Sitting in the sun on an enormous deck of a posh restaurant, which juts out into the Atlantic and catches the spray from the waves created from far-off shipping tankers. I am completely enthralled watching gentile Moroccans and well-clad Europeans tuck into icy platters of freshly caught seafood. Just beyond the deck is an ancient lighthouse, its obelisk rising as if from a mosque. I ordered a lobster pulled from these northern waters, its underbelly laden with a thick coat of shiny black roe, accompanied by a chilled bottle of locally produced Rose wine. I was replenishing from my morning in Casablanca’s medina, rich with cheap caftans, leather bags and brass knick-knacks. I stumbled upon the most incredible bakery, located steps below street level and covered on blue and white tiles. The baker, speaking not a word of English, plied me with tiny pastry made from almonds, honey and infused with rose water. Haunches of seasoned lamb and rounds of rising bread dough awaited their turn in the community wood-fired ovens, now a smoky black from hundreds of years of constant use. A smiling, toothless old man oversaw the entire operation.
A small courtyard off a hidden alleyway was teeming with dozens of men selling mounds of black and green olives in varying dried states with herbs, brine and oil. Bowls were heaped artfully high with preserved lemons and mounds of fiery Harissa, waiting to be scooped into containers. I will admit to buying the spicy paste and smothering it on everything except my morning pastry. I spoke with the shopkeepers in my broken mix of French and Arabic, which they hopefully found endearing. I have always found Middle Easterners to be warm and hospitable, inviting conversation and stories from the West.
I followed an old woman, hunched over from the weight of a folded carpet balanced on her head. We walked down a dark, narrow alleyway, which spilled out into a tiny, sunlit courtyard filled with hundreds of people bidding at a rug auction. Women in full hijab, with only heavily kohled eyes peering out, hurried around the edges of the crowd. An old man acknowledged me with a nod and grin and made room for me to watch the bustle.
Earlier in the day, I toured a mosque; the third largest in the world after those in Mecca and Medina, Saudi Arabia. The wood, marble and stone work was created by thousands of artisans who worked 24/7 for years to complete this mind-blowing building. It’s minaret reached up hundreds of feet towards the heavens and its foundation was planted deeply into the shores of the Atlantic, following the Koranic dictates of building a mosque on the shores of the ocean.