For trite the phrase might seem, I am writing it anyway --tonight in the hotel, last hours of unemployment -- the suq was like a dream, I thought I was imagining it, my fellow gardener in his twenties, never been souther than Bologna, eyes wide felt he was like in a movie. We walked into the mess in awe and silence. Everyone we passed staring at his huge earring, at our different faces, silly smiles, funny clothes. The houses white, and low, the small shops of the bazaar filled with colorful magic, faces of the thousand races of Salambo (a book I brought with me here, and now i see why) walking towards us, and music and smells of camel skin rotting in shapes of bags. And every tree we saw on the avenue worried us. The city all around us, did not worry me. Walking with me, not inhibited by the roaring traffic, in the fading day, etc.