Saving Daylight

Daylight Savings Time just began in Morocco. It goes from March 27 through May 8. We start by setting the hour back and then ahead at the end, the opposite of the U.S. strategy. At first, I was confused, but then I realized that it covers the period of Ramadan, which will begin around April 2 and last until May 2 this year, depending on whether the moon cycle predictions are correct. This brings the day to a close a little earlier so that people don't have to wait until 8 or 9pm to break their fast with their Iftar meal. That makes perfect sense to me now that I put two plus two together.

My neighborhood is a collection of people and vehicles and street scenes. I begin the day with a cup of coffee on my terrace and watch the scenes unfold. From my perch, I see the signs for the local school and for the Royal Opera. The first people out are cleaning the sidewalks in front of their businesses. The street sweepers come along, and so do the farmers with their horse-drawn carts going to market. Workers on bicycles and motorbikes come next, and then the busses and taxis. School children are walking by and so are adults on their way to work. The cafes are beginning to open for the day.

Despite the city noise, I can still hear the birds in the trees and delight in the fuchsia and bright red bougainvillea draped over the balconies. My coffee is creamy and sweet with milk and sugar, and I associate this pleasurable taste and these sights with Marrakech mornings.

My laundry is drying on the rack on this terrace, and the slightest of breezes lifts a white shirt under the sun. Here, we don't use a dryer. I like the simplicity of it, the peacefulness.

There is also a peacefulness to the way a doorman sits in front of a building waiting to help and the way a parking attendant wipes the windshields of the cars for the patrons. There is a sweetness to the way one boy pedals with his friend sitting on the back of the handlebars of his bicycle, or the way a woman in a hijab and djellaba holds her husband from the back of a motorbike. There is synchronicity in the delivery of fresh oranges to a local restaurant from a man with a cart and the picking up of compostable food scraps from another. A middle section of my street with concrete island barriers provides a dedicated passageway for walkers and cyclists and the occasional ambulance. It's smart and it's sweet and it uplifts me. 

In the afternoon, I walk to the grocery story and bring my own reusable bag because they otherwise charge four dirhams (40 cents). I select some bananas and take them to be weighed and labeled as there is a clerk to do that for me, with a smile and an exchange of pleasantries, all in a mix of French, Arabic, and English. Everyone is helpful. It's in the culture. On my return, I can stop for fresh pomegranate juice from the young man with the cart who presses down on the juicer with all his strength not to waste a drop. As I near my building, the server from my corner café stops me to ask if I am feeling better, for I have been sick with a cold and he knows it from the days spent sitting at a table in the sun with a pot of tea. He always asks how I am and wishes me Allah's blessings.

In the evening, I treat myself to dinner of samosas and korma at the elegant Indian restaurant across the street. I don't do this often because this place is pricier than other restaurants in the area, yet it is still less than $20 for the entire meal. I sit outside rather than getting takeaway because the service is superb and I want to feel like a VIP today. It is the Golden Hour; it would have been good to bring my camera, but I take a mental photo and save it as a cherished memory of a simple dinner on a simple Sunday. 

Heading back to my apartment, I meet my landlord and his girlfriend in the middle lane. They ask how I am feeling because my doorman has told them that I have been ill. I look up and the doorman waves and watches to make sure I am safely across the busy evening thoroughfare of people heading home for the night. A group of young boys is cycling in circles in the middle lane and popping wheelies in the waning hours of the weekend. The sun has set now, and I imagine their mothers eagerly looking out the window for their return as the time nears for the last evening prayer.

I sit again on my terrace with hot tea and honey served in a small glass, not a cup. The everyday day draws to a close, the streetlights come on, and the pace of people and vehicles slows down. I step back inside, close the curtains, and prepare for bed, grateful beyond words for the daylight and the moonlight and the life of the street below.