train ride from hell

Morning in Asilah was beautiful. We arranged the taxi the night before, so we woke up early to take advantage of the town's sights--snapping pictures of the famous murals and doting on all the cats Morocco is famous for (in my mind, anyway). We bought a few paintings we had been eyeing the previous night—fumbling, rushing to get the canvases off their frames, worrying about damaging the rather-dry paint. Our taxi driver hunted us down, an easy feat in this tiny medina, silent as it is early in the morning. We finally rolled up the paintings and skedaddled. Lots of tranquillos (they speak more Spanish than French in these parts) were thrown about, urging me to take my time, to chill out—maybe if I’d had a puff of what he was on…

The driver was of course a bit dérangé (I love this French word for angry; deranged is so much more colorful than angry) when I told him of my plans to get off in Rabat. He argued I should pay him extra, that it was out of the way (it’s right on the way), I argued tranquillo—there are always bigger fish to fry.

After stopping at the police station to get the proper authorization to drive us to Casa, we were on our way, doing a cool 80kph (50mph) the whole way—annoying when you base your math on faster, saner speeds. Still, we had budgeted plenty of time, so tranquillos we remained. At least until I motioned to my next detour—I had originally planned a short stop at some “exotic” gardens along the way, but we were clearly short of time for that now; instead, I was just hoping for something more scenic than the main route. The driver pretty much freaked out, worrying the police would nab him for deviating from his route, whining about extra time spent on country roads and driving through towns. My mom joined him, questioning whether they’d make their flight. I could not blame him, but still, tranquillo he was once we got back onto a speedier road.

Like in Europe, every region of Morocco has its particular indigenous foods you can buy from peasant peddlers on the roadside: I’ve seen peas, favas, cheese, honey, and argan oil. Today was something new: balls of dirt. I was intrigued when our driver raved about them, but he could not come up with any words outside of his native Arabic: turfa. We stopped and talked to one of the peddlers, rinsing off a dirt ball to reveal an irregular cream-colored core. He took a bite out of it, proclaimed it worthy. I finally understood the gesture he kept making—he was miming eggs, as in cracking them into a bowl. Everything clicked for me: we had stumbled upon indigenous Moroccan truffles. I never think to associate Arabic with romance languages, but sometimes a truffe becomes a turfa. They were mild and bland, but ripe enough. Besides, the novelty killed me: I bought a kilo for $5.

Too many tranquillos later, I was dropped off at a train station near Rabat, to have just missed a train. They were sold out of first class (reserved seats) tickets for the next train, so I slummed it and bought a second-class ticket I would never need. I sat around waiting for the next train, which ran an hour late, and was packed chock-full thanks to the holiday weekend (the Prophet Mohammed’s birth). So packed, in fact, I couldn’t even get onto the train. I sprinted the 200 yards to the opposite end of the train, seeing less people crowded around the doors. Panicking as the conductor started to give the all-set signal, I seized upon a favorite adage: there is always room for one more. And there was, except for that I was holding on for dear life until two stations and 45 minutes later, when I finally got inside the door…

I had already earned the respect of the guys whose rear ends I had become familiar with—we were fast friends. I made it home five sweaty hours later, looking forward to a poker game. The train ride had my cards in a funk, though: I lost all 100 dirhams ($12). I’d later hear from the family that the driver was even more obnoxiously tranquilloing them after I left and, in a final gesture of helpfulness, squeezed the roll of paintings hard enough to cause damage. Tranquillo, he insisted to Shiri.

on the road with Shiri and Ziva

It was a full house come Tuesday night with EB, her mom, and her sister. The plan was for Shiri, Ziva, and I to leave for Chefchaouen early in the morning. We figured we’d take a bus—we didn’t want to deal with arranging a grand taxi, and no trains run that way. We didn’t count on stomach problems—all of us were upset in one form or another (we blame breakfast or lunch from our previous day). A new low was reached when Shiri vomited. We waited until everybody felt safe for the five-hour trip and then headed up the wet, steep hill out of the medina, carrying my one small travel umbrella and three big duffel bags.

I was soaked by the end of the ten minute walk and went off in search of a suitable taxi (the direct buses for the day had already departed) after depositing Shiri and Ziva at a café. My trusty umbrella preventing my dripping hair from getting any wetter was of little consolation—the taxis were much further than I had been led to believe. Smelling the tourist in me, the prices were inflated, and besides, there wasn’t anybody really out braving the weather, so drivers were reluctant to make the trip. In a last act of desperation, I went next door to the el-cheapo bus station (the one with the fancy buses is across town) and found an option departing in fifteen minutes. I ran (as will this sentence J) to a petit taxi, made him wait while I again ran to find my folks, pay their tab, and recharge my phone card, then got back in, rushed back to the station to purchase the tickets and get on the bus [DEEP BREATH, drip, drip].

The bus ride was fine for the most part. We had another hospitality moment as I offered some candies with the bearded man across the aisle and he reciprocated with handfuls of pistachios. We stopped in Ouezzane to change buses, drink some tea, and use the toilet. The ticket man for the connecting bus tried to overcharge me for the luggage—what did we look like, tourists? I knew better and paid him no more than his due, but these constant episodes eventually drive a person to remain home all day. Ziva was put off by the squat toilets and opted to wait, though when she was led to a different facility (they must not have grasped the issue at hand) she swallowed her concerns and performed, only to be chased back to the café by the toilet guardian who wanted—drum roll, please—payment. It got pretty windy and stomach-turning toward the destination; Shiri had me prepare a barf bag as a failsafe.

We finally got dropped off at the edge of Chaouen’s medina as the sky grew dark, and in contrast to my first visit to the town, a group of otherwise-adorable children immediately accosted us and insisted to help with our luggage. This time, though, we were prepared with candies and souvenirs. I paid them off while we had our fireplace lit up at the charming hotel. As it was already getting late, we had time for little else than dinner and a quick walk through the beautiful blue town. Not before meeting Hat Man, however—his shop a Rasta caricature, replete with the cloud of aromatic blue smoke. His knitwear was fascinating and priced so fairly I had trouble carrying out the ritualistic bargaining. Back at the hotel’s family room we found a group of men getting high and playing music. We opted to sit in, though we abstained from participating in anything but drinking tea. The hotel’s owner was an interesting Italian chap whose vibe is best summed up as a little weird. Lots of young male help, all getting high; the picture was simply disconcerting.

The last embers from our fire kept us warm as we slept. My alarm clock failed, causing a late awaking, and we scrambled to make the best of our short morning. Breakfast and packing was followed by some nearby gift shopping and a hasty second trip to chat with and buy more knitwear from Hat Man as we waited for our hotel-arranged grand taxi to Tangiers. It was a disappointment, then, when the taxi driver finally arrived but wanted double what the hotelier’s “son” had  quoted me. It was all a very shady ordeal—the hotelier got defensive rather than apologetic, insisting on the higher price. I would have been negotiating for a taxi or searching for a bus hours earlier had I not been misled to wait for the crooked taxi. Alas, on our walk over to the taxi stand, the shady driver offered a discount, and desperate (now a theme), I accepted.

Nacer met us as we arrived at Tangiers and helped us lug our luggage up to his fifth (European=American sixth) floor walkup before a quick tour through town. The traffic in Tangiers was about as time-consuming as the drive from Chaouen. He handed us off to his friend Marouane who generously accompanied us and kept us out of trouble until we left for dinner at Nacer’s hotel. The thing is, apropos this approaching hospitality moment, is that I would rather have eaten elsewhere. I knew this even before I saw the menu (actually, it was a buffet). I agreed to the meal for the same reason I agreed to stay in Nacer’s apartment—for the magic Moroccan idea of hospitality. For the same reason they all need to give, I have almost come to feel it my duty to accept. It was not good enough for Nacer to give us a few recommendations or to hang out for a while—he needed to host us and make us feel a sense of welcome that is alien back home. So I was only slightly surprised when the manager informed me that our meal had been completely paid for by Nacer.

In a final flourish for the night, Nacer arranged for a friend to drive us home. My mom was understandably frustrated not to be able to just pay for a night at Nacer’s swanky hotel, which is what I would have insisted upon were we to do it over again. Still, as history has it, we climbed up to the apartment and bared it. Sadly, but hardly surprising us, we were without showers or western toilets. This, of course, only added fuel to my mom’s fire, and it was all we could do to go to sleep without further conflict.

my two Youssefs

It is difficult to completely convey what it is like to travel here. I say “convey,” not “describe.” I don’t believe I exaggerate by claiming to be able to give a good description of life out here, though I readily admit the chip on my shoulder. That said, as for conveying, it’s just hard to wrap your head around days like these until you experience them. I therefore accept that this blog will never convey everything, and you’ll have to spend at least a couple of weeks out here to feel it out for yourselves. It will be scary and stressful, but this is just all too amazing not to see for yourself. I took up Youssef_b on his offer, probably more as an excuse to chronicle the escapades than any other reason. And so the adventure goes on:

My family’s time in Fes being limited, I first took them to the famous tanneries in the morning. Shower time was amazingly time-consuming as always and, despite the best of intentions, we weren’t ready to leave until 9. It remains a mystery why I decided to wait for the maid for another hour. Finally fed up with waiting, I texted EB to let her know that the maid had not arrived on time. Perhaps this was a sure sign she was indeed our thief… So we made like fetuses and headed out for our rainy adventures. Lesson learned (duh): one umbrella, regardless of size, is never large enough for three to share. A pocket umbrella, however, is hardly enough for one.

The tannery continues as it has since the tourists arrived sometime during the latter half of the 20^th century: the experience begins with a relentless onslaught of locals smelling credit cards (a feat considering the stench in the air): “welcome, come in, you don’t need to buy anything.” They’ve pulled you into their shop before you can react, with a sprig of mint to shield the nostrils and promises of great views; a harmless man offers an explanation of the goings-on down below (and of course becomes your shadow for the duration of the visit). You look, sample their overpriced (tourists shop here, not locals) wares before pushing aside your shadow who is now asking you for a tip.

I headed us toward where I imagined the closest taxis would be, as we had to meet up with Youssef_a, the driver from the crazy midnight Casablanca journey. I instead walked us the long way to the pickup spot through a miscalculation of our position. Still, we were right on time, though Youssef_b was getting ansi and had called twice already. In all honesty, so was I: it was 11, we hadn’t yet hit the road, and we were still hoping to visit several towns an hour out of Fes.

Suffice to say that, as far as tourism was concerned, the day was a bust. The souk (market) at Azrou, our first and farthest stop, was rendered one giant mud pit—I was glad my sister imported my boots. It was great to see and experience nonetheless—amazing produce  and hundreds of shoppers out braving the sleety rainy mess. Next stop: the cedar park where there was snow on the ground and the apes, smarter than I am, were safely tucked away in their homes, up in the trees?  Youssef_a, Youssef_b, and I watered the trees before moving on, obligatorily backtracking through Ifrane for a much needed pot of tea before taking the turn toward Sefrou, Youssef_b’s birthplace. Youssef_a was tired of getting out of the car by this point; we should have taken the hint.

The rest of the afternoon seems like a whirlwind. We stopped in a town by Sefrou for a good ninety minutes, being offered food and awkwardly drinking tea at an old friend’s dilapidated house. We browsed his third-hand shop next door, and then my prayers were answered when Youssef_b agreed that we were too short on time for a meal. So we booked it to the waterfall for a quick peek. We next ran to the cemetery along with his old friend, where we snapped a group photo and escorted Youssef_b as he lit candles in remembrance of his mother (dead at the age of 38) and other, more distant relatives. Then it was off to the medina, where we spent twenty minutes waiting for Youssef_b to drop off some gifts to a friend before being taken to another friend’s scary-weird (there were stuffed animals—taxidermy-style—staring at us from every-which direction) spice shop and offered awful souvenirs. All the while I’m whining to Youssef_b about our fast-approaching dinner at Mo’s, telling him that we must leave immediately for Fes. He doesn’t get it, keeps insisting that Moroccan’s always run an hour late (I’m not Moroccan). We stop to see another now-defunct synagogue/charity center.

Bless his heart, really. Here we are getting more annoyed by the minute (my mom could hardly stand him anymore, with his endless errands and friends detracting from our tourism), and he continues to try and be a good tour guide. I reminded my mom (and myself) that these outings are more about the crazy adventures of sweet old men than the sights in Lonely Planet. Youssef_b kept insisting we accompany him back to his apartment for tea/snacks, but I held fast to mission: get out of the taxi. All’s well that ends well: we made it to Fes perfectly on Moroccan time and had an amazing dinner at Mo’s, a fun reunion of my mom and sister with EB’s.

a bad omen revisited

[This blog was written at 4am on the way back to Fes from the Casablanca airport run]

We stopped for the traditional roadside fare: grilled meat. We tried to order a goat's head, but they were all out of them by 12:30am when we finally arrived to eat. Seeing plenty of ovine carcasses with male anatomy attached, we also tried for an order of testicles, never having tried the delicacy, but were again out of luck. So we settled for kefta (well-seasoned ground meat and fat).

The trip is longer than I expected. At 330 we were still a good 45 minutes out of Fes. In retrospect, a hotel for the night in Casa would have made as much sense as the taxi--I had imagined we would arrive in Fes closer to 2am. To compound the problem, tonight marks the beginning of daylight savings, so really it’s now 5 in the morning (my morning sobriety corrected this fallacy--Morocco does not observe daylight savings).

News Flash: About twenty minutes ago, on the final stretch home, the Benz made an incredibly angry noise. It growled, really. No, it was more of a roar. Suffice it to say that I have never heard a sound like it, not whilst riding in a car. The driver took the taxi out of gear and we coasted along in a very rough neutral for a several minutes, taking advantage of a gradual descent. It wasn't a flat tire, though the engine's screaming gyrations almost made it feel like one. The hill leveled out, and he shifted back into second to get whatever mileage he could. We made it all of two hundred meters before the car ground (actually ground) to a halt.

If I had to guess (I did), I’d say it sounded like the oil pan just dropped was ripped off of the taxi. The initial jolt was brought me back to full consciousness after dozing for a few minutes. The driver (Youssef) and I grunted and performed the manly ritual of lifting the hood and nosing around. It wasn’t the radiator, as one might have guessed given earlier signs. We took a look at the oil reservoir, and it was smoky. The driver began making the requisite phone calls when I went back out to investigate the trickling sound I heard. Youssef was just beside the vehicle, ruling out the bodily function the sound most emulated. The fluid streaming from the engine was black as the sky above--indeed, this was a serious mushkill.

Lesson learned: Listen to the car before hiring it for an eight hour tour. It's not all about the cheapest rate.

Fifteen minutes later we were hoisted onto a flatbed truck, to be hauled back to Fes. I’ve never had the privilege of riding in a car being towed. It was oddly unsettling in the darkness, though I reckon it would be fun during the day. A few minutes later and we rendezvoused with Yousef’s son, who brought an alternate taxi for the last few kilometers home.

Sometimes these blog entries just write themselves...

You all remember your lines, yeah? Everybody now, please; let's say it together: Fes. Saturday night. What’s gonna happen next?!?

figuring it out

[This blog was written in a “grand taxi” (big old diesel Mercedes Benz) on the way to Casablanca from Fez to pick up my mom and sister, Ziva and Shiri]

A sad state of affairs: I loaded my blog today to show Mo. Looking for snappy photos, I quickly scrolled through the ten posts available on the page, as he still doesn't participate very much in English. I was dismayed, and feel remiss about the state of affairs I found, though it is thanks to a natural evolution. I do have some photos that I'll shortly upload to accompany some older posts, so poke around in the coming days. Further, my impromptu visitors (they just decided last week to fly over and visit during Shiri’s spring break) bring me an old digital camera to supplant my cell phone as primary photo-taker. In short (long, at this point), I will try to be better about posting photos. That said, I wish I could get you all to interact more; a week after explicitly asking for feedback, I just received my first comment on the matter... Alas.

Evolving: I began this blog as a see-what-I’m-doing project for my friends back home, and it has progressed and changed over the months. I’ve begun to feel at home here, and the photos have diminished as a result. I now know shortcuts and I have favorite butchers. I buy milk from just one guy, and get my butter from another. I have set out to do most of what I came here to do: know a different way of life. Mo and I are practically brothers—I spend perhaps more time with him than EB does. I’m having a great time, but it’s different than the adventures of the start, and I write more about the day to day than the road trips.

[I interrupt my story to bring you a special news alert: my taxi driver, while stopped to top off the gas tank with a couple gallons of diesel, opened his hood to feed the steaming radiator some fresh water...Not a promising sign for a seven-hour round trip.]

Most recently I reached a new extreme (call it a high or a low, your choice) with my freak-out, and tonight I’m hoping to share some of the afterthoughts. I’ll be honest, though: I’m cheating. A few nights ago, while writing to an old friend from my first days as a cook, I vomited some ideas into my word processor. In retrospect, despite the obvious crudeness I was surprised to find the overall message coherent. I’ve preserved its raw nature below, cutting here and there to keep personal matters personal:

...I'm thinking I'm probably going to leave here in a few weeks. Probably second week of april. Don't have a plan for april, probably make my way through spain/france as cheaply as possible, or just find a flight straight up to NE france/Switzerland/germany area--there's you in Munich, Zoe in Geneva, and a family--friends of mine--in Lille. Maybe do some combo of the three, as they're all places I'd like to check out (and people I’d like to see). Maybe figure out what this whole hitchhiking thing is all about and see if I could do that through france...? I dunno...playing this all by ear. Probably try to find a cheap flight out of Germany to Israel where I'd visit for a couple/few weeks... then if I need to go to the US to take care of my apt in nyc, I'd do that, maybe try to rent out my place in Chicago, before returning to france area to work on a farm for a couple months... wow. That's about the most coherent I've been about this whole journey of mine--I might need to copy and paste most of this email to explain to others...:) Can't wait to check out your part of the world--hope you have some good brasseries and sausageries for us, though not the kind of sausagerie I had here at my place for st patty's day--a room full of 12 guys, and not even a single female. I mean, okay, romantic aspect totally aside, which at this point it is, it's just nice to have that break in the testosterone, you know? Hell--this could even be a fun stream of consciousness blog post--whaddya think?

Be in touch,

--j

your opinion, please

Writing is a discipline. I worked with a great writer whose credo was "revise revise revise." I am used to editing, cutting out superfluous words and rearranging ideas for the sake of clarity. Though I recognize that blogging is different than the writing I am used to, I am often conflicted about posting such rough pieces for the sake of staying up-to-date. So here's where you come in, as I'm interested in what you have to say:

Do you prefer the rough, rather unedited pieces I have been posting heretofore? Or do you find that griminess overrated, and sometimes wish I had taken a red pen to some of these posts?

Granted, this is my blog, and I'm catering more to myself than to you. Still, I am interested in your opinions nonetheless, as I want to present you with great content you can stomach reading on a regular basis. Don't hold back. Anonymity is fine if you feel bad laying into me--just don't leave your name. But it would make me happy if you all commented on this one...

an evening to remember

Warning: contains immature humor intended for mature audiences

Setting it up: Back when I worked at 5Ninth restaurant in New York (I really worked there for all of a month), the chef’s right-hand guy had this saying. Imagine, 11pm on a Friday night. A private party has just been seated on the third floor. The second floor has sixty-odd diners, and the bar on the first floor is rocking to a techno groove, brimming with well-off hipster 30-somethings with a drink in each hand. We, the kitchen are, as they say, in the weeds, and there are still two hours left until we're closed. The waiters keep making mistakes, and we cannot seem to keep up. Even if he has been imbibing, every word is stressed and meticulously enunciated: “Manhattan. Friday night. What's gonna happen next?!?”

The day: A rather uneventful day, I woke up and spent most of it on the sofa where I now sleep. At around 4pm I decided it was time to go shop for the remaining ingredients I required for dinner. Coq au vin over pommes aligotes had the starring role, preceded by a simple greek salad, and followed by Crème caramel, a dish often served here, and always lackluster. I went out with Jane and Mo in tow, stopping for sandwiches at his uncle’s butcher stall after the big hike uphill to the food market. We ducked into a Berber tea stall next door to eat our sandwiches, sip tea, and breathe second-hand hashish. By the time we were out, it had started dripping rain. By the time we were finally at the top of the hill, it was pouring with big, heavy, freezing gobs of water. These were not your ordinary raindrops: it was like large hail that had melted just before reaching our bodies. I quickly shopped, and we ran back home after stopping at Mo's for an umbrella.

The meal: I chose the rooster a few days ago, and waited as the butcher slaughtered it before my eyes. It was a handsome cock, if a little small. The bottle of wine was acceptable--nothing extraordinary, but definitely worthy of the bird. The eggs I used for dessert were free range, with bright orange yolks--the kind that are so hard to find in the states. The milk was milked yesterday, raw and sweet. Dinner was set, the main dish on the table, when the doorbell rang. Seeham and her boyfriend stopped in to say hi. Moroccan hospitality, our own courtesy, necessitated they sit down with us for dinner. Mo got right on frying up some more turkey cutlets--even though the wine was cooked for hours, they could not partake in the main course: their religion forbids it. Not to toot my own horn, but my housemates were emphatic in their praises of my cock. This had Jane and me giggling for the better part of the meal, and when Mo translated coq to Arabic (dick), EB and Whitney joined in the laughter. Not to leave them in the dark, we explained our amusement; our Moroccan guests were just as pleased. Dinner was great, dessert continued on the theme. Even better, Jane, bless her heart, washed the dishes.

Fez. Friday night. What’s gonna happen next: Jane’s leaving in the morning. The post office giving me the runaround here, I appealed to her to take a gift back home for mailing, and went to fetch some money for the stamps. Except my stash of cash was missing. Every last dollar, every euro. About $300, all told. EB’s similar stash had been recently noticed as missing as well. She had figured it had simply been misplaced as she organized her closet. Naturally, that is no longer as plausible of a conclusion. Must have been the maid, a rather affordable luxury up until now. And so, we remind ourselves, of all ways to lose something, and of all things to lose, money could not be any safer or easier to replace. Friday night is over; what will Saturday bring?

...leads to freak-out

(continued from Casablanca...)

The six of us shared a first-class compartment back to Fez on the 10pm train. We chatted a bit, fell asleep, and were woken at 230am by people trying to get into their (our) cabin in Fez. Dazed, it took us a moment to get off the train. We groggily made our way to the waiting taxis. It was chaos. There were more people than the taxis could possibly handle, and we needed two of them. True to taxi drivers the world round, the first available driver refused to drive to the villa (dorm) because of the distance/fare (too short/too small). His tune changed when more cabs arrived and the crowd diminished, but by then principle wouldn’t allow us to pay him any notice. Gabe, Caitlyn (sp?), and I got into one taxi, and we dropped off Caitlyn on the way to the medina.

[The following will read like an IQ test. Bear with it, as its (and the ride’s) relevancy will become apparent] She handed me a 10Dh coin for her part of the fare (I was too foggy to just shove her money back at her). Gabe and I arrived at the medina, the meter displaying 21Dh. I handed the driver Caitlyn’s coin plus a note worth 20 (30 total). He fished for and produced 4Dh. I questioned him: I expected nine. He pulled out a larger-than-normal 5Dh coin and politely informed me I had given him 25, not 30. I was tired. I was back in Fez, where I could trust the cabbies. I shrugged my shoulders, spun on my heel and left. [You still with me?] Five minutes later, my grogginess quickly being displaced by the knife-wielding vigilance demanded for a late-night stroll through the labyrinth I now call home, I answered my own idiot test. How do I know that I was ripped off? I didn’t have a 10Dh coin anywhere on me: we’d been duped, in Fez, on our home turf. Lesson learned: never, ever, trust the cab drivers, not even on your home turf. Again, nothing to dwell on, I shrugged and carried on.

[Warning: emotional content ahead]

EB asleep in her bedroom, Whitney and Jane in what used to be my bedroom, Gabe and I arrived to a house rife with the resonance of sleep. We hit the sofas and played dead. Except that as hard as I tried to slow down and sleep, my mind was picking up steam. Cab rides with crooked drivers were just the tip of the iceberg. Soon enough, my breath still with concentration, my head was at a flat out sprint: reality had found me. I slept a few winks that night, but only after unease had taken firm grip of my sanity. The following morning, when EB told me her family would be here before the end of March (sooner than I had anticipated), unease ignited and took on new shapes of dread. I was in a predictably pensive and aloof state for most of the day.

[I’m treading new territory here. Heretofore I have written about my experiences, my thoughts, the food, and the people. I’ve neglected to talk about what I’m really going through. In a large part, I’ve completely ignored why I’m here and what I’m feeling (uh-oh: the f-word). I’m not going to back-pedal here and try to fill in gaps: those of you who have been in touch know the gist of my mission (even I know scarcely more than the gist). Those who have not will gather through the context of prior and future posts (keep visiting). My goal is to let you all in a little more than I have, as much as I comfortably can in a public setting.]

Drum roll’s over: I’ve finally begun to freak out a bit, in the simplest and most familiar of terms. My time in Fez is near its end. Not only do I have the relatively abstract dates, but also I now have real, palpable, foreign suitcases exploding on what was just my bedroom floor. I’ve been relegated to the sofa. I will soon have to vacate the premises, what with EB’s family arriving. I don’t have a plan from here on out. My roommates in New York are talking about moving out, so I’m being pulled to deal with my belongings in a soon-to-be-vacant apartment in New York, a town I love to love, yet one in which my time may quite possibly be over. I’d like to spend a few weeks in Israel while I still can, as I fear that once I gain some momentum on a farm or in the kitchen, this blissfully ambiguous life I’ve found myself leading will become terrifyingly apparent (hardly possible, it remains a fear). I want to spend some time on some farms in Europe to see if I’ll love that life as much as I think I will. I want to, I need to, put some money back into the bank...

The list goes on. Perhaps you have or have had such a list of your own, and so are able to put yourself in my shoes. Even better, maybe yours has just started to creep up on you. Regardless, here I am, feeling more alone and out of place than I have felt lately. I'm carefully inspecting paths for silly fear of choosing the wrong one, unable to accept my conviction that they're all equally wonderful.

casablanca...

Jane and Whitney (EB's sisters) flew in over the weekend. Since EB had class the morning Jane flew in, and, well, I've basically been adopted as a big brother of sorts, I hopped aboard a night train (for some reason the words 'night train' continue to conjure Bob Seger's Night Moves) to be in Casa by 8 to greet Jane. I somehow got the compartment to myself for a few hours, so I wasn't completely without sleep for our day of fun. The experience of cabbing it from the train station to the hotel was hardly fun. True to their ways, the cabbies all wanted exorbitant flat rates. I argued, haggled, angrily got out of one cab and into another. All over two dollars. It’s amazing how perspectives change when abroad.

We had a great breakfast on the fish pier, haphazardly. We had intended to eat at the restaurant next door, but were early for lunch, so decided to wander around and peek at the morning's catch out on the pier. One thing led to another, and in classic Moroccan tradition, we were waved over to one man's stall, then another, both serving lightly fried fish, shrimp omelets, and, of course, tea. The food was excellent, cheap, and plentiful; Jane seemed satisfied with her first foray into the local grub. We headed for a couple of exhibits, and had a hard time finding the Jewish Museum--not a single person knew where to find it; unsurprisingly the place was empty but for us. EB woke us from a much-needed afternoon nap at the hotel--it was time to eat again before heading to Rick's Cafe (a replica based on the movie's, put together a couple of years ago). Our meal was good, as was our time at Rick’s—nothing crazily out of the ordinary besides the great service at both establishments. EB and Jane headed home early, while I stayed for another round. Joined by nine—yes, nine—other students that made the hop from Fez, we were anything but a small group. If you’ve traveled with me, you know this can stress me out a little bit—I like to be a bit of a loner, or at least do my own thing. So, while such a large group should have been comforting for the eventual walk back through the dark city, it had the opposite effect.

[Traveling in Morocco is rather easy—you supposedly don’t need a passport or identity card to get around the country. Really, the only time you need such documentation is when checking in at the airport or into a hotel]

All twelve of us were staying at the same hotel. Four, including EB, had forgotten their passports in Fez. Here we are at 1am, trying to pull one over on the guy at the hotel. A trip to the police station earlier would have cleared this up, but really, would the hotel make a big fuss over this? The three others cleared it up easily (though time-consuming) enough: a cab to the police station to get some documentation. EB and Jane were long asleep. It was a bit of a surprise, then, when the clerk gave me the third degree and insisted I wake EB. Come on, can this not be taken care of come morning, when everyone is well rested? Moreover, why didn’t you mention anything when the two of them entered in the first place? All moot points, the only applicable point being: wake EB up and get her over to the police station. Bureaucracy is not limited to the developed world.

Getting up at eight o’clock to see whether I could bus it out to Chefchaouen to meet up with friends, just to find out there were no suitable buses, was a bit of an annoyance. As such, I made the best of the day, sightseeing, laying down for a bit by the water, and, of course, eating. It ended up a fun day despite missing the beautiful weather in Chef. Six of us had drinks at a great bar before going next door for a quick, fancy, French meal. And then off to the train station for a late train back to Fez.

i'm in morocco

Deep Thoughts...
Every once in a while, living in this foreign, almost medieval country, I think to myself in near disbelief: wow...I'm in Morocco.

fo' mo funnies

Plucking unibrows seems to be in, as far as the ladies are concerned. But when EB insisted on attacking Mo's growth, he balked, and upon a little nudging by EB I was to assure him it's perfectly normal. Gladly, he didn't push hard for any confirmation, so rest assured, my brow remains the uni it always was...

Dentists are not popular doctors in this country--the fact is as plain as the smiles on the local faces. It was not surprising, then, that people often don't see one for years and years, often waiting until it's time to buy dentures (which, by the way, I saw for sale on a table full or knick-knacks in Marrakech this weekend). Mo was no exception. I say "was," because out of his devotion to his new love, EB, he made not one, but two visits to the dentist as of late. Two visits because his gums were bleeding so badly he had to be sent home mid-session. The man is a saint--he now has a three-step process to follow each meal. In the name of love...

Lionel Ritchie has been a part of our lives for a while now. Say you, say me / Say it together... Mo loves this song, and when around the house is often heard singing these few lyrics. Imagine our delight when a Greatest Hits VCD appeared one day--full of fun hits and amazing music videos from the early 80's to go along with them...

The local authorities keep close tabs on foreigners staying in the area, be it in hotels, riads, or guest houses. We finally got a tap tap tap on our door one recent morning--the man in charge of our district wanted to know why the owner of our house hasn't been registering his guests. We basically sent him after the owner, claiming no responsibility, as really we're just guests of his, but not before a chicken came running into the kitchen, squawking and making a general commotion. Mo, good guy he is, finished translating our way out of problems with the authorities, but not before he cornered the chicken and sent him back on his merry way to our next-door neighbors' place.

i like baby animals

Deep thoughts...

So, as we're taking the train back from Marrakech, I wonder to myself, can/will goats mate with sheep? We think not, since their likely offspring would probably be named shoats, but as I found out last year, shoats are actually adolescent pigs. And geep just doesn't sound right... 

moroccan hospitality

Being a proud member of the hospitality industry by choice, and actually focusing a great deal on hospitality, I place great importance on that skill-set. Though I have not yet gone to such lengths, I find myself debating whether to mimic Whitney's (EB's sister) distribution of feedback forms to close friends and loved ones. So, naturally, I am always on the lookout for new ways to give myself and to be hospitable. Even still, I am occasionally frequently taken aback by what I find here. Let me be frank: I am in a country where I rightfully and automatically assume the locals are out to part me from my money. I have mentioned it before: I don't trust many of the men (the women tend to be far less pushy and crooked) out here. Call me jaded, I call it realistic. Don't get me wrong, I don't dwell on the issue, it's just a part of life out here. Which is what makes the opposite extreme stand out that much more.

I have already written about the incident of the free pastry in Chefchaoen and Lora's hero of the night at the Casablanca bus station. Though I am unemployed, the generous exchange rate allows me to enjoy an affordably posh lifestyle. So when it comes to paying, I feel the need to pay my own way. It is rather charming, but incredibly frustrating to be constantly beat at the paying game. When grocery shopping with Mo (unemployment is contagious, and so recently we have found ourselves privileged to spend more time with him) for dinner and the like, it has become an endless fight to avoid his paying for things. Here we are, automatically rich Americans, being treated left and right by the locals who know no other way than to offer themselves  to us completely.

Food in general

The Yemenite side of my family primed me for what I could expect from Morocco and its people--Arab hospitality is like quite no other. The lengths they go to, however, still bear mentioning. By now I am already part of Mo's family. With or without EB, I am frequently invited to the house for lunch and dinner (breakfast on the weekends), and as the guidebook suggests, I have the choice morsels of meat and goodies thrust in front of me every time. I had lunch at his grandparents' house last weekend. Mo has even invited me to stay as an extended houseguest in case I decide to overstay my welcome at EB's place.

Having been invited to Miriam's place for dinner, we promptly met her and rode in a taxi to her neighborhood of Fez. The area was hopping with food stands and restaurants grilling along the main road where we were let off. Her house was vacant--her family was to have been cooking, but apparently somehow our dinner date had gone forgotten. Not a big deal--we would gladly go eat at one of the numerous places on the main drag. Fast-forward ten minutes as Mom and Sister come home. Already alerted by Miriam through the miracle of text messaging, they arrive bearing some vegetables and frozen chicken. They will have nothing of our idea to eat on the street-we are their guests, and we shall be well fed. And so we get comfortable, entertained be her young niece, snacking on pastries and sipping the ubiquitous mint tea. We end up feasting on a truly wonderful meal of tender chicken and amazing foul (braised fava beans), salads and fries. This is Moroccan hospitality.

Guide book says: if you want to eat on the train/bus, you should be prepared to offer to share your snack with all your neighbors. We offered some of our chocolate. Denied. We offered some cheese. Denied. We took out our yogurt and were hospialitily (sic)embarrassed when our neighbor offered (and we accepted) a small spoon from her purse. She offered (and we accepted) some cookies. Final seconds: we shoot, we score, as our clementines are accepted by all in the compartment.

A final show of hospitality

About a month ago, an American friend of mine was mugged--robbed with a knife to his neck. Though the first man just wanted his cash, the second intervened and took the rest of his valuables. And here's the kicker: even through a robbery, Moroccan hospitality shines--before parting, the lead robber gave him a kiss on each cheek and delivered a sincere "m'a salaama (peace to you)."

when green isn't green

Warning: preaching ahead

So, we already know that ethanol (at least how we're making it today) is a bad bet for the environment. Those of you who know me should know my thoughts on the environment--specifically how we're destroying it, and how we should be repairing it. When we explore alternative biofuels such as ethanol, we must pay attention not only to its emmisions and upside to fossil fuels, but also to how the fuel is being grown. So, it is sadly no surprise that Scientists are taking 2nd look at biofuels. Read on, and educate yourselves.

I recently came across another interesting article involving current trends in the clothing industry, fashion maven that I am. Instead of buying clothes that last a lifetime, we're shopping for price and trend. It's becoming 'Fast clothes' versus 'green clothes'. Please, if you're going to buy disposable clothing, don't throw it away when you're through with it; find a home or a clever use for it.