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Outside the nilometer, I stood next to a middle-aged Egyptian couple. She wore a floral headscarf and he had the tinge of a grey bruise on his forehead, signaling his devotion to Islam. Men sometimes develop such a bruise from touching their foreheads to the floor in prayer five times a day. We were on Roda Island, just north of the Pyramids at Giza to visit one of the few remaining nilometers, which were used for centuries to monitor the water level of the Nile River. “Where are you going next?” the couple asked. The privilege of long-term travel is that the answer can be flexible. “I don’t know. Where are you going?” I inquired. “The Prince Mohamad Ali Palace. Please join us.” “Yes, of course, I will,” I said. The caretaker took us inside the nilometer and spoke of the dome, the wall carvings, and the deep well. The site took me in even without understanding the Arabic narration. The well had steep stone steps down the sides and archways carved into the walls. The measurement column rose from the center of the bottom of the empty well. The couple took pains to use their English and French to help me follow along with the explanations from the caretaker. “These are words from the Quran,” they explained. The sun shone through the windows below the dome, highlighting the flourished Arabic phrases. The artistic designs were unnecessary to measuring water levels but I was glad they were there, lasting since 861 AD. While on the bus to the palace, I learned that the woman, Farah, was a high school French teacher and her husband, Dr. Mohamed, was an engineering professor in Alexandria. They were visiting Cairo for spring break while their teenage children stayed at home. I had last visited Cairo during the 2011 revolution when change didn’t just feel possible, it felt inevitable. But that promise of improvement didn’t come to pass. I asked Farah and Dr. Mohamed for their thoughts on Egyptian politics. I was sad to hear that the reality eight years later was that the government was more corrupt than ever. Funding had been diverted from healthcare and education to strengthen the military and build new prisons. Farah and Dr. Mohamed told me about their children. Their son, Omar, was about to graduate high school. He excelled at math and spoke Arabic, English, and French fluently. They saw little opportunity for him in Egypt and hoped he could somehow leave for Europe or the US. I hoped that for him, too. As we toured the palace, Farah generously translated the key messages for me in a mix of English and French. She awed at the gilded furnishings of the palace living quarters. “Like Versailles!” With the sunbursts on the ceiling and overdone display of gold, I agreed. I considered my own previous trips to France and recalled the time I fell asleep on the train to Versailles. I missed my chance to visit because I was hungover and generally disorganized. I was unbothered at the time, confident that I would have the opportunity to return someday. Versailles wasn’t going anywhere. In Cairo, I was two weeks into a six-month trip. I had voluntarily quit my well-paid job in the US for a break from my comfortable, yet tedious Western life. I didn’t tell Farah and Dr. Mohamed of my visits to France. Paris is a five-hour, non-stop flight from Cairo. But the cost and improbability of obtaining a visa make such a visit impossible for an Egyptian French teacher. Farah will never see Versailles and she will never leave Egypt. At the end of our visit, we said our goodbyes. Farah said, “I knew right away when I saw you. I felt you were my sister. When you come to Egypt again, you will stay in our home in Alexandria.” I smiled with confidence. “Yes, of course, I will.”