Don't Touch the Cats

by Kristine Liggio (United States of America)

Making a local connection Morocco

The old man was walking a few feet behind me. I peered over my shoulder, carefully, trying to keep the headscarf I was wearing from falling to my shoulders. I sped up my pace easily gaining distance away from him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should have listened to the others. A week ago, at a dinner in New York, I announced I was traveling on my own to Casablanca. The young woman in front of me made a face and asked why? She was there the year before- stayed at the hotel I booked- did I know they have metal detectors at the front door? Another person jumped in- I was harassed by a carpet seller who wouldn’t let me leave his shop. More examples than I wanted to hear about how difficult it was to travel alone as a woman… oh what have I done? The plane was not full. My seatmate was by the window, the seat between us empty. We politely nodded and put on our headphones to watch movies. It wasn’t until just before landing that I asked if he was going home or going away. Eddie was a student studying criminal justice in Manhattan on the way home to visit his parents. He had some time before his connecting flight and kindly offered to show me where my train was. He insisted on buying my ticket and talked to the conductor asking him to make sure I got off at the right stop. The train was old but very clean. I looked out the window at the landscape passing by. The countryside was greener than I expected. As the train stopped at each station, the conductor politely passed by and dutifully told me- no, no- shaking his fingers to make sure I didn’t get off. When a new conductor came on, my guardian spoke to him at length passing on the instructions. The second conductor did the same and when we finally arrived to the last stop, he motioned that it was time to get off, all smiles. It was unexpectedly cold. My hotel was very close by to the station. My plan had been to walk but exhaustion, luggage and rain now coming down in buckets stole my courage and I decided to take a cab. On the short ride, I saw how poor this city was- some buildings were rubble. We passed the old medina. Oh, I had to go there! A nap and a hot shower later, the skies were still cloudy but the rain had stopped. Passing through the metal detectors which stood as I had been told a feeling of unease came over me again. Why were they there? The air smelled fresh as it often does from a heavy rain. There were very few people on the street, all men. As I put distance between me and the old man following me, I could see the entrance to the old medina. As I quickly stepped inside, a cat was sleeping in a little patch of sun on top of a table. I read about the cats. Don’t touch the cats it said. The cat stretched looking relaxed in the way only cats can do. How dangerous can this place with a cat so content? Walking with purpose pretending as if I had lived there all my life, I gazed at colorful jars of tea and mysterious spices, quickly looking away to avoid a shopkeeper’s eye. Please, please, don’t talk to me I prayed in my head. I am terrible at bargaining. A teenager in black leather sauntered over as I moved my hand to cover my bag. “American?” “Yes.” “Which city?” “New York.” “New York! Nadim just came back from New York. Nadim! She’s from New York!” I turned to see the old man who had followed me earlier. He gave a little bow and asked which part. Before I knew it, I was admiring pictures of his adorable baby granddaughter who lived a few miles away from me. The world once again became a little smaller and a little less frightening. I even managed to pet the cat.