Yesterday.
If it weren’t for the prayer broadcast from the minarets five times a day, I would have thought that we were mixing with the holiday crowds on the coast of France. I’ve given up trying to exchange pleasantries in Arabic; the lingua Franca in Essaouira is French. And it seems like there’s a crepes vendor every twenty feet. When it comes to dessert selection, invariably it’s between different kinds of crepes. From pomegranate seeds mixed with kiwi to orange blossom cake, I’ve had Moroccan desserts that have been divine, but crepes aren’t one of them. I can just see the family in America where the parents say to their kids, “Hey, now that we’re done with dinner, what do you say we go to The Pancake House for a treat?”
(“Sir Ali!” “Whoa! Watch it, dg!” You stopped suddenly.” “Whispering in my ear is one thing, but following me…. “I love a medina that allows bike traffic.” “You’ve just upgraded yourself from being creepy to being dangerous.” “At least I’m not degrading myself with blatant Francophobia.” “Just because I don’t like crepes!” “Not even for breakfast?” “No!” Ella turns to me, “Would you keep your voice down? People are going to think you’re insane.”)
So this morning we had breakfast on the rooftop of our Villa. We also had rooftop breakfasts in Tagazhout and Fes. Ground level seems not to be something that is promoted for guests visiting Morocco. It’s that guard tower fortress thing; they want us to feel less vulnerable. (“Or maybe, Sir Ali, my paranoid pasha, they want you to enjoy the ocean view.” “What they want—and I’m thinking of all the men crowding the cafes—is us out of view.” “Can you blame them? How many of the tourists you’ve seen today roaming the streets look good in shorts? If ever there was a case for mandatory djellabas…”)
Yesterday we explored the west side of the Medina. This morning we walked around the east side past the array of stall-size shops airing out their colorful goods. At the outer edge we came across a small synagogue blending in with a block of nondescript warehouses. A guard posted outside pointed us to a dark passageway that led inside. Nothing vaulted or dramatic, it was built for intimate worship that had a hushed sense of sanctity for being closed off from the world.
And the world outside was as lively as ever with delivery carts pushing through the growing stream of browsing tourists. We followed the outer wall of the Medina back to the Ba sbaa gate, restocked on dirhams, then ventured forth once again down the promenade by the beach. What can I say? I’m a sucker for walks by water. This time we made it to where the camel rides were being offered which is a favorite spot for the kite surfers to launch. Those kite surfers! Another youthful display of graceful prowess with a emphasis on upper body strength. And me feeling fortunate at my age to be able to swing a golf club.
Just identifying with all that action was enough to work up an appetite for shawarma. In the middle of the Medina I knew there was a cafe…. We found it—where else?—across from a line of crepes stalls.
On our way back to our Villa, I tried to capture more examples of the ice cream crisis.
I’m sorry, but what is a beach without an ice cream vendor? A baseball game without beer, a movie without popcorn, a rock concert without…