Room Service

My doorbell rang at an astonishing volume. There was no way not to hear it. I unhooked the chain and slid the bolt back without bothering to ask who was there. The breakfast I ordered last night had arrived. Only this time it was not Mustapha, who has been bringing me the slightly wrong order since we began the morning ritual, it was Aziz. And lo and behold, the order was correct. It was also an hour late but hey, nobody's perfect.

Aziz is the street parking attendant for the block outside my apartment building and he is a friend of my husband, Hassan. As a parking attendant, he wears a bright orange safety vest and helps drivers identify parking spaces and then guides then in and out of the space. He uses hand gestures to show drivers which way to turn their steering wheel, raps on the hood or the trunk when it's time to apply the brakes and then reverses the procedure when it's time to for them drive away. He relies on the few dirhams in tips drivers offer up.

The night before Aziz had returned from a trip to Fes to attend his sister's marriage celebration. Aziz wasn't going to go but Hassan insisted, tempting Aziz with a free ride, and so the two of them drove to Fes about ten days ago.

Aziz speaks French and Arabic but no English but somehow we are able to communicate. The previous evening he ran towards me as I emerged from my building to catch a taxi to school. He asked me what time I would return home and we agreed to rendezvous at 9pm in front of the building. I wasn't sure why we were meeting but I was game. Then he hailed a taxi for me and gave the driver my destination.

I arrived back on Mohamed V a few minutes before 9:00. Soon, Aziz came around the corner and sent his fellow parking attendant into the night. We waited for about 15 minutes in the cold air and spoke about where we had each traveled in Morocco. It turned out Aziz had  journeyed to the Sahara to visit with his father after the wedding celebration. We stamped our feet and remarked on the cold until his friend returned with a plastic bag. I was presented with the bag and inside was a gift wrapped kleenex box filled with cookies from the wedding. I thanked Aziz and politely turned down his offer to buy me some dinner. But Aziz was insistent that he do more for me and I agreed to have him bring me coffee and a croissant the following morning. Behind all of Aziz's solicitation I could hear Hassan's voice telling Aziz to "take care of my wife" so I felt obliged to accept the offerings. I can only wonder what Mustapha was thinking when he saw Aziz carry the tray with my breakfast order into the building. Poor Mustapha ... if only I had the words to explain. I think the best thing for me to do from here on out is to forego the room service and get my own coffee.