“One of these days I’m going to find myself in Mecca,” she said, “standing in front of the ka’bala, and I want to do it sooner instead of later, when I’m still fresh enough to know what Hajj is about, but the thing is, I’m one of those screw-ball Muslims who feels like it’s not just a matter of walking up to the stone; it’s a matter of what you bring with you. Where you come from. What you are. And as far as those last two are concerned, the only identity I can claim is ‘Muslim from Astoria.’ Call me crazy, but that’s not enough for me. I’m also an American, from America. And it occurred to me after speaking with you yesterday that I –”
She stopped again for breath.
God, thought Dig. She’s really talking fast.
“ – it occurred to me that I have no idea what that means. And I want to know, Dig! I’ve been living in this country for twenty-one years and this right here is the farthest I’ve been from New York. I want to know America! Whether I love it or hate it I want to know what it is! In Saudi Arabia when they come at me with their cheap-shot America bashing, I want to be able to bash them back; something informed and knowledgeable that will blow all their preconceived notions out the window. And what better place to kick off my education than the American South, traveling with a man I can trust, who respects my right to prayer, and knows enough about my faith to not start harassing me about why I don’t believe in Jesus?!”
She raised her head and caught his gaze.
“You know we believe in him, right?” she said.
“Yes,” said Dig. He tried to steal the moment, to interject something that exceeded a syllable in length, but before he could do so she was off and running again.
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