Friday.

Sacred day.

Wind and dust in the village.

The motionless sensation.

The warm rays of the sun light up a gaze. Our eyes rest on each other, in unison.

Egyptian. We introduce ourselves shaking our hands, with profound respet. Fifty more or less, I remember his eyes: they were smiling eyes. With a clear voice, he describe aspect of religion, his and mine; he gives me hospitality with great naturalness. First of all, we stop in front of a shop that sells fruit and fresh beverages. He enters the shop, I wait on the threshold. He holds a blue bag in his right hand. As he opens the door, many anxieties about the outcome of the meeting get mixed up with curiosity. He welcome me, his guest, with kind gestures. It was like if, for a moment, I sat in the confusion of his life.

Silences, a solitude, a wait.

Looking for a more comfortable seat, I examinated that mediocre flat, so small in his dimensions, real. It had a small terrace looking out to sea. In the room there was a television, some books and the Sultan's portrait. I just wished for theirs habits, ignoring those preconceived ideas that my own world handed on me through a sneaky contamination. Ideas that sneak into yourself, without asking and without the possibility of resistance.

Suddenly I smiled at his generosity. Bowls of fruit: apples, bananas and dates. Fresh fruit looking appetising.

The simplicity of that gift was unexpected. Attentions never lived before, foreign to the customs and consuetudes of my own country. We chat for a while, speaking about our selves and comparing, sometimes, our worlds. The pleasure of perceiving time passing slowly and the pleasure of the smell of dates on my fingers.

We greeted each other, with respect. I hold a blue bag in my right hand. It was the meal he cooked for me.

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