I was assisted into the cart. The dragoman slapped the reins. His donkey lurched forward in its traces.

And then: Cairo. Goodness gracious! How to describe that city? The smell! The racket! Even without a mob chanting incomprehensible slogans, the normal everyday noise of the place was an almost physical assault. There were no traffic lights and no policemen to direct the cars through intersections. Lane lines, where they existed, were ignored. The streets were jammed with pedestrians and vehicles of all descriptions. All this seemed to shock and exasperate the dragoman, who flicked his whip at everyone who came within range and screamed for them to give way.

Shrouded women pressed themselves against alley walls as we passed. They balanced a variety of burdens on their heads, and most carried small children in their arms. These ladies nearly all wore veils or held over their noses a portion of the long black garments that trailed them through the trash-strewn byways. Lillie had written that such concealment was a sign of modesty, but now that I was in Cairo, I wondered if the practice had originated as a defense against the city’s odor, which was a perfectly nauseating blend of sewage and citrus, burning tobacco and roasting meat, unwashed bodies and jasmine.

In contrast to the mute and shrouded hordes of Cairo’s women, the city’s men yelled constantly. Regardless of topic, every exchange seemed to be composed entirely of bitter recrimination. Men bargained loudly in tiny shops and stalls, where every item offered in trade provoked rancor, disgust, and a mutual loathing in buyer and seller.