To Djema El Fna we went, full of tagine and humous and these delicious cheesy things in pastry. To Djema El Fna which is the square of all squares..the place where all the city life gathers and which has myriad different lives; bustling morning, buzzy afternoon, and after dark a place where you feel you are at the centre of the universe. Is there anywhere else? When you are there it doesn’t feel there is…
Temporary night time restaurants have suddenly appeared, like they have been there always..although four hours ago they did not exist. Its like Brigadoon without the mist, and it happens every night, not every 100 years. But apart from that it’s like Brigadoon.
We weave through the narrow tables, with waiters shouting, “Hey Jane Austen. I am Mr Darcy..” and “I love what you are wearing. Is it from Marks and Spencers. Or is it from Primark?” I don’t just smile, I smile from the inside right to the outside.
It is pitch black – just the lights from the restaurants and the shops and the minaret of the mosque illuminating all this humanity.
We walk slowly through, pausing at the edge of crowds watching musicians, storytellers, singers, belly dancers – male belly dancers, that is – and street vendors. I will never forget the tiny pink and blue candle-lit lanterns, the buzzy noise, the sheer vibrant life of the place.
And then suddenly you realise that there are less and less women there, and it is time to go, to leave the square to the next manifestation of its day and its night. This is the part we can’t have, and we walk slowly through the now quiet little streets to the derb, a little deflated, to our riad, our haven of tranquility.
Because this is our last night, and whether we every see the square again, it will never be the same as our first sight of it after dark.
We retire to our rose-strewn beds in our little cocoon, preparing for our last day.
Our last day of a hammam, a buster-keaton taxi ride, and the motorbike..
Chrispenhall's Weblog 