Ice cream. Wherever we’ve gone so far, there seems to be a shortage. If it’s listed on the dessert menu, the waiter is quick to be apologetic. (Of course we have yet to see a waitress.) If indeed it appears, it is dripped in lacy swirls on pomegranate seeds, or cake. The markets lack ice cream vendors. (Ella says “Sorry Jamie, I really tried to find the ice cream. Seems I’m stuck with Crepe Nutella for dessert “)
I remember attending an award banquet where Creamland Dairies was getting recognized for their marketing, and I thought, “How hard is it to push ice cream in the high desert?” It’s like selling vodka in Russia, or bicycles in Amsterdam.
Ella’s noticed that when we grab bottled water from a store cooler, it’s usually lukewarm, so there might be an energy cost for refrigeration. Or maybe the women we don’t see keep it from the men and enjoy it with their Negronis.
Ali picked us up at 10:30 and we made our way up the coast to Essaouria . The mile markers were made out of rock in the shape of headstones. (Dg grumbled, “Sir Ali, you better hope your name isn’t on one of them.” “Ali Baba bin Berzerki Al Buquerque?” “Al Buquerque should be sufficient.”)
Halfway there we passed through the Banana Valley looking a little sallow due to the drought, and a little smoky because someone thought it would be a good idea to light a fire and have everyone in a ten mile radius choke awhile.
And then it was acres of argan trees (in the US, argan oil is exotic and not cheap. The oil is high in Vitamin E, used for cooking, shampoo, cosmetics). Like the banana trees, they didn’t look like they were flourishing. Neither did the scrawny goats we saw, some actually climbing the trees for nourishment.
The one thing the stony ground is good for is providing ample material for fences, making good neighbors, and walls, making even better ones. Given the terrain, I could see why stoning might be a popular way of venting anger.
The dry rocky landscape vanished when we hit the coastal town of Essaouira. If Tagazhout has the seedy vibe of Venice Beech, Essaouira has the more upscale feel of Malibu. The Medina where we’re staying at the Villa Moroque is like an outdoor mall. But to plunge ourselves in the midst of old time Moroccan activity, we only had to step outside the western walls where the fishermen set up stalls with their daily catch.
To get the fish stench out of our nostrils, I suggested to Ella that we take a stroll on the promenade.
“What promenade? There’s no promenade.”
“Of course there is.” I point towards the beach. “Come on.”
Once the Master of Misdirection gets an idea into his head, there’s no shaking it loose, so I start threading my way through passengers at a bus stop.
“There’s not even a sidewalk there!” Ella objects.
(“I’m with Ella,” dg hisses, “you’re an ignoramus.”)
Oh, ye of little faith. The sidewalk grows wider and wider until: voila!
“That’s not a promenade.”
“Okay, it’s a sidewalk designed for military maneuvers. Whatever. Let’s see what it feels like to promenade in the refreshing seventy-five degree sea breeze and watch the hang gliders sweep along the water. Then we’ll turn back to our Villa where a feast awaits us.”
