It's my favourite time of the year. Leaves turn colours, their dry scent carried on cool breezes. Except that I am in Rabat and it's in the high thirties, and I am a sweaty, stinky mess. Nevertheless, it's autumn, and there's the botanical garden with some leaves to crunch through— plus the streets near the Peace Corps building have nice, big piles of yellow. No sweaters, no scarves, no hygge— yet.
I wait for the weather to turn.
