Hello Adventure

Chapter 18

The honeyed light of dawn showed off the sweeping rooftops of Marrakesh from a cinematic distance with flocks of larks alighting into the endless cloudless skies. Once we were done shooting on the roof, we roamed the riad and captured its secret nooks and luxurious rooms decorated in textures and fierce pops of color, so bright they seem to shout at you.

Afterward, I went through it shot by shot with Cai who didn't mind that I asked him things like "what's bohkeh?" and "where exactly are these low lights you keep referring too?"

"I don't mind your questions," he had told me, meaning it. "It's nice having someone curious about my work. And you have a good creative eye." The compliment meant more than I'd like to admit.

He also let me help edit a short film and let me pick the final rushes. It was shaping up to look like some cool perfume ad and I really thought Stasia would love it. While he worked, I wrote up a distribution plan for the video along with predictive viewership numbers based on similar videos and sent it to Stasia even though she hadn't responded to any of my other strategy-based emails that I had been sending her.

"Would you like me to show you somewhere for lunch?" Cai asked when our eyes started to dry and blur from staring at our screens too long. "The souk can be like a labyrinth," he warned. "I've gotten lost plenty of times. There's this chill rooftop restaurant called Nomad. It's in Place des Épices. Spice Square."

"Sounds wonderful, but I think I'm just going to relax in my room for a bit." Lately between Sebastian and Brooke, it was like I was getting my ass kicked in an emotional roller derby, and I was in desperate need of some Netflix and chill time—in the literal sense.

So when we finished working, I retreated to my room alone. But after an hour in the hotel by myself, I grew fidgety. I mean, I was in Marrakesh for the first time! Why was I locking myself in a hotel room marathoning through The Real Housewives?

I called Cai, but he didn't answer his phone. Then I called Brooke, but she didn't answer either, so I tried texting:

SLOANE: Want to do lunch in the souks? Cai told me about this place called Nomad. Let's explore!

God, she really loved eggplant. Well, that meant Dale was busy too, so I gathered my things, and I headed out alone into the maze that was Marrakesh.

I never did find Nomad.

Instead, I found Jamâa El Fna—the hectic main square of the old town and the city's double-beating heart. Drugged-up cobras swayed in baskets and monkeys on leashes leaped onto shoulders, inciting shrieks of delight from red-faced tourists. Every food stall smelled better than the last, blasting my face with muggy clouds of steam scented of meat or fish or delicious things I couldn't even guess at. Some stalls were piled with oranges or nuts; mesmerizing heaps of them. People whirl-pooled around me. It was a riot of activity that I loved to watch, to listen, to smell, to be a part of.

When I tired of the vibrant circus of storytellers, performers and snake-charmers under the strong sun overhead, I started to make my way back to the hotel.

Just as I entered the refreshing sanctuary of La Sultana, I nearly collided with a man in front of me who had stopped short like he was the only person in the world. The guy was lanky but broad-shouldered. Looking him over, I noted his style: he was rocking this somehow familiar Jimi Hendrix-meets-Appalachia atheistic. There was no doubt about it: It was Mr. Miles Beauregard, standing right in front of me, in the middle Marrakesh.

Beside him was a tattooed woman with a mane of hair the color of blackberries and harem pants that I could never pull off without looking like I shat myself.