Oh the tiles! Our grandmothers’
house. The beautiful hallway in the convent we visited, the lovely walls of that
mosque or church we passed by daily on the way to school. Tiles are patterns
where our remembrance still walks, a little like Proustian madeleines for us to
revisit and bathe in the splashy feisty colors they were made of. And dip them
in the tea such as Proust himself did.