A petite, middle-aged, dark-skinned woman ran toward Samas as we stepped out of the terminal into the hot, dry Moroccan air. She was engulfed in the embrace of his large arms and he picked her up effortlessly.

"Mmmm, It's good to see you," he said, clutching her to him like a doll.

"I missed you Ha-bebe." She nuzzled her head in the nape of his thick neck. She spoke English with a British accent.

"Zohra darling, this is Evan Michaels," he said, placing her down and turning her toward me. She was beautiful. Her facial features were uncharacteristically soft for an Arab. The brown skin of her face seemed to fade into her black hair and dark eyes. The few long grey hairs sparsely intermingled with the raven black gave her a look of veneration usually reserved for men. She carried herself confidently, holding eye contact with me as she took my hand firmly.

"Samas told me about you on the phone. You are exactly as he described. My name is Zohra. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you for having me."

"The car is over here, shall we go?"

"Please," said Samas.

"Are you hungry Ha-bebe."

"I'm always hungry for your cooking.

"I'll take care of you," she said looking at him warmly.

She drove the white jeep down the narrow two-lane highway that bordered the craggy coast. I sat in the back seat looking at both of them. He was so different from Poppy I wouldn't have recognized them as being the same thing had I not known. Poppy lived in the self-imposed exile of her church, with the bolts on the insides of the doors. Samas lived like a popular general, always in the field among his troops. I liked his life, even though it made it clear to me that my own was closer to Poppy's.

"There it is," he said, pointing to a large house nestled down by a small sandy beach. The white stucco glowed in the bright sun. It went out of view when she turned off onto a gravel road that wound toward the coast. The scent of the ocean was strong in the air. Two great Danes, one black, one black and white spotted, scampered up the road toward us. Zohra shouted something to them in her native Moroccan.

"I'll get dinner started while you show Evan around," she said pulling up behind the two-story home.

Their home looked like a museum inside. Every few feet a white pedestal held up a piece of the past. Greek, Roman, Egyptian and Chinese artifacts rested under square protective glass covers. Numerous framed charcoal sketches covered the walls. Traditional furnishings were sparse, almost to the point of being Spartan. All of my attention was drawn to the ubiquitous art and artifacts. Perhaps it was designed that way.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked.

"I had this place built 13 years ago, around the same time I married Zohra."