Returning from our quad bike beach adventure and gelato cones, Will, Grace, Alex, and I are walking down the main strip in the old part of Essaouira, back to our riad, minding our own business, when a guy calls out to me:
“Excuse me! Rasta! YOU are the BEST rasta I’ve ever seen!”
(Context: Since arriving the day before, I’ve been called a rasta more times than I care to count. I’m not a rasta. I don’t have anything against people who are practicing rastas. But I HATE it. And everyone knows this.)
I turn to my left. It’s this young guy, barely out of his teens, with wavy dark hair and one SERIOUS mofo of a unibrow.
Before I can say a thing, Will says, “Well, she’s not a rasta.”
Grace pipes up, “And she doesn’t like it, so stop.”
The guy persists. And that’s when both Grace and Alex tell him to go away.
“Excuse me, ” Unibrow Dude continues, “But I have NEVER told anyone to go away.”
I try to say to the girls that it’s okay, it’s not necessary for them to put up for me. But the damage has already been done.
The guy gets defensive, saying,”I am a linguistics major at university! Would you like me to teach you ENGLISH?”
I have no idea which one of us he’s talking to, but he’s clearly trying to insult us.
The conversation – during which I’ve not really said ANYTHING – ends with Mr. Man, telling me (I guess):
“YOU are a very arrogant woman. And you’re THE WORST rasta I have ever met!”
I am soon forgotten, as we see him later in the day walking along Avenue Istiqlal, trying to work his linguistics-studies charm on two young ladies.
Huh. Guess I missed out.