It was spring in Morocco, during the peak of the Rose Festival. Leaving her riad at 28 Rue Assourel, she pressed against the ancient clay walls to allow the carts to pass, overflowing with fresh rose petals, expertly guided by small, purposeful men.
The medina was intoxicating. Not just the sweet, powerful perfume of the flowers, but the vats of exotic spices, the tanned leathers, the carved cedar boxes, and the ubiquitous urns of fresh nanah tea.
It was a potent cocktail. She lost track of time completely. She had no idea where the next passageway might lead. But she made her way confidently, navigating with broken French and genuine smiles … feeling for the first time in ages, truly and entirely alive.