“Big man like you?” My stomach protested its emptiness. “No more?” the man asked, palms spread, disappointment evident. This place, incredible to think of it, is a short flight from Gatwick. You might even have been drawn to the stand next door, where men sit hunched over the severed heads of sheep and feast on their brains. You would have asked for the strange dark meats, slathered with spices. Other women were jealous, I remember, of how much you could put away without ever growing plump. You would have chosen with bravery and recklessness, I am sure of it. I have a packet of Malted Milks in my suitcase. I pointed at what I was almost certain was chicken, and ate one skewer of that. I am a large, pale cuckoo in their midst: a clumsy, creased foreigner with his practical travel satchel, his comfortable shoes. There is the eating alone in the Big Square, feeling the curious stares. There are the boys who come after you, who grab at your clothing or even, on one occasion – God forbid – your hand, and ask, “Big Square?” The colours: the cones of spices, the glitter and gleam of brass, of sequin, the cheap dyed leather goods. But to step out into the street is to experience an almost physical assault of noise, of odours that range from intriguing to the absolutely foul. There is an ornamental pool, plants, breakfast served on a sunlit terrace, flatbread and oil, dark thick coffee. My hotel is a small rectangle of peace in the midst of it: a tranquil space open to the sky.
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