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countries I've visited, that truly lives up to the word magical. Morocco is a magical mystery tour. It draws you in , unexpectedly, before you realize. wha t is happening. r arrived by sea, on the ferry across the Straits of Gibraltar to Tangier. From my first step on the Afi·ican continent, r knew it was a transformative place. The farther into the country you explore, the more pow- erfully M.orocco's magical force exerts itself upon you. Deeper into the mountains, r fe lt the sand dunes calling me. Intoxicating. Then YOll catch yourself. . . don't get too intoxicated, you could overdose. I had never known what an epiphany was until Morocco. I knew the definition, but in Morocco I experi- enced it. A vision came to me in the desert. I saw myself in a crazy, busy Asian city. I saw it so clearly. As I had never been to Asia, I assumed it was Tokyo. The message of this vision was: The attractive allure of the Moroccan desert was too tranquil. I could enjoy my stay, but I had to leave. The peaceful, hypnotic power of Morocco is deep, like sleep, like death. I should not come back to Morocco until I was ready to die. I knew I had to· go to the other end of the spectrum: to Asia. To hyperproductiviry, to energy-driven life. [After my return I began to stucry Japanese and planned to go-until that plan's enthusiasm wore off.· A year later a chance opportunity to go to Hong Kong arose. \'(Ihen I landed in Hong KOJlg, [ recognized the city of 112y epiphany. Later when [ visited Tokyo, it Loolud nothing Like it). My most vivid memory of Morocco is the Sahara Desert, outside of Marrakech. I arrived before daybreak to see the sunrise. In the book The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint.-Exupery, a pilot's plane crashes in the desert. It is rumored this occurred right there at the Spot where I was now standing. The tale goes that the pilot befriends a lit tl e prince who teaches him to lose his cynicism and see beamy in the world-the beau- ty of fr iendship. I believe in this story. The storytelling power and friendship of a magical prince could easily be mistaken for that of a nomadic Moroccan boy. I met a group of young Moroccan nomads that morning on the top of the sand dunes. I asked one of them, "What is it like, living our here in the desert?" "My li fe is beautifu!''' he told me. "Every day, I wake up and watch the sunrise, then I go home to rest, then I come to watch the sun set. That is my life ... What do you do in your world?" As the sun rose, he oH"ered me his hand. Together we ran down a mOllntain of sand, which seemed as long and steep as a ski slope. It felt like flying . .. smiling. '/!;/JIj/ . '7:0;,'/('/' Editor-in-Chief IS one of a very select few