EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJune
23, 1999
Azrou, Morocco
From the Cedar Hotel
French doors open to the balcony and it’s a nice respite from the couscous sellers
below. They open the lids to steaming pots, one after the other, lined up in front of
their restaurants and beckoning us like sideshow conductors. We walk the street to get to
a vista of the surrounding mountains – one man runs from his station at the back of
his restaurant to his sizzling couscous in time to open the lid for us as we pass.
The sun dips and we retreat to this terrace, a communal terrace. I’m
sitting on the bed with a peanut butter sandwich I made in Seville. A man approaches
– he’s smoking a cigarette – and we are his view while he smokes on the
balcony. "Where are you going?" he asks as he leans on the railing, the
mountains behind and the doors to our little room wide open to him. Rich steps out.
"Meknes." The fellow’s eyes twinkle. "That’s where I’m
going too! We can go together! Do you have a car?"
He finishes his cigarette with a drawl; "Sara’s a very nice name." Rich
is certain he’s under the influence. He asks for our room number, tells us he’ll
retrieve us in the morning so we can travel together, is disappointed when Rich uses the
word wife, and we manage to get the doors closed.
The shower down the hall comes with the concierge’s instructions, "Whatever
you do, do not remove this piece of wood." We stand in an imperial-sized
bathtub, careful not to kick the piece of wood, and watch as the showerhead spins around,
watering the room, clogged and spraying noodles of lukewarm water on our shoes and pants.
Never mind about the towels, transparent and sizeable for dishes.
Now, in our room, wet, huddled in the dark, we listen to a foreshadow – the stone
and tiled echo of another guest retching down the hall.
