Most mornings, we enter the shadows
of tall concrete and brick apartment buildings
that line our walk to the canal, stepping carefully onto
sidewalks with high curbs,
and newly laid tile with some uneven dusty gaps, a few
unkempt cats watching for tidbits
while others are eating from dishes and look respectable.
After
several blocks, we turn the corner onto Ghomorea Street with its porticoed
walkways,
vestiges of a more refined European past, and then slip into
a side alley
that opens onto Palestine Street. There, we climb granite
stairs
and get a high look
at what’s coming or going on the Suez Canal before us.
Have the night fishermen returned to their harbor?
Has a cruise ship from America or Europe docked the evening
before?
Are any gigantic cargo ships passing by from any other where
on the globe,
Or are the swooping black-headed terns the only movers over
the waters?
We
descend and continue on towards the corner where deLesseps,
that French mover and canal maker was knocked off his
pedestal when the natives rebelled
against all things foreign in 1956. At the bodiless base of
the statue, we turn left
and walk past the flowing fountain, the lemon-blossomed
trees, and wooden benches
where a few cats sniff out trash bags tossed by passersby.
A sun-braised mosque towers before us where we turn right
and walk past fishermen newly returned from the night
waters,
their plastic square mats on the sidewalk piled with gray prawns,
blue-tinged crabs, or
small striped silvery fish.
Loaded trucks emerge
from open metal gates of the docks and scuttle off to their appointed
markets. We hold our noses and quicken our steps as we hurry
toward the sea.
In front of the Shooting Club, we
mount several steps to the Korniche
and scan the northern horizon of the Mediterranean to see how many ships are
headed which way.
The other day we counted 26 large vessels in a row,
following some invisible leader.
We continue west along the Korniche where turbaned trash
collectors sweep
and collect the
previous evening’s droppings from many careless hands--no trash bins in sight.
Near
the bend in the metal fence we find Mohammed setting up his cardboard tent
with a newspaper fortress on the flat copestone of the low granite
side wall
against the high
black metal fence surrounding a green hedge.
Here, sheltered from the sun, he imbibes the sea breezes as
he reads,
listens to the news, and scribbles page after page,
giving and taking
treasures from the world of words.
Sometimes a vase of fresh chrysanthemums sits by his side.
“Life is to enjoy!” he says, but then wonders how it will
all end.
We greet each other and journey on into our separate
commitments
-or sometimes sample a morsel of each others’ minds.
We
continue down the Korniche to the opening by the row of palms,
now encased in a row of nearly completed red tile-roofed shops.
We greet the nearest worker and continue city-ward to our
flat
by the Cathedral where we breakfast leisurely and prepare
for the day ahead.
Soon, our steps will return us to the land from whence we came. The weight and wonder of this place by the sea will journey with us as we give thanks to God for all.
