Goosebumps

September 15, 1995

Essaouira café square once again, having spent four days in Marrakech, four days in Rabat, and finishing it off with a crisp cool breeze that will liven me for the quick trip back. My hands are hennaed. Coffee hasn’t come yet. Now its come. Shoeshine boys are giving a little bitty guy wedgies, lifting him up into the air.

I have an English couple sitting behind me talking about something I wish I could understand. But with all the birds chirping in what looks like a magnolia tree, and the oodles of men chatting around me at their coffee tables, and the sound of drums, footstep, sandals slopping over the tiled streets, I can’t even hear my own language next to me. A crazy man is walking around with a sword-like stick attached to his back, held there by two pieces of rope. And women in full black hikes are pacing along with only their eyes showing through.

The air is cold. I can feel the goose bumps grow underneath my shirt every time the wind blows over me. The sun is down, and the lights are on, one by one along the row of cafes in this square.