"I work...to travel," the man behind the counter says in careful English, spreading his hands to gesture at the narrow confines of the convenience store. Then he tells me a little about his travels - to Mali and Niger, to West and North Africa, to Europe. He reels off a list of languages he speaks: English, French, Arabic, Berber, Italian...

For several days now I've been coming to his store and picking my way through the cramped shelves of Cup O'Noodles and household cleaning products to the dark back corner, where a couple of ancient PCs let me connect (veeeery... sloooowly...) to the internet for $2 per hour.

Of course, I rarely get to spend a full hour at a time on the computers at the store, because it opens and closes - randomly, to my eye - throughout the day. Only someone familiar with the cyclical Muslim prayer schedule would be able to accurately predict when the store will be open for business - and that someone ain't me. All week, I try not to let my frustration show as, again and again, I am politely asked to wrap up what I'm doing and come back later.

On my last visit, the man behind the counter decides to strike up a conversation. This is how we come to be trading travel stories.

"What do you do?" He asks. He seems to be looking for, or expecting, a particular answer.

"I'm a writer," I say, a little puzzled.

"What kind of writer?" He asks, leaning in, still expectant.

"A travel writer," I say, and he leans back, exhales, looking pleased.

"I love to travel," he says. "Where have you been traveling?"

I tell him that I've spent the most time in England, and Malaysia. He looks even more pleased. "So you know a little about Islam?" A little, I allow. I tell him about being in Istanbul for Ramadan a couple years back. That's when he says, "I work... to travel," and tells me about his adventures.

"I knew..." he says, searching for the words. "I sensed something... We are..."

The words he is looking for are "kindred spirits".