The Landlady
I gotta get outta this place
It was my third day in Cairo and I’d just rushed out into the street, having escaped from my old friend Mr H’s flat after he’d told me he ‘loved’ me. Strange though it may sound, I honestly hadn’t seen it coming as I’d known him as a friend for over 20 years and he’d never before suggested anything untoward. Perhaps the fact that he’d postponed his own wedding because I was due to arrive should have given me a bit of a clue.
More pressing was the problem that I was alone in a strange, downtown area and had nowhere to go. This, coupled with the fact that Mr H could well be running after me made me hail a taxi immediately, although I hadn’t a clue where to go, so I just said ‘hotel’, which sent him puttering off in the direction of the River Nile. I later thought how ironic it would have been if I’d hailed a taxi and Mr W had been the driver. Well, maybe ‘ironic’ isn’t quite the word.
“While by day, as I made various excursions, I
was regarded as a hooker”
After cutting through the smog and gridlock for what seemed like hours, I was eventually deposited at the Grand Hyatt hotel on the Nile, which wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind. I later – having re-named it the Grande ‘Hiatus’ – found out that the hotel had been the scene of terrorist bombings three years ago which explained the X-ray machine in the lobby. I was an unusual looking guest, with red, puffy eyes (from earlier crying) a filthy backpack and a WH Smith carrier bag as a handbag. I felt like crying again when the receptionist told me the room rate was about £200 per night. And no, that didn’t include breakfast. Now, I’m rarely extravagant with my money and live more or less like a student, but if ever there was a time to actually make use of it, then it was now, so I booked for two nights. For my £200, I got a huge room, fluffy pillows and a poolside view with the river Nile gleaming in the distance beyond. I examined the contents of the minibar and, realising that a can of Heineken was £3, I set off in search of cheaper beer.
Alas, every time I set foot outside the hotel, I was pursued by a variety of men, all of whom seemed to want to marry me. This is in spite of the fact that I was wearing the equivalent of sack-cloth and ashes. Even crossing the road in order to get away was not an option as there are no traffic lights, no pedestrian crossings and every road is like The M25. Much as I wanted to be very sarcastic and tell them I’d already refused one proposal before lunch, I developed a method of pretending that I did not speak any language and once I’d mastered an outfit of ‘sack cloth and ashes, plus hoody’, I became virtually invisible. I was overjoyed on one of my forays, to find an offlicence, which sold everything that was in my mini-bar for a fraction of the price. This became a little tricky with regard to the hotel X-ray machine, but face, bothered?
While by day, as I made various excursions, I was regarded as a hooker, I spent the first night in the revolving – renamed revolting – roof bar of the Grande Hiatus, where I was also regarded as a hooker. I did actually consider doing some business in order to pay my bill.
