Every night as I unwind and untangle myself to prepare for bed, I take off the day’s layers, the accumulated treasures of cheap beaded bracelets I got in Marrakech; my tossled shirts; my annoying coin change of dirhams dumped out on the table; my pantalons that our Berber guide, Alouk, wanted to buy from me in Merzouga at the flamingo lakes (I told him, “But then I would be naked.”); my sunglasses that Muhammad, the hotel clerk in Marrakech, wanted me to give him as a present and wore around the hotel while I was being rescued and harbored; the necklace my sister gave me a few years ago with a dangling, bent metal ornament that reads “Admired;” and my “lucky necklace” that my nephews made for me just before I left on this trip (as I pointed out Morocco on their rotating, glow-in-the-dark globe). It’s a piece of green string with a lime-green, quarter-sized button tied on. It keeps me safe from all harm.