Mountains and Moxie

After an amusing start to the day, I’ve had a wonderfully relaxing final day in Morocco.

I awoke to realize that the odds had caught up with me and I would need a quick trip to the pharmacy for feminine hygiene products. After needlessly carrying them with me on far longer trips in the past, I came to the brilliantly scientific conclusion that travel disrupts everything for me and I wouldn’t need them. While, its better this happened in Fez, then say, on the airplane or in the desert, I was not relishing  the shopping I’d have to do. The pharmacy was closed and I stopped in at what serves as a convenience store in the streets by the Medina, a store  front jammed with everything from candy to cleaning supplies to flip flops.  I could see what I was looking for in the corner, but pointing was useless because so much was crowded around it. “Tampax?” I asked, “kotex?” throwing out brand names. The teenager manning the store looked confused for a moment and then a light went on. “Always?” he said helpfully. “YES! Shokran!” He handed a package to me and we were done. It was actually quite easy.

After breakfast I spent a few hours traveling the median. I rejected the offer for a guide, and continued my strategy of following a path to its end and retracing my steps. When I got a bit more daring, I made a series of only right turns. making only left turns when I waned to head back. I’m sure I missed out on the full medina experience, but I got several hours of its narrow winding streets, filled with tourists and locals alike, stray cats, and donkeys; with stalls filled with meats and sweets; lamps and rugs; jewelry and shoes. Having reached my fill of souvenirs, I headed empty handed back to my riad – quite proud of my navigation skills. After a lunch of cous cous with chick peas and raisins (omg, yum), I have been relaxing on the roof terrace with a book and the symphony from the medina, occasionally joined by the call to prayer. It’s blissful.

I have loved my trip to Morocco. I really have. It has been filled with new experiences, sights, sounds, tastes, and smells. I have met people and learned perspectives that I’d only every read about. While their lives are so different, in the end, as always, we are all the same. THey love to their families and to have fun. And I loved them. As for my guides, its a bit you get what you pay for I think. I was great without guides, but when I got them I opted for less expensive complains, which I think, encouraged their staff to make their money in kickbacks from vendors.

Still – I wouldn’t trade one second of the experience. (I would have no broken bones and the donkey would still be with us, but other than that…) I will see you all tomorrow in New York.

My favorite time of day is that early morning moment when a campsite comes to life. That is the case in every campsite I’ve every been in – the Himalayas, the Andes, or a Waukeela group by the Saco River. This morning was a bit different, as we were all worried about the Italians, but once we got word they were ok, I was able to settle into my coffee and ready myself for Fezx.

Ali and I set out to early and in relative silence. I felt bad, like I’d treated him badly, but I don’t actually think I had.

Eventually we found a rhythm and began to chat about the scenery, stopping a few time for photos and tea. Along a narrow stretch of road a driver in front of us was frustrating Ali and he said “is a woman driver.” How do you know I asked, and he pointed out the bad driving as a fact of the matter. We never saw if it was a woman or not, but I asked if Ali thought women were bad drivers because they were women or because they were not offered enough opportunities. THat lead to a bigger conversation about sexism, one I’d been trying to keep myself from having, but I couldn’t help it.

“Women are special in this life,” Ali said. “They do not work, they take care of the babies. Men cannot do that. Everyone knows that. Even you know that.” “Well no,” I said. “Some men are great at taking care of babies. What about two men who have babies, but there are no moms. Gay men.” “No no no. That is not right.” And we were quite for a bit longer.

We stopped at a park where monkeys congregate waiting for tourists to throw them some bread. One monkey jumped towards us, with an infant clinging to her stomach. “See,” Ali pointed. “Mothers are mothers.”

We drove on and I told Ali about the woman owned and run restaurant in Marrakech and Ali said that he’d never heard of such a thing and couldn’t believe it. No – it was wonderful, I assured him, but he was convinced I was making its existence up.

We passed through a small town as the call to prayer rang out. “We will stop and pray now.” Ali stated. I realized he didn’t mean I was to pray as he left me in the car and joined a group of men. I’m certain he was praying for patience with me.

As we drove into Fez we talked about why women would want to work when they don’t have to. In Ali’s mind greed was the only motivation. They want more and more money. I suggested they wanted to use their minds and he offered up TV as something they could do at home. “If all women worked and you could stay at home, would you.” “Nooooo,” he said, “but men need more.” And that was that. I didn’t tell him that though his wife may be ok, his daughters would likely want to work.

At the Riad, I typed Ali enough to alleviate my guilt at his having to listen to my politics, settled in and headed for the medina. To call it overwhelming would of course, but a massive understatement. I choose a path and waked straight for a while then turned back to may starting point and chose another path. I was able to keep my self from getting lost this way.  I picked a restaurant at random and ordered a fish tajine while chatting with a couple from New Orleans and a Turkish man living in Paris. The Turk and I then went to the square to listen to music before exchanging personal details and turning in for the night.

Abdul, my Berber driver, met me in the morning to take me to the blue city of Chefcaouen. I’d had a bad night’s sleep – the fish tajine not sitting well, but I liked him immediately. He hugged me in greeting, aggressively touching my breast, although by this time nearly every man I’ve had an interaction with has “accidentally” touched one, so I ignored it. His son, who spoke good English joined us and they named me Fatima Berber or flower. I’m sure because they couldn’t remember Kathleen, but it was endearing. I napped, my stomach still not well, as we drove on. We stopped several times for tea and coffee, despite my not wanting any.

Along the side of a small, lavender lined stream a market had popped up. It’s a souk. Do you want to stop? I said I did, but I did not want to buy anything. You might, he said. I won’t, I replied. We walked through the crowded loud stalls filled with sneakers, cigarettes, and chickens for $50 a pop. There were delicious melons and dates that Abdul would hand to me to taste despite my saying no. We wandered towards the stalls of strong-smelling grills with kabob and fish. There were chickens in every state from wandering clucking to fully picked and hanging with their necks broker. It was the boiling water in which they were dunked to loosen their feathers that did me in and I was barely able to get to a remote spot before my once famously iron stomach turned over and I was sick. The howls of laughter from the Arab men behind me as my sound track.

Some water and a listerine strip (or four) and I was better. “You have a baby” Abdul said, touching my stomach. No no, I said, but he insisted he knew when a woman was pregnant and my napping and being sick were sure signs. I’ve had a pretend husband this whole trip, as a way of making things easier, I may as well have a pretend baby as well. And on we drove.

That’s when we hit the donkey. I was dozing in the front seat when we stopped with a jerk. Without opening my eyes I knew we’d been in an accident, but I couldn’t imaging what I’d see when I did open them. The poor beast was bloody on the ground in front of us as Abdul and it’s owner yelled at each other. Several men came to move it from the road and Abdul got in and drove on. Is it ok, I asked, knowing the answer. Stupid man. Stupid animal was all Abdul would say.

Chechaouen is beautiful. It’s narrow blue streets are magical and we wandered up and down them for a long time before stopping for lunch around 4pm. After lunch and a bit more walking I said, I’d like to go back to Fez now. Ok – you are the king, Abdul replied. We headed I though back to the car, but on reaching a stall filled with gold plates and lamps Abdul took a seat and pulled out a cigarette. He spoke fora while with the proprietor and then introduced me – This is Fatima Berber of Manhattan. Come into my shop. Oh no, said I. I do not want to buy anything. Not for buying, just for looking. So I went in. After looking for a while and getting an unwanted demonstration of gold plate making, I joined Abdul, now on his second cigarette. “Fatima Berber of Manhattan no buy anything” the proprietor told him. “I’d like to go back to Fez now,” I said again and we walked on. “You are the king” Abdul told me.

As we passed a cafe, we stopped again and Abdul ordered a coffee, a bit later he stopped to buy some music. At that point I saw a man about 60 in khaki shorts and a University of Kentucky “Go Blue or Go Home” t-shirt (which it later occurred to me was both a perfect shirt for the town and an embarrassing one). “Excuse me, ” I said to him. “I’m here alone and I don’t think that my driver is paying attention to my requests, I’m sorry to ask this, but could you ask him to take me back to Fez?” He looked at me for a ling time. “why’s a girl like you here alone? If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you travel by yourself.”  A beautiful blond about 20 wearing short shorts and a UK tank top rolled her eyes at him.

That’s when my feminist annoyance turned to feminist rage. I am closing in on 50 years old, I have two degrees, have supported myself solely for more than 25 years, have been a home owner and a business owner and not one man, from either culture, would take me seriously. “JUST TELL HIM” I hissed at my enlightened countryman.

The drive back, when we finally set off, was lovely actually. About 70 degrees and breezy and with gorgeous scenery.

Today, I conquer the medina and then back to Casablanca and New York, and the sexism that I’m accustomed to.

So much has gone wrong with this leg of the trip that by the time my driver hit and likely killed a donkey crossing the road to Chefchaouen, I could practically sleep through it.

I’m not saying the trip’s been bad, and once it was clear that the only life in real jeopardy was the donkeys there have been real moments of magic, but

It started well enough after a night in the gorges. We awoke after the big rainfall with the earth smelling fresh and the air clean. I had breakfast with Lucia and Sang, two british climbers I’d met the night before, as they headed off to test their mettle on the cliffs surrounding the gorge (no small feat as they were as much dirt as rock and the rain had loosened everything).

They headed off and Ali, – who was fully decked out in Bedouin style, long caftan and turban included – and hiked through the gorge. It was stunning with high cliffs surrounding a small trail along the water. Towards the end of the trail we spotted Lucia and Sang slowly making their way up the rock face. We waved and cheered and headed back to the car for the drive to the Sahara.

There are police check points frequently along the road, so I didn’t think twice when we got pulled over. We have to get out of the car, Ali said. OK – I said reaching for my door. As I opened it, Ali and two police officers all started yelling at me in Arabic. Oh, right. Ali’s “we” means “me.”  I will never get the hang of that.

After it all got sorted, we headed toward Erhfout where we would head into the desert. “My mother lives in Erhout and my brother. We go there.” Ali said. This time he meant both of us. For lunch. This is my version of hell and I’d thought I’d gotten out of it when, in Ourzazate I had demurred from dinner with his wife.

There is a romantic, and naive notion that there is some greater form of hospitality at play in poor countries with tea cultures. There is not. It is a lovely thing to invite someone to your home and share tea, and the tea exchange is always poetic. But make no mistake, it is an exchange based on tradition and commerce, not a great regard for you as the guest. Not to say there isn’t hospitality at play, of course there is. But there are great acts of hospitality and kindness in every culture, and it means more, I think, when it is completely random. My step-father once brought an African man he’d met on a plane to spend the night in our home in Auburn, Maine, when he was mistakenly booked there instead of his intended destination of Auburn Alabama. (It was the 70s). I think that is as great an act of kindness as the tea I’ve shared with Sherpas in the Mountains or gauchos in South America. More so, perhaps, because there was no tip to my step dad when it deposited the man safely at the airport the next morning, nor would he have accepted one.

Anyway – as we headed towards Ali’s childhood home, he told me it was tradition, as a guest,  to bring sugar to a home. We stopped at a small store on the edge of town and Ali pointed out blocks of sugar the approximate size and shape of an industrial sized roll of string. I picked one up and brought it to the counter. Ali added three more and several handfuls of candy bars. “For the children,” he said. $40 of diabetes later we headed off. Ali’s mother welcomed me into the home and I met a parade of relatives – my brother, my brother’s wife, my other brother’s wife…and more children than I could count.

Ali deposited me in the back with the women while he sat in the front room with the men. In both rooms there was animated talk in Arabic, but no English. The cous cous came in a large terra cotta pan set in the center of the table. Everyone dipped there spoons in to the grain and root vegetables. It was delicious.  Still, as I sat there awkwardly the women would on occasion point towards me saying “americain”, and smile, laugh or shake their heads. No matter what, my paranoia was in full bloom. When we left there were hand shakes and hugs. I handed Ali some money and said “for your mother,” to which he replied “maybe a bit more.”

FInally we headed off into the desert, Driving into the desolate landscape and then hiking for a long time. As we went we passed nomad tents and desolate wells. Ali pointed out mirages in the distance – shimmery water that wasn’t. The hard flat sand slowly turned red and so soft that every step was an effort as your feet suck deeply. We  arrived at the campsite and were greeted with the site of camels in their circle formatation and a small collection of tents with deep red and orange rugs covering the ground. Our beds were mad of think blannets covering even thicker pads and as comfortable as any ground sleeping I’ve done.  The tests got quite hot and Ali pulled my pad outside onto the soft sand. I slept under the huge star filled sky and it was bliss.

In the morning I readied myself for a long day on the camels when Ali said “We think it would be good to visit a village to day and see the lake.” Camels tonight. We? Who thinks that. Oh, right. We is just Ali. But a village and the lake sounded good. “Bring your swimming suit.” Said Ali. My excitement about swimming in a lake in the middle of the desert was beyond measure.

We hiked back to the four by four and jumped in. Window open we sped through the rocky sand. I felt a bit like a teenager driving on the beach and a bit like I’d stepped out of a movie. We stopped for tea with nomads in their makeshift tent – a canvas stretched out on branches, ripped foam pads on the ground, one housing a small boy with a coloring book, and a donkey wandering nearby. The boy jumped up when we arrived, pupped into a mud hut next to the tent and out with an elegant silver tray of tea. I caught a glimpse of a woman from the back but Ali told me she must remain in the “kitchen” and the boy, should couldn’t have been 6, would be our host .

From their we drove to a terra cotta mine and climbed the short way to the top to look down into the wells that worked the clay to create the many tajines we’d seen. The day was going well.

We stopped at the desert’s version of a grand hotel where a boy of about 12 brought me unwanted tea. Ali disappeared as the boy practiced his english with me. Are you in school I asked. No No. He said. My sister is married. It would be a shame to my family if I stayed in school. Shut up, shut up, shut up – I told the voices in my head. After handing him a tip, Ali said, he is my cousin explaining why we’d stopped there.

Would you like to visit a village and then to the lake? Ali asked. Oh, yes said I. I don’t want to shop, but I’d love to see the village. “Is no obligation to shop,” Ali responded “but these people, they have nothing.” I just smiled wanly .

We stopped at Nomad Depot and Ali announced, “the village.” It was more of a Bedouin version of a department store. One room full of silver, another caftans, a third rugs. Oh no thank you. I said over and over again. “Just for looking, no obligation.” they replied over and over. Finally I picked out a few beads and trinkets, and handed it to the named in charge. He calculated a bit and said 1200 durham. That’s like $120 for what I had calculated couldn’t be more than $20 in one of NY’s more expensive trinket shops. Oh, no no, I replied. Too much. But I’d made the cardinal mistake of letting him set the negotiating point. I tried to demure from buying at all and looked at Ali pleadingly for help. “they have nothing.” he said. THat is not too much. I ended up paying nearly more than $40 mostly just to get out of there.

Please don’t take me to any more store! I demanded of Ali after we’d left. He looked wounded and said he didn’t’ understand. And of course, I was more mad at me than him, but I tried to explain that I needed him to help me from getting taken, not to help the nomads, but of course, I was wrong. It was right that he helped his countrymen.

We headed to the lake and my hopes rose.  Up a small hill, Ali said, get your camera ready. And there it was. A crater. “100 million years ago, this was a lake and the giraffe and the elephant and the dinosaurs would drink from it.” Now of course it was as dry as the rest of the Sahara. I asked Ali why I needed a bathing suit for this and he said, oh for the hotel pool.

From the lake we headed to lunch at another hotel, after which Ali brought me to a lovely pool to wait out the sun. Realizing I was low on sunscreen, I was  one of those women covered head to toe in hats and scarves to avoid the strong sun, but I had a nice time. An Italian couple and their daughter who are sharing our campsite were there as well. The daughter frolicking joyfully in the pool.

Finally it was time for the camels. The Italians and I headed to them – I was second camel, so third to get on. They are seated when you take their backs and rise with a jerk, but once they are standing it’s a fairly smooth ride. Easier than a horse. We climber into the dunes for about an hour and disembarked to watch the sun set. Glorious does not begin to explain it. And with our cameleers in turbaned and the camels against the sand and glow from the sun, it felt a bit biblical. After the sunset, we were given the option to take the camels back two the hotel where we’d left our drivers or back to the camps. We all agreed to go all the way back to the camps.

The two cameleers walked up front talking and making calls on their cell phones. The group of us, the Italian mom, me, dad, and daughter, focused on our rides and the landscape around us.  Shortly after we’d left the soft sand for the hard rocky terrain there was a squeal from the back and the Bella, the girl, began to scream. He camel leaped and lurched and as though in slow motion, we watched her cling desperately and eventually to fall off. We knew by the way she landed her wrists were broken.  Her camel, umped and pulled at his bit as the cameleers ran trying to calm him. All the camels were tied together so he pulled us and agitated our camels as well. THe dad’s camel jumped and jerked in anger and we watched in horror as he fell too. Landing unconscious. At that point it became clear we were all going to go and I tired to ready myself for the fall. How could I fall with the least damage. The cameleers released the back two, now riderless camels and one sat down quietly, the other sped off into the desert, desperate cameleer running after him, his turban unravelling along the way. “get me down!” screamed the mother. And they were finally able to let her off and she rand to her now awake, but confused husband. I took the crying girl in my arms, careful of her awkwardly dangling wrists.

We need a doctor! we cried needlessly. The cameleer left with us, was calling on his phone and quickly we saw a car approaching. Ali got out and began an amateur healing. “Can you do this?” he asked lifting his arms over his head. “just take them to a doctor.” I said. What about you? He asked. I’ll be fine, just take them to a doctor.

He drove off with them and I was left alone with three camels and one cameleer. The other I could see in the distance zig zagging the dunes after the rogue camel. It would have been quite funny.

Reluctantly, I got back on a camel and we headed silently back to my camp. Where I went to my tent to wait for information.

The next morning we learned all was well and Ali and I headed to Fez.

I’ll tell you about the Donkey tomorrow.

Where ever I go there seems to be a flood. Or flooding of some sort. I had to name this post The Flood 2, because I already have a post called The Flood. I think that was in Prague. And there was the one in Nepal, too. None in South America, thank goodness.

There always seems to be a town that is kick off spot for international “adventure” travelers on there way to capture a new trophy. In Nepal, it is Pokhara, in Peru, Cusco, and here in Morocco It is Ouarzazate, otherwise known as the door to the desert.  I”m sure there are tons of towns, but there are the ones in which I’ve kicked off my adventures. Ouarzazate is a desert town – with mud colored crumbling buildings around a central square. I didn’t find the charm I’d found in Pokhara or Cusco, but I did find a lovely suite, with strong wifi, and an international group of guests. I spent most of my social time with the appropriately Gen-y named Winslow (a beautiful recent NYU grad) and her friends. They were on their way to a wedding in Fez.

Ali met me in the morning and we headed off to the gorges. As we drove he told me, in response to my amazement at the patches of agriculture amonst the desert, about Green Morocco, a company giving grants to farmers to jumpstart growth. We talked about climate change for a while before the conversation turned to religion. I asked about the Christian population and the different kinds of Muslims. He explained the distinctions in dress (especially for the woman and how covered one must be) and pondered the question of god. Ali is clearly religious, though he doesn’t pray when the call to prayer rings out. He wondered out loud if god cared more about how strict one was at following the guidelines or if just being good was enough. I think god cares if we’re good in our hearts and kind to one another, this atheist offered up. We hope so. Ali said softly. (Ali has a problem with pronouns, referring to himself as we and using you when he means him or her).

We drove along the road of 1000 Kasbahs – kasbahs, it turns out, are a dime a dozen – and down a winding, palm tree lined dirt road. Ali pulled over and said, “take a little walk.” So I got out and shut the door and he drove off. With nothing but my phone in my hand, I wondered if this was what everyone had been warming me about. I walked in the direction Ali had driven, past goats and oleander bushes. A group of women and children wre sitting by the side of the road picnicking. I resisted the urge to capture them on my camera, it looked to genuine a moment for them as a family. Eventually I rounded a bend to see Ali and the car waiting for me. “That’s a beautiful walk, isn’t it?” he asked. And it was, but I was a little preoccupied with whether I’d die in the desert to appreciate it fully.

As we traveled on up the Middle Atlas mountains, we stopped for several walks and photo ops. Whereever we went, children would flock to the car with their palms upturned. I learned a long while ago not to give money or candy (these kids have no access to dentists), but have tried to remember to bring colored pencils along as something to hand out. About half the time I remember to bring them out of the car with me and was treated to smiles in hugs in exchange – really, one can never get enough hugs from small children.

We stopped for tea at the Dades Gorge (after an exciting drive through a steep winding pass). After I hiked a bit up the mountain until I crossed paths with a rusty pipe that was poking out from the ground. The cut was deep and the pipe looked suspect so I rushed back down for bacitracin and sympathy. The pipe was part of an attempt to shore up the side from landslides. It doesn’t seem to have been effective.

We headed towards our second gorge of the day when the rains came. Pretty torrentially.  Changing plans we headed towards our guesthouse for the night, hoping the narrow dirt road wouldn’t wash out before we go there. Our 4×4 was much more efficient that the many cars that couldn’t make it through the rising waters. We had to dodge falling rocks from above and puddle leaping children from below. “Another 2 hours of this, and this is all gone,” Ali said gesturing towards the mud houses lining the road.

It thankfully ended just as we pulled up to the guest house and though my non-injured foot ended up ankle deep in mud, we arrived in our rooms unscathed.

Now for a nap and shower while Ali catches up on the world cup. Then dinner.

PS – For photos – go to face book. I can’t easily get them from my phone to the computer (I forgot to pack my hard drive).

I totally didn’t go to the desert today. Unlike past trips, I am completely unaware of what I’m doing day to day. I should probably do some research, but whatever. It’s all been good so far.

My guide Ali met me at my Marrakech riad early this morning. So early that I had to rush to finish my overflowing Moroccan breakfast and leave the artificially flavored peach yogurt behind. I say this with no sarcasm whatsoever – I LOVE artificial peach flavor. I’m sure its bad for me and I don’t want to look at the ingredients list, but I love it! So, leaving that yogurt behind was no small thing.

Where are we going? I asked when I got in the car. To the mountains today, I will tell you more after lunch. And we drove on. And drove, and drove. We passed out of Marrakech, past many a sight I wish I’d know to see on my sightseeing day yesterday (see – research would have helped).  “Do you know this game, golf?” Ali asked me as we passed courses on both sides of us. “This is a game for the rich.” he added. “Yup. And dull.” thought I (sorry golfers).

Eventually we started climbing up and Ali pointed out the lush oleander, and fig, almond, and olive trees.  He told me about the many dialects spoken throughout Morocco and the different tribes who spoke them. And he told me about his young new wife, but that was to explain the near constant pinging of text messages on his phone. Women, he said, that want to talk all the time. Once a day is enough.

As we climbed further he asked if I was worried about the winding road. Thinking back on Nepal and Peru, I figured – gimme what you got! And really, the worst of it was what we’d consider a break from the terror in the Himalayas.  I thought about those trips a lot during the drive. From afar the Atlas looked like the Andes or the Himalayas – shadowy peaks on the horizon –  it was only up that each is completely unique from the others.

We stopped for breakfast of roasted tomatoes and eggs, tea and coffee at a small roadside cafe. After lunch I went next door to the women’s cooperative, where local women are able to make some extra money (“the women, they shouldn’t work”, opined Ali) by making products with the plentiful argon nuts. I bought some argon oil and  delicious argon / almond butter that we’d sampled at breakfast (“the nutella of morocco,” they proudly announced) and off we went. Where are we going? I asked again. I will tell you after lunch, he said again.

Before lunch we visited telouet kasbah, once the home of kings and their many wives. A kasbah, I have learned is a walled home with four towers, a single entrance, and housing a single family (although one husband may have many wives). At Telouet, I was guided through the deserted, once clearly grand building by Aessa (it is the name of a prophet, he told me). He showed me the rooms for the wives, windows for the wives, door knockers for the wives…and on. My feminist knee jerk reactionary was jumping about inside me, but I kept her shut up.

We drove on, through what Ali called the green passage, the last place with plant life. Eventually we came to a valley – it’s magic place said Ali, and it was – the valley floor was lush with plant life, but the mountains were completely arid. Stopping for lunch, we had tajines and couscous with the most succulent melon for dessert. I don’t know what kind of a melon it was, but it was sweet and crisp and rich. Ali pointed up a high peak and said, now we go here. Ok -said I heading back to the car. No, no, said he – we walk. And we did. As you all know, I’m like an old lady when I climb up things. I get there, but I go way slower than you want me to. And despite the thunder and dark clouds above us, I went at my speed. It was worth it. The views were spectacular and from above I saw the courtyard Russell Crowe fought a lion (or whatever he did) in Gladiator; the expanse that Peter

O’Toole rode though on camelback in Lawrence of Arabia and the sight of so many other eric film moments.

We are going to Ouarzazate now. Ali told me. There you will sleep. I have no idea what I’m doing tomorrow, of course, but I made it here. My riad has a beautiful courtyard and a pool, but I’m just happy to take a shower.

“I have to go,” I said to a friend with whom I was recounting my day at the souk, “I’m meeting some friends for dinner.” “What?” he responded. “You’re like some Brit ex-pat. Two days in North Africa and you’re amazing the colonials with your dizzying social schedule.”  While I half love and half hate the imagery, I wasn’t heading off to the ambassadors residence or anything quite so lush, but I was meeting Beth from WNYC and her travel companions, Jen and Barbara, with whom I’d shared the flight over.

We met at the roof bar overlooking the main square, which was hopping. The views of the sunset were stunning over the square and mosques in the distance (I’ve come to love the call to prayer). Over soft drinks we recounted what we’d each been doing for our first days in Morocco and we were headed next. Though I work with Beth from a distance, this was the first time we’d spent any time together, and of course I didn’t’ know Jen and Barbara at all, but the sunset had the travel magic of creating fast friends. We laughed at each others foibles in at negotiating deals in the souk; debated the pros and cons of a hammam; pondered our upcoming treks in the desert; and, barely mentioned our lives in New York or at work.

And, like any good social gathering, we talked about food. Far more prepared than I, they had done their research. Barbara pulled out print outs from Conde Nast’s best restaurants in Marrakech and we unanimously agreed the woman owned an operated Al Fassia was the one for us. And we began to refer to it as The Lady Place.

The teeming square with it’s monkeys and henna ladies and drum circles was wonderful to watch from above, but as the four of us tried to keep track of each other wondering through it to the taxi stand, it was less charming. Just past the circle of men and kids with fishing rods aimed at coke bottle (the point of the game seemed to be to “catch” and knock over a bottle, but after they did, the just started again), we jumped in a cab to the “new” part of town.  Not exactly jumped in. Jen negotiated a rate that the driver attempted to re-negotioate mid-ride which led to threat of us jumping out of the cab or his throwing us out, but we made to the restaurant (and indeed, paid his higher rate). It never occurred to us at 9pm that we’d need a reservation, but the 20 minute wait sapped us all of energy.

We quickly revitalized when the selection of salads, which was really a bunch of small servings of vegetables made its way to our table. Beets, carrots in three preparations including one with orange water that tasted a bit like old lady perfume (in a weirdly good way), caramelized tomatoes, eggplant, turnips, and more all with deep moroccan flavors. The tajines of chicken and beef (mine with almonds and shallots) were delicious and comforting that we almost didn’t care that he morocco wine, was a miss. A big miss.

The night was like any with old friends over a long dinner – which is to say, absolutely wonderful. It turns out that they are staying just a block from my riad (oh, how I should have taken them up on the offer of a ride from Casablanca).

I leave shortly for the Sahara. Not sure what my internet access will be, but I will post when I can.

That’s not meant to be offensive, it really isn’t. Anyone who’s visited a Moroccan souk, or I imagine one elsewhere, can confirm that it is a hole and once you’re in it, most of the time all you can do is go deeper.

I started my morning late, after a long sleep, with breakfast on my patio. Very strong coffee  and orange juice to accompany everything else I could think of: croissant, flat bread, regular bread, boiled eggs, yogurt, and dates. I ate nearly all of it.  Fortified, I headed out, map in hand toward the Jewish quarter. The first stop was the Palais El Badi but it was closed on Sunday. Next up, the Jewish Quarter Mellah which had it’s own labyrinth of stalls selling fruit, tea, spices and the like.  Like the rest of Marrakech, every shop had a man calling out to come in “Just to look, not for buy,” but of course it was for buy. I stopped into a few, and in each was treated to tea. So much tea! But I resisted the urge to shop.

Eventually I found my way to a former synagogue which was now, I was told, the shop where the Jewish women wove rugs. Just for look they promised. Over tea, the shop proprietor told me about the rugs each with a description of how it was made and what part ethnicities the work represents, and his time in the US. “I went to Woodstock.” “I knew Bob Zimmerman, and I took the train from Casablanca with Crosby, Stills and Nash.”  Though I’m fairly sure, he wasn’t the inspiration for Marrakech Express and Bob Dylan wouldn’t know his name, some more tea and several rugs later,  I ended up handing over my visa for one of them. I can resist a hard sell, and was pretty impressed with myself that I had for so long. But in the end, as I was planning my escape, I realized I’d been looking for a rug for about a year and had priced many many of them. The one I really loved was about a third of the cost of what I’d had only mixed feelings about in the US. And in the end, I think I’d regret not getting it, so buy it I did. I hope I don’t regret that.

From there, they pointed me in the direction of the Synagogue. Some children on the narrow street who couldn’t have been 12 heard where I was headed and tramped along. As I stopped periodically they waited for me. I finally said to them – I won’t give you money, don’t come with me. I can find it on my own. Still they followed and when we arrived they asked for money. “just a little money, just something.” I said No and was met with “FUCK YOUR MOTHER!”

A beautiful palace and garden visit, lunch of warm goat cheese salad, and some more walking and I found myself at the Souk.

I cannot explain the souk in any way that would do the experience justice. It looks unassuming enough as you enter a bamboo covered cave of stalls, but what looks like a small collection of merchants keeps going and twisting and very quickly where you are going and where you are coming from are easily confused. There are cats and chickens and flies everywhere, and stalls piled high with shoes, hats, candy, spices, clothing, and anything else you can imagine. Each vendor calling out for you to buy something. I would say no and move on, but each had parting words “remember stall seven, it’s heaven.” “Stall number eight, we’re never late” and on and on. I didn’t take many photos because each time I did, the vendor wanted a few dollars for the photo. Not even a few coins, but dollars. The passage ways within the souk are dark and crowded, leaving one with no sense of time. I had planned to go to a hammam for a massage this afternoon, but in my insistence on not getting help finding my way through the souk, time got away from me.

The sudden light from the finally reached exit was a beautiful sight.

I’m back in my glorious room for another quick shower and snooze before meeting up with my friends from the plane for dinner.

After a shower and power nap, I was able to really take in my surroundings. Owned by Mohammed and Rashid, a lovely couple, the riad (a Moroccan guesthouse built around a central courtyard) was glorious – my version of glorious anyway.  In the middle of the old town, down a labyrinth of narrow streets, behind an unassuming door, is this welcoming oasis. The courtyard has a central mosaic, and small mosaic and wrought iron cocktail tables. I t was a jammed with the images of morocco – boxed lights, and terra cotta planters; a shelf crowned with tajines; lounge chairs and silver inlayed coffee tables. Paradise.

My room, three flights up, was even better. A fireplace, marble curved shower, sheer curtains and a glass door that opened to a patio. Sleep would be great in this room.

Refreshed I headed out to the nearby square and in search of dinner (chips and a gelato at the train station were no longer holding me). Convinced I’d get lost, Rashid assured me that that was part of the Marrakech experience and helpfully tried to map a walk for me on his map.

Moroccoan streets are crowned and the cars and mopeds do not care much for either the rules of the road or pedestrians. I stopped getting nervous about them hitting me, and just assumed they wouldn’t.

I knew I was getting close to the square when the stalls of tires and pharmacies gave way to lamp shops and fruit vendors. Lady, lady, people would call out. Come, just try this (whatever this was). I’m not easily swayed that way, so it didn’t bother me so much until I got to the market square itself. Lines of trucks overflowing with oranges, dried fruits, and spices were amazing! Not so much the people who followed me around practically grabbing ahold saying come with me, try this. One woman showed me a photo of her henna work asking if I wanted it done. She was completely gracious when I said no, extending her hand. I shook it thinking “ah – a nice person.” She held mine tightly pulled out her ink and began to henna away. I said “you have to stop, I’m not going to pay you.” but she didn’t. Eventually another woman joined us saying you must pay now. No – I said. finally I got my hand away, but not before she put “Kathy” in arabic on it. It’s good luck she assured me. I handed them whatever change I had in my bag and walked away, their unpleasant comments coming behind me.

Turns out my name in Arabic was good luck to the other vendors. As I walked through, they would call out Kathy Kathy! Getting my attention, they would then be able to try to force their wares on me.  The

I wondered the square and accompanying souk for a while, resisting any purchases. The square had a large screen on one end and was showing Charlie Chaplin movies. Among the snake charmers and jewelry vendors were whole families on blankets engrossed in the Little Tramp’s hijinx.

I finally stopped in a clearly designed for tourists restaurant for dinner. Two Casablanca beers (tastes like rolling rock) and a tajine of chicken and veggies in a spicy lemon olive oil later and back to bed. I made it home without getting lost, so I almost feel like I did it wrong.

A long sleep later and I’m enjoying breakfast of strong coffee, boiled eggs and moroccan flat bread on my patio before heading out for a long day of tourism.

When I went to Nepal nearly two years ago, I was packed (really over packed) a couple weeks in advance of the trip. South America, last summer, I was less prepared, but still when the day of departure came, I was easy-breezy. I’m not sure whether I’m getting more comfortable with these trips, or just less responsible, but on thursday night, I sat down to catch up on Game of Thrones, rather than pack and on Friday morning, with the apartment a mess and two important meetings at work I threw whatever I could think of into a bag and called it a day.

Work meetings done and a final once over of my travel needs I headed for the airport (after a short but annoying fight with UBER.) As I waited at the gate with the other Moroccan bound we watched some might black clouds roll in. And then there was thunder and lightning, as the called to board the plane. No way thought I, though I joined the line. And right there next to me was Beth Fertig, the education reported for WNYC and a woman I see ever single day, but rarely talk to. When we determined we were both going to the same place for the same duration (she with some friends) we suddenly started acting like old friends. Beth and her group were to be met at Casablanca by a driver to take them to Marrakech. Come with us, they said. But I deferred, one thinking, I’ll be terrible company when the plane lands, and two – I can’t give up my chance to ride the Marrakech express. So with promises to connect in Marrakech, we went to our respective sections of the plane to await take off. And wait. And wait. About three hours later the storm had passed, the small children running up and down the aisles had been subdued, and we were on our way.

Royal Air Marok is not an airline I would seek out. The plane was old, the amenities slim, and the seats had legroom only because they’d cut the set length down.  But they did offer Steve McQueens greatest hits on the movie channel so I was good. Just before he collided his motorcycle into barbed wire in the Great Escape, our plane landed in Casablanca. Customs, baggage claim, and more promises to connect with Beth and I headed to the Marrakech Express train.

The airport ran a shuttle to Casablanca terminus where we would switch onto the express. On the platform I met a pair of American nuns who’d been working in Dubai, but were vacationing in Morocco. (“Nuns vacation? queried I. You’d be surprised why nuns do, answered they) and Sal, very preppy  30 something Indian on his way to a bachelor party weekend.  We were told the Marrakech express would be the second train to arrive, so when one had come and gone, we all piled onto the next to arrive. Just as the doors were closing someone yelled something loudly in Arabic and half the train’s passengers disembarked. “What was that” we asked a few times before someone answered “this train isn’t going to Marrakech.” At the last minute we were all able to get off and get on the next one which we were assured would take us to our desired home.

The four of us sat together and ordered bottles of water that we nearly as warm as the air (which is to say very very warm) and spicy potato chips and talked about our respective plans. The nuns and Sal were all staying in Marrakech though Sal suspected they would not cross paths. I was off on my own journey. We laughed, played a bit of cards and dozed the four hours to Marrakech.

Just as we arrived, a low chant began. It took us all a moment to realize that it was a call to prayer. “Welcome to Marrakech” said the moroccan woman behind us as she hurried past us. Some hugs and an exchange of personal details and I jumped into the car of a man holding a Riad Mur Akush sign. We zipped through the winding streets and parked in front of an orange vendor. another man popped out and grabbed my bags from the trunk and walked off without a word. I finally caught up and learned he was Rashid and would be taking care of me. And he did. There was tea and cookies waiting, my suite is amazing, and I was finally able to brush my teeth!

A quick nap and Marrakesh is calling me.

It’s always the same and it’s starting already. I make these grand plans for a trip that I think will be an amazing adventure; I do research on what I want to see, eat, drink, and buy; I check with all my friends for recommendations; and then I figure fate will carry me. I book it all and wait for the day of arrival to, well, arrive. And usually just before that happens, I break a bone, get a cold, schedule an important work meeting or otherwise undermine myself.  Also, I panic.

And here we are again. Less than two weeks before I head off to the Sahara, with nothing purchased or packed, a ton of work to finish up, and a still not healed coccyx from an accident several months ago.  Also, I’m panicking.

I’m not terribly afraid of much, and I though I’ve been warned often of traveling alone, I’m not worried about my personal safety (I’m also always very aware of my surroundings and never drink to excess when I’m alone). So that’s not it. It’s all the other stuff – what am I neglecting? Will the cat-sitter remember to turn-up? Have a left a loose end at work? Will my friends forget me? What if I have a terrible time?

I never have a terrible time though. My friends are still there when I return and the cat always survives. And though inevitably a ball gets dropped, someone at work will have my back, and I’m never more than a few days away from an internet connection.

I don’t know why I panic and each trip I think it won’t happen this trip, but it does. It started today as I was trying to find someone to take my CSA delivery for the week I’d be away. Then I thought “This is stupid, I’m getting vegetables delivered. I can’t go away!”
So, I’m embracing the panic as much as I can (a little red wine might help) and hoping I will manage to pack before the night before I leave, but I promise nothing. I’ll be a wreck til next Friday. But next Saturday I’m going to be in Morocco. And I’m so excited. Sort of.