The alley smelled of cardamom and rain-soaked stone. No guidebook had led me here—just a wrong turn in Marrakech's mellah and the sound of laughter spilling from a doorway painted the color of sunset.
Inside, three women sat cross-legged on cushions, rolling couscous by hand. The oldest gestured for me to sit, her hennaed hands moving in circles I couldn't follow. She spoke no English. I spoke terrible Arabic. But when she pressed warm dough into my palm and guided my fingers in slow, practiced motions, language dissolved into understanding.
For an hour, I learned the rhythm her grandmother had taught her. The grains had to be just damp enough, rolled with patience, each piece uniform. My first attempts crumbled. The younger women giggled, not unkindly. By my twentieth try, I managed something passable. The grandmother nodded, satisfied, and poured mint tea so sweet it made my teeth ache.