There are over fifty countries in Africa and we know for a fact that one of them doesn't want us. But there's fifty more to choose from and a one week respite in Paris seems the perfect segue from Morocco to, ah, whichever country lets us in.
So all along the Seine, we fancied ourselves writers and artists in bookshops and cafes, strolling the sculpture gardens of Rodin's Hôtel Biron studios, browsing galleries, and partaking an afternoon carafe of wine to relieve the feet and bemuse embassy bureaucracies. In the evenings we spilled out over the flat with a bottle of wine, three expats, in league with dreams of travel and language. So good to see an old friend.
Several times a day, we climbed seven flights of stairs to a hall of small studio flats, rooftops overlooking rooftops. Years ago these were the servants quarters, accessed thru a door at the back of the inner courtyard. Today, it was our haven and we became excessively familiar with the creak of every winding step as the elevator was reserved for residents and only accessible thru the central courtyard of the main building and not our backdoor.
Much to our amusement, we discovered that if you left the flat, descended the seven flights, and went looking for a patisserie, a right instead of a left took you straight to the Pigalle district's signature landmark, the Moulin Rouge. It was an honest mistake, but suddenly, going for a pastry took on a whole new, wonderful red-light meaning. I offered to go on a croissant run at least once a day.
Au revoir, James Claxton. When I think of you, I will think stairs. Seven spiraling flights worth.
I have always been an impatient, fidgety student with daydreams unconducive to the classroom, yet here I sit, in the classroom. Swahili holds greetings in high esteem and as we sit in the children's chairs in this one room schoolroom, our teacher, Mwana, fires greeting after greeting at us so we fluidly respond and return the courtesies, again and again, with dynamic aplomb as my elementary notebook floods with ink.
Our class is held at the university by the market and we can practice pleasantries and placing orders at lunch and every question introduces a whole new chapter in grammar. How many noun classes do there need to be? And what the hell is a noun class anyway? As a reprieve, I take out my PADI dive book and work on the first three chapters, preparing for the following days quiz. Non stop learning, shouldn't I be on vacation?
During our free time we navigate the local market. I am fascinated by its color and energy, most specifically the meats and fish. It's rather disgusting, but I want to get as close as possible without stepping in the blood or accidentally brushing up against the discarded goat heads or entrails. I want to ask a million questions, but for now, our greetings and wide-eyed awe are enough to break the ice and pull us further in. We are forever students, as it should be.
We spent two months in Morocco and never found a single working clock. Everything operated 
The historic clock towers proudly display times that you might think are wrong, but when you look at ferry schedules and adjust to swahili time, you realize otherwise. While diving, the safety checks include synchronizing our watches, but relying on the instructor, we simply go thru the motions of looking at our wrists, as if time matters, and really, as we later kick back at sunset, our feet in the sand, our beers in our hands, and the sun sinking low, there is no need for any more accuracy than that. We are right on time.
