I grew up with two different winters.
Some winters, we would camp out in the desert. With no mosque for miles, my uncle would call the adhan at the break of dawn, the scent of qahwa wafting in the cold air of the morning. I was four years old, stuffing my pockets with dates, I asked why the falcon’s eyes had to be covered and my father chuckled, the bass of his voice shaking the red sand beneath his feet, “He is saving his eyes for later, as you should be saving your appetite for later as well”. Although, we never ate any of the game. We would give them to the Bedouins that lived near our campsite, my grandfather whispering blessings to them before leaving.
Some winters, we would be vacationing in Courchevel, in a quaint log cabin near the Raffort run in the Meribel valley. Miles from home, our mornings started mostly the same way, with my uncle calling the adhan, my mother making qahwa in the kitchen filling the cabin with the warm scent of home. Some mornings, I would wake up, half-expecting a falcon to be perched by the fireplace. Some mornings, I would set my feet down from the bed, and I swear, I could almost feel the sand on my toes.
Private Collection ‘Sand Walker,’ born of the desert, created for the world. Meticulously hand-crafted in Italy by masterful artisans. Limited collection in crocodile and python in a variety of colors.
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