There is a specific kind of hotel bathroom — deep tub, one small window, tiles the colour of a swimming pool at 6 p.m. — where a person can, in good conscience, cancel the walking tour.
I read Sally Rooney's Intermezzo in the bath at Riad Jardin Secret over three afternoons. The staff, sensing something, sent up mint tea without being asked. This is the highest form of hospitality: correctly diagnosing that you have come a very long way in order to be left alone.
The souk was still there in the morning. It has been there for a thousand years. It could wait.
