After Cairo, Alexandria struck me very disagreeably at first; but when I got over its Western pseudo-Italian garishness, I was able to console myself with many a precious bit of orientalism, and even the bizarre mixture of flashy European tinsel with the true native metal amused me so much that I ended by enjoying the place and in being delighted to return there for yet another winter, and another. Nor can I ever forget that this appointment afforded us the most memorable journey of our lives--the ride through Palestine!
Not even the drive on the old Shoubra Road at Cairo surpassed the Alexandrian Rotten Row on the Mahmoudieh Canal on a Friday afternoon in its heterogeneous comicality. Every type was on the Mahmoudieh, in carriages, and on horseback--Levantine, Greek, Jew, Italian, Arab; up and down they rode on the bumpy promenade, under the shade of acacias and other flowering trees that skirted the picturesque canal. Across this narrow strip of water you saw the Arab villages of a totally different world; and I really felt a qualm every time I saw a _fellah_ over the way turning his back to the western sun (and to us) to pray, in absolute oblivion of our silly goings-on. On our side was Worldiness running up and down, helter-skelter; on the other, the repose of Kismet.
Here comes a foreign consul--you know him by his armed, picturesque ruffian on the box--in a smart Victoria, driven by a coal-black Nubian in spotless white necktie and gloves; the Arab horse is ambling along with high measured action. Much admired is _Monsieur le Consul_--the observed of all observers; he looks as though he felt himself "quite, quite." But "Awah, awah!" Here come at a smart leaping run two shouting syces turbaned in the Alexandrian fashion; and behind them a barouche and pair driven by an English coachman of irreproachable deportment. What thrilling rivalry is here!
Exquisite horses with showy saddle-cloths there are, with _le sport_ on their backs in the person of "young Egypt" in the inevitable _tarboosh_. That _tarboosh_! It is the "bowler" hat of the East, and I don't know which I hate most--it or the "bowler."
The ladies are overwhelming; and I rest my eyes occasionally by watching the demure feminine figures of the "East end" who are filling their _amphoræ_ under the oleanders over the way, or washing their clothes and their babies in the drinking water supply of the native town.