One of my favorite things to do while traveling through the medina in Morocco is to roll – and stop.
Just stop.
Pick a spot. Settle in.
There’s something about being in a wheelchair that gives you this quiet privilege: the freedom to place yourself anywhere, without needing a reason. No chair to pull out, no waiter to wave over. You choose your ground. That’s it.

And it feels completely natural.
Everyone smiles at you. No one rushes you along.

People around you are moving – walking, weaving, shouting, working.
But you’re in your chair.
You’re not just passing through – you’re parking. Chilling right there near the cat.
And that pause lets you see what most people miss.

You stop in places others overlook. Not in cafes where tourists sit to people-watch – but in the cracks between things. A patch of shade next to an orange juice stand. A quiet spot right near a tired shopkeeper. A doorway where incense drifts and mint tea steams.

You become part of the street. Not in motion – but in presence.

From my chair, I’ve watched craftsmen carve and hammer, kids race past in plastic sandals, street chefs grill corn over glowing coals, and families interact through the alleys – faces, so many, and rhythm, music, and time that goes slow.

The smells wrap around you: oud, rose, smoke, spices, leather, bbq, orange flowers…

Sometimes someone notices you sitting and invites you closer. Tea? A story? A sale?

At first, I felt guilty. Like stopping meant I owed something. But I’ve learned to smile and chill, and get into friendly conversation without assuming everyone wants somthing from you.

And just stay.
Still. Watching. Breathing.
Part of the street now.

And it’s hard to leave that.
Hard to roll away from something so alive, when youve finally learned how to stay still inside it.