The Morning Man

If the dawn’s heat does not wake me, which it normally does, the muezzin of the mosque opposite my apartment surely will, the first adhan of the day flying through my windows and echoing across my white walls and bouncing off the blue and green tiles, creating the effect that the muezzin himself is in my room, my own personal alarm clock.

And if not for those two, I’ve surely slept in, and then it's the birds turn, the Spanish sparrows that pervade the balconies around me, the three roosters in my neighborhood cackling. For the first few weeks of my time in the North African metropolis, the orchestra of the sunrise and early morning has always succeeded in getting me up from the mattress, and so the day begins.

I always shower first thing when I wake up, an OCD tradition of mine, and I brush my teeth right there and then, in the shower. Here though at random times the water pressure is too low, and so the drip feed of water oscillating sporadically between scorching and freezing is not a worthwhile shower.

But I digress, on a normal day I shower, and I prepare for the day. Aside from the shower, one of the most important moments is that morning coffee. I know, I know…each person has their particular morning ritual, their almost ecclesiastical moment in which the coffee is consumed like the bread of Christ…unless you’re one of those people that doesn’t drink coffee, if so nevermind.

But I not only like to have mine out and about, but I like to know the place I’m having that first coffee. It’s almost a necessary component of it, to say good morning, to ask the barista how are you, and not in the let’s skip the bullshit with the small talk but rather a serious how are you, expecting and hoping for honest answers, to have that connection.

In this sprawling capital, just outside the ancient medina, there is no shortage of coffee places to choose from, a cafe positioned every 50 meters or so. Every terrace is decked out with plastic chairs and wobbly tables, and the men and the women sit, and they seem to sit there for hours, drinking tea or coffee in small glasses, at any hour of the day and night. Groups of older men play chess or another game that I am not yet privy to. Each day that passes, I understand more that this, the screeching coffee machine hissing out the warm liquid, the tables, the chairs, the ashtrays filled, the sound of cars whizzing by, all of this, is the social center of the area, the place where all come to meet, the entertainment of everyday life.

So, I must choose wisely. My morning ritual must be completed, and I think I’ve found the perfect place. I saw it the first day I arrived, and was immediately drawn to it, like a thirsty moth to a buzzing light. It is on a busy street, at the doorstep of the medina, and about two blocks away from my own door, just a 1-minute stroll away. Cafe Enassr. The inside of it, where nobody sits, is filled with typical Andalusian tiles, and outside, it’s dozen or so tables with two or three chairs each, sit under a line of jacaranda trees, brilliant violet canopies that give enough shade to those seated, letting only a few rays filter through, rays dipped in that purple heaven. I decided from the first day forth, I would have a coffee here every morning, without fail.

Only one issue remains. The man behind the counter, who typically sits outside with the customers he’s likely known all of his life, this man, so crucial to my day, hates me.

Now, before I explain further, I have to admit, I don’t know that for sure. There is a clear language barrier between us; namely that I do not speak Arabic, and this man, in his 50’s donning a baseball cap, features painted with wrinkles from a long life of sunshine, does not speak English or French. But aside from that, I think he doesn’t speak at all. We have seen each other every morning for two weeks, and he has not shared a word with me. Two weeks! Not a word, and worse, barely a look! I go there every morning without fail, I repeat without fail, and while the coffee is bitter, darkly bitter, every time I drink I have an additional unwelcome taste in my mouth, as if those impressively beautiful jacaranda trees don’t shine as bright, as the azure façades have lost their splendour, and it’s as if I’m not welcome here, in this new city I find myself in. I even grab the glass after drinking it, and take it all the way to the interior so I can leave it there. But nothing has worked so far.

What to do? How do I endear myself to this man, my morning man, who seems as bitter as the coffee he prepares? We are from such different worlds, children that while sharing a common history, have separated at birth and are now so distinct from each other that one must sit and analyze the similarities to spot them. Is it maybe just time that I need? Time so that this man may become accustomed to me? Rather than endearing myself to him, is it just wearing him down with kindness? I do not want to change from the Ennasr Cafe, it called to me the second I arrived and to change to another cafe for my morning ritual would be to fail. Yes, it would be a failure. A failure to assimilate, a failure and a stain on the work I have to do here. A failure that would remain with me.

So as the roosters pull me from my sweet dreams, and the muezzin finishes his last Allahu Akbar, I have devised a plan for today, the 15th day. Well, to call it a plan is a bit farfetched. Before heading over to the Ennasr Cafe, I have memorized a few Arabic phrases. Good Morning. How are you? I am well, thank you. Beautiful day today right? Yes, yes. Of course all of this in Arabic.

I have showered, I am dressed. I grab my keys and head out of the apartment. I pass by the dozens of cats loitering on the street, some far too thin, and arrive at the main road, where cars jostle for the tiniest amount of space in the moving morning gridlock. I turn right, and there it is. I see the violet light sifting down into the asphalt, the rays meandering in osmosis. It is early, so there are still spots available on the outside chairs, and the sparrows sing their song loudly above. I spot him in conversation with someone else, seated, but he spots me as I enter the cafe and wait for him there, the two coins twirling between my fingers.

He arrives, says nothing and goes straight to the coffee machine brusquely. He begins to prepare the coffee, knowing already what my order will be. He unlatches the filter and slams it against the trash beside him, then fills it up quickly and latches the metal part back into its place, the button pressed, the warm dark bitter liquid oozing into the small glass he grabbed from the many underneath the counter.

We are alone, my palms sweating. I muster up the courage, and I say good morning, in the best Arabic I know how to, practicing since I had woken up, and I follow it up with a solid how are you.

Groggish, his head slowly turns to me, and for a split second, maybe even less than that, he stares deep into my soul with dark brown eyes that glitter in the musky setting. A smile appears, from ear to ear showing two broken teeth and cigarette-stained gums, and he places warmly his hand above mine on the counter, the distance between us now obsolete, and begins to speak in Arabic, loudly, smiling all the while. And he squeezes my hand, and I say good, good, tamaam tamaam, and I tell him it’s a beautiful day today, for I have no idea if he has asked me a question or not, and what that question, if it is one, might be. Ya lahu min yawm jamil, he repeats. What a beautiful day.

I thank him after he hands me the glass, and we both go to our respective places, him to speak with his friend, and me to sit idly beneath the jacaranda trees, my morning ritual in completion, perfect and untainted. The blue façades in front of me, as the yellow taxis and bikes pass by look brighter than before, the sparrows chirp a happier tune, and the city means something more now, its abstract bosom warming to me, welcoming me, even if it doesn’t know it.

I finish my coffee, quickly, because I do not loiter too much during the morning, stand up and take my glass, as I always do, to the empty counter, and as I start to walk down the street, in the last second I turn. Just ever so slightly, to see if I should say goodbye, and I see my morning man, unnamed but so important, standing up and waving me goodbye with a coffee in hand too, and I return his wave, and continue down the road.

I may not know anyone here, and I may be alone for the months I spend here, wrapped in my own thoughts and my own work, but now, every morning, I know I have a place to go, a place to awake into the scorching day, and the future looks as bright as the misty violet jacarandas, for I can start my day with a smile, with the knowledge that while from home, I belong here too.

Once home, I checked the meaning of Ennasr, which had dawned on me as I was leaving. To triumph it says...ennasr means to triumph.