Imagine This

Imagine this:

You wake up in the morning and go to the hostel's lobby area for free breakfast. It's you and a man from Zambia in a full robe. He is friendly and he asks you where you are from. You answer honestly. He asks where you flew from. You answer. He asks you what you will do in Cairo. You answer. He asks you at least four more questions. All of which you answer. Then he asks if you are traveling alone. You avoid the question by saying you are meeting friends. He asks, again, if you are traveling alone. You give him a short answer, eat quickly and go back to your room.

You want to go to the Egyptian Museum. You get directions (kind of--->"Go right. Then go right again.") and set off.  You walk down the street. There are no cross walks, barely sidewalks and Egyptian women? You don't see any. Men do not touch you. They review you with their eyes from top to bottom and say things under their breath. Just loud enough so you are the only one that can hear them. Sometimes it's in Arabic-you can only imagine what they are saying. Sometimes it's in English and you wish it was in Arabic.  You keep your eyes down but they want you to see them. They laugh at you. Their eyes follow you as you cross the street. They point you out to other men.

You get lost. You just endured what felt like a 'walk of shame' for nothing. The museum is a safe haven. You do not want to leave the museum because you know you will be on display again...but you have to. You go back to the hostel and try to relax. The new receptionist is friendly. He speaks English well. You are hopeful that maybe this will be different. MAYBE you can have a conversation as two equals. Then he addresses you in Arabic and asks if you know the meaning. No, you don't. He explains that it means, "My sweetie." You show no reaction and go back to your room.

You set up a boat cruise on the Nile. It's the Nile...but you are having a difficult time leaving your room. You don't want to open the door. You force yourself to leave. You arrive at the boat. You don't want to be there. More men. You want to leave. The taxi driver makes you stay. A belly dancer comes out. She looks like Michael Jackson. Her boobs are squished together into a pink spandex outfit. You don't want to see this. But you have to. You fake an illness. The taxi driver doesn't care. He makes you stay. He wants your money. You endure the awful dancing/singing for the next two hours.

The taxi driver stops at the pharmacy on the way back to the hostel. He feels guilty because you were obviously miserable. He gives you medicine. While he's handing you medicine his car is hit by another car. He gets out and argues with the other driver. You laugh because both cars are pieces of shit and you feel like a piece of shit.

The driver smiles and asks if you are OK but you can tell he hates you.  Most men here hate you. They are not impressed that you have traveled to other countries alone before. They don't care that you have your master's degree or that you used to play soccer and that you are, in all actuality, not that feminine. You are still a woman. You have boobs and a vagina and you should not be traveling without a man.

Because you are traveling without a man you don't deserve respect and you are probably a floozy whore.

Just imagine.