ebla

Hot Camel Flies

It is hot. The breeze blowing across the Mesopotamian plain carries no refreshment, only dust.

I do what comes naturally in this part of the world: I recline in the shade of a goat-hair tent and sip hot çay. The tea is served in a tulip glass lacking a handle, so I sip carefully but quickly. I hang on the rim to avoid burning my fingers. My companions do the same. The glasses dance.