In fact, seeing the Egyptian Pyramids wasn’t even my top priority when I arrived. I wanted to see Cairo, the fabled markets and crowded streets and the legendary River Nile. Even a visit to the Red Sea ranked pretty high on my list. I figured the pyramids would be another stop on my tourist path, granted an awesome stop, but I hadn’t given them much thought beyond that.

My itinerary gave me one afternoon to wander around Cairo before flying to Sharm el-Sheik. When I returned to Cairo three days later I had a window seat on the aircraft and was awed by the desperately dry Sinai below and the sparkling Gulf of Suez, a dramatically incongruous conjoining of land and sea. A short time later my seatmate, who had been keeping up a pretty good stream of monologue while looking over my shoulder, bellowed: “The pyramids! The pyramids!”

Every soul on the plane now knew that the pyramids were visible out the left side of the aircraft. I looked and sure enough, there was a stout brown edifice rising from the desert just beyond the Nile. It was a thrill to see, but from the air it appeared less pyramidal than I expected, less impressive than I thought it would be. A moment into these thoughts I discovered why. Suddenly, a little farther north, two huge, perfect pyramids and a smaller third rose above the surrounding landscape. My breath caught.

They were gigantic. They dwarfed the crowded stretch of buildings composing modern Cairo that marched toward the Nile and then stopped, as if turned back by the grandeur of these ancient structures. The pyramids of Giza appeared to cover several square blocks, incomprehensibly vast monuments that towered above the buildings of today’s city, looking as if they could swallow whole neighborhoods without a burp.

I stared at those structures until they passed from view, contorting my body trying to keep them in sight. When they were truly gone I sat back feeling as if I’d just seen a man from Mars, proof of an afterlife, or an angel on the wing. I’d had no idea the pyramids had such power, and suddenly I knew I had to see them up close. I’m sure I wasn’t the first person to underestimate the accomplishments of the ancient Egyptians, and my visit to Egypt took on a whole new dimension.

I love Mexican food, but sometimes all the rice and beans and heavy meat can weigh you down. Don’t get me wrong, I love burritos, but I have a hard time not finishing a whole one in a sitting, as much as I’d like to take half home for lunch the next day.

As an East Coast friend said when she first visited me in San Francisco in the early ’90s when our burritos arrived: “That looks like an infant.” She proceeded to place the wrapped burrito by her toned dancer’s belly and question how all that would fit in there. Miraculously it all fit!

Years later in New York City I saw advertisements for “San Francisco Mission Style” Burritos, which of course made me laugh having lived in or near the Mission for more than 15 years. So, my answer to the burrito baby syndrome was to order fish tacos; it seemed like a lighter choice. One of the first places, and to my mind one of the best in the city, is Papalote, a Mexican Grill on 24th street. When my first son was little we ate there once a week because I knew he would get a nutritious meal. The owner knows us well and has seen my son grown on his cooking. Now, my rice and bean aficionado goes to school a block away and we joke that it is because of his favorite restaurant. Don’t miss the fabulous house salsa; it’s a secret but I think it is made with pumpkin.

Down Highway 1 in Half Moon Bay is another one of my favorite fish taco haunts: The Flying Fish Grill. This quintessentially California food shack, has the most lightly battered fish and scrumptious sauce. We drove down there yesterday with my mom, my sister and her family who are visiting from New York. The place is unpretentious and the menu expansive. The Cioppino looked great and my mom and brother-in-law said the crab melt literally melted in their mouths. The kids devoured the fried calamari, even though they thought that they might be eating “Squidward” from Sponge Bob Squarepants fame.

Finally, if you find yourself in downtown San Francisco and want a more posh fish taco experience, check out Tres Agaves, a fancier Mexican Restaurant and Tequila lounge owned by the former Van Halen band member Sammy Hagar. The margaritas rock and the fish tacos keep calling me back… I think we might take my brother-in-law (a big Van Halen fan) there tonight.

The flight was 1/3 full, and of that 1/3, at least half seemed to be friends who were scattered about the plane. They were jabbering in a language I couldn’t identify. My best guess was Russian, second best was some other Slavic language, third best was Hebrew but I’ve heard enough Hebrew to be pretty sure it wasn’t that.

These people kept getting up and wandering around the plane no matter what was going on, starting as soon as we pushed back from the gate. One guy wore a fur-lined cap and overcoat as if he were in Red Square, and he paced up and down the aisle throughout the flight. Another woman did the same, berating (or seeming to) some other guy seated up front. They paid no attention to the seatbelt sign, the flight attendants’ warnings, the captain’s announcements.

Prepare for takeoff? Time to get up and wander around. Turbulence shaking the plane like a damp rag? Let’s get up and see what Natasha’s doing in the back.

They seemed to understand no English, and no body language whatsoever. No matter what the attendants did or said, these folks acted as if the airline staff didn’t exist. At one point an attendant was almost begging a guy to sit down because of turbulence and I found myself, in my whacked-out jet-lagged state, wishing he’d get flung to the floor so the universe would get his attention. It was almost as if they were characters from Night of the Living Dead, true zombies. It was so odd and so literal that I began to feel unnerved, wondering what they might do.

But when we landed they were all in their seats, and they clapped in unison when we touched down safely. But none of that mattered to me. Once the plane’s doors opened I got out of there as fast as I could go.

I do understand why a first time visitor would want that photo in front of the Eiffel Tower or to say they had been to the Louvre. However, if you sprinkle in a few smaller, lesser known museums you will get a flavor of a neighborhood and a taste of Paris that you won’t find at the famous hotspots.

My all time favorite is the Rodin Museum. Located where the Master once lived and worked, it is a respite from the hustle and bustle of Paris life. When I was a student I used to go to the gardens to study. I loved to wander, grab a coffee and be surrounded by the sculptures. One gray day, there was a small boy with a toy fishing pole, fishing into a puddle, with stunning works of art in the background. I took a picture of the moment and wish I could find it now for this post.

At the time, visits fed my growing fascination with the tortured life of Camille Claudel, the lover, muse and many would say the woman responsible for a number of Auguste Rodin’s masterpieces. If you plan to visit the special spot I recommend renting the 1988 film Camille Claudel starring Isabelle Adjani and Gerard Depardieu.

A visit to the Picasso Museum in the Marais District reignited my interest in the artist. It is in a multistory mansion and the collection chronicles the life and artistic periods of the famous Spanish painter, sculptor and Don Juan who called Paris home for much of his life.

Another favorite of mine is the Museum of Montmartre. I was drawn to it because it was within walking distance of my friend’s apartment and in part because of a fascination with the culture of Absinthe. In Paris, the charm of small museums is often the edifice itself. This 17th century building oozes with history: the rickety stairs and garrets, the pre-historic bathroom setup in the basement and the picturesque garden. The rooms are truly alive and full of colorful characters who tell the tale of this famous/infamous quarter. Make sure to take the audio tour, normally I hate those things but this one really illuminates the experience.

My favorite part of the museum, (besides the great collection of documents, art, furniture and memorabilia from the storied neighborhood) is the grape vineyard that is adjacent to the museum and visible from the windows and garden. It is so anachronistic to see an ancient vineyard in the middle of the pulsing city. Apparently, each year the wine is bottled and auctioned for charity so it would be hard to get a taste.

Simple embroidery decorated the shirt pocket. A buttonless slit ran from near the pocket to the collarless neckline. Cut like a t-shirt but elegant in its whiteness in the desert sun, the shirt flapped like a flag in his brown fingers.

I walked directly up to him as his eyes caught mine. He instantly brightened, knowing perhaps before I did that he would sell me that shirt.

“Hello my friend,” he said. “Look, very nice shirt for you.”

“Hello,” I said, reaching out to feel the fabric.

“It’s beautiful cotton, touch, you see. I give you good price.”

It was beautiful cotton, soft and plush yet light for the desert heat. The cartouche on the pocket was understated yet elegant, reflecting the reliefs of the temple I was about to visit.

He held it up to my shoulders to show it was the right size. I gestured to ask if I could try it on.

“Yes, yes. This is the right size. Nice for you.”

“Not now,” I said. “I have to catch the boat to the temple.”

I was using the oldest ruse in the book, deferring any decision until later, not facing the reality of the trade, the back and forth of false anguish and protestations of a price too high, an offer too low. Plus, maybe I didn’t really want the shirt, maybe he wouldn’t see me returning with the hordes of tourists.

“You come back, I give you good price. What is your name?”

“‘Larry,’” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Mohammed. You come back, I wait for you. I give you good price.”

We shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Mohammed had the face of an honest man, a good guy. It was the first rule of sales: make the customer like you.

I went off with the group and wandered about the temple on the hill dedicated to Osiris, returning filled with awe at the depth of the legend, the richness of ancient Egyptian life.

I’d also decided that I would pay no more than $10 for the shirt, because I didn’t need it, could get something similar for not much more money at home, and if it wasn’t a bargain I didn’t need to add it to my load of luggage.

When I’d climbed a few steps up the ramp on shore I spotted Mohammed, waiting in a line of merchants before the row of shops, scanning the crowds looking for me, the shirt draped over his arm.

I waited until he spotted me, knowing he would, and waved to him. His hand shot up, his face brightened, and he strode toward me.

“Come, come, my friend, I give you good price.”

We shook hands again, and rather than haggle on the street, as I expected we would, Mohammed led me up the road to his shop, the last one in the long row, the first when we got off the bus. When we stepped inside we were alone.

Again Mohammed held the shirt up against my shoulders to show it would fit. I took off my hat and glasses and set them aside, then took the shirt and pulled it on with Mohammed’s help. He was right, it did fit.

“I give you the shirt for only 150 Egyptian pounds. Very good price for you.”

Roughly thirty dollars.

“No, that’s way too much, Mohammed,” I said. “I’ll pay twenty pounds.” Less than five dollars.

“Oh, my friend, that’s not a good price. I must pay for the material and sewing, and something for me. You understand, I must make some profit. One hundred fifty is a good price for you.”

“No, Mohammed, 150 pounds is way too much. That’s very expensive. I will pay twenty pounds.”

It didn’t take long before Mohammed dropped to 140…130…120. I came up to 30…40…and I finally got to my last price, 50, but only when I told him I had to leave now, that he wanted too much.

“Okay, 50,” he said with a gentle hand to my arm as I started out of his shop.

“Do you have change?” I asked as I showed him a 100 pound note.

“Yes, yes,” he said, pulling a fistful of wadded bills out of his galibeyah. It took a moment but he found correct change, then reached for a plastic bag.

“No, no bag, Mohammed, I’ll put it in my pack. But  may I take  your photo?” I pulled out my camera to show him.

“Yes, yes,” he said. He backed up to his wall full of garments, a perfect background.

I took two shots of his handsome face, the rightward tilt suggesting tranquility, insouciance. We were friends now. We shook hands.

Then he reached to a rack behind and pulled out a red shirt, back to business. “Buy two, good price, this color—” he draped the shirt over my arm and reached back for a blue one “—this color also very nice on you.”

I handed the shirt back. “No, Mohammed, I need to go.”

He draped the red shirt over my arm again. “Good price, my friend, not fifty, forty for this one.”

Again I handed the shirt back, then headed out of the shop into the sunshine. Mohammed was right behind me.

He insisted I needed another shirt for such a good price. I was equally insistent that I didn’t need one. But the closer I got to the bus, the closer I got to offering him something and taking the shirt. Hey, it occurred to me, I could give it to my friend James.

I stopped short of the bus steps and said, “Twenty. I’ll give you twenty.”

“Oh, my friend—”

“Twenty,” I repeated. “No more.”

His friendly smile returned. “Okay, twenty,” he said, handing me the shirt. I gave him a 20 pound note, thanked him, and reached out my hand. He gripped it firmly, smiled, then turned and headed back to his shop.

On the bus I found James and held up the red shirt.

“James, do you like this shirt?”

“Yes. Very nice.”

“Do you like the color?”

“Yes.”

I tossed it to him. “It’s yours.”

And it was. For not much more than the cost of a coffee latte in San Francisco, it was no longer Mohammed’s shirt. Now it was James’s.

The gnarled, web-like fists of Rosa Santa Maria mystified me.

“It’s good for luck, and smells good in the home,” one shopkeeper said.

The overflowing barrels of dark red whorls?

“Hibiscus.”

The green reed-like stalks. Lemon grass?

“No lemon grass. Lemon tea,” he said.

“And that?” I pointed to a barrel of what looked like gray hay.

“Bedouin tea.”

Tasty, no doubt, and refreshing, I’m sure, especially on a cold desert night.

I have skied downhill many times and do love the thrill, but have come to appreciate cross country skiing greatly, particularly since having kids. When they were young I pulled both my boys in sleds, wrapping them in blankets, like little Russian Princes, with snacks and toys in the sled. They both took naps while I, in a complete sweat, trudged through the glorious snow; I absolutely loved that feeling.

Now they are a bit older and are interested in skiing on their own. Recently, I read an online missive in one of my mom’s groups. The message linked to an article by Gigi Stahl about skiing with your preschooler or kindergartener and I thought it was quite helpful and funny.

She recommended the Homewood Resort on the north shore of  Lake Tahoe, a place I remember being the perfect size for novice skiers.  I didn’t have kids at the time, but have a memory of making a mental note about the cozy, unprimped feel of the small resort.

My favorite tidbit in her story is this line: “Lastly, time takes on a whole different meaning in getting stuff done. For instance, when potty time comes around, take the normal amount of time in non-ski clothes and multiply by 5.”

I cracked up remembering growing up on the East Coast where snow paraphernalia was de rigueur in the winter. Who can forget those mittens on a string? Sometimes I wish they made adult versions. Now, when I bring my kids back East in winter, it is exhausting getting them geared up just to go outside. Despite all the travails and potential expense, winter sports, whether sledding, snow man building or skiing, are just a great boost to the system and wonderful family fun.

“Alabaster” pyramids, “jeweled” boxes, stylized cats, hookahs, sand paintings in vases, papyrus paintings, decorative plates, pharaohs’ busts, cotton head scarves and belly-dancing wraps, the list goes on and on. Almost every shop sells the same merchandise and their only hope for business is to befriend visitors without being pushy.

I must say that the shopkeepers of Sharm el-Sheikh’s Old Market do a very good job of it. My friends and I were engaged in friendly banter, cajoled into entering shops, women in our group were patiently costumed from head to foot in colorful Egyptian scarves, but never in a couple hours of wandering were we ever hassled.

The end result? We bought some things we didn’t need and probably wouldn’t have purchased otherwise. We parted with our funds happily and felt we’d made a personal connection with the merchants. And we put a small amount of money into the local economy that wouldn’t have circulated without us. Sure, we bought only tourist souvenirs, but my daughters will like the two pyramids I got for them and they’ll always remember I brought them home from Egypt.

Maybe the voice of God was speaking quietly, because my friends and I were sitting across the street from where a terrorist bomb exploded in 2005, destroying an entire row of shops and killing many people. The shops have been rebuilt, the neighborhood is friendly, especially in the evening when the shadows soften the harsh sun and the lights of shops cast a festive glow over the streets. A crescent moon and resplendent Venus added to the spell.

I sipped Turkish coffee, my friends drank mint tea, and we commented on the burning bush, a scrawny conifer the size of a small Christmas tree that was so ideally-shaped it might well have been a fake. There it stood, with an identical friend, two symbols of greenery atop an otherwise barren rocky ridge, flashing with light every second or two.

The absurdity of it made me laugh, and prompted me to shoot a six-second video of it just for fun. A moment later I shot another video, of a big flashing sign just down the street proclaiming, “Merry Christmas 2009.” The merchants of Sharm el-Sheikh are taking no chances after a poor tourist season. They’re getting an 11-month jump on Christmas.