I can pinpoint the exact moment that my attachment to Egypt began. I was eight years old and the credits were rolling for the greatest and most terrifying film of my young life. An evil dead guy, ancient treasure, adventure, mystery, delightful turn of the century English sensibilities.
It was The Mummy, duh. What other totally historically accurate Hollywood film about Egypt could I possibly be talking about? Actually, don’t answer that, you’ll make my inner child cry.
Okay, I’ll admit, this is an incredibly dubious start to my infatuation. Regardless, I will still watch that film with all of my childlike enthusiasm. The difference is that now it’s 80% for Rachel Weisz, 20% for nostalgia and absolutely never as a historical point of reference.
My imagination was filled with mystical daydreams of sand, ancient pyramids and adventure, and also Rachel Weisz (for real though, that woman is a Goddess, no wonder James Bond married her).
It is precisely because of this daydreaming that, eight months prior to the whole packing up and moving there thing, I went on holiday to Egypt. I spent two weeks climbing inside of pyramids, riding camels into the desert, sleeping on the Nile and floating over the Valley of the Kings in a hot air balloon.
It was hella great (even though I had
suspected plague the flu and lost three of my five senses for a month), but its only relevance in this story is because of the one thing I didn’t do. I, unlike my fellow comrades, did not continue on from Luxor to Dahab. I had to get my arse back to Scotland. After all, I had a college course to fail.
Over the next few days my facebook was inundated with pictures of beautiful beaches and even more beautiful (if scruffy) cats. Meanwhile, I was sat in a call centre living the joys of a Scottish winter (read: endless darkness, grey skies and rain, oh so much rain).
To Be Continued...