bus stop: Tangier-Fes

I got off and browsed the assortment of food stands, the robes and brown faces and lit up behind them by open fires of grills or incandescent reflections on rows of candies. I settled on a large, round loaf of bread from a small house-shop selling a bit of everything. I lifted the top roll from the pile and waved it, signalling I wished to purchase it. The old man told me the price, in French I think, and I handed over a coin to his young apprentice.

The boy's nervous smile and the man's mixed expression told me my coin didn't match up with the quoted price. I shifted a bit and stood dumbly, wondering how to ask for more. Seeing my equivocation, the man produced a napkin for me, which I took and walked off, a bit confused.

I chose a seat against the outside wall of the café facing the bus, to enjoy my 10 cent bread and napkin amidst stares and chuckles and chatter directed my way. A filthy boy paced about with a small wooden box, but chose only some to offer its contents. The man at the next table invited me to sit with him; I declined. He offered me a small, wrapped cheese for my bread; I declined again, sliding it back across the table to him. Tangier had already scarred me. I finally caved to a cup of his tea, and pulled up a chair to join him and his companion.

His companion asked if I spoke French, I if he spoke Spanish; we settled on his broken French-English. The atay was minty, hot and excellent, and Khalid told me where to go after visiting Fes, and gave me his address and phone, should I pass back through this town. I felt a bit ashamed not sharing my own info when asked for it, offering the half-truth that I move about, working on farms around Spain.

The driver honked his horn and Khalid, his friend and I gestured and spoke our partings. As I drew round the corner of the bus, I spied the boy again, his wooden box situated under the man's shoe he was polishing with brush and towel.