On friday, a Kurdish refugee told me the story of Kawa the Blacksmith and his defeat of Zahhak.
He was reluctant. Embarrassed. He kept stumbling over details. It's such a common story, I think it seemed odd to him that anyone would want to hear it.
By the end he was grinning. A faint twinge of pride. I had to leave, and he took my wrist and said, "Listen, I have tens of these stories. My father had hundreds. I can tell you another one next time, if you'd like?"
It was one of those moments where it feels like your whole life is going in the direction you want it to.