There was a time when someone had to walk the whole street at dusk and make the light happen, pole in hand, one lamp after another, all of them, every night. I take the same view of a 72-ball case: 24 cans, ITF-approved, pressurised, all-court felt. You do not do it once. You do it for a whole season, and the club stays lit. And Alexandria, whose whole business was a light, is exactly where I want to be at dusk.
On the Chatby corniche, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina leans toward the Mediterranean like a huge granite disc set down at an angle, opened in 2002 in honour of the ancient library. Now look at the wall. Four thousand carved characters, alphabets from all over the planet, and a Norwegian practice nobody had heard of won the competition to build it.
Snow people, designing a sunlit reading room for the city that invented the reading room. I light lamps for a living and I still stop mid-sentence at it.
Out at the far tip of the Eastern Harbour, on a spit, stands the Citadel of Qaitbay, raised by the sultan in the 1470s on the exact footprint of the Pharos — the greatest lamp anybody ever lit, one of the Seven Wonders, shaken to rubble by earthquakes. Qaitbay simply used the pieces.
He recycled a Wonder of the World into a fort, and if you look low in the walls you can find granite blocks that match nothing else around them.
Inland at Kom El Shoqafa a spiral stair winds down a shaft into the largest Roman burial complex in Egypt, cut on three levels, where Anubis stands in legionary armour and Egyptian gods hold Greek poses; the lowest level is permanently flooded and has to be pumped.
And on the Serapeum hill in Karmouz, one polished column of red Aswan granite, twenty-seven metres, raised around 297 AD for Diocletian and called Pompey's Pillar by Crusaders who were confidently, gloriously wrong, and never corrected.
You will burn through this case everywhere from a hard court off the Alexandria corniche to an indoor hall in Cairo, two and a half hours south, and by the way, it is also perfect for the walk out along the Eastern Harbour at dusk, when the lamps come on one after another and somebody, somewhere, still has to be responsible for that.
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