The Day We Turned Right

We followed a stranger. Again. You’d think we’d have learned by now .But these are the alleys where the good stories hide. Morocco . Letter #15

Dear Jamie Junebug,

Every morning in Marrakech, when we step out of our quiet dar and into the Medina’s pulsing heartbeat, we always turn left. It’s the path to our favorite breakfast haunts, to familiar alleys and reliable mint tea. Left is predictable. Left is safe. Left is orange juice and comfort.

But today, we turned right.

We had no idea what was in that direction. That was the point. A new direction, maybe even a new story. Magic seems to happen when you are willing to take a right when you already know where left goes.

A tide of people surged toward us. Men, women, schoolchildren, motorbikes, donkeys, carts full of bread, baskets of mint. A rush hour made entirely of legs and hooves and horns and laughter. Energy swirled around us like a wind in the souk. There we were, two ageless wanderers wading upstream, stubborn as ever.

That’s when the comments began.

“The square is the other way!”

“Where are you going?”

“Are you lost?”

“Do you need help?”

“You are going the wrong way”

Then like the ticking of the clock, there was a change. We began to hear the magic words.

“You are very lucky today.”

Apparently, the Berber women had come to the Medina for one day only. They had brought their beautiful rugs. “My father works there,” one man said. “I will take you.”

“No shukran,” we replied in unison, brushing off the invitation with polite smiles and steely spines. We’d done this dance before. We even joked about the invisible Moroccan switchboard: We have two wandering women heading east down the alley, cue the Berber Rug Pitch, go, go, go!

And yet, five minutes later, the same man appeared again, breathless, trotting after us.

“It’s very hard to find,” he insisted. “But I will show you. You will never be able to find it.”

There were red flags. We saw them. We nodded at them. And then, despite all our better judgment, we followed.

He led us down unfamiliar alleys, past crumbling walls, neighborhood where the people lived. Kids playing soccer, washing hung out to dry. We walked nearly half a mile before entering an old, crumbling building that we never would’ve found on our own.

And what awaited us?

Not a market.

Not Berber women.

Not a single, solitary rug.

Instead: a tannery.

A full-blown, nostril-assaulting, eye-watering tannery. The kind of smell that could curl your ancestors’ toes. Trying not to be rude, we told them we had already been to a tannery (a complete lie) and tried to back out quickly. That’s when he pivoted and led us into a nearby leather shop instead.

I looked around and asked, “Where are the rugs? And the women?”
Suddenly, their English, so excellent just moments ago dissolved into a fog of polite shrugs and vague gestures.

And that, my dear was the moment we knew we’d been thoroughly had.

That’s when we made our escape.

Back out in the alley, we made a solemn vow: Never again. Stella tried to say I was the one who agreed to follow, but we both know if she didn’t want to go, Stella ain’t going.

We did both agree. That’s my story anyway.

No more following strangers, no matter how charming or persistent. We’d been part of the goose chase before.

But truly, one can’t be mad. There’s no menace to it. Just hustle, charm, and a certain national talent for persuasive detours.

No one tries to harm you. They’re not even that upset if you don’t buy. They’ll tell you plainly: they just want to put their hands on your money. Its normal. It’s a game, and they’re very good at it.

And Stella and me? We’re just two women who keep signing up to play.

This time, we turned right.

And this time, we got tanned. Emotionally, olfactory, and spiritually.

Still, tomorrow?

We’re probably turning left.

Where the mint tea is strong, the eggs are perfect, and the bread we admire - gluten-free and fabulous from a respectful distance.

XXOO

Lucille LaPlante

P.S. We are gluten-free, not by fashion but by biology. Our guts have the temperament of opera singers and the resilience of wet tissue. So while bread taunts us from across the table like a buttery ex-lover, we wave politely and stick to our olives.