Assilah
We took the night flight from Paris to Tangier. I wanted to go Air France because of the Prince but M wanted Air Maroc because of the timing— it was in the evening as opposed to AF which was in the morning.
I relented in the end even if it meant putting the Prince in the hold.
When I moved with the Prince from New York to Paris in July, I told Air France he was a service dog and no questions asked, all hundred pounds of him was allowed in the cabin with me.
Of course, I made the fatal error of overdosing him with training treats throughout the flight and he left its evidence on the seat and on the floor.
I had to go down on my hands and knees and scrub with the bottled water they’d given me and the little bit of paper napkin I had. I might have used a sweater of mine as well.
I prefer not to remember.
The business class seats are such that you have a door you can close so no one from the aisle and other side can see you and it is like being in a tiny, private cabin. Thank god for business class, is all I can say.
In Orly, last night though, we had to put in him the crate to go into the hold as Air Maroc doesn’t allow dogs in cabin.
This meant I’d have to sacrifice all my physical woes and neck issues and get into the crate myself to coax him in.
We didn’t have time to get the crate together before we left for the airport so while M was checking in, I knelt on the floor, twisting screws and trying to figure out how the buckle fit as there was no user manual.
I decided to forget about the fact that I can’t use my hands and have no sense of balance.
As my friend A had once told me, when you have to do something, your body just finds a way to do it.
I decided I will do what I do every day once I arrived in Assilah— just go to sleep and hope this horrible nightmare will end. I have done this for ten years now.
I was sure the Prince would have a heart attack when he saw the crate. I had him tied to the poles that hold the ropes to the check in lines all this time.
I still don’t know how this happened, but once I managed to assemble the crate, he went in voluntarily with no resistance. All forty kilos of him.
The last time he had to go into a crate was like trying to put an untamed jungle animal in a cage. The Prince is, after all a Lion Hunter by nature. He can kill if he wants to.
But, I shall not wonder why.
I just accept that sometimes life gives you a gift and you must take it.
I saw the crate being carried away, wobbling on the conveyor belt where one checks in their luggage, trying not to imagine how the Prince might be crashing against each of the four sides, thinking, if this was Air France or any airport in America, it would be considered animal negligence.
I stumbled in my usual gait behind M, and we waited in the disability passenger area for my wheelchair.
The Orly wheelchairs are the best. It’s three chairs one behind the other , all interconnected and driven electronically. Like a narrow airport buggy with an eating disorder.
I was about to sit on the first chair as I cannot move sideways to squeeze into chairs, which is what one would have to do with chair number two and three but the authorities commanded me, in French, to sit on the second one.
When you’re frightened, everything sounds like a command.
I felt a little like the Prince but I sheepishly sat where I was told to.
An elderly lady in a khaki coat and a white crochet hat sat on the first.
We passed by many restaurants and cafes and I couldn’t stop feeling sorry for myself thinking that were I a normal person as I used to be, we’d have stopped for a drink and some food and idle to the gate at our own pace.
Some things you never get used to letting go of.
Such as, living.
The first time I had met M, he said that in order to understand him, I must go with him to his village, Assilah and what was supposed to be a one week trip to Paris turned out into a one month trip.
I remember while waiting for a flight to Tangier, M bought a bottle of beer, poured it into a paper cup and took it into the flight. He said no alcohol was allowed on Air Maroc and he insisted on retaliating to stupid Muslim laws. It just for provocation sake, and nothing else. A little red flag, I remember, went up at that time in my mind. But I forgave him eventually because he hasn’t done anything nearly as silly again. I’ll blame it on the fact that maybe he was in some childish way either trying to impress me or was nervous.
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Since I was in a wheelchair, we went through the special priority line and embarked the flight before anyone else.
I didn’t notice the other passengers waiting. I didn’t see how big the line was. I was just thinking about not moving my neck more than I had to even though I wanted to turn around and say something light hearted to M. The more I think about being incapacitated, the worse I feel so my resolution off late has been to act and behave as though there’s nothing wrong. This is the only way I will get better— by not treating myself like a patient.
I did once or twice say something to M, who was walking behind our little three chair train. But I started tremoring immediately and stopped myself.
A crew member of the flight came over to us and started to saying something in French to M.
What did he say? I asked.
Turns out that he was the captain himself. He said, apparently that the Prince was much too handsome to be in the baggage hold, which would not be comfortable for him at all, and since the flight was half empty, we could have the entire three seats of the first row, with its extra leg space, to ourselves and take him in the cabin with us.
Are you sure? I asked. You do realize that he is 40 kilos.
But the captain just shook his head and smiled and said no problem.
Again, I accept the little gifts that the world gives you and do not question why I deserve this special treatment.
I suppose that service animal harness that I bought for him from Amazon helped.
It was almost midnight by the time we cleared customs, found Ahmed, M’s regular driver and made it into the Medina in Assilah. We let Prince go from his leash while we dragged luggage through alleyways. The Prince spotted a cat, and darted at a speed, I haven’t seen him running in years.
When lion hunters run, they look like a leopard or a gazelle— depending on their agenda for running, I suppose.
I’m not sure how many alleyways over he went, but I was terrified that I would never see him again. Luckily, at that time of the night the Medina was quiet. No voices. Only the cobbled streets and faint yellow lights just like Calcutta, where I used to photograph when I first started using a camera.
Of course the Prince came back. It helps to have an Arab man around you with a loud booming voice. This is the only part of M I cannot get used to. The force in his voice when he arrives in Assilah goes up 200%. Just like Indian news commentators. I’m still working on adjusting to this side of him.
The Arabs talk loudly and if you don’t know what they’re saying it sounds like they’re shouting at each other. Just like Indian men, but even louder.
I remember once, when I didn’t own a television, trying to find a live feed to watch a grand slam final (Wimbledon perhaps). Ultimately, I did, on some website or the other, but it was from some Middle Eastern TV channel and the commentators were speaking in Arabic. You think that World War III had commenced. I ended up watching the the entire match on mute.
We finally arrived at Dar Astor— one of the two houses M has built for his children. This one named after his eldest son.
Dar Astor is connected to Dar Tara by a common courtyard so you can either stay in both houses together, or shut the doors between the courtyards to create two private houses.
When he’s in Paris, he rents them out on Airbnb.
Every detail in both the houses is meticulous. From the custom made tiled tables he had built, thoughtfully with wheels because of their weight. I call them Mt. Vesuvius.
The beautiful open ceiling three floors high, with a skylight, allowing faint morning light to beam in.
The geometric architecture of the stairs and the ceiling, in typical Moroccan style.
I remember seeing some of this when I first went to Seville, some twenty years back.
We entered through the doorway of the courtyard, instead of the main entrance of Dar Astor.
A dish of home made couscous, made by his sister, waiting for us on Mt. Vesuvius. Covered in vegetables and meat.
There is nothing like coming home to a plate of freshly made home made couscous, M tells me.
We open the bottle of duty free whisky and shovel our spoons into the tagine dish.
The way to eat couscous is not by serving yourself on your individual plate but by eating from the same communal dish, together.
The Indians would have a heart attack, I thought.
It’s past midnight. The Medina is asleep. Except for the cats.
Silence roars through the house, the open ceiling of the courtyard.
M’s at home and hopefully, over the years, I’ll be able to say the same.