Imagining that I was a pasha, lolling in the Palais Salam, Taroudant

I have always had a desire to loll like a pasha, sipping iced sherbert, pampered by gracious attendants - I imagine myself stretched out on a couch, shaded by olive trees, under a southern sky - or, perhaps, shaded from the sun by the large torn leaves of banana trees, grouped round a fountain -

When I stayed at the Palais Salam with Anne in Taroudant, many aspects of my dream came true -

We had driven for an hour or so, across the desert, heading east from Agadir - the seat belts in the worn out  black Mercedes were useless - worry beads hung from the rear view mirror - the seats had tiger skin covers - our driver came from a small village in the mountains - he spoke a little French -

Taroudant was surrounded by high walls with towers and crenellations - within its gates was a labyrinth of seething dusty alleys and streets -

The Palais Salam was once a pasha's palace - it was set against the walls of the town, with a tall man in a red robe guarding its gates -

Once inside in the gardens of the palace, I walked through tiled courtyards, shaded by palm trees and banana trees - the high walls shut out the noise and poverty of the town -

Cool water splashed in fountains - oranges hung from dark green branches above my head - moorish arches led into cool halls - checkered blue and white tiles were cool under my bare feet -

I drank orange juice by the pools within the gardens - sipped cafe au lait from thick glass tumblers - looked up at dusk at the swallows in the sky -

I swam in the icy clear water of one of the pools - ate large olives served me in a deep bowl - I felt utterly at peace and indulged -

Fortunately no messenger came for me from the sultan - no bow string awaited me - only the whisper of time, hissing through the leaves of the palm trees -