Alizee

It is here in Essaouira that the Atlantic trade wind, the beautifully named Alizee, comes ashore. The wind follows your every step here, through the narrow alleyways, along the wave-lashed ramparts and into the night when only the silent shuffle of kaftans may occasionally blend into its infinite melodies.

This morning, I woke up to the sad news that my dear grandmother had passed away. Her name “Alice”, though cognate with the wind, was always something reserved exclusively for formalities. To me and my sister she was simply “grandmother” and as one she took very good care of us both.

She will be deeply missed.