Maybe it was a loud and annoying Arabic MTv commercial (genre: "Pimp my camel" in lieu of "pimp my ride"), or maybe it was the vocal protests of three disgruntled stomachs that did it, but around 6 p.m. the three of us woke up. Outside it must've cooled all the way down to about 100 degrees F, but a thick layer of tall hibiscus bushes mercifully shaded the sides of the building.
Jay, always pleasant, volunteered to pull a Julia Childs and offered to "make us a meal".
For Jay, this meant: I will make an omelette and we will eat it and you will say "mmmmmmmmm...thanks!"
However the physical manoeuvers of this operation entail an exorbitant amount of butter in proportions approximating 1 to 1 with the eggs, so though tasty and filling, I (who remained blissfully ignorant of the preparation of our repast) received a sharp kick in the shin under the table when I was about the get seconds. Smiling Jay went to help himself to another heart attack whilst my hubby whispered over his half-eaten plate of eggs: "you have no idea how much butter he put in that pan!"
I switched to toast and fruit. Jay might do well to actually watch a Julia Childs show. Or at least his mother in the kitchen...
Douchés, coiffés, et habillés, we were ready to see the sights. Jay's sister is a doctor in Senegal and she had gifted him with a couple of "traditional" dashiki shirts* -one blue and white (how Mediterranean), the other black with writhing orange, green and yellow patterns on it- on her last trip home. The guys put them on and we took a breath of cool air before opening the door.
We couldn't hold that breath all the way to Essaouira, but we tried.
With the sun rolling down to the horizon line we hit the main grande place full stride - it was already packed with families, hipsters, youngsters, tourists, locals and hawkers. Our first order of business was to reconnoiter a spot on a cafe terrace (not an easy undertaking!) from which to watch the final set of a group of gnaouis jamming with a European blues band. They were great and the crowd was swaying along with the music.
We must've climbed over half a dozen laps to reach our quarter-sized table squeezed in with all the others in a primo spot looking towards the stage. There are numerous places to enjoy a tasty meal and watch the crowds but having just downed Jay's plat du jour we really needed a digestive. Voila le serveur in white shirt and black vest with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, as hauty and efficient as his Parisian bretheren, who promptly took our order and seemed to slither like a rearing cobra in between patrons' knees, lit cigarettes and gesticulating hands.
Like magic, a large pot of mint tea with mint springs in the glasses appeared on our table in minutes, along with a glass of ness ness** coffee for me. We sipped.
It was one of those moments were you lean back in your chair, contented and just be present in the moment. Thinking back on it, the lack of honking cars and (Essaouira being a mainly pedestrian city) construction noise was indubitably a big part of the relaxation, but at the moment we only had eyes for this little corner of the world and ears for the alchemy on-stage.
More soon.
*Made in Thailand. Ain't globalization grand?
**Ness ness is half strong coffee, half warm milk in a fist-sized glass. In Morocco it is a man's drink, but since I like my coffee strong and in small doses, I endured endless jibes from my husband's friends to the tune of: "how about some marquises with that?" Marquise being a very foul-smelling, fairly cheap brand of cigarettes, preferred by your average Moroccan male and "bad girls" wishing to shock the establishment by smoking.
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