She was dreaming of this. It was between the early morning light of deep sleep and lazy wakening. It must have been true. She pedaled down a sunny dirt road. There were many dead snakes squished by other rickshaws along the bumpy way. Her Mother held the map and described the directions to the Pavilions. Each road she turned down became more and more dense with black green brush; canopied by tall trees that stretched to the heavens. She became fearful of the dark lanes and turned back to the road that was sun bleached. It was not like her to be afraid, of anything. Her Mother remained calm and ran her fingers across the sketch of Marrakech. It took hours; seemed like days going up and down many streets. (yet the dream was but a minute of magic.) Each one, the wrong way. In frustration she awoke, having never arrived at the guest house. Exhausted. Heated. It must have been true. Yes, she is sure it was. 'What does it mean?', she thought as she tucked her feet inside the slippers that waited by her bed.