My cowardly side struck this morning. The crazy Moroccan radio/Spanish journalist with whom I spent all day yesterday in the square, interviewing women and actors and protesters, who was supposed to move into my hotel room today, to share the inflated $250/night cost, and whose name I still don't know, was arrested by police this morning.
I had wanted to go down to the square to see a Christian Mass, it was a brilliant, sunny day. So I texted my friend. No reply. But her English is not so good, so I figured she didn't have the time to text back. I called several times, no reply. Then finally I got through. Police sirens filled the phone. "Are you in the square? I shouted. "What's going on?"; "I am with the police. They have arrested me," she shouted back.
And then the phone went dead. I tried calling back several times, but no answer. I don't even know her name.
I decided the square could wait this morning, and I would work on a story back at the hotel.
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