Traveler or Lodger

Today, I am a traveler, not a lodger.  

I took a very crowded bus (Saturdays are market days, after all) to the Ben Tbib stop in the Rouidate area.  I had to stand the whole way, but, no matter.  I find that I use a mix of French, English, and Arabic as I try to navigate my way.  To my neighbors, I say salaam alaykoum if they look Arabic, but bonjour if they look like they are from Niger.  

I have gone to the Jardin Majorelle, a tourist attraction in the city of Marrakech.  At the ticket booth, I say “combined ticket” in English, and the clerk understands.  I use a credit card, and he asks where I’m from.  He says, “Welcome,” and I say, “Shukran. Mae alsalaama” (thank you, goodbye – literally, go with safety).  The greeter at the entrance sees my tattoo of the Tamazight letter yaz (also the ethnic flag of the indigenous Imazighen people and symbol of the struggle for Amazigh rights) and tells me that he is Amazigh and smiles and pats my shoulder.  I say, "Tanamert" (Tamazight for thank you).  This is how we make our way, me and these people.  

Now I sit in the garden at the small, trickling fountain, observing the other people – tourists or otherwise – passing by.  But, I don’t feel the need to join them.  I can just sit off to the side and watch them go by.  I like this – pretending to be just a tourist.  

Sitting in the Café Majorelle, I listen to the different visitors with their different languages.  I take photos of all the little details – the fountain, the flowers, the colorful planters, the lanterns, even the chalkboard menu.  I treat myself to a delicious French Moroccan lunch of fresh mango-pineapple juice, fresh bread with argan oil, cream of red pepper soup with goat cheese, and a selection of Moroccan salads: mashed sweet potatoes with cinnamon and almonds; eggplant with olives, cumin, and cilantro; lentils with parsley; shredded beets with raisins, ginger, orange zest, and sesame seeds; pickled tomatoes and green peppers in olive oil with harissa; chopped cabbage salad with lemon; and julienned carrots.  I don’t care (too much) that it is overpriced, because I am, today, just a tourist.  

But, I eat like a local, the way my friend taught me, using the bread to scoop the food with my right hand.  In this way, I reveal that I am only pretending to be just a tourist.  The young Spaniard at the next table notices, and he looks away in embarrassment when our eyes meet.  My fingers smell like oil and spices, and, if I’m being honest, this gives me great pleasure.