The day before I left Morocco, Turner and I hopped in the car and headed to Assilah, a small beach town known for its plethora of artists living there. We had some stormy weather on our drive, but by the time we got there it was blue skies and sunshine.
Being the middle of January the town was sleepy, with a few patrons dotting the cafes and looking curiously at the two very, very white girls who were wandering the streets. We stopped and had a lunch of pizzas and diet cokes at a café the size of a roller skate and talked and talked and talked for the longest time about everything under the sun.
If there is one thing Turner and I know how to do—and if there is one thing I miss so very much about my friend living halfway across the world—it is talking about our lives and solving all problems. I can’t stress enough how imperative it is to have a person (or persons) in your life you can tell things to, no matter how crazy it may sound, because you know she has probably felt the same way, experienced the same thing, or in general sure as shit isn’t going to judge you for whatever comes out of your mouth.
Those kinds of friends are hard to come by.
There’s a flair of Spanish and Greek influence to Assilah, and I imagine in the summertime its sleepiness is wide awake and dancing, and the beaches and the boats are crowded with tourists and locals and it’s all full of merriment. Or at least fragrant tagines of lamb.
It was a peaceful way to spend my last day of visiting, even if we did have to use Turkish toilets on the way home. It was the just-right way to end the trip before I had to leave, head back to real life, head back to a six-hour layover in Paris that resulted in several semi-unnecessary duty-free purchases.
Every vacationer should be so lucky.