EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJune
17, 1999
Fez, Morocco
The Polite Thing To Do
It’s a hop, skip and a jump from the shower to our room. The hallway’s dim
– lit only by a window within a stained-glass window, seeping light from a courtyard
of studying tourists. After washing away the sweat, Rich and I wrap up in our towels and
step into our shoes and gather our rumpled clothing. I’m ahead of him as he gathers
the soap dish.
Now I’m in the hall, fiddling with an ancient key that’s far too skinny for
the soft, cedar lock. I’m counting the seconds in my head as I fiddle and fumble with
the lock.
Next thing, a man, a businessman, closes the door to his room and stands at the end of
the hall for a moment. He turns and catches me there, towel, shoes, dripping, fiddling. I
know he’s there and turn my head anyway -- and smile. He shifts his weight as though
to get comfortable, leaning a bit on the door behind him.
Click. The lock gives and the door opens and blond, foreign, western Rich comes up
behind me in time to disclose my status in a country where women, dripping and wrapped in
towels in hotel hallways are looked upon in only certain terms.
