Moroccan scene


They sit at a table on this modern square in Marrakech far away from the crowds on the Jemaa el Fnaa square. A modern neighborhood with shops in the more expensive segment, luxury apartment complexes located near the grand cafe de la Poste.
This must be their regular meeting place. In the corner of the spacious terrace they have their two stemtables. When we get there, there are two men. The waiter knows their rituals. He is already become part of it: the coffee is brought quickly without ordering. One lits his cigarette, the other a cigar.
Soon the others follow. The familiar greetings with kisses, warm but also fleeting because they know each other well. Even now there is no need to order, soon the desired is brought.
Four of the six wear glasses with tinted glass. No heavy sunglasses but with something of protection. Two more men are smoking. All six have a beautiful brown-tinted skin. Nowhere exaggerated. And their faces are like their clothes, well-intentioned. These gentlemen say a capella: we leave nothing to chance.
No hair is wrong, the skin looks fresh and that is also how they fit in their clothes. One of them has trousers with a matching jacket, a blue shirt and a tie that accentuates but does not detonate. But also the man with the jeans, black belt and tight but simple polo and the snow-white sneakers without socks is an addition which can only lead to one result: this is correct. The perfect picture. Even their attitude at the table is correct. The man in suit is sitting with his legs crossed and his hands loosely on his knee. The biggest but also the most roughly built of the six is ​​slightly bent over in his chair which is clearly too small for him.
How old would they be? 55? 60? Retired? Or do they meet during a break from work? Entrepreneurs? Civil servants? They talk and laugh, exchange meaningful looks, have friendly conversations. When two young ladies, who clearly are appreciated by the gentlemen, rise from their table, I read the secret pleasure of their faces.
And then suddenly out of nowhere the unspoken signal: time to go. The waiter is paid and everyone stands up and goes his way. Two of them leave together the others each in their own direction. Even their walks are distinguished.
Drinking coffee in Morocco is more than drinking coffee. The coffee house is a meeting place. Here you meet with friends, to do business, to negotiate, to meet and solve a dispute. You can also effortlessly join a group where you only know one of them. I meet regularly on a terrace of a coffee house and then family members or a gardener join in because something else needs to be discussed.
Nothing is more beautiful than staring at a group of friends who have known each other for years and despite their fixed rituals and manners still radiate something youthful mischievous. And these six Moroccan friends also do that with an unprecedented style.
In everyday life, the simple jewels of stories often hide.


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