Neon lights bring alive the eyes of statues, and the opaque shadow of a column falls over the dancefloor. It’s a grand sight, perhaps for all the wrong reasons: drinks are half-melted at the base of a limestone ram, a bored child picks their nail into the crevices of an already worn set of hieroglyphs, and a once grand place of worship is reduced to little more than a glorified rave site. That is what it means to party at a temple. I’ve always been one to argue that historical sites are legacies designed to be experienced; they are the lingering remnants of a world no one can truly picture, battle-scarred and time-eroded. Visitation should not be limited, in any capacity – or so I thought. When I first heard of historical sites being used as venues for elaborate parties and weddings, I was loath to believe it. I had my concerns about artifact trade, about strangers chipping off chunks of pyramid and pawning them off for a cold drink of something sour, all the typical hand-me-down worries we inherit from our parents. Still, I didn’t imagine there would come…
