late night I’m in the restaurant where the late night buses stop on their way through town. It’s after midnight, the moment when the ambience is most true. I just ate my usual dinner of spit roasted chicken, Spanish rice and a plate of greasy vegetables. I wanted to write about the blue checked tablecloths, the faded mirrors, the brown trim of the windows, the chairs with their thin worn padding, the scene outside that I always enjoy of the man roasting chickens in the street, the bustle of buses pulling up and pulling away, the aging poker faced deadbeat waiter, the general ambience of the 1940s. Instead an argument broke out at the table next to mine, and it became heated enough that I felt I should move away. I moved into the restaurant’s other room, which is a simple cafe. Now once again all is quiet, and I don’t know the outcome of the dispute, but I know that my loyalties are with the young man who seemed to be the focus of all the ruckus, and who remained calm throughout. Two officious older men were picking on him, one slapping the table repeatedly with his hand, while several others gathered to watch. Was it an argument between the owners and an employee? The restaurant workers seemed to know the protagonists. A woman was also part of the story, but she sat at a separate table, facing away.
	location: Larache, Morocco date: March 30, 2004 average rating: 10.00 (1 vote) your rating (0-10):