There is an inherent problem in my being here, in Agadir, a town on the coast of central Morocco, to cover and participate in a literary conference. The theme of the conference is space and I am not from this place, have never been to this part of the world, and do not speak the language spoken here, my tongue unable to articulate, my mind unable to decipher, the fluid warblings of Arabic.
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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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At the Literary Conference in Agadir, Harriet Alida Lye discussed mathematics and the revolution with renowned Egyptian novelist Ibrahim Abdel-Meguid. Instead of saying at that time, or long ago, Abdel-Meguid says “once a day.” As we were walking along La Corniche with the group, he said to me “once a day, I fell in love.
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