I love Moroccans, really, no matter what some of them may say about the others. There is a quality I can't quite place, a handsomeness I suppose, not in the features, but that too. What I mean is a handsomeness of character, along with something like resignation to being a third-world country, to being stuck with the world's hand-me-downs and cast-off dreams. Still, there is an easygoing quality about this which, when coupled with their nobility and understated pride, is really quite charming. I'm afraid of these Moroccans, because they have so much more than me. Layers of paradox give their lives a richness and depth that mine can't hope to attain, yet they are nice enough to like me anyway, dimly flickering star that I am. At least I came here to sit with them, eat their scrawny chickens, eat the bread they've trod with their dirty feet if what Jamal told me is true, and drink their coffee which is as good as any, rather than simply sending my image to them through the television. I think I've got it now. Some Moroccans have an elfin quality, though this isn't immediately apparent in their bony features. One could say they are downtrodden elves. If the meek really will inherit the earth, then surely one day the Moroccans will win out over everyone, which I suppose is why their country has the feel of one huge waiting room.