A statue of Ibrahim Pasha stares down the Opera Square, seated over primal traffic and tumbleweeds of litter. Garden City is tight-knit and knotted, padded with congestion. Wust el-Balad – the pulse of Cairo – remains buried in car exhaust, mourning itself. Scattered between modernity’s advancements, are relics and heritage sites that now seem out of place. At Maspero, two German girls interlock arms and try to cross an infamously busy road, a single heartbeat between them. I recall putting those girls in that situation and wondering if I had unintentionally put them off Cairo for life. It was a balmy summer night, with mastic gum and neon felucca rides; Laila Ramzy, a friend of mine with a quick wit and cautious temperament, was hosting two visiting Germans she’d grown close to. I offered to walk them back to my apartment for tea, and lost to their own excitement, they agreed – save for Ramzy herself. Being Egyptian, she knew what Cairo’s streets had to offer: nothing good and nothing beautiful. I insisted, and perhaps I shouldn’t have. Egypt’s capital has evolved into an unfortunate battery of sound and…
