I was born in Europe, but I learned early that a year could have two different suns.
The pale one that slips away too soon in winter, and the heavy one of Egyptian summers, where even the shadows feel warm.

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Luxor is still somewhere in me; the call to prayer carried on hot wind, Oum Kulthum’s voice spilling from open windows, the taste of mango bought on the street, the slow afternoons when everything holds its breath.

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French was my first language. English came next, precise but softer in my mouth, then Spanish, quick and bright. Arabic is scattered through my life like small treasures; in music, in prayer, in the words I keep for myself. Russian came later, hesitant at first, and still moves through me like an unfamiliar song I’m learning to hum.

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I’ve lived between cultures long enough to be at ease anywhere, whether it’s a candlelit dinner in London’s Mayfair, a gallery afternoon in Paris, a weekend in Dubai where the desert meets the horizon, or a slow evening aboard a private yacht anchored under moonlight. I carry the sensibility of a high-class Middle Eastern companion: a taste for refinement, an instinct for intimacy, and a way of making the hours feel unmeasured.

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Some evenings are meant for wine and conversation. Others for the quiet of a private library, the weight of a book resting in my lap. In both, there’s the same sense of being exactly where I should be and the ease that makes time feel less urgent.

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When I’m with someone, the rest of the world falls away. A table, a conversation, a glance that lasts longer than it should. The best moments never try to announce themselves. They pass between words; in the shift of a voice, in the way two people can sit without speaking and still feel understood.