[center][h1][Color=DF0101]Haakon J. Elvsgaard[/color][/h1]
[img]http://marywhipplereviews.com/wp-content/uploads/Bix-Beiderbecke-photo-300x227.jpg[/img][/center]

[hr][center][Color=DF0101]Location:[/color] Grand Continental Hotel Suite 251[/center][hr]

[b]Pling[/b]

[Color=DF0101]"Kairo-Orientens Metropol"[/color] [b]Pling[/b] [Color=DF0101]"Det første en vil oppleve når man trer inn i Egypts hovedstad, Kairo, er følelsen av å følge i de fotspor tusener av mennesker har gått; Fra faraoene som regjerte i årtusener til erobreren Alexander den Store, til Osmanerne av Tyrkia og de britiske forsvarerne av Suez. Man trår nedover Historiens allé, omringet av gatemusikanter og boder fulle av all slags frukter, mens arkitekturen reiser seg milevis over hodene..."[/color] The clicking of the letters on the typewriter turned silent, the words appearing on the white sheet of paper ceasing to continue as Haakon sighed. He ruffled his hair, drops of sweat making contact with his palm and running down his wrist. 

[Color=DF0101]"Nei...det føles fortsatt ikke riktig."[/color] The man with bags underneath his eyes stood up from the desk, stretching out his arms and back to hear it quietly crack into place. Haakon had been sitting at that desk for the entire day, trying to write a new article to publish back home; it had already been a week since he sent his last paper, and he knew that if didn't get anything published soon, he wouldn't get payed for sitting on his bum in the middle of excotic Cairo. He chuckled at that thought, he hadn't even wanted to be there in the first place, in that all-too warm city of sand and more sand. 

It was with a sigh of relief that Haakon could remind himself of the fans that cooled down him and the room, the kind of luxury a man of his past was not used to at all. Especially not in the burning heat of North Africa for a man that was used to skiing in April. Other than that, he frankly enjoyed staying in Cairo; it was a buzzling metropolis of different cultures unlike his hometown, and he'd even met up with quite the lady of a movie star. He was even payed to stay there, as long as he wrote something worth printing. It was all well enough, had he only been able to get some sleep. The past three nights had given him very little of that, and it was showing with the bags under his eyes. The dream, or nightmare you could call it, had gotten all the more frequent the past nights, not normal for Haakon. And the fact that he still remembered it so vividly troubled him. 

Haakon shook his head, trying to get those silly thoughts of his head. Of course it was just a dream, dreams didn't mean anything other than your mind playing tricks on you. The image of the ring - Egyptian of apperance - surely was just his mind remembering one of the many merchandises he saw the street-vendors selling. He poured himself a glass of water, surely he needed something to drink and some fresh air after having spent the whole day inside. Haakon looked outside the window, watching Opera Square buzzling with passing cars and carts as he realized it was already time for dinner. [Color=DF0101]"Vel, en sulten journalist er en dårlig journalist." [/color]

He grabbed his satchel from the edge of his bed, opening it to see if everything was still there; it was, his pencils, wallet, camera and notepad. As he closed it, his eyes briefly caught sight of what he'd drawn on his notepad; the ring he'd seen in his dreams. But then it was gone again, buried in the satchel slung over his shoulder as he grabbed his iconic fedora and exited his room. With a clunk, he locked the door behind him and made his way to the reception, hoping for directions to a respectable, but cheap restaurant.