CAIRO AS THE ANNUAL STAMPING GROUND FOR AMERICANS
AND WHY THEY MAKE THE TRIP
"It's a small world."
This is one of the overworked phrases of the globe-trotter. It is used
most frequently by those who follow the beaten paths. In other words,
we find it difficult to get away from our acquaintances. Not that we
wish to get away from them; on the contrary, when we are stumbling
along some unfamiliar thoroughfare six thousand miles from home and
bump into a man with whom we have a nodding acquaintance in Chicago, we
fall upon his neck and call him brother. It must be very annoying to
criminals and celebrities who are trying to hide their identities, but
to the ordinary traveller it is always a glad surprise to find a friend
coming right out of the ground in a corner of the world supposed to be
given over to strangers.
[Illustration: _Very annoying to criminals and celebrities_]
There are certain spots on the earth which may be classed as definite
headquarters for wanderers. It is said that in the summer season any
person of any nationality who seats himself in front of the Cafe de la
Paix in Paris may confidently gamble on hailing an acquaintance in less
than fifteen minutes. Trafalgar Square, in London, is called by the
Britishers the actual kernel of civilisation. The long corridor of the
Waldorf is the temporary abode of folks from almost everywhere. The
big "front porch" here at Shepheard's Hotel, in Cairo, will surely have
two or three friends waiting for you when you arrive. The Grand Hotel,
in Yokohama, has been for many years a sort of clearing-house for
travellers--circumnavigators moving aside to let the other crowd pass.
Then there is (was, alas!) the Palace, in San Francisco, and the
Auditorium, in Chicago--definite rallying points for mortals who move
about.
It is when we meet our long-lost friend in the remote by-way that we
are induced to throw up our hands and exclaim, "The world is small."
For instance, before the German steamer left Naples for Alexandria a
launch load of new passengers came aboard. As we were heading out of
the bay and almost under the shadow of Capri I glanced at the man in
the adjoining steamer chair and recognised the banker from Tien-tsin.
He was just as much surprised as I was.
About a year ago we parted at San Francisco after a long and pleasant
voyage from Shanghai--he to continue a leisurely trip around the world,
I to carry my priceless treasures of Oriental art and shattered letter
of credit back to Indiana. When we parted there was the usual
stereotyped remark about meeting again, but neither of us believed that
there was one chance in a million of our paths crossing, it being a far
cry from Tien-Tsin to Terre Haute. I don't know what a "far cry" is,
but I have come across it in some of our most opaque dissertations, and
accordingly I welcomed the opportunity to use it.
The man from Tien-Tsin had loitered in Europe and was now heading
straight for China. I had made up my mind in a hurry to go to Egypt to
help 10,000 other students investigate the tombs, and here we were,
side by side, in the Mediterranean.
A few minutes after colliding with him I had the pleasure of meeting a
young woman who said that she was the sister of Henry Billkamp, of
Chicago. She asked me if I remembered the circumstances under which I
met Henry, and I told her that I couldn't very well forget them.
A few years ago in Chicago I resided in a large establishment which had
as an auxiliary feature a fine Turkish bath. Many of our best people
would come to the bath every afternoon, first steaming themselves in
the vapour room, then scrubbing themselves, then a shower, and after
that a plunge--by which time most of the coal dust could be removed.
Henry Billkamp came to the bath one afternoon and brought with him a
suit case containing his evening clothes and accessories. Henry was to
be married the next day, and that evening he and the bride elect were
to be guests at a large dinner party on the south side. Henry looked
at his watch and found that he could loll around the bath for an hour
before jumping into his evening clothes. So he put his suit case over
in one corner of a dressing-room, and in a few minutes had joined the
informal circle which was commonly known as the "Perspiration Club."
It may be said in passing that Henry was a very estimable young man of
first-class abilities and that he was built on the general outlines of
a flagpole. He pierced the atmosphere for a considerable distance, in
an up and down direction, but he never blocked the view of any person
who chanced to be standing behind him.
While Henry Billkamp was in the steam chamber engaged in the
superfluous task of further reducing himself, Bob Grimley came into the
bath department carrying a suit case. The suit case habit is very
strongly intrenched in busy towns. To go all the way out home and then
come back would use up two hours.
Bob Grimley was a short man, weighing about two hundred and fifty
pounds, and shaped like an olive. He wanted his vapour in a hurry,
because he had to grab a train and go away out to Oak Park and then
dress in a hurry and have a bite of dinner and play poker. So he made
a running splash and jump through the bath department, came out, hopped
into his garments, picked up Henry Billkamp's suit case, and rushed
away to Oak Park.
It was half past six when Henry Billkamp arose from the plunge and
hurried to the dressing-room. The dinner was to be at seven. He
opened the suit case and began to take out balloon-shaped garments, and
then he shrieked for an attendant. Where was his suit case? No one
seemed to know. Oh, yes; Mr. Grimley had come out of that room with a
suit case and had gone--no one knew whither. Henry stood there with a
huge article of raiment clutched in each hand and slowly froze with
horror as a full understanding of the situation grew upon him. In less
than a half-hour he must join them--bride, relatives, friends. The
lights were already up, the flowers on the table, the wine cooling, the
carriages beginning to arrive. It was to be the night of his life.
Could he appear at this glittering function as a chief attraction in an
eight dollar sack suit and make some lame explanation about losing his
other things in a Turkish bath? He had an old suit at home, but he was
miles from home. The carriage man sent in word that Mr. Grimley and
suit case had gone to a railway station. That settled it. Henry
decided to jump into the plunge and end it all.
While he was lamenting, a friend came in from another dressing-room to
find out what was the matter. Henry, scantily attired, leaned against
the wall and in a voice choked with sobs and cuss words outlined his
frightful predicament. The friend, listening, suddenly emitted a glad
shout.
"I have it!" he exclaimed. "There's only one man in all the world with
a figure anything like yours, and he happens to be right here in the
building. Come! Get into a dressing gown. We have twenty minutes!
We can make it. Come!"
A few seconds later two agitated persons, one attired and the other
semi, burst into my room. It was a long story, but could they borrow
an assortment of evening clothes? Could they? I was delighted to know
that someone in the world wanted to wear that suit.
No fireman going to a fire ever dressed himself with such rapidity as
we dressed the hysterical Henry. Everything fitted him perfectly.
Shirt, collar, trousers, waistcoat, swallowtail, opera hat, tie,
gloves, studs, buttons--everything just his size. Nothing in the
outfit had ever fitted me, but when we got through with Henry he was
beyond criticism. He actually wept with joy as we ran him out to the
carriage and boosted him in and started him southward, with eleven
minutes to spare. He arrived on the dot. For weeks afterward he would
sit down every day and write me a letter of thanks and declare that he
would never forget me and the service I had done him. Of course, it
would have been impossible for me to forget anyone who had looked well
in my evening clothes, and it was a positive pleasure to meet Henry's
sister. She said she had long desired to have a look at me. She had
not believed it possible that there was another living mortal whose
clothes would fit Henry, but now she saw that she had been mistaken.
It is flattering to learn that people we have never met have been
interested in us for a long time. Continuing the same line of thought,
it is often disappointing to learn that the people most deeply
interested in us are those who have never met us. For fear of getting
mixed up, let us return to the boat.
Our principal cargo was honeymoon. We had six newly married couples,
who were advertising to all the world the fact of their sudden
happiness, and three other couples were under suspicion. The men
lounged in the smoking-room, as if to give the impression that they
were hardened in matrimony, but they peeked out through the portholes
too often and made many trips to the deck.
[Illustration: _Three other couples under suspicion_]
One German couple was the most newly married team that any of us had
ever seen. I don't think they knew they were in a boat. They may have
suspected, but it really didn't make any difference. They were in a
trance, riding on a cloud of incense, saturated with bliss. He was
middle aged, with red flaring whiskers, and a nose showing an angular
break in the middle. She was short and plump, with a shiny, oil-finish
countenance. Neither had been constructed according to the plans and
specifications of Love's Young Dream, and yet the devouring adoration
which played back and forth between Romeo and Juliet was almost icy
compared with this special brand of Teutonic love. They were seldom
more than three inches apart, he gazing into her eyes with a yearning
that was unutterable (even in German) and she gazing right back at him
in blushing rapture and seeming to say to herself:--"Just think! He
belongs to me, whiskers and all!" It was almost enough to induce one
to get married.
[Illustration: "_--Whiskers and all_"]
They were drifting so far above the earth that they forgot to be
seasick. The other honeymooners took to their cabins.
Is there anything so perverse, so whimsical, so tantalising, and so
full of surprises as our old friend the weather? When the warm
sunshine trickled down our backs in Naples we rejoiced and said, "At
last we have found summer." We looked forward to three balmy days on
the blue Mediterranean, and even began to remember where we had packed
the summer clothes at the bottom of the trunk. During the first night
out we passed between Scylla and Charybdis. They sound like a team of
acrobats, but really they are the promontories guarding the narrow
Strait of Messina. It was pitch dark when we passed, and we had turned
in, but we read about them in Baedeker next morning and were much
gratified to know that we had been so near them. Not that we can
describe them, but hereafter we can refer to them.
After we rounded the south coast of Italy and pointed for Alexandria,
we ran into a mess of weather that had lost its bearings and wandered
down from the north Atlantic. The wind blew a gale. We sat huddled in
our heaviest wraps. The good ship pitched and pitched, and then
pitched some more. And this was the Mediterranean! We had promised
ourselves to lie basking in the gentle warmth and count the lateen
sails as they went drifting by. We had expected to see the whole
surface of the Mediterranean almost as busy as State and Madison, or
Broadway and Forty-second--craft of all descriptions criss-crossing the
blue ripples, a continuous aquatic bioscope. As a matter of fact, we
rode for three days across waters as lonesome and empty as those of the
north Pacific, where the course is so clear that the captain, after
putting to sea, can tie the wheel and go below and play dominoes.
Our chilly voyage from Naples to Alexandria has suggested a few
reflections on travel in general. Why the Anglo-Saxon passion for
gadding about? Cairo to-day is absolutely congested with Americans.
The continent of Europe is two days away by speedy boat; Paris is two
days more, and London less than a week by ordinary modes of travel.
America lies three thousand miles beyond the most remote European city
and across stormy waters, and yet America seems to claim a plurality of
all the transients. If an Egyptian began to pack up his things to take
a four thousand mile jump to look at the stock yards of Chicago or the
Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, his friends would have him consigned to some
Mohammedan institution for the treatment of those mentally deranged.
But the Americans are here in flocks, droves, coveys--decrepit old
people; blooming debutantes, boys just out of college, tired-out
business men, women who have been studying Egypt at their clubs, and,
of course, the 8000 (more or less) newly married couples. And most of
them are working like farm hands to generate some real enthusiasm for
tombs and hieroglyphics. Hard pulling, but they will make it if their
legs hold out.
What is the charm--the siren call of Egypt--that has lured these
thousands so far away from home and friends? It is not climate, for we
have a better climate of our own. If the traveller seeks merely warmth
and sunshine, he can find them in Southern California, the West Indies,
or at Palm Beach. It is not a genuine and deep-seated interest in
ancient records, inasmuch as ninety per cent. of the fresh arrivals
from America do not know the difference between a cartouche and a
scarab. I know, because I looked it up yesterday. It is not a
snobbish desire to rub up against the patchouli and rice powder of
European hothouse aristocracy, because nearly all of the Americans
flock by themselves and make disparaging remarks about other
nationalities, and vice versa.
No doubt the one great reward of the persistent traveller is to find
new varieties of his fellow man. Cairo is the _pousse cafe_ of
humanity--probably the most cosmopolitan city in the world. The guide
books talk about rock tombs and mosques, but the travellers find their
real enjoyment in the bazaars and along the crowded streets and on the
sheer banks of the Nile, which stand out as an animated panorama for
hundreds of miles. The first hour in Cairo is compensation for many an
hour of tedious travel. Once more in the sunshine, the soft but gamey
flavour of Orientalism soothing the nostrils, a lively chatter of
unfamiliar languages; an interweaving throng of turbans, gowns, fezes,
swarthy faces; the pattering hoof-beats of spangled donkeys and the
stealthy sweep of dignified camels--so much to see that one needs four
pairs of eyes to catch all parts of the picture and at least a
half-dozen fountain pens to keep score of the attractions.
The first hour in a new land! It is that which repays the patient
traveller. It gives him the gasping surprises and the twinges of
delight which are not to be found in southern California or at Palm
Beach. And it is the very first hour which is memorable and crowded
with large emotions. Because, after about two hours, the American has
adapted himself to his new environment, and is beginning to be blase.
Along about the second day, when the guide attempts to dazzle him by
showing another variety of bazaar he murmurs "Chestnut" and suggests
going back to the hotel.
It may afford consolation to the large number of people who remain at
home to know that only about five per cent. of foreign travel is really
worth while. Mr. Emerson's beautiful law of compensation holds true in
regard to travel just as it applies to all other things that are
coveted by mortals. You must pay for what you get, not in money alone,
but in hardships, annoyances, and long periods of dumb, patient waiting.
The better half of one of the honeymoon combinations that came with us
from Naples told a plaintive story. She had been travelling for three
weeks in weather that had been a _crescendo_ of the disagreeable. All
the way across the Atlantic she had been desperately ill in her cabin.
In London they found fogs. In Paris it rained. And now they were
fighting their way through a storm in the Mediterranean.
Notwithstanding all this, she was trying to be cheerful, for she
believed that she would like Egypt.
The blessedness of travel is that when the sun comes from behind the
cloud and a new city begins to arise from the sea, we forget all the
gloomy days on board ship, all the crampy rides in the stuffy railway
compartments, all the overcharges and vexations and harassments and get
ready to tear ashore and explore a new wonderland.
Who can forget the first hour of the first railway ride through rural
England? The storybook pictures that you have seen all your life come
true at last.
Or the first hour in London? That tall thing looming right in front of
you is really the Nelson monument and not a papier mache deception put
up for the entertainment of tourists.
In the first hour of 'rickshaw riding in Japan I saw so much that was
funny and fantastic and nerve kinking that at the end of the ride I
wanted to pay the coolie for a year instead of an hour.
And how about the first hour up the Grand Canal in Venice? Or the
first hour in the tangled bedlam of Canton? Or the first hour in front
of Shepheard's Hotel, here in Cairo, when it really seems that a
wonderful pageant has been ordered for your special joy? With bulging
eyes and reeling senses you view the changing kaleidoscope and ask, in
the language of Mr. Peasley, "Is this on the level?"
Yes, travel is hard work, and your true traveller is a mighty grumbler,
but he goes on buoyed always by the hope of another "first hour."