Words and images by John Wreford

It’s an optimistic morning as I stroll along Rue Nebi Daniel, heading Downtown from the station just as the city is waking. Egyptian cities tend to emerge slowly from slumber; nights are often long, and mornings are reluctant. I think of Mahfouz as I walk; he would have taken a taxi or carriage. He wouldn’t have walked; his luggage wouldn’t have had wheels and would be heavy with books. After Cairo, he too would be appreciating the cool December breeze.

I pass the street leading to Cavafy’s house. No doubt, he would have walked the same pavement in search of a shave and his morning coffee, perhaps in the company of E.M. Forster, gossiping about Greece, war, and women. Over my shoulder is the Eliahu Hanavi Synagogue; maybe a smitten Lawrence Durrell would have accompanied the Gypsy Cohen there. Either way, they courted along these dusty streets.

Towards the end of the street, I get my first glimpse, a glimmer of blue through a tear in the concrete landscape: the Mediterranean Sea, its tide tied to promise, either connecting or separating depending on which side you stand.

Ashraf, the waiter, brings my coffee with a little sugar; somehow, in Egypt, I need an extra boost of energy. I survey the street from my window seat; the daily momentum is building. Office workers wearing suits with wonky fitting ties, a group of married middle-aged women smoking, and a young couple discreetly arguing in a shop doorway. The grate of wooden chairs being dragged across the tiled coffee shop floor and a waft of shisha smoke compete with the smell of incense. The old man had shuffled past swinging his mabkhara; the sweet aroma of bakhoor is as old as civilization itself.

On the other side of the road, the sun is breaking through the clouds and clipping the satellite dishes sprinkled on the apartment rooftops. The leaves of the palm trees that line the Corniche are stretched in the breeze. The Corniche is Alexandria; it may be the edge of the continent, but it’s the center of everything else.

The squat fort of Qaitbey sits squarely on the far hook of the harbor, as it has done for over 500 years. When the sky is dark and imposing, the limestone façade radiates a yellow glow as the light bounces off the ancient stones. Built by a Mamluk Sultan to protect the city from European invaders, a city whose importance was taken so seriously by Ptolemy that he built a lighthouse so tall its smoldering embers could be seen by sailors 70 kilometers away. Its architectural brilliance was recognized as a Wonder of the Ancient World, lost only to time and tide when it was consumed by nature and a powerful earthquake.

The importance of Alexandria lies not in the ghosts of the past but as a modern metropolis, the second-largest city in Egypt and the principal port of the country. It is vital in industry, agriculture, and tourism, yet fragile and vulnerable. Its ever-increasing population struggles for space and sustenance. As with most cities across Egypt, the flow of migrants from rural villages is constant.

When we think of the mild-mannered Med, we think of gentle lapping turquoise, a fortnight of sundowners and mezze lunches, a slow pace, and a lifestyle to aspire to. And yet, those nice people at UNESCO want to piss on the picnic by warning that Alexandria is just one of several Mediterranean cities that must be tsunami-ready by 2030. Already, shifting weather patterns are whipping up indignant waves that hurtle over the sea walls and flood the city.

The city of Alexandria sits on the edge of the Nile Delta; the low-lying land is the most fertile in a very dry area, and already, salt water is seeping into the earth. Farmers are fighting and not winning a potentially catastrophic battle.

Bollards, blocks, and barriers have taken the place of sandy beaches. The concrete beach has become an urban playground, cheap entertainment for a struggling population—a population that shrugs and smiles at rampant inflation, which persists despite political turbulence and deserves better. Much better.

A steady flow of humanity envelops the corniche as an uneventful sunset drifts into the evening. The junior balloon salesman, popcorn sellers, and skateboarders weave through the throng. I sit on the wall and watch a fisherman wrangle his net; the sea is dark and a little choppy, and I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.

I meander along the seafront and in and out of side streets, some busy with shoppers and others empty and dark. Past doorways with spiral staircases and scary elevators, inside a lit window, a chandelier hangs heavy with dust.

At Saad Zagloul, the traffic is clogged, wasp-colored taxis swarm and an orchestra of car horns plays at full pelt. I looked for Athinios Café but it seemed now to be a fast-food restaurant called Bazooka. Outside the Cecil, I hoped to get a glimpse of Justine in the vestibule; I didn’t, of course, but the doorman who I met earlier raised his hand in recognition. I chatted with Saʽid, a young, well-dressed Egyptian man who told me this is Greece, not Egypt; he asked if we could be friends.

Alexander was not only great, his military prowess never in dispute, but he was also a romantic, inspired by great literature. After his emphatic defeat of the Persians, he was visited in a dream by Homer, who read lines from the Odyssey that mentioned Pharos. So, he made his way to the rocky outcrop not far from the mouth of the Nile. Who knows if he took a volume of the epic poem from its golden casket and read a few lines to himself, but we do know that there and then he decided to build the most remarkable city in the ancient world—a city of culture and learning, of innovation and inspiration, a city of poets and their muses. A city that burned, a city that crumbled, a city that rose again and thrived, and whose legacy is eternal and will ultimately survive.

John Wreford is a freelance professional photographer based in Istanbul, specializing in images of the Middle East & Balkans. “For ten years I lived in Damascus, Syria where I watched a beautiful country slip into a vile war. I find art, in one form or another to be the answer to everything. My life now is about telling stories of the human condition, the good the bad and the beautiful. More recently I have returned to analogue and historical photographic processes as a medium to help share those stories.“

See/read more at John Wreford Photographer and on Instagram at johnwreford.