From the Roof

From my rooftop, the city feels different. Quieter, even though it isn’t. I can still hear the hum of cars, the call to prayer, the clinking of dishes from the restaurants below — but it all blurs together into background noise.

Down on the street, there’s always something happening. Two restaurants side by side stay busy late into the night. Across the street, there’s a hanut, one of those small corner shops that sells everything you need — water, eggs, chips, tissues, SIM cards. The owner leans against the doorframe most of the day, greeting everyone who walks by. It’s the kind of neighborhood rhythm you stop noticing when you’re in it, but from up here, you see how it all connects.

The tram runs right past my building. I can watch it glide by every few minutes — people packed in tight, phones in hand, some talking, most staring out the window. The city’s pulse, right there on rails.

But my favorite moments are sunrise and sunset. The light hits the buildings just right, and everything softens. The air cools, the noise fades a little, and for a few minutes, the whole city feels calm. From up here, I feel completely at ease — not apart from the world below, but quietly connected to it. It’s a reminder that even in the busiest places, there’s space to breathe.

Sometimes I just stand by the railing with a cup of mint tea and take it all in. The movement, the sound, the smells from the food stalls drifting up. It’s a small moment of stillness in a place that never really stops moving.

Every once in a while, I catch myself thinking how easy it is to get lost in the rush — whether in Rabat or back home. But standing on the roof, I remember to slow down. To notice. To look around, and to be still for just a little while.

The view from my roof at sunset.