And the past month was something in a parallel universe: inexplicable, now just a memory I was trying to save, afraid its fragility would be shattered by London.
When we set off twelve days ago, I was scared. That people who hadn't met before wouldn't get along, that hotels would be full up, that we had no proper plan, just some good maps, a guide book, advice from friends and our own wishlists.
We landed in Fez and felt like colonial invaders - our plane was tiny on the tarmac and all around us, dusty flat plains with mountains tracing a faint line along the horizon. Unable to imagine the French, we leant on our imagination, shaped by films watched and books read, to imagine the English. We imagined Lawrence of Arabia and Casablanca.
---
Somewhere beyond the Bab Bou Jeloud (above) off a tiny winding lane, at a house that was dragged kicking and screaming into guesthouse status, Arjun negotiated with a high cheekboned Native American tout and a bulky middle aged landlord -who didn't lock the door of the subterranean loo he used- for a garish room with a large bed, a small bed, a couch and the use of two tiny shared bathrooms all the way up on the terrace. Sitting downstairs we heard screaming, silences, shuffling and a rush of activity as the bargaining adopted natural, universal rhythms: rise, fall - offer, persuasion, rejection.
Awkward downstairs we struck up conversation with the receptionist/general help, Omar. Asked what he was reading, Omar showed us a French book and then informed us (somewhat incongruous in the tiny dark room off a street in the old city) in English that: When you read you absorb power, but when you speak you give it away.
His reticence melted that night as we brought a bottle of wine home to kill a few hours before the night train to Marrakesh. He fiddled on his computer to find a music sourcing site and then regaled with music from across the world, attempting to please each of our tastes - guessing what we would like and then modifying genres slightly so he could hone in on it. We offered him wine sceptically but he accepted it, reminding us that this was 2007 and that Morocco had to "move forward". An hour later, after humming and singing to Amadou and Mariam, Bon Jovi, Whitney Houston, Khaled and Rachid Taha, Omar's wine lay untouched. "My heart hurts to drink it," he explained and so we took it back. The music was bond enough.
