One final story from my 2007 journal about friends I made in Egypt, brought back to mind by recent turmoil there.

Thurs, 10 May: Before sunrise, we leave our Nile River boat and are taken by small motor boats to the hot air balloon base. We watch generators heat air and then force it into the balloons until fully inflated. Then, with the sun beginning to rise, we do. It’s utterly silent above the desert, and a roster crowing below sounds as if addressing the entire desert.

We have the feeling of drifting aimlessly, but are actually guided by the pilot so as to hover over such ancient sites as the Colossus of Memnon and the 4th-century B.C. temple built by Amkenophis III. The later isn’t yet opened to tourists or any public, and we see how archaeologists are plotting the areas for excavation. (Our balloon fare serves as our admission fee to these.)

We see the chase crew gathering, but a sudden wind-change pushes us beyond the landing zone. The pilot manipulates ropes and shoots more hot air into the balloon above to carry us so beyond the excavation sites. The only safe spot is along a small, no-name village.

This is remote from the beaten tourist path, and the Ministry of Tourism would never approve taking us to such a dirty, impoverished place. As we alight, we recognize everything is deteriorating. My inquiry tells me the village is totally neglected by the government, which intends to raze it as an embarrassment.

Although the streets remain deserted this early hour, children suddenly pour out of the buildings and head toward where it appears we’ll set down. But they aren’t gathering in idle curiosity.

As we scramble out of the passenger basket, I recognize most have grabbed whatever they could find around their houses that they might attempt to sell to the tourists, rare at this location. Young as they are, they know the routine. I know two things: nothing they could find would be of any worth or even tourist interest, and everything would cost “one dollha.”

Oh yes, there is a third thing I know just as well: I will buy something from someone. I pull my handy dollha from my belt where I always keep one ready for quick deals.

I look for the smallest, youngest kid in the bunch. I spot her easily enough because the bigger kids had brushed her aside. I push my way through, even though others are grabbing my trousers to get my attention.

I can’t be sure how old she is, but perhaps six or seven. She’s wearing a torn, dirty nondescript dress. Hair is uncombed and she’s crying, apparently in hopelessness. She clutches something in her hand but seems not to be offering it, as futile as it seems in competition with the bigger kids.

I smile as I approach, and she looks apprehensive and perhaps frightened. I now recognize what she holds is meant to be a doll: a stick with a smaller stick tied at cross angles, scraps of cloth wrapped around them as if clothing, pencil marks approximating eyes, nose, and mouth.

Nothing. It would never be found on display in a souvenir stand. The roaming vendors at tourists sites would never try to push this off even on gullible Americans.

In whatever country we have traveled, Ann has always been on the lookout for a local doll for Kiersten’s growing collection, and she already has one from Egypt. Grandpa’s not much good at picking out dolls. Until now.

I hold out the dollha, and this little thing becomes transfigured into one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen—and one I’ll never forget. She is overjoyed and so am I. The other children can’t believe she makes the first sale. She jumps up and down waving her dollha triumphantly before the others.

One of the best purchases I ever made, this. This time I trumped Grandma. By the time I got the doll — for it is indeed a doll, a most precious doll — back to Chicago, I had won the hearts of two little girls.

But I wonder what her name is and what has become of her. I think of her today, and I worry. Kiersten does, too, because she has become the caring big sister of a girl she has never met.