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Authors: Barbara Silkstone
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should hoof it to Pompey’s Pillar,” Roger said.
I knew that was the plan but every fiber of my body screamed no way . “You’ll destroy your feet walking in two left shoes.” I’m always putting Roger’s needs before my own.
I untied the robes and threw one to him. “Here put this over your head. You’re the color of a blood orange. I hope your hat is comfortable back in our hotel room.”
Wrapping the robe around his head like a humongous turban, he glanced down at his brown wingtips. “I’ve gotten used to the pain. Walk slowly and ignore my whimpering. Maybe we’ll find a peddler selling mandals.”
Mandals, yuck. I shuddered. A batch of cartoon hallucinations induced by my near-starvation, kicked in. Bacon and eggs over easy on the sand. A cup of coffee the size of a swimming pool, laced with half and half.
I was so empty I would have gambled on a street vendor, which for me was about like saying I’d eat out of a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. I led us off the dock toward Pompey’s Pillar, Fiona firmly attached. Roger ooched and ouched behind us. Sand poured into the toes of my peep-toe Ferragamo pumps.
Silently we marched, the glamour of tomb raiding disappeared as the ashtray banged against my thigh and the sun cooked my eyeballs through my Polaroid lenses. Fiona’s clinging was getting to be a real nuisance. I glared at her. “If you must hang onto me, at least lift the ashtray up. It hurts.”
She gave me a startled look. “What ashtray?”
It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know I was packing. “Just lift my skirt.”
She took me literally and flipped my dress up over her head. I yanked it away from her and tripped over air. I caught myself before I hit the ground, but managed to break the heel off my left Ferragamo pump. Sadly, I picked up the leather heel and tucked it in my purse. Maybe the loss could be a business deduction.
An hour into our hike and I imagined I was trapped in the English Patient . “Die already,” I mumbled to myself. I was losing it. My mind drifted to my last open house on Miami Beach. I served chilled Pinot Grigio and caviar canapés. What the hell was I doing wandering in the desert? I could find all the air-conditioned adventure I needed in the nightclubs on Collins Avenue.
“Why couldn’t we take the train like normal people?” I said.
“Because we’re maintaining a low profile,” Roger barked.
Twenty minutes after I broke my heel, which I wasn’t taking well, we reached a pleasant residential area on the outskirts of the city. It could have been any Mediterranean city. Pretty tree-lined streets with older well-kept cars parked at the curbs and flower-bordered walkways leading to Moorish style homes. I was tempted to knock on doors and beg for an iced-coffee.
Limping, lumpy pilgrims, we made our way toward the heart of Alexandria and Pompey’s Pillar. We stepped through the looking glass from sand in our shoes to the fumes of thickening traffic. The scent of humanity assaulted my nostrils. We were swarmed by peddlers and souvenir hawkers.
“Don’t make eye-contact,” Roger said.
I looked straight ahead willing Petri and the Land Rover to appear.
We collapsed on a rocky path above an ancient Roman amphitheater. The place looked like an archaeological dig with cut marble seating and a small stage for a speaker or two.
A guide was lecturing to a small flock of tourists. “Is true. When you talk from the stage the acoustics are supposed to be perfect. Perhaps once the tour is complete you may return to the stage.” He scooted them away.
“Stay out of trouble. I’ll be right back with water,” Roger said. He plunked Horus’s cage on a gray marble step and headed to the market. I watched him disappear into the crowd. The first time I met Roger I thought he had a broom up his butt. That was almost a year ago. Now I couldn’t imagine life without him.
I settled in next to Horus’s cage and worked my tushie into the grooves in
I knew that was the plan but every fiber of my body screamed no way . “You’ll destroy your feet walking in two left shoes.” I’m always putting Roger’s needs before my own.
I untied the robes and threw one to him. “Here put this over your head. You’re the color of a blood orange. I hope your hat is comfortable back in our hotel room.”
Wrapping the robe around his head like a humongous turban, he glanced down at his brown wingtips. “I’ve gotten used to the pain. Walk slowly and ignore my whimpering. Maybe we’ll find a peddler selling mandals.”
Mandals, yuck. I shuddered. A batch of cartoon hallucinations induced by my near-starvation, kicked in. Bacon and eggs over easy on the sand. A cup of coffee the size of a swimming pool, laced with half and half.
I was so empty I would have gambled on a street vendor, which for me was about like saying I’d eat out of a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. I led us off the dock toward Pompey’s Pillar, Fiona firmly attached. Roger ooched and ouched behind us. Sand poured into the toes of my peep-toe Ferragamo pumps.
Silently we marched, the glamour of tomb raiding disappeared as the ashtray banged against my thigh and the sun cooked my eyeballs through my Polaroid lenses. Fiona’s clinging was getting to be a real nuisance. I glared at her. “If you must hang onto me, at least lift the ashtray up. It hurts.”
She gave me a startled look. “What ashtray?”
It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know I was packing. “Just lift my skirt.”
She took me literally and flipped my dress up over her head. I yanked it away from her and tripped over air. I caught myself before I hit the ground, but managed to break the heel off my left Ferragamo pump. Sadly, I picked up the leather heel and tucked it in my purse. Maybe the loss could be a business deduction.
An hour into our hike and I imagined I was trapped in the English Patient . “Die already,” I mumbled to myself. I was losing it. My mind drifted to my last open house on Miami Beach. I served chilled Pinot Grigio and caviar canapés. What the hell was I doing wandering in the desert? I could find all the air-conditioned adventure I needed in the nightclubs on Collins Avenue.
“Why couldn’t we take the train like normal people?” I said.
“Because we’re maintaining a low profile,” Roger barked.
Twenty minutes after I broke my heel, which I wasn’t taking well, we reached a pleasant residential area on the outskirts of the city. It could have been any Mediterranean city. Pretty tree-lined streets with older well-kept cars parked at the curbs and flower-bordered walkways leading to Moorish style homes. I was tempted to knock on doors and beg for an iced-coffee.
Limping, lumpy pilgrims, we made our way toward the heart of Alexandria and Pompey’s Pillar. We stepped through the looking glass from sand in our shoes to the fumes of thickening traffic. The scent of humanity assaulted my nostrils. We were swarmed by peddlers and souvenir hawkers.
“Don’t make eye-contact,” Roger said.
I looked straight ahead willing Petri and the Land Rover to appear.
We collapsed on a rocky path above an ancient Roman amphitheater. The place looked like an archaeological dig with cut marble seating and a small stage for a speaker or two.
A guide was lecturing to a small flock of tourists. “Is true. When you talk from the stage the acoustics are supposed to be perfect. Perhaps once the tour is complete you may return to the stage.” He scooted them away.
“Stay out of trouble. I’ll be right back with water,” Roger said. He plunked Horus’s cage on a gray marble step and headed to the market. I watched him disappear into the crowd. The first time I met Roger I thought he had a broom up his butt. That was almost a year ago. Now I couldn’t imagine life without him.
I settled in next to Horus’s cage and worked my tushie into the grooves in
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