This was barely a layover, but because it involves a rather funny story, I thought it deserved its own post. My two travelling companions, John and Doc, and I had left Yemen, flying from Seiyun to Cairo. Our stopover was incredibly brief: we landed in Cairo at 9:45 PM, and my flight out was scheduled for 5:45 AM the next morning. Originally, I planned to just rough it and sleep at the airport terminal. However, realizing how crucial a good night’s rest would be, and seeing that airport hotels were reasonably priced, we each booked a room at Le Passage Cairo Hotel right next to the airport. I highly recommend it—even in the middle of the night, they have food and beverage options open, and the property itself is very nice. But first, I actually had to get there.
To leave the airport, we each had to go through immigration to get our passports stamped into Egypt. John and Doc passed through within seconds with absolutely no questions asked. When I stepped up to the counter, however, the officer looked at my passport and began typing furiously into her computer. She asked where I was coming from and where I was heading. I explained that I had just arrived from Yemen and was flying to London in the morning. She kept staring at her screen. Finally, she called over a colleague, who instructed me to follow them into a small side room. None of this particularly worried me, except for the fact that it was cutting into my precious sleeping time. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I wasn’t anxious.
The little room turned out to be an interrogation office, complete with a desk, filing cabinets, and a couple of chairs. A thin man wearing glasses, a white button-up shirt, and a tie was standing inside. He spoke flawless English and invited me to sit at the desk. He held my passport in his hand, and what followed was approximately five minutes of pure silence. Five minutes might not sound like a long time, but in a setting like that, it feels like an eternity.
The man pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, unpeeled the cellophane slowly, selected a cigarette, and tapped it deliberately against the desk before lighting it. He then took off his glasses, cleaned them with a cloth, inspected the lenses in the light, and put them back on. Next, he stood up, adjusted a fan mounted near the ceiling, and switched it on. Finally, he sat down and began slowly flipping through my passport, the cigarette dangling casually from his lip.
At this point, the performance ended and the questioning began. He asked where I was coming from and exactly why I had gone to Yemen. I explained multiple times that I was simply on holiday and enjoyed visiting unique countries. He asked what I did for a living, and I told him I was a lawyer in Canada returning to my home and job the day after next. He also questioned me about the short layover I had in Cairo on my way to Yemen, noting it was suspicious that I had gone into the city for such a brief window. I countered, “Why would I miss an opportunity to go into one of the world’s greatest cities for breakfast?”
He repeated several of his questions, looking for cracks in my story. Finally, he stared directly at me and said, “I don’t believe a single thing you are telling me. But I cannot find a reason to keep you here, so I am going to let you go.”
He handed my passport back and sent me through immigration, where it was stamped and I was finally released. It was a bizarre interaction, and I have no idea what the fellow thought I was actually up to. Honestly, I am glad it happened because I thoroughly appreciated his weird, exaggerated mime theatrics. Perhaps I should have been nervous, but I was simply too exhausted to care.
When I finally checked into the hotel, I was still too wired to sleep. I sat outside in the courtyard having one final cigar before going to bed for a grand total of two hours. The next morning, I would be landing in London for one final day of vacation before heading home to Canada.
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