As I quizzed C. on Arabic verb conjugations beneath tattered beach umbrellas, I found it difficult to reconcile the dazzling serenity of the sea with the violence that has wracked its shores in the not-so-distant past.

Perhaps it’s because, unlike the relationships between family and friends, strangers owe us nothing.

Much like Cairo itself, the Northern Cemetery defies expectations, categories, and labels.

This was not an aquarium so much as the tomb of an aquarium, haunted by the desiccated bodies of the creatures who had once bubbled through the blue-green water and swished their tails against the glass.

It’s a little unsettling to realize that even if someone comes looking for us with the correct address in hand, there’s still a good chance that we may not be found.

Nearby, camels blinked their long black lashes, bent their knobby knees, and dropped to the sand.

To be in a car at rush hour in Cairo is to hear a symphony of horns honking from a hundred different cars at once.

There, in medieval times, they built the quiet, ornate churches in which present-day worshippers still gather for services.

A man who was blind could be trusted not to peer down from the minaret into people’s homes and private lives.

From this height, the whole city looks like it’s built out of sand.