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But my elected haven wasn't a mecca for eating or praying.Instead, I chose to relocate with my two young sons to a country in turmoil, arriving on the bloodiest day in its modern history. 14, 2013, the day Egyptian forces killed more than 700 civilian demonstrators — including a British journalist who had been a guest at a dinner party I'd thrown — I moved to Egypt.When I step back and take an objective look at us — he's 26, I'm 48 — I think I must look ridiculous.
There was something between us that transcended logic.
We met the following week, and I spilled the tale of my failed marriage. It was under renovation, but we snuck into a dark conference room to admire the stunning Nile view … It was a great kiss — until a security guard pointed his massive flashlight at us and shooed us away.
The last time that had happened to me, I'd been in the back of my high school boyfriend's car. A few days after our kiss, he said he considered us a couple, and a week later, he told me he loved me.
I'm well aware that one day he may want children and that living with two kids who aren't his might become more than he wants to deal with.
But over the 10 months we've been together, his assurances have quieted my neuroses.
I'd met my former husband in the then-Soviet Moscow, where I'd moved from Paris in search of a job in journalism. In Cairo — I was working on a book about Egypt, so moving there seemed the logical choice — I found strange comfort in the upheaval.