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Author Katherine Rundell dreams of returning to Morocco and revelling in the thronging souks and the surge of heedless humanity

I have never thought of myself as someone who loves crowds, but one day, when this is truly over, and we have rebuilt what we can, I will go to the souks in Marrakech. I plan to walk past sacks of spices and dyes, piles of green mint as high as a door lintel, and sweet fried bouchnikhas, and find a place to stand with my back against the wall, out of the way of bicycles and the madly confident teenagers on scooters, and watch hundreds of people go by.

I have always been in awe of the way the scooters don’t collide (or at least, don’t collide much): I want to see seas of people – tourists and merchants and children – dodge each other and step on each other’s toes, and laugh it off and surge on. I plan to admire the many different shades of people’s eyes, and the varieties of teeth, and the unassailable beauty of the human body in motion. I hope to find the collective of women selling argan oil scented with orange blossom, and buy five bottles, and to go about for weeks smelling of a greenhouse. My home during isolation has no heating, so I dream of large skies and of the ferocity of the sun.

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