August 1998, Fez, Morocco

By Marichka Melnyk

It was just supposed to be a weekend jaunt. I’d been traveling for six weeks through Andalucia in Spain, at the peak of summer, and enjoying the mellow pleasures of twentysomething backpacking. While wending my way south toward the coast, I ran into my girlfriend Grace from university on her way north from Morocco. She was coming back from a stop in Tangier, which had rattled her so much with its grasping edginess and tinge of crime that she had fled after only a day trip.

I was surprised to hear that someone as intrepid and fearless as Grace could have been intimidated by a town, and took her warnings as a dare. “Well, maybe I’ll go to Tangier myself, “ I thought. “And then go one better. I’m going to go inland for a day, to Fez.”

And so it was a few days later that I found myself wandering the dusty streets of the town, in the high heat of early afternoon, squinting against the sunlight as I went in search of the medina bazaar. I was surprised to find the streets of Fez empty in the middle of the day. The only people about were a few old Moroccan men who sat in the shades of the cafes, clucking and making leering comments at the conspicuous blonde girl walking alone.

I ignored them, but in doing so denied myself the ability to ask for directions to the walled trading zone. While I could blunder in French in conversation, the street signs were in Arabic, and undecipherable to me. Thus I trudged along, feeling sluggish in the heat and bewildered by the deserted cityscape in the foothills of the Atlas mountains.

Just as I was making my way along a busy four-lane boulevard, a car abruptly pulled out of the rushing traffic to the side of the road just in front of me. I thought nothing of it until a tall, young Moroccan man , about 30 years old, stepped out and called to me, “Mademoiselle!”

Another leering suitor, I thought grumpily, and braced myself to be accosted. “Mademoiselle?” he asked in halting French as I approached. “I saw you and wanted to speak with you. Would you like to join me for coffee?”

My reply was terse from all the practice I’d had all day. “Non, merci,” I replied coolly as I passed, not even looking him in the eye. “I have to get somewhere.”

There was a pause, and then I heard him murmur behind me, to himself, “But of course, why should you speak to me?” Then, louder: “I am sorry to have disturbed you, Mademoiselle!”

His voice in apology was so selfless and sincere, it startled me, and I found myself feeling guilty for being rude. So I cocked my head and turned around, trying to think of something to say.

“Actually, there is something you can tell me, “ I shouted over the sound of the cars whizzing by. “Where is everybody? Why isn’t anybody on the streets?”

He smiled, and I suddenly noticed the gentleness of his eyes, and his confident gait as he took a few steps toward me. “It’s siesta, miss,“ he said kindly, with only a faint hint of teasing.” It’s too hot to be out, so everyone goes inside for the afternoon, and comes back to work when it’s cooler.”

I felt a blush rush warmth to my already overheated face and suddenly felt silly for not having realized this obvious fact myself – but when I looked up to see his brown face crack into an irrepressible, irresistible smile, I found I could not help but chuckle at myself, too. Oh, he’s all right, I thought, relaxing.

He seemed to sense my newfound ease, and took a chance. “Would you like to come for a coffee?” he asked tentatively.

I considered it a moment as I took in his neatly pressed short sleeve shirt and khakis, his polite demeanor, and his charming, open grin. It seemed harmless enough – but I had also traveled enough to know it probably wasn’t the most prudent thing in the world to get into a stranger’s car, much less in a foreign land. So I carefully hedged my bets.

“I am going to the medina,“ I explained, “and want to spend some time there while the sun is out. But there is a bakery near my hotel; perhaps we could meet there tonight?” Perfect – public place, no specific indication of where I was living, nice venue, and easy to get in and out of.

He nodded eagerly in agreement as I described the location. “Seven o’clock?”

“Sure,“ I said. “See you then.” As I turned to resume my journey, I looked over my shoulder and saw him walk back round to the driver’s side of the car with a happy bounce. Well, this will be something, I smiled to myself as I continued on.

I soon found the old walls of the city that housed the crowded, busy medina, and spent a few hours lost in the labyrinthine markets of spice, textiles, and etched brass ornaments. It was so hypnotic that I lost track of time, and realized with a flush of panic that seven o’clock was fast approaching. I hurried my way out of the winding medina paths and onto the paved streets back to the city, hurling myself into the bakery just after seven o’clock in a breathless rush.

The place was packed with café revelers … but as I walked around I did not see my new friend. I did a full circuit in vain, and decided he had changed his mind. Well, no matter, I shrugged as I left to return to my hotel. Probably for the best. I’m leaving tomorrow night anyway.

The next day I was tired from the day I’d spent in the sun, so I just took it easy writing postcards, enjoying ice cream, and whiling away the afternoon doing not much of anything until it was time to go to the train station. As I meandered aimlessly through the streets of Fez, I was stunned to see the young man from the day before walking on the sidewalk toward me. He looked up, and I gasped a little to realize he was actually quite handsome. He didn’t see me at first and looked surprised as I strode quickly toward him.

“Hello,“ I called as I came close. “It’s me, from yesterday. I went to the bakery – what happened?”

His gaze was friendly but a bit distant. “I was there at seven. You were not. I had flowers, and I threw them away.”

I was taken aback by his deliberate reaction. “I was only a few minutes late! You couldn’t have waited?”

He shrugged. “I am a businessman. I respect my appointments.”

There was something compelling about how he stated his principle with such quiet conviction, and I found myself curious about this young man, who was clearly not like the many wolf-whistlers I’d met on my travels. Now it was I who felt an urge to speak longer with him.

“I’m here now,“ I pointed out shyly. “Would you like to go for that coffee now?”

He smiled, and I knew all was forgiven. “All right. My car is over here.” He offered his hand. “My name is Rali.”

“What does that mean?”

His grin became flirtatious. “It means beloved one,“ he replied. My stomach fluttered.

I expected to go to one of the many little coffeehouses dotting the sidewalks, but Rali surprised me. He drove to the edge of town, to the American-style Hilton hotel, and led me through the lobby to a patio overlooking a lush green ravine. After the sunbaked yellow lawns of the city, the sight made me gasp, and I realized he had brought me to one of the finest places in Fez.

We took a seat by the balcony and fell into conversation in erratic French. Strangely, although it was a second language for both of us, we communicated unhampered as we exchanged stories of our homes, our lives, and, eventually, our more personal thoughts and dreams. The sun sank down below the horizon, but we were nowhere near done talking, and eventually Rali paused, then leaned forward and took my hand.

“Do you have to leave tonight?” he asked anxiously.

I hesitated. “I’m supposed to get on the midnight train. I have to get to the ferry in Tangier, and start making my way through Spain to fly home from England.”

He looked down, but his grip tightened a little. “Stay with me. Just a day or two – but stay.”

I reared back at the presumption. He realized what I had interpreted and clasped my hand with both of his in reassurance.

“Stay with me and my family,“ he said. “I have parents, two younger brothers, and a sister – she’s 15. You can live with us, just for a day or so, as long as you want, and then if you need to go, you can go – I’ll take you to Tangier myself.”

I looked long and hard into his face, searching his expression, and realized that, foolhardy as it might seem, I wasn’t worried for my safety. He was absolutely sincere. Unable to resist, I relented without a second thought. “OK,“ I whispered, hardly believing what I was saying.

He took me back into the residential part of the city to a block of low-rise sand-colored apartments. I sat outside enjoying the cooling evening in the courtyard while he went in first to speak to his family; he returned a few minutes later and led me up a shabby staircase into a three-room flat that opened into a long, wide room ringed by low couches covered in cushions.

His mother greeted me with an embrace, and I bowed and took his father’s hand in respect while his teenaged siblings looked at me with inquisitive smiles. Despite my resistance to impose, the family insisted I be given the master bedroom and cheerfully retired to the living room to sleep.

I had agreed to stay a day or two. I stayed 10. During that week and a half, I was transformed from rumpled backpacker to a sultana of Fez. Rali treated me like a princess, escorting me through the medina and cleverly haggling with the merchants on my behalf , and surprising me with paste jewelry that would have been junk back at home, but which I knew to be treasures in his world.

His mother eagerly pulled me into the hammam, the steamy Moroccan bathhouse, where I was scrubbed within an inch of my life by determined looking old women who made me glow better than any Western spa, while his sister and her friends sat me down on the pillowed sofa and immobilized me so that they could paint my hands and feet in intricate patterns with henna.

Over those days, my life in North America disappeared like a dream, and I felt like I had always meant to be here in Morocco – and with Rali, whom it became impossible not to fall in love with.

Eventually, however, reality set in, and I realized I had little time left to make the long trip back to Spain and then London to fly home. It was heartbreaking to leave my new family, and when Rali’s younger brother brought some of his friends in banging drums and playing horns for an impromptu farewell concert, I thought my heart would crack.

I left with kohl from my black rimmed eyes running down my cheeks in smoky streaks. And while my return to regular life in North America jolted me back into my gray, everyday reality, that chance encounter with the Moroccan stranger remains a brightly colored jewel that glitters in my memory, and instantly brings back the sensation of sultry summer nights in the desert.

Marichka Melnyk is a journalist who doesn’t own a home or a car, but is the proud owner of many memories and chance encounters from her travels. She currently lives in Washington, DC.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, February 2nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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