A seat at the front of the bus

The driver looks rested and happy. It’s only three hours to Essaouira but I’d like to think he wasn’t out partying last night. I am sitting in the first row across from a French-speaking woman of a similar age, and all the young people are chattering away behind us. A few days away from my 65th birthday, and I’m squarely in the seniors’ section. 

While I have a great view, it’s also nerve-wracking. Lots of kids going home from school, swerving along on foot and bicycles, men on carts and the backs of donkeys in the blazing desert sun. The driver is wearing ear buds and appears to be talking on the phone. 

My thoughts stray to my stay with Hamid, the genteel Moroccan man of French descent who lives life like a country gentleman in the midst of chaotic Marrakech. He seemed set in his ways and routine. Every single item in his home – and there are many – placed with intent and focus and with an expectation that they would remain in place until told otherwise. 

Breakfast each morning the same as the last, with dishes placed exactly as they have been for perhaps countless mornings before. I like his taste in music – classical, well-known French songs from my parents’ generation, the Beatles. He sings too, and while the sound is cheerful, there is just a tinge of loneliness…

About 45 minutes into the bus trip, we come up behind a semi tractor trailer with about 10 young men sitting atop the cargo on its flatbed. A series of hand signals ensues between them and the bus driver. Fifteen minutes later, we pull off to the side of the road and stop. The driver gets out, and the woman across from me explains he’s going to buy pastèques from the flatbed. Happens all the time she says. Another WTF moment until some lengthy googling reveals that pastèques are watermelons.

Finally, the coast comes into view, and Essaouira is laid out before me, Although visibility is limited. Look, a beach!