It happened in Morocco.

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He's a short older Arab man with a long grey beard and

a twinkle in his eyes.  He's wearing a traditional white robe. He is animated, waving his arms around, his voice changing pitch, volume, and speed.

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A crowd has gathered around him in the busy marketplace.

They are listening intently, with smiles on their faces.

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It's all in Arabic, a language I don't speak at all.  But I can tell by the way

he moves and by how captivated his audience is that he's a master.

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The story builds, reaching a climax, and then, suddenly, he stops.  

He looks at the ground where there is a small brass pot.  

The young Arab men listening all reach into their pockets for bills and coins, and place them in the pot.

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The old man watches.  When he is satisfied with the amount, only then does he continue the story. 

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In that moment, I decided to become a storyteller.