the tourists. That night, at dinner, the FLS relates a story about the exact way in which she likes her tea that prompts me to start the following conversation: Me: Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m so glad you two wouldn’t be interested in planning any wedding I might have. So many of my friends have their families controlling every aspect of their weddings. The FLS: Well, it’s whoever controls the money, you know. Me:Some of them paid for it themselves, though. The FLS: Well, don’t get married! In my day, we just lived together. Why can’t you just live in sin? Me: I’ve done that. The FLS: Why can’t you do it again? My Father:(generously) If you get married, there is only one thing I’d have to choose. Me: What? My Father: The groom. I guess I walked into that one. Thank goodness that they’re the ones that are trying to get married. Fortunately, the conversation soon turned to whether the FLS and my father could manage to bribe an official (an easy task) to marry them at one of the ancient sites. But how would they get rid of all of the other tourists?

January 3, 1999 The FLS and my father go to the registry office. Turns out they can only get married by the official on a Thursday. Unfortunately, we are only in town from a Friday to a Monday (for my father) and a Tuesday (the rest of us). My father has to get back Tuesday to teach his class. Today is Sunday, anyway. Something about our walking about Luxor is vaguely familiar. Perhaps it’s the men who are constantly offering us falouka (riverboat) rides. "NOR-WAY," my father points at himself proudly. I try to explain that we’re not trying to cross the river. "Maybe tomorrow?" they ask. "How about a camel ride?"

January 4, 1999 That morning, my brother falls very ill and stays in bed, moaning, all day. We try to get him to drink water, but he’s feverish and unconscious. My father leaves for his plane and has an adventure so wild I can’t even begin to do it justice here. Suffice it to say, after several taxi cabs and buses later, he ends up going via land from Cairo to Tel Aviv.

January 5, 1999 We learn that my father arrived safely in Tel Aviv about 15 hours after he left, and about $200 poorer. We hope that our exodus from Egypt will be easier. Our prayers come true. Our trip is easier. The FLS and I drag my brother out of bed and get a taxi ride to the airport. The Luxor airport is small, smoky, and filled with mosquitoes. We put my brother on a bench with our bags and get in line. It turns out there is a record of the FLS, but not me and my brother for the plane. The FLS and I go back behind the desk to a small office filled with smoking men playing cards. Indeed, the computer has no record of us. We tell them of my brother’s illness, the absolute necessity that we get our connecting flight from Cairo to Tel Aviv, and insist we paid for our tickets. The men eye us and assure us they will do what they can. We return to my brother, who helpfully scolds us for admitting that he was sick. We notice that we have a reservation code, and the FLS goes back to the smoky office to show it to the manager. When she returns, she is uncharacteristically off-kilter. "I guess I have become your honorary stepmother already!" she says. It turns out, when she went back to show the code to manager, the manager met her, privately, in the hall. He explained that the reservation code must have been from the travel agent, NOT Air Egypt. He says he will do what he can. Then he remarks that she has beautiful eyes, and asks if he can kiss her. Completely off-balance, she showed him her cheek, which he kissed. He asked her to return in an hour and says he’ll probably have two tickets for us then. I think I owe the FLS something. My brother gets as angry as only an incredibly ill and weak man can, and bravely insists on going back to the smoky office. The FLS goes to try to phone our travel agent, and my brother scolds me for my poor judgement. I decide that neither he nor I are helping anyone at that moment and leave him. I join the FLS, and she and I spend the next half an hour trying to reach our travel agent. Their 1-800 number is always busy. For some reason, the AT&T international operator number is also always busy. We give up and brave the smoky men’s office again, this time clutching each others’ arms. I glare around me like a tiger, and the manager gives us two tickets. We return to my brother and drag him through the rest of the trip. The FLS and I discuss Middle Eastern culture and whether what happened would be considered sexual harassment in the U.S. Ah, women in academia.

January 6, 1999 My brother is still sick, and now I fall ill. My whole family is showing symptoms of some kind or another. My father and the FLS aren’t that bad, and carry on with their lives: going out to dinner, meeting with colleagues, visiting a kibbutz. I drag myself out to Jerusalem one day, but that’s about it. The mother of the Stanford PhD student never calls, so I never get to meet him. However, my gentleman caller phones me again. He’s going to pick me up from the airport and we aren’t even dating, yet.

January 9, 1999 Despite sickness, my brother still manages to get, um, well-acquainted with the fascinating Israeli woman. My father and the FLS leave to return to the States. My brother and I have one more day in Tel Aviv so, still not feeling so well, we watch a Jane Austin movie marathon on TV and come up with the Jane Austin Movie Drinking Game. We have an outrageous amount of fun. I know so few other people who would appreciate a Jane Austin drinking game. I know fewer people who would quack with me when we see Gwyneth Paltrow, who looks remarkably duck-ish in Emma. We try not to think about the fact that we have another 20 hours worth of flying before us. As I go to sleep my last night in the Middle East, I realize – I did have a lot of fun with my family. It’s been a while. Maybe none of us are meant to get married immediately, but we’re certainly getting lucky in terms of love – or at least sex.

Epilogue My Father and the FLS did not succeed in marrying in the Middle East, and are still in the process of thinking of a place. They thought about California for a while, and are now thinking of The Hague. If you have any ideas of where in the world they should get married, please feel free to e-mail us at toots@folded.com. They are determined to marry someplace exotic in 1999.