I was new to Egypt and had only been traveling as a tourist for a few days. I was on a Nile cruise and enjoying the sacred temples beginning in the south at Abu Simbel and moving north through Philae, Kom Ombo, Aswan, Luxor, Hapshepsut, Dandera and Qena are a few stops along the amazing Nile River.
Each temple has its own energy, its own history and own purpose. Each as magical as the next. Different hieroglyphics and carvings on each temple.
In Luxor, I stay the night at the Sheraton until my transfers are made which takes a few days. As soon as I check into my room and unpack, I realize the underwear I washed the night before is still hanging to dry in the bathroom of my stateroom on the cruise ship. My cruise ship is currently docked about one hour away by car.
I purchased a few new items of clothing prior to my trip and the ones hanging in my stateroom were my favorite brand. They were new panties and some of my favorites.
Being new to Cairo, I did’t know how to go about replacing them. The only shopping I’d done was at the tourist bazaars where I could purchase a hookah water pipe or sterling jewelry, but I’d not seen underwear for sale.
It was clear I had to get them back. I mention my plight to some men and they do not get the importance of my missing clothing or the attachment I had to it. At this time, most employment opportunities are fulfilled by men, rare is a woman seen working outside the home.
I finally found a woman working as the hotel operator. She agreed to research the phone numbers of the many Nile cruise ships if I give her the name of my ship. I could tell her what it looked like because I would have to find it every day after our tours on land, but the name escapes me. In the evenings, the ships tie up at night next to each other so that we could party from one vessel to another as if they were floating docks.
The Sheraton Luxor was a charming retro hotel in 2005. The public telephones are enclosed in a bank of small cubicles along a hallway for the exclusive use of making a phone call and at the end, sits the hotel operator. They are tiny spaces, but beautifully crafted wooden capsules, but paper thin. Privacy was not a priority in their construction. The operator need not listen in on a call, she heard most conversations from her perch at the end of the short hallway.
I wait anxiously as she places a ship-to-shore call for me. These are the days before smart phones and even before flip phones. Nokia is the most common communication device. Cell towers are few and far between.
She patches the call through to my phone and I hear static, fuzz, and a muffled “Hello.”
I respond with “Hello?” One more Hello and I say, “This is Suzan Owens, I was in room 207 on the cruise.”
“Hold the line, I’ll transfer you.”
“No, wait!” I scream. “I don’t want room 207, I was just in room 207.”
“Who is this?” The line was fuzzy and the voice sounded far away. I could barely hear him.
“This is Suzanne Owens, I was just on the cruise in room 207.”
Suzanne is an Egyptian name and one people remember, so I am Suzanne here. President Mubarak’s wife’s name is Suzanne. Many times, when introduced, I would say, “Suzanne, like Mubarak.” Most all Egyptians laughed at this, like they were meeting the president’s wife.
I could almost hear the smile appear on his face when he said, “Oh, Mrs. Suzanne! I am so happy to hear from you!”
“Yes, Abdul, I’m happy to hear from you as well.” I responded.
“I miss you Mrs. Suzanne!” Egyptians are very friendly people and I hear this comment many times in my travels throughout Egypt. I find it genuine and charming.
“Yes, I miss you too, Abdul. I have a problem.” I said, aware that I am in a small space without privacy.
“What?” “I cannot hear you,” says Abdul.
“I have a problem. I left something in my room.” I said, raising my voice.
“What?” The line seems to fade in and out as if the Nile river current on which he floats somehow has an effect on our connection.
“I need to get something from my stateroom.” I said, trying to be discreet. I pause because I hear shuffling and the beginning of a conversation in the booth next to me.
“What do you need?” he said, raising his voice.
“I left my panties in my bathroom and I need to get them.”
“You left what?” His voice is getting higher.
“I left my underwear in the bathroom of 207 and I’d like to get them back.” My voice is escalating now.
“Your what?”
I look at the receiver and shout, “My panties!” I want my panties!
“Oh,” is his response. I’ve just breached a social faux pas. In a muslim culture, men and women don’t discuss privates.
Certainly men and women with our relationship as guest and host never discuss anything so intimate. In Cairo, there are separate cars for men and women on the metro. Women are covered and at the very least, dress discreetly.
“I will have someone check your room and collect your items. We are moving up the Nile soon, so you must get them quickly,” he said.
I assure him I have someone who will come immediately. Fortunately, I made a friend of my tour guide who offered to come to my rescue. I know I have only a small window of time to gather my lost briefs.
I hang up the receiver and am worn out and embarrassed from our public conversation. I am ready to bolt out of there without so much as a thank you to the operator.
As soon as I opened my door, the next cubicle door opened and a man stepped out. He gave one look at me and said in a lovely British accent, “Do you have a problem with your knickers dearie?”
My face turned as red as a pair of my lost underwear. I smile and run.
My tour guide was unable to make the sojourn to the ship and asked a friend to complete the errand for him. I am so happy and relief washed over me the night I finally receive the package of unmentionables from my friend. I could only guess how many people had their hands on my knickers by the time I got them back.
