The Rebel

Some stories are meant to be short and sweet just like the encounters they describe. And although you know there is so much more to the story, you will never find out the whole truth no matter how much you try. Maybe that's the way it should be....

One of my favorite stories is about Evelyn. 

Evelyn has been traveling solo for some time now, duration unknown. In fact, most of my story may be my imagination of Evelyn, and that is just fine. Because sometimes we need to live in a world of fantasy, where reality vanishes and there is momentary relief from the rigamarol of routine.

So this is my story about Evelyn.

I met her when I first entered a multi-story, lean structure of a hostel in Morocco. The blue city of Chefchaouen. There she was, sitting on the couch in the most relaxed position, busy on her phone. A woman who seemed to know her place in the hostel, in the world. 

As soon as I had registered I joined her on the couch and there I stayed for the next few days staring out the window in silence next to her on her phone or napping. The sunlight streaming in, the hill in the distance with a mosque atop it. Looking at it everyday and imagining tourists visiting it in the evenings to watch the sun set on the blue city of Chefchaouen in Morocco.

It is just a dream now. Walking the streets with Evelyn, eating lunch and dinner with her (pho and fruits), and finally visiting that mosque not too far in the distance on top of that hill.

I still remember her tattoos and thick hair that fell around her shoulders. She spoke of her visit to India and laughs off the time she was brushed on her backside by a male stranger walking by her. I speak of going bald and she talks about her own desire to go bald. I invite her to help me and for two nights in a row we sit on the rooftop of our hostel, her gently shaving off my hair with my razor as I tell her the razor is pulling my hair on my scalp and it hurts.

A rebel, she herself goes bald many months later as she continues traveling and finding love on the other side of the world as I return back to Canada. I remember the burn on her forearm and her sunglasses, shorts, and tank tops. And I remember that attitude to be herself no matter where she was while I was too busy assimilating to keep safe.

She told me she would miss me and although we have not kept in touch over the last half year gone by, I know that when I visit her, although all my other relationships may have died or changed, mine with her will always remain the same. Sitting silently by each other watching the sun set on Chefchaouen's mosque on top of that hill in Morocco. A smile and a laugh intermittent but mostly just serenity and peace.