Walking Along the Nile in Luxor: A Moment a Lifetime in the Making
- Rand Blimes
- May 30
- 2 min read
It was evening. It was Luxor. It was hot.
I mean hot.
The kind of heat that feels personal. It felt like walking into the breath of a giant hair dryer set to high.
A dry, relentless wind blasting across our skin, daring us to keep going.
I mean hot.
I didn’t care.
Touts shadowed us with tireless persistence, gliding alongside as if on rails, ignoring every polite “No, thank you” as though our words were simply lost in the blasting wind. Trinkets, horse carriages, whatever they were selling—they sold it hard.
I didn’t care.
We hadn’t eaten. It was long past lunchtime. My stomach was staging a mutiny, complete with audible protest.
I. Didn’t. Care.
Because right then, right there, I was walking alongside the river.
The ancient river. Maybe the most important river in the history of humanity.
An aura hung over it, making the air heavy. The weight of history. The weight of childhood dreams. The kind of silent presence that seeps into your bones.
All of it flowing north, slow and steady, toward the sea.
We stopped. I wanted to say something. Something poetic. Something worthy. But nothing came.
Instead, a tear slid down my cheek.
I guess some places don’t need words. Some places overwhelm you before you can summon them.
I’ve been fascinated with ancient history for as long as I can remember. I have a degree in it. I learned to read basic hieroglyphs when I was twelve. I wanted to be an archaeologist before Indiana Jones made it cool. I really wanted to be an archaeologist after Indiana Jones made it cool. That was my childhood dream.
So that day, walking down the Corniche in Luxor—walking beside the Nile River—I was undone.
With excitement.
With awe.
With reverence.
Probably with heatstroke, too—but I was too distracted to notice.
I just stood there, hot wind in my face, a tear evaporating into the desert air, and basked in the joy that you can only feel because travel.
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