by George Ade
CHAPTER XI
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 usedmost frequently by those who follow the beaten paths. In other words,we find it difficult to get away from our acquaintances. Not that wewish to get away from them; on the contrary, when we are stumblingalong some unfamiliar thoroughfare six thousand miles from home andbump into a man with whom we have a nodding acquaintance in Chicago, wefall upon his neck and call him brother. It must be very annoying tocriminals and celebrities who are trying to hide their identities, butto the ordinary traveller it is always a glad surprise to find a friendcoming right out of the ground in a corner of the world supposed to begiven over to strangers.
_Very annoying to criminals and celebrities_]
There are certain spots on the earth which may be classed as definiteheadquarters for wanderers. It is said that in the summer season anyperson of any nationality who seats himself in front of the Cafe de laPaix in Paris may confidently gamble on hailing an acquaintance in lessthan fifteen minutes. Trafalgar Square, in London, is called by theBritishers the actual kernel of civilisation. The long corridor of theWaldorf is the temporary abode of folks from almost everywhere. Thebig "front porch" here at Shepheard's Hotel, in Cairo, will surely havetwo or three friends waiting for you when you arrive. The Grand Hotel,in Yokohama, has been for many years a sort of clearing-house fortravellers--circumnavigators moving aside to let the other crowd pass.Then there is (was, alas!) the Palace, in San Francisco, and theAuditorium, in Chicago--definite rallying points for mortals who moveabout.
It is when we meet our long-lost friend in the remote by-way that weare induced to throw up our hands and exclaim, "The world is small."
For instance, before the German steamer left Naples for Alexandria alaunch load of new passengers came aboard. As we were heading out ofthe bay and almost under the shadow of Capri I glanced at the man inthe 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 pleasantvoyage from Shanghai--he to continue a leisurely trip around the world,I to carry my priceless treasures of Oriental art and shattered letterof credit back to Indiana. When we parted there was the usualstereotyped remark about meeting again, but neither of us believed thatthere was one chance in a million of our paths crossing, it being a farcry 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, andaccordingly I welcomed the opportunity to use it.
The man from Tien-Tsin had loitered in Europe and was now headingstraight for China. I had made up my mind in a hurry to go to Egypt tohelp 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 ayoung woman who said that she was the sister of Henry Billkamp, ofChicago. She asked me if I remembered the circumstances under which Imet 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 hadas an auxiliary feature a fine Turkish bath. Many of our best peoplewould come to the bath every afternoon, first steaming themselves inthe vapour room, then scrubbing themselves, then a shower, and afterthat 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 asuit case containing his evening clothes and accessories. Henry was tobe married the next day, and that evening he and the bride elect wereto be guests at a large dinner party on the south side. Henry lookedat his watch and found that he could loll around the bath for an hourbefore jumping into his evening clothes. So he put his suit case overin one corner of a dressing-room, and in a few minutes had joined theinformal circle which was commonly known as the "Perspiration Club."
It may be said in passing that Henry was a very estimable young man offirst-class abilities and that he was built on the general outlines ofa flagpole. He pierced the atmosphere for a considerable distance, inan up and down direction, but he never blocked the view of any personwho chanced to be standing behind him.
While Henry Billkamp was in the steam chamber engaged in thesuperfluous task of further reducing himself, Bob Grimley came into thebath department carrying a suit case. The suit case habit is verystrongly intrenched in busy towns. To go all the way out home and thencome back would use up two hours.
Bob Grimley was a short man, weighing about two hundred and fiftypounds, 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 thendress in a hurry and have a bite of dinner and play poker. So he madea running splash and jump through the bath department, came out, hoppedinto his garments, picked up Henry Billkamp's suit case, and rushedaway to Oak Park.
It was half past six when Henry Billkamp arose from the plunge andhurried to the dressing-room. The dinner was to be at seven. Heopened the suit case and began to take out balloon-shaped garments, andthen he shrieked for an attendant. Where was his suit case? No oneseemed to know. Oh, yes; Mr. Grimley had come out of that room with asuit case and had gone--no one knew whither. Henry stood there with ahuge article of raiment clutched in each hand and slowly froze withhorror as a full understanding of the situation grew upon him. In lessthan a half-hour he must join them--bride, relatives, friends. Thelights were already up, the flowers on the table, the wine cooling, thecarriages beginning to arrive. It was to be the night of his life.Could he appear at this glittering function as a chief attraction in aneight dollar sack suit and make some lame explanation about losing hisother things in a Turkish bath? He had an old suit at home, but he wasmiles from home. The carriage man sent in word that Mr. Grimley andsuit case had gone to a railway station. That settled it. Henrydecided to jump into the plunge and end it all.
While he was lamenting, a friend came in from another dressing-room tofind out what was the matter. Henry, scantily attired, leaned againstthe wall and in a voice choked with sobs and cuss words outlined hisfrightful predicament. The friend, listening, suddenly emitted a gladshout.
"I have it!" he exclaimed. "There's only one man in all the world witha figure anything like yours, and he happens to be right here in thebuilding. 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 othersemi, burst into my room. It was a long story, but could they borrowan assortment of evening clothes? Could they? I was delighted to knowthat someone in the world wanted to wear that suit.
No fireman going to a fire ever dressed himself with such rapidity aswe 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 theoutfit had ever fitted me, but when we got through with Henry he wasbeyond criticism. He actually wept with joy as we ran him out to thecarriage and boosted him in and started him southward, with elevenminutes to spare. He arrived on the dot. For weeks afterward he wouldsit down every day and write me a letter of thanks and declare that hewould never forget me and the service I had done him. Of course, itwould have been impossible for me to forget anyone who had looked wellin my evening clothes, and it was a positive pleasure to meet Henry'ssister. She said she had long desired to have a look at me. She hadnot believed it possible that there was another living mortal whoseclothes would fit Henry, but now she saw that she had been mistaken.
It is flattering to learn that people we have never met have beeninterested in us for a long time. Continuing the same line of thought,it is often disappointing to learn that the people most deeplyinterested in us are those who have never met us. For fear of gettingmixed 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 suddenhappiness, and three other couples were under suspicion. The menlounged in the smoking-room, as if to give the impression that theywere hardened in matrimony, but they peeked out through the portholestoo often and made many trips to the deck.
_Three other couples under suspicion_]
One German couple was the most newly married team that any of us hadever seen. I don't think they knew they were in a boat. They may havesuspected, but it really didn't make any difference. They were in atrance, riding on a cloud of incense, saturated with bliss. He wasmiddle aged, with red flaring whiskers, and a nose showing an angularbreak in the middle. She was short and plump, with a shiny, oil-finishcountenance. Neither had been constructed according to the plans andspecifications of Love's Young Dream, and yet the devouring adorationwhich played back and forth between Romeo and Juliet was almost icycompared with this special brand of Teutonic love. They were seldommore than three inches apart, he gazing into her eyes with a yearningthat was unutterable (even in German) and she gazing right back at himin blushing rapture and seeming to say to herself:--"Just think! Hebelongs to me, whiskers and all!" It was almost enough to induce oneto get married.
"_--Whiskers and all_"]
They were drifting so far above the earth that they forgot to beseasick. The other honeymooners took to their cabins.
Is there anything so perverse, so whimsical, so tantalising, and sofull of surprises as our old friend the weather? When the warmsunshine trickled down our backs in Naples we rejoiced and said, "Atlast we have found summer." We looked forward to three balmy days onthe blue Mediterranean, and even began to remember where we had packedthe summer clothes at the bottom of the trunk. During the first nightout we passed between Scylla and Charybdis. They sound like a team ofacrobats, but really they are the promontories guarding the narrowStrait of Messina. It was pitch dark when we passed, and we had turnedin, but we read about them in Baedeker next morning and were muchgratified to know that we had been so near them. Not that we candescribe 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 wandereddown from the north Atlantic. The wind blew a gale. We sat huddled inour heaviest wraps. The good ship pitched and pitched, and thenpitched some more. And this was the Mediterranean! We had promisedourselves to lie basking in the gentle warmth and count the lateensails as they went drifting by. We had expected to see the wholesurface of the Mediterranean almost as busy as State and Madison, orBroadway and Forty-second--craft of all descriptions criss-crossing theblue ripples, a continuous aquatic bioscope. As a matter of fact, werode for three days across waters as lonesome and empty as those of thenorth Pacific, where the course is so clear that the captain, afterputting to sea, can tie the wheel and go below and play dominoes.
Our chilly voyage from Naples to Alexandria has suggested a fewreflections on travel in general. Why the Anglo-Saxon passion forgadding about? Cairo to-day is absolutely congested with Americans.The continent of Europe is two days away by speedy boat; Paris is twodays more, and London less than a week by ordinary modes of travel.America lies three thousand miles beyond the most remote European cityand across stormy waters, and yet America seems to claim a plurality ofall the transients. If an Egyptian began to pack up his things to takea four thousand mile jump to look at the stock yards of Chicago or theMammoth Cave of Kentucky, his friends would have him consigned to someMohammedan institution for the treatment of those mentally deranged.But the Americans are here in flocks, droves, coveys--decrepit oldpeople; blooming debutantes, boys just out of college, tired-outbusiness men, women who have been studying Egypt at their clubs, and,of course, the 8000 (more or less) newly married couples. And most ofthem are working like farm hands to generate some real enthusiasm fortombs and hieroglyphics. Hard pulling, but they will make it if theirlegs hold out.
What is the charm--the siren call of Egypt--that has lured thesethousands so far away from home and friends? It is not climate, for wehave a better climate of our own. If the traveller seeks merely warmthand sunshine, he can find them in Southern California, the West Indies,or at Palm Beach. It is not a genuine and deep-seated interest inancient records, inasmuch as ninety per cent. of the fresh arrivalsfrom America do not know the difference between a cartouche and ascarab. I know, because I looked it up yesterday. It is not asnobbish desire to rub up against the patchouli and rice powder ofEuropean hothouse aristocracy, because nearly all of the Americansflock by themselves and make disparaging remarks about othernationalities, and vice versa.
No doubt the one great reward of the persistent traveller is to findnew varieties of his fellow man. Cairo is the _pousse cafe_ ofhumanity--probably the most cosmopolitan city in the world. The guidebooks talk about rock tombs and mosques, but the travellers find theirreal enjoyment in the bazaars and along the crowded streets and on thesheer banks of the Nile, which stand out as an animated panorama forhundreds of miles. The first hour in Cairo is compensation for many anhour of tedious travel. Once more in the sunshine, the soft but gameyflavour of Orientalism soothing the nostrils, a lively chatter ofunfamiliar languages; an interweaving throng of turbans, gowns, fezes,swarthy faces; the pattering hoof-beats of spangled donkeys and thestealthy sweep of dignified camels--so much to see that one needs fourpairs of eyes to catch all parts of the picture and at least ahalf-dozen fountain pens to keep score of the attractions.
The first hour in a new land! It is that which repays the patienttraveller. It gives him the gasping surprises and the twinges ofdelight which are not to be found in southern California or at PalmBeach. And it is the very first hour which is memorable and crowdedwith large emotions. Because, after about two hours, the American hasadapted himself to his new environment, and is beginning to be blase.Along about the second day, when the guide attempts to dazzle him byshowing another variety of bazaar he murmurs "Chestnut" and suggestsgoing back to the hotel.
It may afford consolation to the large number of people who remain athome to know that only about five per cent. of foreign travel is reallyworth while. Mr. Emerson's beautiful law of compensation holds true inregard to travel just as it applies to all other things that arecoveted 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 usfrom Naples told a plaintive story. She had been travelling for threeweeks in weather that had been a _crescendo_ of the disagreeable. Allthe way across the Atlantic she had been desperately ill in her cabin.In London they found fogs. In Paris it rained. And now they werefighting their way through a storm in the Mediterranean.Notwithstanding all this, she was trying to be cheerful, for shebelieved that she would like Egypt.
The blessedness of travel is that when the sun comes from behind thecloud and a new city begins to arise from the sea, we forget all thegloomy days on board ship, all the crampy rides in the stuffy railwaycompartments, all the overcharges and vexations and harassments and getready to tear ashore and explore a new wonderland.
Who can forget the first hour of the first railway ride through ruralEngland? The storybook pictures that you have seen all your life cometrue at last.
Or the first hour in London? That tall thing looming right in front ofyou is really the Nelson monument and not a papier mache deception putup for the entertainment of tourists.
In the first hour of 'rickshaw riding in Japan I saw so much that wasfunny and fantastic and nerve kinking that at the end of the ride Iwanted to pay the coolie for a year instead of an hour.
And how about the first hour up the Grand Canal in Venice? Or thefirst hour in the tangled bedlam of Canton? Or the first hour in frontof Shepheard's Hotel, here in Cairo, when it really seems that awonderful pageant has been ordered for your special joy? With bulgingeyes and reeling s
enses you view the changing kaleidoscope and ask, inthe 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."