Description
The Floating Diamond of Tangier
The humidity in Tangier’s Grand Socco was heavy enough to slow a man’s pulse. I was sitting under a canvas awning, letting a copper pot of mint tea grow cold, when a boy with eyes like obsidian tapped my linen sleeve.
He didn’t speak. He just pointed toward the back of a spice stall smelling of crushed cumin and old wool.
There, tucked between a stack of faded kilim rugs and an antique brass sextant, sat a velvet box warped by ocean air. Inside was this watch.
It wasn’t a standard timepiece meant for ticking off the hours of a tedious desk job. It was something from an era when travel required a steamer trunk and a passport stamped in ink. The center dial was black as a midnight sea, surrounded by a ring of brilliant, flashing fire. But it was the channel between the glass that stopped me. Three loose, unyielding crystals rolled lazily around the dial with every tilt of my wrist, mimicking the motion of a yacht cutting through the Mediterranean.
It had that unmistakable, playful audacity of Kate Spade New York—a piece designed for a woman who breaks hearts in Paris and misses her flight to Milan just to see how the story ends.
I traded a vintage fountain pen and two crisp twenty-dollar bills for it. It’s been ticking perfectly ever since.
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