I spent two weeks with my parents, back in 1987, holed up in a sprawling motel at the base of the pyramids outside of Cairo, Egypt. Glamorous setting, I know. True story.
Seductive as this may sound – it gets kind of dull pretty quickly, staring at the great pyramids, day in and day out. One morning, as I sat on my terrace in a languid stupor, dipping a pasty croissant into my watery coffee, I noticed a British family on the terrace next to mine. A cheery dad, an attentive mom, and a boy and girl who looked to be about 4 and 6. Dad raised his glass of orange juice, and the other 3 followed suit.