In Switzerland, they have watches. In Morocco, we have time.
They, and by extension, we, had time in Morocco. This is a place that where frequent periods of lengthy rumination have intrinsic value. The bustle, while ever present, never intrudes. There is time to read and write and sit and stare, watch the world go by, chat with a stranger in the next seat doing exactly the same thing – namely, nothing, aside from nursing his cup of mint tea for the past half hour – about our lives, and his.
He is from Fes, he says. We should go there. It is old and beautiful and alive.
“I don’t like Tangier so much,” he says. “They have no humour. No one smiles here.”
He is only here because that is where the work is. But he has a deep longing to make journeys. To Paris with his wife some day, and around his country, because he has never seen it. Because in its history is his blood. It is who he is.