Essaouira, Morocco
Today is Tuesday in Essaouira, Morocco, and the waiter at Triskala restaurant is flirting with me. He's a slender man with a goatee who asks if I'm eating alone. When I tell him "yes," he raises his eyebrows, tilts his head sideways, and says, "Oh," sounding a little too pleased. Although I don't bat for the home team, I am delighted that this man works in an environment where he feels comfortable to flirt with customers of the same sex, given than the punishment for homosexuality in Morocco is up to three years in prison.
Everything about the dimly lit restaurant screams cool — though it would never raise its voice. If it had a voice, it would resemble the sweet whisper of Antonio Banderas asking you to dance. The joint is tucked down a tight alleyway and easily missed. A black cat sits at the foot of the keyhole doorway, unamused. Inside, stone walls curve into ceiling and hold framed pictures of Bob Dylan and the Beatles.
"Do you think I should check out Marrakesh?" I asked a local surfer when I arrived in Morocco three weeks ago.
"Do not go to Marrakesh," he said. Marrakesh, apparently, is a tourist trap disguised as authentic. He instead recommended Essaouira, a city defined by its historic maze of alleyways inside castle walls — a cinematic setting a full three miles in diameter. Remember when Cersei Lannister was forced to strip naked and atone for her sins by walking through a mob of angry peasants? That was shot in Essaouira. The Keanu Reeves movie, John Wick, was also shot here. The alleyways are too narrow for cars, so the streets are filled with merchants selling Kashmir scarves, handmade rugs, and food of all kinds. Walking through the streets, I got the sense that merchants had been selling these same items for hundreds of years, and they would continue to do so for hundreds more.
The menu at Triskala changes every night. My waiter returns with a pot of tea containing a dozen herbs and spices. He says herbs with the back of his throat, accentuating the “haach.” It makes me wonder why, in America, we don't pronounce the 'h' at all? He asks me what I'm doing in Essaouira and if I've walked along the beaches." I know the beaches very well," he offers, chewing on his pen and squinting slowly, like a cat, as he takes my order.
I watch the waiter dance between four different languages as he takes orders from other customers. My long-standing request for a superpower is the ability to speak every language in the world (including animal languages), and so I am a little dazzled by this man. He returns with my seafood stew — Tajine — a bowl of olives, and fresh bread. I take one bite and am in love: with the Tagine, with the man, with everything. I am swept into fantasy, one where I walk entranced through the streets with my new gay lover. Rose petals fall from the sky like snow and camels stand on their hind legs as they dance to Madonna’s “Holiday.” I become a painter. In my art studio, the dress code is scarves and nothing else. We would face adversity, of course, but with Tagine like this, our love would endure.
When my husband-to-be returns with the bill, he says that he gave me a discount. I shake his hand and thank him for his service as if he's a war hero.
"Was the Tagine good?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply, my eyes welling up a little, knowing I’m about to break his heart. "Tagine was very good."
