Catherine Price

by 101 Places Not to See Before You Die

  Chapter 53

  Medinat al-Fayoum, Egypt, Accompanied by Your Own Security Detail

  About eighty miles southwest of Cairo, Medinat al-Fayoum was once a holiday destination for thirteenth-century pharaohs; today’s highlights include lesser-known pyramids and water wheels built by ancient Greek settlers. Since Medinat al-Fayoum attracts far fewer visitors than Cairo, it offers a welcome relief from busloads of camera-toting tourists at some of Egypt’s major attractions.

  However, it’s also an easy place to get paranoid. After a horrific incident in 1997 where terrorists slaughtered sixty-three tourists at an archaeological site in Luxor, a city farther south, the leaders of Medinat al-Fayoum committed themselves to making sure nothing like that ever happened in their town. So whenever Western visitors come to the city, they’re assigned their own security detail.

  The problem is that no one tells you this. One traveler reported that after receiving a series of unexplained phone calls in his hotel room asking for the details of his itinerary, he and his girlfriend were stopped by a policeman on the street after dinner and told it was time to go to sleep. Once back at the hotel, they received another anonymous phone call instructing them where and when to have breakfast, and telling them that as soon as they visited the site, they’d be leaving town. Confused and scared, they spent the morning before their departure touring historical ruins with several men carrying assault rifles.

  Once you realize that you’re not being abducted, having a police escort can be a fun novelty—parading down the streets with your own bodyguards is a great way to pretend that you’re important. But after a while, the Big Brother routine can get tiring, especially because most guards seem not to like their jobs. Instead of introducing themselves or acting as guides, they lurk in the background just close enough for you to know they’re there. This is particularly awkward at mealtimes, when you and your traveling companion try to enjoy your food with a guard glaring at you from the next table.

  If you’re feeling naughty, you can try to evade your security detail—when’s the last time these guys played a good game of cat and mouse? But considering that they’re armed and cranky, it’s probably best to just do what they say.

  Chapter 54

  The Steam Room at the Russian & Turkish Baths

  The Russian & Turkish Baths have been open in New York’s East Village since 1892, and they’re the real deal: a sauna, an ice-cold pool, Russian and Turkish steam rooms, and a cafeteria serving borscht and Polish sausage. After locking up your belongings and trading your clothing for a threadbare towel and sandals, you’ll be set free to pick your preferred location to schvitz it out with a random assortment of old Russians, young hipsters, and everyone in between. If you’ve ever wondered what could be less pleasant than being smushed together with strangers in a crowded subway car in July, consider this: the baths are hotter, wetter, and on single-sex days, no one’s wearing clothes.

  The most interesting room in the baths is the Russian sauna, one of the only ones in the United States. For people with heart problems, it’s also the most dangerous. Literally an oven, it’s filled with twenty thousand pounds of rock that are heated overnight and left to cool during the day. They retain enough heat to keep the room nearly unbearable for hours after the oven is turned off. That explains the white plastic buckets and the spigots of ice-cold water—the custom is to sit in the room until the heat becomes excruciating, fill up an entire bucket of ice water, and then dump it over your head. Fans of the baths call the resulting experience a moment of “sheer delight,” but a more accurate description would also include shock and a brief inability to breathe. If you are at risk for any sort of cardiac attack, this might not be your best choice.

  If you want to really push your luck, sign up for a Platza Oak Leaf treatment, a traditional Russian treatment in which a spa attendant will lay you down, take a bundle of oak leaves soaked in olive oil soap, and beat you. (The leaves, which are naturally astringent, exfoliate the skin and open the pores.) More often than not, this treatment will occur in the Russian sauna itself, which means that not only will it be observed by everyone in the room, but that, oppressed by the heat, you might suffocate. Then, just before you pass out, your body will be subjected to its final shock: the attendant will have you sit up, close your eyes, and, without warning, slowly pour two buckets of ice water over your head.

  Chapter 55

  The Blarney Stone

  No one is really sure where the Blarney Stone came from. Some say it could have been part of Jerusalem’s Wailing Wall, brought to Ireland during the Crusades. Others claim it’s a piece of the Stone of Scone given to Cormac MacCarthy in 1314 to thank him for his help in the Battle of Bannockburn. Some even think it’s the rock that Moses struck with his staff to provide water to the Israelites. “Whatever the truth of its origin, we believe a witch saved from drowning revealed its power to the MacCarthys,” the Blarney Castle Web site announces, simultaneously dodging the question and discrediting itself as a reliable source of information.

  Regardless of which, if any, of these rumors are true, there’s still no explanation for why a stone of such importance would have been inconspicuously incorporated into the exterior wall of a fifteenth-century castle. But that’s not the point. Set into the battlements of Blarney Castle, about five miles from the Irish town of Cork, the block of bluestone is said to bestow anyone who kisses it with great eloquence and talent in empty flattery. So for over two hundred years, pilgrims from around the world have been planting wet ones on the stone’s surface in hopes that they too will be blessed with the so-called “gift of gab.”

  Unfortunately for would-be orators, the stone does not lend itself naturally to public displays of affection. Reaching it requires climbing to the top of the castle, leaning backward over a parapet, and dangling much of your body in the air, angling for a kiss as you gaze at the ground looming several stories below. In the good old days before liability waivers, visitors were held by the ankles and lowered headfirst over the wall. Now there are metal rails to help support and guide you, and a protective grate that prevents uncoordinated tourists from falling to their deaths.

  The stone’s actual powers are debatable, but one thing’s for sure—the Blarney Stone is a germaphobe’s nightmare. Kissed by more than four hundred thousand people per year, it’s covered with trace bits of spit left behind with every pucker. Smooching it might not give you the gift of gab, but you could take home a different souvenir: a saliva-transmitted affliction like herpes, warts, or glandular fever. At least you’re safe from meningitis—to get it from kissing, you’d have to use a lot of tongue.

  Wikipedia Commons

  MICHAEL BALDWIN

  Mexico City on the First Day of the Swine Flu Outbreak

  My timing in visiting other countries hasn’t always been the greatest. My first trip to Beijing happened just after America had bombed the Chinese embassy in Yugoslavia. (Nothing says “Welcome” like a mob stoning your embassy.) Two years later, I bought a return flight from Paris to New York for September 13, 2001. Two years after that, I went to Rio de Janeiro, only to be greeted by drug gangs setting fire to city buses. So when I arrived in Mexico City for a weeklong vacation on the exact day that swine flu hit, it was par for the course.

  I boarded my overnight flight in ignorant bliss and, since news of the outbreak didn’t come out until a couple of hours after we took off, I arrived at the Mexico City airport in ignorant bliss as well. Determined to experience the “real” Mexico as soon as possible, I decided to take the metro instead of a taxi.

  That’s when I had the first sense that something was wrong: standing on the platform, I noticed several people wearing blue surgical-type face masks. Funny, I thought. Mexico City may not be known for the cleanest air, but this seemed a bit extreme.

  I spent the morning walking around the historical center, becoming increasingly puzzled by the masks. But I still didn’t think much of them until I stopped by my hotel to ask the man at
reception where I could find out about concerts going on that night.

  “There aren’t any,” he said.

  That didn’t make any sense. This was Friday night in a major world city. The problem must have been my Spanish, so I tried simpler words.

  “Music. Tonight. Where?” I played some air guitar to reinforce the message.

  “Everything’s closed,” he replied.

  Confused, I found another tourist in the lobby and asked him what was going on. “There’s this pig flu going around,” he said. “The government’s closed all public spaces.” I checked an Internet terminal, and sure enough, the very first news headline for the entire world was: “Swine Flu Shuts Down Mexico City.” I had apparently spent a half month’s salary on a plane ticket to Ground Zero of a deadly plague.

  Convinced of my imminent death, I tried to find distractions. But the government’s shutdown of all public venues—concerts, restaurants, nightclubs, even archaeological sites—left me with nothing to do. Instead I took to wandering the near-empty streets and amusing myself by keeping track of people with unusual face masks, like a woman who’d decorated hers with a smiley face, or a goth kid with a spiked collar and spiked hair whose all-black color scheme was rudely disrupted by his mask’s bright blue.

  It was a lonely experience, which was made worse by the fact that Mexico City is at a ridiculously high elevation, so the air is extremely dry. Which, not being used to it, made me cough. A lot. Which, naturally, made everyone around me assume I had swine flu. And would kill them.

  Then, on Monday, a 5.6 earthquake hit Mexico City.

  Still, it wasn’t all bad. On Tuesday night, a Mexican friend of mine was determined to take me out somewhere. After calling his friends all over the city, he found the only thing open—an Irish pub that was technically outside the city limits, and thus not subject to the closing restrictions. So, in a metropolitan area of almost nine million people, we went to the trendiest, most happening nightspot there was. Five other patrons were there. At least they had tequila.

  MICHAEL BALDWIN is the creator of the CommonCensus Map Project.

  Chapter 56

  The Wiener’s Circle

  In terms of food, the Wiener’s Circle, a hot dog joint in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, doesn’t stand out much from its competition. It’s got greasy burgers; it’s got cheese fries. What makes it different is its attitude: show up late on a Saturday night, and your food is likely to come with a side of screaming douchebags.

  That’s because the Wiener’s Circle staff has made a game of insulting its customers, serving up orders with catch phrases like “For here or to go, motherfucker?” and “Pay me my money or get the fuck out.” According to the Wiener’s Circle’s owners, Barry Nemerow and Larry Gold, this tradition started accidentally when Larry, frustrated that he couldn’t get his patron’s attention, called a customer an asshole. That was fifteen years ago; these days they estimate that the Wiener’s Circle’s free-for-all nastiness has doubled their business.

  If they were all playful, the back-and-forth insults might be okay. But as the night wears on and the patrons get drunker, a side of humanity begins to show that, as a video segment on This American Life pointed out, is better left unseen. The Wiener’s Circle is a microcosm of segregation in Chicago, with a black staff catering to a predominantly white clientele. Add alcohol, a hot kitchen, and an atmosphere free from the usual rules of social interaction, and the results aren’t pretty.

  “Nice headband, you fuckin’ whore,” said one customer caught on camera.

  “Fuck you, you sagging slut,” said another.

  “It’s like an abortion, bitch!” shouted a different patron, presumably about his cheese fries. “I’m eating your babies and you love it!”

  If you order a hot dog during the day, you should be fine. But when evening falls, the Wiener’s Circle becomes exactly what it sounds like: a gathering place for dicks.

  Chapter 57

  The Top of Mount Everest

  Really? You really want to see the top of Mount Everest before you die? Why—because you want to boast to your friends that you’ve climbed the world’s tallest mountain?* Or is it because you want the thrill of adventure that comes from paying $65,000 for a guided climb and then risking a team of sherpas’ lives (not to mention your own) so that you can spend fifteen minutes breathing supplemental oxygen at the so-called top of the world? Unless you love frostbite, hypoxia, blinding snow, and high-altitude games of Russian roulette, do Nepal a favor and stay home.

  Chapter 58

  Garbage City

  Garbage City is a reeking slum on the outskirts of Cairo that’s covered, literally, in trash. There’s trash in the streets; there’s trash in the houses. People live in it, work in it, and sometimes even sleep in it. And every day, there’s more. In fact, residents go out of their way to bring it home. Carried in by donkey in huge sacks, the trash, ironically, is what helps the neighborhood survive.

  The slum’s residents are the Zabbaleen, the garbage people. Together with their pigs, which until recently ran freely through the streets gorging themselves on trash, the Zabbaleen used to take away about half of the sixty-five hundred tons of refuse the city produces each day. After separating valuable garbage like plastic, metal, and glass, the Zabbaleen fed anything organic to their pigs, which were not just garbage disposals, but an important source of meat—the Zabbaleen are Coptic Christians, and unlike the Muslim majority, they eat pork.

  I say “used to” because in the spring of 2009, the government ordered the killing of all of Cairo’s pigs. Supposedly this was to prevent swine flu (a strange claim, given that no pig has been shown to carry it), but the Zabbaleen think it was a political move.

  Regardless of the reason, the results have been disastrous. The Zabbaleen, down a major source of food, have stopped taking away most of Cairo’s waste. With no effective way to replace them, streets are piled with stinking heaps of trash, and the government is struggling to compensate for a system that it itself destroyed. In the meantime, the term “garbage city” applies to all of Cairo.

  Chapter 59

  Stonehenge

  Built in several stages between 3000 and 1600 B.C., Stonehenge is one of the mysteries of the ancient world. Was it a temple? An astrological observatory? A burial site? No one’s really sure.

  What we do know: its stones each weigh more than fifty tons, and some of them came from as far as 240 miles away. All this was accomplished in days when a shovel made from a cow’s shoulder blade was cutting-edge technology. So whatever Stonehenge was for must have been pretty damn important.

  Unfortunately, Stonehenge no longer commands the same level of respect. Tucked into what is now the Wiltshire countryside, it’s cut off from its surrounding fields by a chain-link fence. A large parking lot sits nearby with a gift shop, ice-cream vendors, Port-O-Potties, and a subterranean visitors’ center. Worst, the A344 highway passes so close that some people save money on the admission price by just looking at it from the road.

  Consider following their lead. Thanks to previous problems with vandalism, visitors are no longer permitted to actually approach the stones. Instead an entrance fee of more than $10 only allows you to walk around the periphery of the circle, kept at a safe distance by a wire guardrail. (The main benefit of this experience, as compared to viewing it from the road, is that it allows you to take photographs of Stonehenge with the highway in the background.) Up close, you’ll find that the stones are not nearly as large as postcards make them seem, and whatever spiritual experience you may have hoped for is likely to be destroyed by busloads of tourists walking in dazed circles as they listen to the audio tour.

  If you insist on visiting, pay the extra money and sign up for a before- or after-hours private access tour, which will let you get as close to the stones as you want. Or, alternatively, plan a visit in June—perhaps in keeping with its original purpose, Stonehenge hosts a great party for the summer solstice.

  Dominic Righini-Bran
d

  Chapter 60

  The Khewra Salt Mines Mosque

  Speaking of Stonehenge, does anyone remember the scene in This Is Spinal Tap where the band commissions a full-size model of Stonehenge for the set of an upcoming show, but, thanks to a mislabeled diagram, ends up with one that’s eighteen inches high? (It’s lowered onto the stage and then attacked by dancing elves. Anyone?)

  That’s what the mosque at Pakistan’s Khewra Salt Mines reminds me of.

  This is not a criticism of salt mine tourism. You should, for example, visit the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland. Over a thousand feet deep, Wieliczka was on the original list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites for the incredible salt statues created by some of its workers. Modern sculptors continued the tradition and the mine is now home to salt replicas of everything from Da Vinci’s The Last Supper to Pope John Paul II. Best is the salt cathedral—a cavernous room lined with friezes whose floors, ceilings, altars, and even chandeliers are all made from salt.

  So at first I was excited to hear that there was a Pakistani salt mosque—score one for religious equality! But the real salt mosque is disappointingly small. How small? You can sit on it. Instead of being a soaring saline tribute to one of the world’s largest religions, it’s closer in scale to a gingerbread house.