– Good morning

– Good morning, how are you?

– You want some breakfast? 

– Yes, please. 

– You want coffee, right? 

– Yes, please

…

…

 – Do I just…? I gesture towards the tables. 

– Yes, I will bring it to you. 

– Thank you. 

I can do anything if I put my mind to it. 

Coffee, orange juice, fruit salad with yogurt arrive, followed by fried eggs, and several pieces of baguette. Then a plate of three American pancakes drenched in syrup is also put in front of me. I say, no thank you, it’s too much. She takes the plate away.  

– Do you want a Moroccan pancake instead?

– Are Moroccan pancakes the ones they sell by the mosque? 

Did I really just say that? Why did I say that?  I don’t want any pancakes, the breakfast is huge as it is.

– Yes. Do you want one?

– Yes please. 

OK, so breakfast confidence needs work. Until then, I can see myself fold the m’smen, that’s the name of the Moroccan pancake, in half, and sneak out of the rooftop with it in my hand every morning. 

I took the pancake to the beach with me today. It might come in handy later.

After breakfast, a beach walk. The beach is beautifully empty at 10am. 

I entertain myself by playing out a never to happen conversation with the young Taghazout butcher in my head. 

I Google translate ‘When is the next time you are going to open the cow’s head, s’il vous plait?’ into French. I say it aloud a few times. Duolingo content creators would have been proud of me. 

I cut the walk short, because today is hamam day. My son arranged a pick up for the hamam at 12pm. The drive is 10 minutes away from the beach and into the mountains.

Hamam is not for everybody. If you are coy about bearing it all, and I mean, all, in front of strangers, if you have an issue with the said strangers kneading and prodding every inch of you, don’t do it. 

If you are uncomfortable about anything which might feel remotely sensual, even when it really never is intended that way, don’t do it.

If you have a low pain threshold, do not do it. 

After I strip off to my bikini bottom, it’s off to the steam room, where I lose the panties too, to be replaced by the skimpiest most useless paper thong. It’s a bit late to worry about my modesty anyway. The very polite very considerate young lady smothers me in some brown goo, answers my quering look with a curt ‘savon’. Next, I am laid down on a marble slab and she sandpapers me methodically from my toes to my chin. 

When I am all scrubbed down to the bone, she hoses me down with pleasantly hot water, and smears another goo all over me, this time with a strong aniseed smell. I want to ask her what it is, but the only French sentence I can think of is, when is the next time you are going to open the cow’s head? I give the conversation a miss. Second round of prodding and a few minutes alone in the steam room follows. 

After that, the paper thong comes off, I am given a bathrobe to walk to the next room. In there, another very polite lady takes the robe off my shoulders, wraps me up in a towel and points to a massage bed. I lie down on my belly, face goes through a hole and then she asks me, ‘massage strong, medium or relaxing?’

Strong, please, I say, God knows why.  

Who needs enemies when I have myself.

Strong hurts a lot, but it’s also strangely enjoyable. I wish I had taken paracetamol beforehand.

To round up the experience, I am offered a glass of Moroccan green tea and a couple of biscuits. I have earned every crumb.

My son was sick today, so my supported solo travelling experience ended up being unusually unsupported. 

I went to a restaurant for lunch all by myself. Cheated a little, because we went there together yesterday, so Abdullah the manager recognised me, which meant I could pretend I was lunching at an old friend’s place. I ordered a tagine, and when it came, I asked one of the waiters to take a photo of me, so I could send it to my family to show that I was able to survive perfectly fine on my own. At this point, an old man in the corner of the restaurant asked what was going on. Abdullah explained. The old man sent one of the waiters to fetch a sisal cross body bag from a wheelbarrow, apparently part of his merchandise. He insisted on  gifting it to me and absolutely refused to take any money. I thanked him and took the bag. Sometimes it’s best to accept a gift with a smile. I don’t know why he gave me the bag.  He might have felt sorry for me eating all alone, or maybe I am his wife now. Fifty fifty.