Mommy and I spent a lot of time alone or together in
the medina in Rabat. Many a morning, an afternoon I spent wandering local medinas
discreetly watching women paint henna designs on their hands and feet
chattering with each other oblivious to everyone passing by about an upcoming
wedding, and the prospect of marriage. Mules, and beggars, tourists, families
were common to the medina. The stench of tanneries in Fez, or the mellow sense
of place in Rabat, or the frantic energies of Tangier, and the dizziness of
Marrakech’s medina could produce within you in one day were always the place
women engaged in something mysterious and aloof from the things men liked to
believe about women. - Gregory E. Woods, Keeper of Stories 3.9.13
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