life in a sandstorm.

For the past two days, Cairo has been stuck in a dismal black hole of sand--a kind of stagnant dust storm that's enveloped us all in swirls of hot, steamy air and thick brown clouds. The sky is an ashy brown, with a thick dusty fog hanging so low you can't see 500 meters down the road. 

A four-year resident of Seattle, the sudden gloomy pall cast over the city was initially cozy and inviting. Cairo is only ever vibrant: loud, bright, busy--a strange and overwhelming urban carnival.

To see all at once the Nile murky instead of sparkling, to see the fading decadence of the crumbling european buildings in sepia-as they perhaps ought to be-, to see the sand blow through the streets and remember the true harshness of the Saharan wasteland--it's a compelling glimpse of Egypt in an unusual and unexpected light. 

During the first day of this dust storm, however, the obscured sun was still beating down on us. Temperatures swelled to an impossibly humid 100 degrees. The wind was hot, the whole city breathing its fevered air over us. Shutters were closed on the houses. Windshields on parked cars were coated in grime. 

My roommate Kirsten and I escaped the worst of the weather in the cool cement apartment of our host family in Maasara--the last afternoon Kirsten would spend with them before returning to America. Though the weather was appropriately gloomy for the occasion, inside the house was as warm and light hearted as always, which made me love our adopted family all the more. Sometimes I wonder if they need us as much as we've needed them. They've been a constant source of comfort and companionship this year, and I'm so grateful for them. 

We left the house around sunset to spend a last hour together at a monastery on the Nile--the spot where Mary, Joseph, and Jesus were supposed to have crossed into Egypt as they were fleeing king herod. Walking from their house to catch a microbus, we walked through somewhat deserted industrial stretch of their neighborhood. The setting sun turned the dust clouds orange, which made the city closely resemble a kind of eco-apocalypse movie in which all we had to do was wait for the zombies to arrive.

The church, however, was beautiful. Its courtyard stretches along a wide, marshy swath of the Nile. In the strange, hazy lighting, the river had a delightful eeriness to it. Gathered with my roommates and the Um Hani family, we drank pepsi from paper cups and munched on knock-off cheetoes, exchanging sad smiles and hugs as we watched an exuberant wedding party enter the church to rich plumes of incense. 

Kirsten left this morning at 6 a.m. Every day of my time in Egypt has been spent with her--she even arrived last July on the same airplane as me. Now, sitting on her empty bed, I feel like I'm being pushed into a new transition. The strange weather seems to be marking these changes as well. The familiar, swelling heat of the summer is here. Roommates are leaving, one by one. My last real responsibility here--my Arabic class--started today. And in only 26 days, that will be over, too. Summer has come, a year has passed. I can only hope that I'm leaving Egypt a better person than when I came.