Blue

I let my tongue melt dark chocolate as I smash the window pane. Not only are all the seats taken, the train lacks standing-room. We passengers move as a unit, slapped and slung sideways by haphazard speeding and buckling tracks. On the floor and behind, a mother feeds her small son; the infant’s hand cupping the dip of my calf. There’s no relief of riders when we stop, only turnover.

While the gentleman beside me tries to make room, I stand on my tip-toes, cheek to the glass. We race past caked washes of broad banks and mud flats, earth so taut it’s cracking – spring rains being more than thin soil could sop up.

All students separated, I at last find a seat, Aumad asking in English while I respond in his tongue.

“You are bravery,” he tells me and I shake my head no.

We find Tangier at twilight, shadows losing distinction, and taxi ourselves to a pension-packed street. It’s tight and coils upwards, all neon lights and square cobbles. The first menu-board with “pastille” becomes our dining preference; excitement severely crushed with the proprietor simply says “La”.

He must have read our disappointment, I’m a pout-expert of sorts, for after conferencing with the cook he returned, barely limping.

He could get us pastille. But only us. And he needed time.

“AL HAMDA ALLAH!” I praised to the restaurant, fists tight and raised, arms high above my head.

And oh, it was perfect. So flaky, savory-sweet; the twin medallions bedded on lettuce, sugar and cinnamon dusting the plate.

We were a tired beyond tired, our bodies having braced six hours, mostly standing, aboard train. I put in new earplugs and was dead until morning; sweet chicken and onions lingering and sating.

It felt like hard-boiled eggs in my throat. Upon waking, I found swallowing too painful to frequent and knew I was sick.

Damn.

The bus left to Tetouan right after ten, Al-Kitaab on my lap through the twists of the Rifs. We reached Martil by noon and the Mediterranean was bigger, bigger and bluer and the sun was so warm. Reclining and sandy, we dozed in small pieces, waking to shift or to tease chilly waves. The shells were all marbled, colored copper and caramel. Complete and hardy and stratifying the shore.

The others stayed on, but my throat was my hindrance; I returned to Tetouan, racing time for the bus.

The 4pm was full and the next left at midnight.

Hailing a cab, we sloughed through tight traffic, my having indicated the city’s other station. After dropping off his first passenger, the driver then parked, saying we’d wait – the man was returning. I pleaded in Arabic that I had no time, I have to go NOW! The buses are filling! I jumped from the taxi and ran down another, arriving at a station just crawling with people.

The trip back was painless, albeit lengthy, and the fact that my food had been stored beneath-bus.

White, cubic homes clung to Rif creases; resembling small crystals or residual salt veins.

My seatmate would cough. And then offer his water. Offer his bread. Thick phlegm in each hack.







I met medina walls near ten, and although we’d been warned time and again about being out alone within the confines of old Rabat, it wasn’t until I was beneath the arch and packed within the mold of thronging Moroccans that I felt safe. Safe and at home.



I think about airports now, about tollbooths and planes. In-flight movies and seatbelts, wrapped butter or cheese, pre-heated foil meals.



Colorful cardboard, old boxes, beaten down over grates. In the end, on the streets, it’s all the same malodorous brown.

I think I’m getting tired.



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