Page 4 of A Discovery: Love and Other Things
The line to speak to a baggage agent was insanely long, so I told Angela to go ahead and collect her luggage from the carousel while I waited. One hour and forty minutes later, and I still felt as hopeless as I had when I’d first discovered my bag was gone. All that time spent just to get to the counter to give my name, cell number, and the address of the hostel that the university had set up for us. The old “don’t call us, we’ll call you,”Egyptian edition.
Tired and empty-handed, I found Angela waiting for me near the exit doors.
“No luck with the bag?”
My shoulders slumped even lower. “They said they’ll call me, but who knows if that’ll even happen.”
Angela sighed. “I’m just glad that I packed multiple bags for this very reason.” I knew my lost luggage was just a convenient justification for over-packing, but I decided to humor her this time for the sake of the extra outfits I could borrow.
Despite the rough start, I wasn’t going to let this get me down. My journey had yet to begin, and I wasn’t going to waste the beginning of it stressing over something I couldn’t control like stolen luggage. Straightening my spine and lifting my chin, I grabbed one of Angela’s bags. “Come on, let’s go find our shuttle outside.”
Chapter 3
The drive to the hostel was only about twenty minutes, most of it spent on a highway that was packed to capacity with vehicles. As soon as we exited, the roads narrowed significantly. We’d entered a densely packed region of buildings, all stone-colored and tightly packed together. Thankfully, the tiny car that the internship program had arranged to have pick us up could fit all of Angela’s bags, because I didn’t know how we’d have fit on the slender street if we’d had to take an SUV.
The pair of clear stringed beads that adorned the rearview mirror swayed abruptly, casting specks of prism light around as the car jerked to a stop.
“Oh, thank Jesus!” Angela exclaimed, bolting out of the car. “I’m dying in this sauna. It’s too damn hot!”
I rolled my eyes at her ever-present dramatic flair and followed her outside. “How on earth did you decide on becoming an archaeologist?” It wasn’t a glamorous job. Most countries that held internships during dig seasons had hot weather and required teams to be out in the sun from sunrise to sunset.
But I had to agree with her,it was too damn hot. Even with my sweatshirt tied around my waist and my hair up in a messy bun at the top of my head, I was dripping with sweat.
Angela shrugged as she tipped the driver for unloading her bags. “I like vintage things.”
Her eyes settled on the weathered, beige-colored building in front of us. A flashy red sign that read “Luxor Hostel” was proudly displayed over the front door. Dull brown paint outlined the glass entrance, with dark wood shutters hanging alongside the windows.
A look of horror washed over her face. “What kind of hotel is this?”
“A vintage one,” I teased, smirking as I wheeled one of her bags through the doors. I supposed she had missed the memo on our assigned accommodations.
The interior was much more bright and cheerful than the exterior. Greens, yellows, and reds were splashed all over the walls as paint and tiles. The floor resembled something I had seen once in a 1920s coffee-table book of Egyptian lodgings. The whole vibe made me feel giddy to explore the country.
My excitement, however, was in stark contrast to Angela’s shock. Her eyes bounced from the check-in desk to the communal dining table right next to it, covered in a light blue vinyl tablecloth.
I had never stayed in a hostel before, but based on stories I had heard from friends who frequented them, I’d expected this kind of atmosphere. My friends swore that this was the best way to travel on a budget, and it seemed like the internship program agreed.
“I amnotstaying here,” Angela muttered under her breath so the gentleman at the front desk couldn’t hear.
“Don’t be ridiculous! This place is so charming!” I spun around in place, just noticing the mosaic tiles on the ceiling for the first time as my sweatshirt tails danced around my waist. After a gleeful three-sixty, I approached the counter.
“Welcome to Luxor Hostel. Checking in?” the man asked in heavily accented English. He seemed to be a little older than us, maybe by a year or two, with dark hair and a short, scruffy beard.
“Yes, we’re here for the archaeology intern program. My name is Kitty. . .um, Sanura Taha, and this is my friend Angela Bowman.” I signaled to my friend over my shoulder and saw she still looked like she was ready to hightail it out the door at any moment.
Angela gave a weak wave.
“Egyptian?” the man asked in Arabic with interest. My name coupled with my thick curls spilling out of my poorly composed bun was probably the giveaway.
“Half. My father was born here,” I answered back in Arabic.
That earned me a nod with a warmer smile. “Welcome home.”
It was like, in that moment, I wasn’t just a tourist visiting a foreign land, even though I should have felt that way. This stranger felt some sort of camaraderie with me based on a shared heritage. I hadn’t expected that to happen here...I had expected to feel more like an outsider since I’d been born in America and spoke only the Arabic that I had learned from my bachelor’s program.
The man typed something into the desktop in front of him. I focused on the array of signs behind him as the keys clicked, all written in English for out-of-town travelers, no doubt: “Free Wi-Fi”; “No Alcohol on Premises”; “No Noise from Sunset to Sunrise.”
“You will be in room five at the top of the stairs on the left,” he replied in English this time as he eyed Angela behind me. He passed me a set of keys for each of us. “We serve three meals a day for the entire hostel, but you are free to use the private kitchen in the back if you would like meals in between with your own foods from the market.”
