the majestic Nile greets us as we try to run away from another bubble, another glass castle, but is what has allowed us to get here, we are bored in their dull monotony. We crossed it and seven more walls that separate us from the cold night and the smell of the river, so full of magic, trying to cleanse under the crescent moon that illuminates through some ancient ruins.
All we want is to feel the heartbeat of the city, breathe deeply the breath of the streets and the sound of its people. It opens the door slowly, not without difficulty, to get into the fortress, as a convoy of foreigners who are greedy and they are looked down at the same time, but who slowly discover them as equals, while we take off masks and dark heavy veils.
then unknown melodies are heard from a dark alley of the bazaar. As we approached, the shadows are hundreds of hands that drag us into the center of the hubbub, swirling about our dances and screams that frighten us and stun us. It was not until we open our eyes, no eyelids, but my mind's eye, we found that their songs were cries of joy and dance an invitation to life, driven primarily by the unstoppable force that rained sincere smiles with momentum on our skin.
When we posed this cascade back to the edge of our thoughts, we let ourselves be entranced by the power of the bazaar, we drew up a new bank, where we left as shells on the Sandy, expectant and anxious. It is then when a man of dark complexion, beard finely cut and big ears, wearing a clear Galabeya and a white turban. His eyes, large and black as ebony, as expressive as the ablest of the speakers, forcing us to stay.
His name is Ali and is an artist. He says his specialty is sculpture in stone, but quickly understood that what sculpt is nothing for himself that night, which includes fellow members to wrap them gently in their words and shape them with laughter and surprises. His game is to enlighten and dazzle with its evocation of the magical and mystical. It is an excellent player, and we are blessed to be pieces in the board.
invites us to tea in the middle of a dark and dusty alley, those in which we would never find in our own land, but there in the middle of magic, becomes the perfect setting for a session of stories. Without further ado, the heat of the tea began to unravel and tell their world ours.
of nowhere, he could read our thoughts and our lives, always rightly, as a guess we loved her voice. Their games of words and gestures were always accompanied large puffs of white smoke that gave a still more mystical halo, while in the air by fiddling figures and moving his hands like snakes, so docile and tame us under his voice. With her performance time and only ate when he had satisfied him, he let us go, into believing it was our decision to leave, and disappeared.
Even today we do not know if that night was real or was it a momentary input to watch in Scheherazade, in which a story begins in the middle of another, and is interwoven with the characters most fantastic situations and more common. We do not know, but all understood that that night had taken a step outside our world, that under these stars a window ran her veil and let us see other souls with different eyes. Now spend hours waiting for that desert wind brings us back these aromas, to unveil secrets and whispers legends. Still waiting.
