Her penetrating green eyes were locked on mine for a couple of seconds, and then she looked down while rushing past me, getting lost within the busy crowd of the Médina’s market. Her body was covered from head to toes by a distinguishing white robe, her face sheltered by a veil, leaving only her eyes exposed; this wasn’t strange attire for a woman in the middle of an Islamic country, yet there was something about her that didn’t quite fit in. I’ll never know how I could possibly tell that by only looking at her eyes, but I kept thinking about it for the whole day as I explored the surroundings.
Armed with a map in Arabic and a bottle of water, I walked across the city trying to decipher its secrets. I visited Bahia Palace, where the sequences of arches and the details in every brick made me think of infinity. I then moved to Badii Palace, where gold and onyx were once traded for sugar, though today only ruins of columns and mud walls remain. I circled the perimeter of the fortified city, and found a garden with plants from every country of the world; there I rested under the shade of a fellow Mexican tree and then decided to go back to the riad where I was staying.
Morocco can get quite hot in the middle of July. Perhaps this explains why over a hundred orange juice stands have been able to proliferate one next to the other in the city square, offering exactly the same product for a modest amount of dirhams. Stand-owners call tourists in different languages (not unlike every other store owner in the city), trying to guess their nationalities and offering relief for the heat: ‘A glass of juice for 5 dirhams amigo!’ -Sometimes, once the glass is empty, the owner offers to refill it a bit and gives the tourist a wink, ‘just remember to come back to stand number 39’, he’ll say while pointing up to the only mark that differentiates his business from all the others. The wide eyed tourist will drink his juice in the middle of the show involving snake charmers, monkey traders, fakirs, and fortune tellers that is Marrakesh.
That day had been a particularly hot one. The shade of the Mexican tree had helped me recover, and a glass of orange juice from stand number 79 (my favorite) had kept me alive on the way to the riad, but once I arrived there, all I really wanted was a fresh shower and a change of clothes. I walked through reception and greeted Shazam, one of the employees, then ran up to the large room I shared with other young travelers, and reached for the bathroom’s doorknob, but as I did someone opened the door from inside.
She was about as tall as I was and around my age; her brown hair -still wet from the shower- was kept up, leaving her neck and shoulders visible. Her skin was fair and smooth, especially around her face, and her eyes were piercing green, framed by long dark eye-lashes. I hesitated for a second, fixing my attention around her eyes. She smiled almost imperceptibly, and then I noticed that she was only wearing a towel.
I turned around and closed my eyes, trying to apologize, not quite knowing what to say. She laughed as she walked to her bed, giving no importance to my babbling, and sat down in a relaxed position. I was clearly much more embarrassed than she was.
After a moment of silence, she finally spoke: ‘I saw you in the market today, do you remember me?’ -It was her after all…
-‘I think I do… but you were all covered’
-‘Yes, but I know you saw me walk by, and I noticed you too. You looked… different’. This remark took me by surprise, partly because very often locals thought I was also an Arab, asking me things in their language and getting surprised once I replied in English; why would I be any different? On the other hand, I had also found her unusual when I first saw her. ‘What is your name?’, she went on.
-‘My name is Gerardo; I’m from Mexico, how about you?’
-‘My name is Sophie, I’m from Belgium and I came to visit some relatives. Why are you here?’
The answer I gave to her question got us talking for a long time. I took my shower and when I came out Sophie was wearing jeans and a top. She had covered her hair with a light purple scarf, but her face was still visible. ‘I dress like this when I’m in Belgium, the scarf is optional’ she told me as we zipped through our glass of whiskey marocaine (sweet hot mint tea), watching the sun come down from the rooftop of the riad.
Photo by Gerardo Meléndez
We spoke as if we had known each other for a long time, talking about nothing really important, yet concealing no secrets. A few hours after dark we went back to the room and climbed into our respective beds without issuing a word. It had been an exhausting day, and I fell asleep even before my head touched the pillow.
I woke up early the next morning with the call for prayer and managed to see Sophie wearing her white robes and adjusting her veil as she left the room. Before stepping outside she turned and stared at me for a second, we both nodded, and knew that was a good enough good bye.
I took my backpack and walked down to the reception, where a small group of adventurers had already gathered, waiting for the van that would take us to Sahara.
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