The Place de France is the town's hub. It marks the end of Boulevard
Pasteur, the main drag of the westernized part of the city, and the
beginning of Rue de la Liberté, which leads down to the Grand Socco and
the medina. In a three-minute walk from the Place de France you can go
from an ultra-modern, California-like resort to the Baghdad of Harun
al-Rashid.
It's quite a town, Tangier.
King-size sidewalk cafes occupy three of the strategic corners on the
Place de France. The Cafe de Paris serves the best draft beer in town,
gets all the better custom, and has three shoeshine boys attached to the
establishment. You can sit of a sunny morning and read the Paris edition
of the New York _Herald Tribune_ while getting your shoes done up like
mirrors for thirty Moroccan francs which comes to about five cents at
current exchange.
You can sit there, after the paper's read, sip your expresso and watch
the people go by.
Tangier is possibly the most cosmopolitan city in the world. In native
costume you'll see Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue Man, and occasionally a
Senegalese from further south. In European dress you'll see Japs and
Chinese, Hindus and Turks, Levantines and Filipinos, North Americans and
South Americans, and, of course, even Europeans--from both sides of the
Curtain.
In Tangier you'll find some of the world's poorest and some of the
richest. The poorest will try to sell you anything from a shoeshine to
their not very lily-white bodies, and the richest will avoid your eyes,
afraid _you_ might try to sell them something.
In spite of recent changes, the town still has its unique qualities. As
a result of them the permanent population includes smugglers and
black-marketeers, fugitives from justice and international con men,
espionage and counter-espionage agents, homosexuals, nymphomaniacs,
alcoholics, drug addicts, displaced persons, ex-royalty, and subversives
of every flavor. Local law limits the activities of few of these.
Like I said, it's quite a town.
* * * * *
I looked up from my _Herald Tribune_ and said, "Hello, Paul. Anything
new cooking?"
He sank into the chair opposite me and looked around for the waiter. The
tables were all crowded and since mine was a face he recognized, he
assumed he was welcome to intrude. It was more or less standard
procedure at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't a place to go if you wanted to
be alone.