A Fork in the Road

This morning, I pushed open a door that was somewhat stuck to its frame. When it sprung open, a hot splash of sunlight landed on my face. Or it was I who landed and stumbled into the path of the sun. It surprised me that the heavy clouds that had washed the city in a grey rain had already blown off in a new direction. And it felt good to push against the heavy door and emerge suddenly into the sun. So many different paths now seemed to sprawl before me, twisting and winding, narrow here, broad and airy there. Bright brass lamps beckoned to the right, to left woven carpets draped the coarse coral walls of the stacked buildings, followed by the scents of cumin, orange blossoms, and fried fish. All of it beckoning movement. The urge to wander seems to have risen to my head, and my thoughts also spill and spread in disparate directions.

I have begun and left unfinished entries about: eels and Camus, the persistence of New York City, victimhood in the writing of Paul Bowles and Jean d'Ormesson, food in Japanese film. Instead, I have let myself go deeper into the souks—buying nothing, jumping out of the way of motorbikes, looking at cats, thinking about the improbability of a new year and of Marrakech.

- Andrea