It's always the same. I'm in the Khan el Khalili in Cairo. I pass the jewelry stores with their strands of shiny new gold.
I then walk by the vendors of belly dancer costumes.
And say no thank you to the men selling the copper pots.
And smile at the vendors of spices and dried hibiscus flowers and tell them I'll be back another day.
Because the only stores I go into are those filled with old junk.
Or perhaps it's treasure. Yes, treasure.
I'm looking for the images of those who lived long before. Some known. Others nameless.
I'll buy that one, I say. And that one and that one. I'll buy their memories in the Khan el Khalili.
Never forgotten. No, no, never forgotten.