This boy.
He has redeemed this place for me.
A few weeks ago I had an unsavoury experience just outside my front door, which I then conflated with every other unsavoury experience I’ve ever had here, resulting in the uncomfortable feeling that Morocco and I have utterly failed each other. I wrote an eloquent, yet unpublishable blog post about the experience, and then started packing my bags for Canada.
And then I met this boy, and the man I assume to be his father.I was about 350 km from the mayhem of Casablanca in a perfectly-sized city called Tetouan. My cousin recommended it to me with the declaration that “there are few tourists for no good reason.” I had hoped to spend my final long weekend abroad in France, but when my plans to visit a friend fell through, I went against my own good judgment and booked a solo trip around the North of Morocco instead. No tour guide. No travel buddies. No guarantee. Just one last hurrah in this country that has hosted and haunted me for the last four years.
As intrepid as I am when jumping out of planes and zip-lining through the Alps, I was nervous about travelling alone in Morocco. But taking the taxi, the train, and the bus to Tetouan was easy. Easier than boarding a bus in Slovenia, that’s for sure. Finding my way to my riad in the ancient medina was also easy. Some guy walked me right to the entrance, without expecting compensation. I entered my darling blue room on the top floor and had a nap. Easy.
Then I went to the guy at the front desk and said, “I live in Casablanca. I am here to experience the opposite. I want to go for a walk in a peaceful, beautiful place. Where should I go?”
He wrote this word on a piece of paper, and I’m so glad he did. Partly because I could neither pronounce nor describe it, but mostly because it was where I began liking Morocco again.
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