1.28.2008

Ancie, protector of me


It’s Wednesday. The man next to me is playing his instrument, the Essaouira type Gnaowa guitar, and the man at the table is singing a song in Tashlheit, I think to me. Ancie, K's rusty dog, is here. I always thinks of Ancie being a girl. But he’s a he, the protector of me. If I’m not with K I’m with Ancie. Oops. Now I’m alone. Ancie ran off to the ocean.

The woman next to me has this straight blond hair down to the small of her back. Maybe she’s English but I don’t think so. She’s speaking English to Ancie, petting him. He decided to come back and watch over me. Yesterday I could feel the woman watching me while writing. I asked her for a lighter twice and the second time she gave it to me. She has on a maroon tank top dress with a tattoo on her breast, With her legs crossed, she holds her chin up very elegantly, smoking a cigarette with big silver rings on all her fingers.

I have all these people (tourists) telling me how surprised they are to find the people of Morocco wonderful, that what they read in the tour books is not their experience at all. It’s like the writers of these guides step off the boat in Tangier, have their first bad experience right off, which sets their whole tone, and their bad time is written down for the world to learn from.

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