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was certain of it.
    One of the would-be guides stepped in front of me, blocking my way, and put his hand on my arm.
    â€œThis way,” he said forcefully in thickly accented English. “My taxi,” he insisted, yanking my arm, pulling me after him.
    I shook him off. “No. Leave me alone.”
    He stepped closer, his finger wagging in my face. “No need to be rude.” He spat as he said the words, and a droplet of saliva landed on my cheek.
    â€œI don’t need a taxi,” I said, trying to smooth things over, but it was too late. I’d offended him, and there was no getting around it.
    I moved forward, trying to get past him, but he blocked my way again. “Why so rude?” he asked, aggressively.
    Shaking my head, I tried to guess at the best answer. With the crowd of passengers flowing past us, I hardly imagined I could be in danger, but still, there seemed to be no way to shake the man, and I could feel a wave of panic moving up into my chest.
    I opened my mouth to say something when a voice spoke up in Arabic behind me. Sneering, my harasser spat out a response.
    â€œLeave her alone,” the voice said, in French now.
    I craned my head to see a funny little man in a long woolen overcoat and wraparound sunglasses with yellow lenses.
    Reluctantly, the guide stepped aside.
    â€œThank you,” I said to the overcoated man.
    â€œOf course.”
    I started forward again, and my strange savior fell in step beside me.
    â€œThey’re harmless,” he said, “but a nuisance. Especially during Ramadan. I don’t think it’s the food they miss so much as the cigarettes. People tend to get a little cranky by this time of day. Is this your first trip to Tangier?”
    I thought about the question for a moment. “Yes,” I said, taking in the man’s incongruous attire. The curved wooden handle of an umbrella was hooked over his right arm. His shoes were Nikes, bright orange with a metallic sheen. His features were Asian, but his English had an almost perfect British accent. “And you?”
    The little man shook his head. “I live here,” he said. “I’ve just been up to Spain for a few days.” He nodded toward his suitcase, a battered leather bag. “Stocking up on paints.”
    â€œYou’re an artist?”
    â€œYes. I’ve come from Japan. It’s my experiment, to find cultural isolation.” He had a delicate way of speaking, an air of intense deliberation to everything he said and did.
    I smiled. There was something childlike and vulnerable about the little man, something entirely unthreatening, amusing even. “Could you recommend a hotel?” I asked as we neared the port entrance. “Something relatively reasonable.”
    He thought for a moment. “There’s the Continental, of course. Abdesselom will take extremely good care of you.”
    â€œAbdesselom?”
    â€œThe manager,” the man explained. He looked down at his watch and furrowed his brow. “Of course the sun’s about to set. There’s not much to be done for the next hour or so.”
    â€œI can wait,” I said. “If you just point me in the right direction.”
    â€œIt’s not far.” He pointed toward the jumbled hillside of the Old City. “You see that pink building?”
    â€œYes,” I said, picking out the rose-colored facade.
    He wrinkled his nose and stopped walking for a moment. “I’m going for some dinner, if you’d like to join me. Then I can take you up there myself. I live just around the corner.”
    â€œOh, no,” I said. “I don’t want to trouble you.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble.” He smiled.
    I hesitated a moment. I didn’t relish the idea of making my way through the medina alone. Besides, the man seemed lonely, grateful for my company, and I was hungry. “Sure,” I agreed.
    He bowed stiffly at the waist, then held out