[Mariam at the view point of the place where the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean. Tangier, Morocco. Photo is mine.]

It you see her, say hello

She might be in Tangier

She left here last early spring

Is livin’ there, I hear

~~ Bob Dylan

We’re at dinner in our hotel, The Royal Tulip. No other people, no couples, no families. Maybe the restaurant on the second floor draws diners away…it certainly isn’t the food which we find very good. Very possibly the cause could be the background music. It’s quiet. Low. And it consists of the shortest audio loop I have ever heard. Best guess is 8.7 seconds. Then the insipid melody begins again. I hope they keep the knives away from me, because I’m likely to cut my wrists to put an end to listening to it. Don’t misunderstand. The hotel is excellent. Clean and modern. It’s just the person who chose the tape that I have an issue with. Rest of it? 4 stars from me.

So we eat in silence, sort of. Now I have the chance to think about what I’ve seen in the last few hours on a tour of this city.

The flight from Paris was pleasingly brief, less than three hours. That’s a big plus for me because the Jet Blue flight from JFK to Paris was downright dreadful. I love Blue, but my legs and body clearly did not.

We deplaned onto the tarmac. The air was warm and thick with moisture. Sort of like Florida in August. We met Kamal and our immersion began. We drove around to various viewpoints to look at Europe, eight miles away. But, for me anyway, the real adventure began when we entered the Casbah and headed for the Medina.

I found myself in another world. Tiny shops. Old men sewing. Stitching. Women in Burqas sitting silently in the shadows, selling figs. The children flying by on scooters. Tourists looking dazed and couples looking very much in love. We pass through their world, it’s quiet chaos. An energy that does not sound like a middle school at recess. But it seems like it should be noisier. I don’t know which way to turn. What to look at? Where can I sit and rest?

Most people, a mix of residents and tourists, walk and look. But not me. I want to taste the little finger of a brown candy, smell the incense, eat a date, feel the pile of soap that sits in a tub like uber-thick honey, but darker, browner. I put my finger into a heap of green henna. I lean over to smell the Verbana, the yellow spices, the red ones and the black ones.

I’m suffering from sensory overload. My back hurts and it’s getting darker in the narrow passageways.

There will be more souks in the days to come. At the end of the trip, the medina in Marrakesh is legendary. I can’t wait.

We exit onto a busy street, pedestrians fighting cars and motor scooters. I recall a dream I had about thirty years ago. I had done this before. In my dream. Almost the exact scene plays out once again as it did before. It’s very curious.

Down the steps to the courtyard of the Hotel Continental. I look out over the harbor.

The Full Moon is high in the sky.

Tomorrow we drive south.

[I capture Mariam unawares as I snap photos. Photo is mine.]

[A shop of fine wood designs. Photo is mine.]

[An Angel’s Trumpet tree. Photo is mine.]

[The Full Moon over the harbor of Tangier. Photo is mine.]

[An extra bonus. At one of the stops on our tour, we found a small park where some men were playing music and dancing. Video is mine.]