Egyptian novelist Sahar Elmougy wears a bandana; the wild mane underneath is revealed when we arrive at the hammam. Her eyes are alive, alert. We disrobe calmly and wait on the bench with our towels and black mitts.
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June 2011
The crows came quietly again last evening. In the space between lightness and darkness when I sat alone in my study, I saw them like an oil slick in twilight pouring heavily across the sky. I wanted to tie them each down with red yarn and watch their bodies bobbing on currents.
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Flying over the Atlas Mountains, three thousand feet above Agadir, a man leans over and shows me his empty customs form.
“We must fill it in?” he asks, in choppy French.
“Yes,” I reply, punctiliously.
Atlas Mountains“Please,” he says, and puts his paper on my fold-out tray. I look at it, and look back at him blankly.
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