Chapter Text
"I'll never forget the night I left Santiago."
The sky over the Chilean capital was dark when Myriam Morel arrived at the Pudahuel Airport, a mixture of coffee, cigarette, and kerosene smells hanging in the air. The terminal was small compared to the modern European standards of the time: light-colored tiled floors, orange plastic signs, and a constant murmur of families saying goodbye, hoping to return to the country at the end of the world.
None of the Chilean airlines offered flights to Africa, specifically to Cairo, and the only alternative was to choose the most expensive ones.
Iberia, a Spanish airline, had its counter in a corner of the hall. The flight attendants, in their immaculate uniforms and silk scarves, checked passports with almost theatrical professionalism. Behind them, the airline's old logo—yellow and red—gleamed under the cold lights.
I approached the counter, passport in hand, as if I could guess, just by touch, the distance I was about to travel. The clerk stamped it with a sharp tap and handed the document back to me with an automatic smile.
—Flight IB*, with a technical stop. Boarding at 10:45 p.m.— she said, as if handing over a destination.
—Thank you.— I tried to force a smile, but the exhaustion from the 25-hour bus trip from the northern city of Arica to the capital, Santiago, had worn me out. I was too cheap to take a bus trip like that again. But it's worth mentioning that almost my entire monthly salary went toward this trip to the center of the world.
In the waiting area, the loudspeakers crackled with every announcement. Many passengers were dressed in formal attire, even though it was a red-eye flight; intercontinental travel was still prestigious. Some smoked without a care, while others leafed through old travel magazines or newspapers with the day's news: protests, the formation of a democratic alliance, and the rise of armed resistance.
When boarding was called at the appointed time, the woman walked along the jetway toward an Iberia Boeing 747-200. The plane was enormous, with plush blue seats, a single projector at the front of the cabin for watching movies, dim yellow lights, and metal overhead compartments. Soft instrumental music, typical of the era, played at the end of the aisle.
The flight took off with a deep roar. From the window, Santiago faded into the distance like a sea of lights. Midway through the flight, they made a stop in Rio de Janeiro, which was common at the time. They didn't disembark; only staff boarded to clean, load food, and perform technical checks. Then, once again, the turbines roared to life.
During the next few hours, time seemed to dissolve; I couldn't feel my legs, and my heels vanished somewhere in My small space. Dinner was served on metal trays: chicken in wine sauce, warm bread, and a red gelatin that tasted like syrup. I think my bad mood stemmed from the long hours in confined spaces, unable to walk. The cabin was filled with cigarette smoke in the back. Every now and then, a flight attendant would come by offering strong coffee or tea. On the screen at the front, they projected the movie "Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark," a 1981 film, barely visible through the smoke and the heads.
—Excuse me... would you mind if I lowered the window shade a little? The light is shining right in my eyes,— I heard a voice with that Castilian accent from the Iberian Peninsula. When I turned to see him, it was a man of about 30, he seemed much more mature than me, who was only 23 years old, I can see that he is also tall since his legs were more than bent, thin, with a beard, and of course, wearing a suit. Not just anyone paid for this trip.
—No… no, it's fine. Go ahead.—
—Thank you. You look tired, huh?— In my mind, I didn't want to keep talking, but this man apparently wasn't going to give up.
—Very. I traveled by bus from Arica… twenty-five hours before this. You know Arica, right? I don't hear or see that you're from the southern hemisphere.—
—Twenty-five? My God... and then you get on a twelve-seater flight. That's either bravery or madness. And no, I'm Spanish, but Yes, I know Arica, I'm not so ignorant as to travel to a country and not know its geography or basic thinks.— he chuckle
—Oh... well, I think I'm crazy and maybe I'm brave.— I was crazy; I don't even have accommodation, a job, or security booked in the African country that's my destination.
—First time crossing the ocean?— He tried to look me straight in the eyes with his long eyelashes, but I just glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I don't like to look people straight in the eyes; I never have been able to.
—Yes. First time going so far, too.—
—Well, they chose a good movie to watch. Indiana Jones. Have you seen it?—
—No... not yet. I wanted to sleep, but the noise won't let me.— I settled into my blue seat, even though my butt was already feeling like a square.
—It's good for staying awake.But anyway, if you fall asleep, it's no big deal. Harrison Ford will still be there when you wake up.— Looking at him out of the corner of my eye again, I can see a lopsided smile spread across his face… Did he like me? How awful, it's not like I'm the center of the universe, I should stop feeling stalked.
—I guess so.— I laughed softly so as not to wake the people around me, who were also exhausted.
When the plane left Brazil there was some turbulence due to the change in temperature, which made me sick to my stomach due to the anxiety, and I had paper bags in my hand for the rest of the trip since nothing would stay in my stomach
Almost thirteen hours later, the pilot announced the descent to Madrid-Barajas. Upon landing, the European morning shone gray. Of course, before disembarking from the long journey to Europe, I took out my green notebook where I have notes and information of interest: numbers, services, among other things, but all from Chile, nothing relevant to my trip. But I only asked the man who had been sitting next to me for his number and name. One never know if we can find eachother again.
—José Bosé— he replied. Nothing out of the ordinary, it was to be expected, of course; we may come from somewhat different cultures, but the language is the same. —A pleasure being your seatmate, have a good travel— the man left when he went for his suitcase in anotger room of the big building.
Upon exiting the large aircraft, the airport was larger, with long walkways, small shops, and many Spanish military personnel discreetly keeping watch.
Myriam went through international transit and walked toward the next gate, guided by orange and brown signs. There was about a four-hour wait that would seem endless. Different languages could be heard: Peninsular Spanish, French, English, and a little Arabic. The atmosphere was more cosmopolitan. At a kiosk, they were selling postcards of Gran Vía, Spanish cookies, and magazines with photos of the Madrid cultural movement.
—Are you going to buy anything? We have many souvenirs you could take back for your family or...— the saleswoman, a very beautiful young woman, looked at me with a curious expression.
—No, excuse me, I'm not going home, but thank you— With a kind smile and a small bow, I left. Why lie to her? I barely had enough money left to buy a few crumbs of bread. When I arrived, I had to find an Hostel urgently. I hoped the flight would arrive during the day.
The flight to Cairo was operated by EgyptAir. When the time came, the gate filled with travelers: European tourists, Egyptian families, and businessmen in linen suits. The plane was an Airbus A300, with the airline's characteristic white and blue livery. What a beautiful plane with Egyptian motifs.
Upon boarding, the atmosphere was different: aromas of oriental perfume, voices in Arabic, and announcements in a mix of English and Arabic. The crew wore dark blue uniforms with small gold badges. Of course, I knew how to speak English; I used to work with fellow astronomers from all over the world. But my only problem is not knowing Arabic; it sounds very alien, and I want to live in a country where it's the official language.
As we took off from Madrid, soft Arabic music played over the speakers. The flight lasted about five hours. They served a dish of spiced rice with chicken and vegetables, something very different from the European menu. Outside, the sky was completely black, broken only by the lights on the fuselage. Perhaps I wouldn't be lucky enough to arrive in the desert country during the day.
As the plane began its descent toward Cairo, the pilot announced that the temperature was warm even at night. From the window, I could see a huge city, dotted with yellowish lights and a blanket of sand in the distance.
Upon landing, I arrived at Heliopolis Airport, Cairo's international airport. It was bustling with activity: police officers in cream-colored uniforms, voices mingling in different languages, signs in alphabets I couldn't read, employees pushing luggage carts, nervous tourists, and families waiting. I felt somewhat overstimulated. The airport in Chile wasn't very different, but it was much smaller and didn't have nearly as many passengers. I felt like Carmela, arriving from San Rosendo, from "La pérgola de las flores", a classic Chilean musical.
The air was different: warm, dense, mixed with the smell of spices, dust, and gasoline. The loudspeakers announced flights with a strange echo. The corridors were lined with faded tiles and beige walls. Was I having second thoughts? Too late.
As I walked toward passport control, Myriam immediately felt the culture shock: taxi drivers hawking people, tour guides speaking multiple languages, and a general sense of chaos.
"Oh my God..." the young woman nervously clutched her wrist. A trail of kerosene reminded me that I was still in an airport.
It was another dimension of the world, completely different from Santiago, her hometown at the end of the world. Before traveling, Myriam tried to investigate months before, but the only information that reached that part of the world was about ancient civilizations and ancestral motives.very stereotypical. That was her error, thinking that movies and books would tell the reality, knowing about the censorship and there is still no true world connection.
But her story in Egypt was just beginning, and you can't judge a book by its cover, right?
The moment I stepped through the airport doors, the first thing I felt was the cold. It wasn't below ten degrees Celsius, but it was dry, like the cold in my hometown, that has the Andes mountain range.
I was exhausted. It wasn't just the endless flight: I'd been dragging the fatigue from Arica, from that twenty-five-hour bus ride, from days without sleeping well. My body felt heavy, my head was spinning, and my butt was flat like a square. Even so, when I saw the chaos before me, the cold and all the exhaustion in the world ceased to matter.
Cairo at night was… too much.
People moving in every direction, taxis braking abruptly, vendors shouting words I didn't understand, the sound of horn after horn. Yellow lights, signs in Arabic that looked like drawings, men in dark coats talking quickly to each other. And me, alone, without a plan, without a hotel, with no one waiting for me.
That was the first moment I regretted it.
Not the journey itself… but arriving like that, without reservations, without maps, without anything prepared, at night, on another continent.
And being a woman.
The day I was born, my great-grandmother, who played the role of a grandmother in my life, was the most anguished and sad person. Simply because I was born a woman. It wasn't that she would have preferred me to be a man. It was that she always believed women came into this cruel world to suffer, a world where society despises and mistreats them. Like it mistreated her.
All this fear stemmed from her childhood and when she was a woman and the separation from a despicable man who spent all the money they had for the baby's food on dirty gambling. My grandmother separated during a much more patriarchal era, when women were rejected by society for not having a man by her side and being a single mother. But she always persevered and never gave up. She started a business and raised her daughter, and also helped to raise my father with my uncles, and that's how she got to know me. Perhaps my grandmother suffered because I was a woman, but in the end accepted it and felt proud when she saw that I was educated, even university-educated.
—Taxi, miss! Taxi! Good price!—
—Where are you going? Hotel? I'll take you, safe! Safe!—
Three men approached immediately. Not aggressive, but insistent. I was scared. And I quickly shook my head at them while gripping the handles of my suitcases. The cold wind hit me again, mingling with the smell of cigarettes and car exhaust.
—No, no… I'm fine— I lied in a voice I didn't even believe.
They kept talking to me, pointing at taxis, mentioning hotel names I didn't recognize. I avoided them by walking toward the wall of the building, looking for a corner where I could breathe without feeling surrounded.
There were no women alone.
None.
Only men, groups, entire families.
I stood out too much, even though my two-piece suit was the most basic; it didn't even have any extra slits.
A guard in a khaki coat glanced at me sideways, not maliciously, but with bewilderment, as if thinking: what is this woman doing here alone, at this hour? I felt a bit like I was in the past, but I understood that it's a different culture.
I stood still for a moment, staring at the lights fading away on the avenue leading out of the airport. I had no idea where to start. I didn't have a hotel, I didn't know how much a taxi should cost, I didn't know who was trustworthy.
But I knew I had to move.
Myriam approached an older man who was smoking, leaning against his taxi, and tried to communicate with him —Taxi please, cheap hotel, cheap— she pleaded with her hands, and the man understood.
On the dark journey through the streets of Cairo, I no longer looked out the window, nor did I care where I was; I just wanted to sleep.
—First time in Cairo?— The man was still smoking with the windows open.
—Yes…— After that, I didn't hear his voice again as he dropped me off in downtown Cairo. It's a place where taxi drivers routinely take foreigners because of the low cost of hostels. I learned that when I talked with a tourist in the zone.
—Hostel Nut.— she murmurs reading the sign of the old building —like the goddess—
Myriam dragged her suitcase through the building's narrow lobby. It smelled of dust, stale coffee, and dampness. There was no one at reception, just a rusty doorbell and a fan spinning slowly, as if it too were tired.
Two tourists, an Italian couple, were sitting on a broken armchair, poring over a huge map.
The woman noticed her first.
—Excuse me... are you looking for a room too?— she asked with a thick accent.
—Yes... I just arrived. I don't have a reservation— Myriam said, a little embarrassed for not being more careful, because she figured she'd be "fine."
The man looked up and smiled sympathetically. —There are always rooms available here. It's cheap, a bit noisy... but it's safe.—
—Really? That's great, I was worried about that, to be honest. My arrival was hectic.—Myriam breathed a sigh of relief, though she continued to glance at the empty reception desk.
—Do you know who I should talk to? There’s no one here…— She craned her neck like a swan, trying to find someone.
The Italian woman laughed softly. —Ah, the owner appears when he hears voices. He’s always in the back, drinking tea. Just…—
She rang the doorbell firmly. —Do this, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.—
A metallic clang echoed down the hallway.
—First time in Egypt?— the man asked.
—Yes, and I arrived at night… a very bad idea, I think.—
—Cairo is chaotic, but not bad, just… too much— the woman said, moving her hands as if she were pushing air out of her mouth. —Especially for a girl alone.—
Myriam smiled wearily, lacking the energy to explain everything she was carrying or why she’d had such a sudden idea of wanting to live in a faraway country.
—I've been traveling all the way from Chile, South America, a whole day on a bus, then flights, layovers... I can't feel my body anymore... After this, I plan to stay for a month or two at most. I don't think I'll be able to get used to the pace of this city.—
The two Italians exchanged wide eyes.
—Mamma mia… so you need a bed, not conversation— the husband joked.
Just then, shuffling footsteps were heard. An older man, with a thick mustache and sleepy eyes, emerged from a doorway.
—Yes, yes… room? You want a room?— he said in basic English, pointing at Myriam.
Myriam took a step forward and nodded quickly. —Yes, please… cheap room. Just one night… maybe more?— Clearly, she wasn't going to stay just one night.
The owner looked her up and down, not maliciously, but rather assessing her, and nodded.
—Okay… come, come. I'll show you.—
The Italian woman lightly touched Myriam's arm before she followed the man.
—if you need anything, we're in room 12. You're not alone, okay?—
Myriam only managed a half-smile of thanks before following the owner upstairs, feeling for the first time in hours that maybe she would survive the night.
The room was small, with faded cream-colored walls and a window that didn't close properly. When Myriam put her suitcase on the floor, she felt the silence weigh more heavily on her than the noise of Cairo outside. But it was perfect, given she had almost no money.
She washed her face with ice-cold water in a sink that dripped constantly. She lay down on the bed, enveloped in the smell of stale detergent, while she listened to the voices of other travelers in the hallway, distant car horns, a call to prayer that mingled with a dog barking on some rooftop. Everything sounded strange, foreign, and, at the same time, terrifying.
For a moment she wanted to cry. Just for a moment. But exhaustion was stronger than sorrow and regret.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. She slept without dreams, without moving, without thinking about anything.
"Tomorrow I'll have to get food and a job.”
At noon the next day, a Wednesday, the light streamed early through the dusty window. Unlike the night before, Cairo sounded different: children's laughter, brisk footsteps, vendors arranging their stalls. Everything felt friendlier, more alive, less dark.
Myriam woke up feeling a little lighter, though still with that fatigue similar to what one feels after the family holidays. The tiredness remained, but the feeling of being trapped in an unfamiliar place had vanished. She washed her face, dressed in a white shirt, linen trousers, low heels so she could walk comfortably, and a silk scarf wrapped around her hair.
She went down to the hostel lobby. The owner greeted her with a lazy gesture and a "Good morning, miss."
Outside, the city was different. Streets filled with light, women carrying bags, men pushing metal carts, children running after a ball. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted past her nose; Perhaps there was a bakery or a street vendor nearby.
Myriam approached a man selling food from a cart.
"Excuse me… where can I buy fruit?" she asked.
The man smiled, pointing with his spoon toward a narrower street.
"There's a market. Straight ahead… then left. Very good fruit, very cheap."
Myriam smiled, because the way he pointed reminded her of Chile: he only needed to point with his trunk to complete the scene.
She thanked him with a small bow and started walking. The sun warmed her cheeks, the air smelled of spices, and for the first time since arriving, she thought:
"Maybe… maybe this place isn't so terrible."
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and followed the path to the market she'd been told about, finally feeling a little more like she belonged in Cairo.
Something shocking for Myriam were the traffic laws, since in Chile one waited for the green light and stopped at the red light, and there are also crosswalks where cars stop to allow pedestrians to cross safely, but Cairo had very different rules.
At first she was frightened to see people crossing the street as if nothing was wrong and avoiding the cars; the woman thought she was going to be run over. So her plan was to wait for a city dweller and follow him, something safe.
The market I arrived at, has wooden stalls, piles of vegetables, open sacks of spices, clucking caged chickens, and merchants haggling with almost military skill. The air smelled of caprices, oranges, and hot dust. It reminded me of the Sunday markets that come to Santiago.
Myriam walked among the stalls until she saw a pyramid of glistening oranges. Her eyes watered at the mere thought of something fresh and her favorite fruit.
"How much?" she asked the vendor, showing him two oranges. The man studied her for a second, lingering too long on her silk scarf, her clean shirt, her height. He smiled, revealing yellow teeth, and raised his eyebrows.
"For you… a very special price. Twenty pounds." He keeps smiling at me.
Myriam frowned. She had no idea about the exchange rate, but it sounded… suspicious? Before she could say anything, a firm, confident female voice spoke beside her:
"ما تخدعهاش يا راجل، سعرها الحقيقي اقل من عشرة جنيه."
(Don't try to trick her. The real price is less than ten, man.)
Myriam turned around, and beside her stood a woman barely an inch shorter than she was. Short, dark hair, round glasses, lips painted a soft red. She had an elegant presence, almost like a model who'd gotten lost in the middle of a neighborhood market. Her gaze was calm, but direct.
The merchants snorted, annoyed: —She's a tourist. Price different,— he gestured with his hands.
The woman crossed her arms. —Price is price. Ten. Or she buys from your neighbor. His oranges look tastier anyway.—
The man muttered in Arabic, took the oranges, and handed them to Myriam without looking at her.
The woman beside me helped me separate the money so I could pay, still confused, and then I looked at my unexpected savior. —Thank you… I really had no idea.—
—Clearly— the woman replied, but with a kind smile, —merchants see a tall foreigner and think they can make up any number, take care…—
Myriam let out a nervous laugh —I’m Myriam Morel, nice to meet you.—
—Sharona tenco— she replied, extending her hand casually. —Welcome to Cairo. Here… you have to learn fast.—
The mix of elegance, confidence, and humor made Myriam suddenly feel less alone amidst the bustle of the market.
—Yes, I just saw that… I would like to thank you again because—
I was interrupted when the woman lowered her sunglasses, revealing a pair of deep, beautiful eyes—sensual in a quiet, effortless way.
—You should meet someone, —she said calmly— a man who’s very well-known in the city. A fortune teller. He can help you… and warm your soul if you feel lost. He’s kind. I visit him often, especially when life gets complicated. And you… —she tilted her head, studying me— you look like you might be in one of those times.
The first image that flashed through my mind when I heard “fortune teller” was ridiculous: a man with a giant crystal ball, smoke swirling around him and a voice like thunder.
What a joke. I’m stupid for thinking that.
—And his name is?
I took out my small green notebook, ready to write.
—Mohammed Avdol, —she said with a steady smile— and if you want to find him, he works in a bazaar called Khan el-Khalili. He’s almost always there… not too late, of course. He sleeps like a normal person.
I wrote everything down quickly.
—Thanks. Really.
I closed the notebook and slipped it into my bag before looking at her with a soft, grateful smile.
Sharon adjusted her sunglasses again.
—I can take you there, if you want.
She spoke like someone who rarely offered help unless she meant it.
—And meanwhile, I can teach you a few things. I can see it in your face… you’re not that sweet. You need to learn how to move in this city if you don’t want people walking all over you.
The way she said it wasn’t rude—it was honest, almost protective.
And unexpectedly, comforting.
Perhaps I was judging Cairo by its cover, since there are all kinds of people there, like Sharona, a beautiful and kind woman.