#145
We walked out of the gate and the air changed from charcoal and bar-b-qued meat to diesel engine exhaust. The plaza was where you loitered. Waited. The bus station was to the right, I remember that now. It looked busy. A few vendors had set up their carts selling flatbread and juice.
How to understand this place. The history seems to stretch so far back that it comes around again to the present, one day forward, one day in reverse. Donkeys pull carts down the streets where Mercedes drive tourists to luxury hotels.
Dusty corners.
“It's not what I expected”, she said.
“I know. What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure”.
We ordered coffee and lemon juice. This cafe became our morning spot for people-watching. The plaza was busy with locals selling all kinds of things. Some ladies just across from our table offered wool hats for €1. Bargain.
It really felt like we had ruined something. That by being there we were taking something away from the "real" Morocco. That after all the tourists went to bed, the real Morocco resurfaced, just until morning when the sun peaked again over the desert. Don't know why.
“Coffee's good”, I said.
“I can get enough of this juice”, she replied.