The Train to Essaouira

There is a moment when the landscape shifts—when red earth becomes golden dunes, and the

chaos of the city dissolves into silence. I was on a train from Marrakech to Essaouira, lulled by

the rickety rhythm of the tracks. The air smelled faintly of cumin and iron. Outside the window,

goats balanced on argan trees like misplaced ornaments.

Across from me sat an older woman in a pale blue hijab. Her hands were calloused as she

clutched a paper bag of dates. Without a word, she offered me one. I hesitantly accepted. It was

warm from the sun and unexpectedly soft.

We did not speak the same language, but travel often teaches that words are a luxury, not a

necessity. When the train halted briefly in a village, the woman pointed to the fields and mimed

the act of sowing. I nodded. I did not fully understand the specifics, but I understood the rhythm.

Life, like trains and conversations, follows its tracks.

As we neared Essaouira, the light changed. Everything glowed—washed in honeyed hues. I saw

the Atlantic in the distance, the blue that makes you feel like you have forgotten something

beautiful.

We reached the station. The woman rose, adjusted her scarf, and offered me the rest of the dates.

I tried to decline as she continued insisting. I took them and thanked her in broken Arabic. She

placed her hand on her chest and walked away without looking back.

She never told me her name, but I do remember her presence. That quiet kindness on a train

heading west reminded me that travel is not always about grand discoveries. Sometimes, it is a

date in your palm—how small, generous moments can feel infinite when you're far from home.