Oh Egypt, My Egypt

Last Tuesday, a large aircraft rudely deposited me back onto the streets of Brooklyn from the land of fire ants and flame trees. Thud.

My trip seems otherworldly, like I was shooed into a waiting spaceship hidden behind giant curtains and strategically placed foliage to fly up and out of the atmosphere. Like everyone else on board was an astronaut and I the teacher from New Hampshire. I got the coveted point-of-view, won the lottery without even picking five.

The goats on the shores of the Nile were placed there for my enjoyment. The little ones, especially. The word galabaya? Invented for my pleasure. Nubian culture exists only to create the chest scoop and stomach drop I experience when I just think the word "Nubian." Sakkara beer, the goddess Mut, heiroglyphics -- I bet you didn't know this, but they arranged their atoms for me and me alone.

Re-entry is a bitch. Change in pressure from none to constant. The food's different. My fellow astronauts are gone, back to California and Pennsylvania. We'll next see each other at a mission reunion in Ft. Lauderdale, sipping whiskey sours awkwardly from plastic stemware.

I'm a disjointed mess, mourning my trip. But I promise, there are stories to tell.