Au Revoir Agadir or One Last Pop

This is a typical evening in Agadir- but only if you're a local. If you're like me, an American male, traveling solo, who unwittingly booked a room at the homoerotic epicenter of Morocco, then you can not even stand hunched by the fountain. Instead, your nights are spent reading cowering in your room, avoiding the advances of Tanner. I must thank the man, he gave me a great window into a dense jungle that the light of my imagination had never before seen. See my last post, and you, too, will be similarly enriched or disturbed or disappointed, depending on you.

So why didn't I get the hell out?

In fact, I did. Tanner came back for 'one last pop.'

I am never, as a rule, supposed to interact with other humans before ten o'clock in the morning. I was up at nine, meeting Darkah for a second round of surfing, I needed to check out/ pack up. So.

I said, 'bonsoir' to greet the waiter at breakfast. Clearly the wrong thing to say at nine in the morning. He smiled and laughed. So when he brought me my food, I gave him another 'bonsoir,' and a thumbs-up. He gave me food and a winning smile.

After setting down my dish, he said some French words, of which I comprehended the term, 'avocat'- lawyer. My current French results in an absurdist landscape of interaction, which, reflecting on it, I rather like. I enjoy the, like I said, absurdity, of a nonsequential wasteland of : and, how, good, if. The avocat comment was a gift that I enjoyed trying to connect to the situation and in the end, I just enjoyed the fact that it was morning, I said 'good night,' and he said, 'lawyer.'

Problem with breakfast:

As I sat relishing the exchange I had just had with the waiter....
                                          "It's Tanner..."
I have changed the guy's name, but it sounds damn close to that. I managed to extricate myself and got myself fairly painlessly to my room. All that guy does is complain.

As I packed quickly, a knock on the door....
                                        "It's Tanner..."

I let the guy in. He just wanted one last pop. One last crack on the back. I gave it to him. I didn't take one I'll have you know. Instead, I snapped a photo of him from my balcony. I did it real covert-like, too- through the slats of the wooden sliding door. Enjoy:

TIP: If you get a male whore in Morocco, just give him the money.