Worldly Thoughts This journal is a hodgepodge of assorted experiences I have had whilst traveling here and there.

When visiting the Mugamma, it's a good idea to greet the menacing nod to the USSR early, as it’s also routine to wait three hours. Tahrir Square had the kind of energy one might hope lingered around the site of a popular uprising two weeks prior. There was something thick in the air, smog aside. Tents still covered the grounds, where people lived for days. Down Mohamed Mahmoud Street powerful graffiti covered the walls. Tanks driving ceaselessly forward over crowds of protesters, their gaunt faces screaming a plea of freedom not felt, and a very sad panda stands alone. Atop large concrete blocks covering this famous street Egyptian youth watched my journey. Slowly, I looked to my right and saw the story of a nation painted with brushes and spray cans. Across the street people’s livelihoods were painted with bullet holes and burn marks. Not so long before my worn shoes covered these old streets Egyptians bound to keep safe from the government-paid thugs sent to make people cringe in their homes. Egypt's history was set on repeat. My reflection in the broken windowpanes of the Pizza Hut was the only hint of an Occidental tourist that day. I stopped at a busy street stall for breakfast. The man serving refried beans, tomato, lime and coriander salad, rocket and fresh 3ish balady, with the tell-tale bump above his dark eyebrows, smiled broadly from his eyes down his chin as I asked how much it cost and he offered an extra piece of the whole-wheat bread. Along wooden tables off the street I indulged with the other men trying to satiate their hunger before the scorching day began. Walking back, I stopped on a small empty street for a coffee. The older gentleman across from me sat underneath his umbrella puffing shisha that I’d heard nicotine from a pack of cigarettes could not compete with. I had my doubts. Groups had formed in the Square, men on higher ground preached to those waving signs scribbled in Arabic. The streets were busy with the coming day. My hands clutched in the pockets of my old trousers as I made my way through. A tap on my shoulder turned me around before I had the good sense not to. Staring at me behind a scruffy beard and kufeyya, the man grinned brightly and gave me a thumbs up. I mimicked the gesture, smiling back. Staring into my eyes the man nodded and smiled again. A second later we were just two people amongst dozens in a crowd of businessmen, students, women and children moving in every direction. I went to fetch my new visa.