On Moroccan Winter Nights, a Traveler (First in a Series)
For the holidays, we went on a vacation in Morocco — my first time in the country and the African continent.
In Marrakech
We left our flat at Montpellier around 10 am, after B had gone to the doctor for a last-minute checkup (rhinopharyngitis, apparently.) I rushed to Café Marie, the boulangerie downstairs our flat, to buy a baguette for my packed lunch. The baguette at this boulangerie is nothing like Maison Bonnaire's but I'd rather this than airline food.
We flew on Transavia, the first time I've taken this airline ever. The flight was a few minutes short of three hours — not so bad versus getting stuck in Christmas rush hour from Makati to QC. (I was in the middle seat and I thought it was still better than losing my mind in traffic.) We downloaded the new season of Emily in Paris and passed the time watching in sync, using our own phones.
A warm breeze welcomed us as we got out of the plane. We've finally arrived in Marrakech, my first time in this city, this country, and this continent. This was how I expected winter to be in the south of France, having been told that the climate in the southern region was way more pleasant than the Parisian frostbite during this season. A few days ago, the temperature in Montpellier had dropped to zero, and I wanted to camp beside the radiator and hoard of all the warmth.
We couldn't find the car that was supposed to pick us up, and B and I had an argument as we waited outside the Marrakech airport. A fight was brewing: the annoyance of long immigration lines, B being sick, me being frustrated at comprehending instructions from airport staff. As it turned out the driver who was supposed to pick us up didn't arrive, and another driver had been dispatched. But it was too late, fuses had shorted, we snapped at each other at the parking lot outside the airport.
The driver finally arrived and took us to the heart of the Medina, where our Airbnb was conveniently located. On the way, he happily dispensed unsolicited advice, such as: be careful with motorbikes and there are a lot of scammers. He also asked if I spoke French, to which I replied: "Je ne parle pas bien, mais je comprends un petit peu."
"Sorry I don't speak English," he apologized in perfect English.
On our first night, we had dinner at Le Jardin, a fancy restaurant a few minutes' walk away from our Airbnb. The waiter seated us at a table under a tree. It wasn't the best seat in the restaurant but was the best she could do as we didn't have reservations. We didn't mind.
B ordered a mezze platter and avocado toast, which we wolfed down while waiting for the main dish: the best couscous vegetable stew we've had, served on traditional cookware. Midway while eating we jumped back as we saw a large insect dive past our food. It turned out to be just a leaf falling from the tree.
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The sun was high up in the sky. At the rooftop of Koulchi Zine restaurant, I looked at the bee as they buzzed around the plate of vegan meatballs, part of our late lunch. I thought about the orange trees that lined the sidewalks, the fruits hanging from the branches unminded by passersby. B said the sidewalk oranges were usually bitter — he had tried some in Seville with some friends and they hated the disgusting taste it left in their mouths.
Maybe the bee was tired of bad-tasting orange flowers too. Maybe they're responsible for the bad-tasting oranges. They're the pollinators and they messed up the breeding process along the way. Maybe some of the bees have acquired a taste, like how I'd enjoyed my black coffee moments ago, without sugar.
"You can't expect good coffee here because they don't have a coffee culture," B said, during breakfast earlier this morning, served by Fatima, the Airbnb caretaker.
"If they have coffee shops then they have a coffee culture," I argued. "Just because something is not mainstream doesn't mean that the culture doesn't exist. It's there, bubbling underneath, just not enough to rise to the surface."
I don't even know if B was just purposely ribbing me to get me riled up into a debate. But I think he's seriously wrong. We went to a café near the plaza and they served me café épicé—freshly-brewed coffee with star anise and cardamom, with a faint hint of ginger and black pepper. It was the first time I've tasted coffee like this, here in Morocco. My argument holds.
It's often said that cities assault your senses, each city a melange of various unique sensory experiences. I'm keenly interested in the distinct smell a city exudes. For example: Beijing, in zero degrees, has a sharp, spicy crispness. Bali smells like cloves and palm oil. Marrakech had notes of santal and burning sage, and sometimes that sweet, sickly scent of gasoline, that toxic, heady feeling I used to get off on when we'd fill up our car at the expressway during long road trips.