In my younger and, lets say, more virile days, I began writing the first installment in a gay short story romance between a Filipino-American and a Turkish oil-wrestler. But as like so many things in life, that would-be masterpiece was left by the wayside.

Something of that time lingered and was rekindled while mapping out what to do in the southwest corner of Europe.

I am enamored, borderline infatuated, sometimes verging on obsessed, with Arabic culture, despite not knowing what exactly constitutes “Arabic”. The haunting timbre of the oud immediately conjures in my mind the dissipating heat of a setting sun, endless sand dunes stretching toward a distant horizon, dark olive-complected men huddled around a makeshift fire speaking in hushed voices, while above them a darkening cobalt firmament begins revealing tiny pinholes of light.

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