By Erin Byrne
In Square R’Cif, flashes of color flowed: Donkeys swayed under piles of vivid rugs, women in jewel-toned djellabas drifted, green and blue awnings flapped.
The souk vibrated in vivid Technicolor as we squeezed between Crayola-box walls of babouche slippers. An onslaught of aromas hit: mint, prunes, spicy meats. Boys’ shouts and staccato birdsongs rose and fell, undulated and zigzagged.
We scrunched at a corner table. An old man whose narrow face tilted tenderly caressed glasses in slender fingers. His eyes were a soft embrace of blue and gray as he stooped to pour coffee laced with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and anise.
This was a welcome oasis. Around the table the dance continued, choreographed to include every being. Even dust motes quivered frenetically as if embodied by past spirits.
From the Introduction to Vignettes & Postcards from Morocco. Here is the dedication to the book:
To the old man with the gentle gaze in the corner of the souk in the medina of Fez, Morocco: May a drop of the love with which you serve your spiced coffee to strangers be returned, overflowing, to you.