Morning Music and Afternoon Coffee

Lying in my bed looking at the blue sky and sunlight through my curtained window, I hear the daily constant of nearby construction.  Each day there is the banging of steel girders and of mallet on wedge as bricks are pounded into place.  But today my attention is drawn out the window into the courtyard below by two turbaned street musicians, one with a simple, hand-held, bendir snare drum and the other with a traditional ghaita flute.  They are walking the streets playing for money, and I watch as a young boy hands them a coin through a gate and another from a first-floor window.  They protest that the amount is not adequate and there is a heated exchange until the boy runs away and the other closes the window.  As they walk away, they suddenly look up to see me in my fifth-floor window.  They wave, I wave, and I close the window and retreat.

After a cold, delicious midday salad from Les 2 Freres, listening to a mentally-ill elder shout vehemently at passersby from the curb, I retreated to my familiar neighborhood café, where my barista held out his hand, so pleased was he to see me after a number of days’ absence.  We exchanged pleasantries, I ordered my usual qahwa nuss nuss, and I sat outdoors in the shade to study my textbook.  At the restaurant, my usual server and the owner had also been pleased to see me.  I ordered and paid in Arabic, but we also asked each other how we have been: kayf halik? Alhamdollah. Wa kayf ahlan? Ana bikhayr. Before my arrival there for my meal, I stopped at my local grocer and bought toothpaste in Arabic: ana ‘urid maejun al’asnan?  He smiled and held up different brands and sizes for me to choose from.  I pointed and confirmed what I wanted: saghir (small), na’am (yes).  Now, I drink my coffee and study and write and listen to jazz and watch people walk by and think of how lucky I am in all respects.  There is a newspaper on the chair, and I can just about make out the headline: “22.5 million Moroccan users and 26 million cell phones and 16 million activists in the network.”  Since I don’t yet know the grammar, I’m not sure exactly what the headline is telling me, but… I can read a headline of an Arabic-language newspaper, and that’s enough.  And the old man steadily shuffles down the street sitting, from time to time, on the piece of cardboard he carries and taking a break to shake his finger at and reproach the people who come and go for whatever reason he imagines he must.  His sudden yell at one point scares a cat up a tree.  Now, the café owner has arrived for the evening shift, and he sees me and stops to come shake my hand and say hello.  

These things feel ordinary and comfortable now.