When my husband and I were tryng to figure out where in the world to meet for the holidays, I threw out some practical suggestions.
“London is a good halfway point and a big airline hub.”
“Nah.”
“Paris? It’s easy to get there and it would be romantic. Or Rome? Frankfurt? Istanbul?”
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.”
“Well, Cairo is a major city, but too far out of the way …”
“YES.”
And that’s how we ended up in a predominantly Muslim country for Christmas — because my husband only wants to travel to places that have been in Indiana Jones movies.
Our Christmas day began with a short hop from Luxor to Sharm el Sheikh.
This is the Red Sea. You might remember it from such works as The Bible or Charlton Heston movies.
At the airport, everybody was in the Christmas spirit, even Arab African International Bank …
… and baggage claim.
One cab ride and a few police checkpoints later, The Husband and I arrived at our reefside hostel — so beautiful it felt like a Christmas miracle!
I’ve never been one of those people who gets really into Christmas. My dad usually sends one of those small and droopy Charlie Brown trees, and if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have any decorations at all.
But this year, removed from all the Christmas hype, I found myself aching for lights, garland and tinsel, and I gleefully took photos of anything that resembled the holidays back home.
For breakfast on the beach, I ate falafel, just so that I could make that fa-la-la-lafel joke in the post title. It was delicious, too.
Later that afternoon, our hostel hosted a holiday dinner. The chefs attempted their very first turkey. Even though that’s not really my thing, it was sweet to see how proud and excited they were to present a Christmas meal to weary and homesick travelers.
We ended the day smoking shesha on the beach and watching the waves.
There was no snow this Christmas. No carols, no wrapping paper, no stockings. But we were together, and that was the best present of all.
