My last morning in Marrakech. Before the flight, out on the scooter once more — the city still asleep.
It was a Friday, and the streets were quieter than I'd expected. I started in the Medina before dawn. Still completely dark, the city lit only by streetlamps and the occasional shopfront. A street sweeper, a bread seller, a few figures heading to the mosque. The Koutoubia appeared at the end of almost every straight street, floodlit against a grey, hazy sky. Late January — overcast, no sun breaking through.
By the time I reached Djemaa el-Fna, the square was mid-transformation. Umbrellas already up, stools arranged in rows, the henna stations staked out and waiting. The water sellers in full costume sat alone in the empty space — patient, unhurried.
I had to cut it short. The luggage was waiting, and so was the flight.
