Sometimes, even when I know better, I'm convinced that when I want to get writing done, the thing to do is to focus, think, hammer away at it. When I can catch myself falling into that pattern, I know it's a cue to step away for a bit.
It happened just a little while ago, so I got up and walked from the Fine Arts library down Central Avenue to Sahara, for felafel and black tea with mint. I smiled when I approached Sahara and the silhouette of a camel and a sunset painted on the side of the building brought back an old memory of Egypt.
The first trip I took abroad was to Egypt, and was born from a commitment, after nearly dying in a fire, to really start living. I tried so many new things in Egypt, and one of those things was riding an Arabian horse. The horse was gorgeous, shiny brown, and we took off after a simple lesson in how to stop and go. I tried to keep up with my tour mates as they trotted across the wide open desert, but the horse I was on ran its own path, in wild circles, around and around in the sand.
I was at a total loss, and scared, when out from a cluster of rocks a man dressed in a turban and galabeya suddenly appeared. He wrangled the horse, calmed it down, and sent us on a straight path after the rest of the group and toward the Pyramids. As we rode away he called out,
"Where from?'
"America!," I shouted back.
"Amereecaaa!!," he yelled, with a toothless smile, as he waved goodbye. "Say hello to Cleenton!"
"...and don't forget Monicaa!," I heard, across the desert, as we galloped away.
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