Marrakech, Part 3

 A window on the ceiling of the Palais Bahia

Unfortunately few hours after I’d gone to sleep, my cell phone alarm beeped me awake and I rolled out of bed as quickly as possible for someone as tired as I was. I knew the travelers’ adrenaline would kick in once I got to breakfast to say goodbye to my new hostel friends before heading straight to the kasbah to see a palace or two before catching the one o’clock train back to Rabat.

No one else was ready to go, and those who were had seen the palace yesterday, but I didn’t let that stop me as I headed out around 10:30 after a leisurely breakfast and ended up at Palais Badi. I’ve discovered that conservative dress and a confident walk ward off most unwanted comments, and since Marrakech’s streets are filled with girls taller and blonder than I am, I felt very safe on the walk down a narrow street lined with hanoots, pancake vendors, knick-knack shops, and riads.  

An olive seller on the streets of Marrakech

The first palace was in ruins, not worth the 10dh entry until I found the terrace. The view was gorgeous: to one side was Marrakech, crowded with satellite dishes, laundry lines, and minarets. Looking south were the mountains, tall and snowcapped. 

 

The view from Palais Badi

Down the street was the Palais Bahia. The palace was gorgeous, but first I had to get past a very dour ticket man. I greeted him with a happy “salaam” and pushed my 100dh bill under the window. I know from experience already that large bills are rather unwelcome, but I had no coins left. “Smaller?” he demanded, staring me down. “Sorry, I only have this,” I replied in Arabic. “Smaller?” he growled once again. “Sorry,” I replied. Sure to show me just how much effort he was putting into my ticket, he pulled open his cash drawer with a flourish and slowly extracted the requisite change. He handed me my ticket with a scowl, and reluctantly counted back my change. “Shukran bzaaf!” I said with a forced smile as I turned to the path and quickly forgot the poor customer service. The beautiful palace would have been worth the whole 100dh. 

A courtyard in Palais Bahia

Before I knew it I had to leave for the long-ish walk to the train station. The long, hot ride was a smothering end to a wonderful trip that made me appreciate Rabat and feel like I was going home.

Marrakech, Part 2

 

The Mejorelle Gardens

I dragged myself out from under the warm double blankets on Saturday morning motivated by one goal: go to the Mejorelle Gardens, designed by Yves St. Laurent. I didn’t know much about Marrakech and most of the guidebooks that the hostel had to offer suggested endless hours in the souk and Jmaa al-Fna. Seeing as I was already weary of the loud and aggressive hawking in the commercial zones, I looked forward to the peace and quiet of a garden. One of my classmates agreed to join me and we set off after a hostel breakfast of ghaif and white muhammara, two distinct varieties of Moroccan pancake.

I had drawn a rudimentary map copied out of the Lonely Planet, and just when we thought we were lost we saw a sign for Jardin Mejorelle.

It offered all the serenity I desired after the hectic experience of the main square. Tall bamboo and misshapen cacti lined the paths, and each corner revealed a surprise: a bush abloom with delicate purple flowers, a peacefully gurgling fountain, the intricate plaster and wrought iron designs of a traditional Maghrebi window, a smooth pool running up to the edge of the bright blue art deco building standing in the center of the garden. After wandering the various paths, I pretended to be an artist and tried sketching a couple views on my low-quality, 6dh notepad with a 2dh pen. Morocco, and especially Marrakech, is a constant assault on every sense, so I valued the time of quiet, smelling only the freshness of the plants, hearing only the footsteps of other visitors, seeing only the stationary flora and the blue and white tiling.

Eventually we had to leave, and a modern, European-looking café across the street drew our attention. I ordered an orange, fig, and rosewater smoothie – phenomenally refreshing – and triangular spinach and cheese pastries. Everything in Marrakech was more expensive, since most tourists come loaded with euros, but our lunch was reasonable when compared to the swanky juice bars in the US.

Our friends were somewhere in the Kasbah, the neighborhood to the south of Jmaa al-Fna enclosed by walls and home to various palaces and the Sa’adi tombs. Since the Mejorelle Garden is a good half-hour walk to the north, we hopped in a taxi to head down to meet them – or we tried to. I knocked on the window of the first taxi, and told him where we wanted to go. He made the universal gesture for money – asking how much – and I pointed to the meter. We had been warned by our program to avoid negotiating fees and go by the meter instead, since the former method would almost always lead to us being ripped off. Discontent to play by the law, the taxi driver shook his head and drove away. Luckily the next one was more complacent.

After our reunion with the group, we wandered around the edges of the royal palace for a while, and I started to miss my homestay roommate, who was also in Marrakech but staying in a riad with her friends from the Barcelona program who had flown down to visit. We decided to meet up for coffee, and I was irrationally excited to see her since we had only been apart for not even 48 hours. I am so lucky to have become such good friends with my roommate here – it’s made the adjustment so much easier.

Although I almost got lost multiple times, I ended up back in Jmaa al-Fna and we went to Café Babchick, where I tried avocado juice (sweet and milky but also green-tasting in a very good way) and a cheese and tomato panini. As we ate the last bites of our sandwiches our waiter and another employee sat down in an alcove near us for their own meal, and asked us, in English, to come join them. We were wary: men had been cat-calling us since we’d arrived in Marrakech, and we were understandable hesitant to go sit with two. But the fact that they were polite, and that a woman was working the register just a few steps away, convinced us to go over and share their tagine. The conversation that followed is one of my favorite memories of Marrakech.

We began by discussing the city, and our new friends were quick to defend their aggressive commercial countrymen. “They have to feed their families,” they said. “The competition in the souk is difficult, and they have children to think about.” Before long a friend of theirs who was couch-surfing at one of their houses came by. As luck had it, he was from Madrid, so I cornered him for more Spanish practice and more talk of Iberian politics. Switching to English so everyone could understand, a conversation on immigration turned into a debate about racism and somehow I ended up sharing my love for Modern Standard Arabic with one of the Moroccans in our small group. His eyes lit up and he began speaking to me in fusha, encouraging me to continue learning since it is the most perfect language in the world. “You reach a point where you can taste the words,” he said. “It is so beautiful.” Finally able to speak my classroom Arabic, trying hard to remember the case markings and short vowels, we discussed the language a little more before joining the group talking about our lives and travels. Time flew by and it was time to leave for dinner and meet my roommate’s friends before we knew it, so we exchanged our favorite bands and I promised the Spaniard that I’d find him on Facebook.

We were lured into dinner at a restaurant with beautiful signage and mediocre food, so afterwards we dove into Jmaa al-Fna, captivated by the flickering lanterns for sale and the bright lightbulbs on the orange juice carts. We stopped by a dried fruit and nut vendor that my roommate had visited the night before, and the man behind the counter remember her and her friends. “Labbas?” he asked as he grabbed a handful of almonds and held them out for us to try. “Labbas!” we replied as he reached to pass around candied peanuts as well. After purchasing some apricots and salted almonds, we set out to find the spice cake someone had read about in some guidebook. On the outskirts of the fair-like food tents were a few smaller carts with sesame-covered mounds in the center and a sign listing the various spices in the cake: galangal, cinnamon, ginger, and more. A small plate was just 3dh, and the cake was more like fudge or cookie dough: decadently rich, almost too sweet, and marvelously spicy.

Lanterns, lit by tea lights, on display in the Jmaa al-Fna.

Full and happy, they walked me back to my hostel where I joined a couple of friends from our program and some new faces who were also staying the night. We drank mint tea and talked, I played the hostel manager in a game of chess and valiantly lost, someone pulled out a guitar for lovely background music and before I knew it, it was 2 a.m. I couldn’t quite drag myself away from the conversation and camaraderie for another half an hour, so by the time crawled under the thick wool blankets I was definitely ready for sleep. The first night had left me worried about how my trip to Marrakech would be, but by the time I turned out the light I was very glad I had come.

Marrakech, Part 1

  

The Marrakech train station

The train ride to Marrakech is not nearly as glorious as Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young sounds. The trains here are not as new or fast as in Spain. But the tickets are cheaper and my travelling companions were choice, so although it was a long ride to Marrakech and an even longer ride back, the beautiful landscape and good conversation compensated for the horrific train bathrooms and the crowding. And Marrakech itself was shocking.

We stepped off the train and into the new part of the city, with wide, relatively clean streets and modern Mediterranean-style apartment blocks. Our friends who had arrived on an earlier train gave us directions to the hostel, and we set about asking some locals for confirmation that we were on the right street.

“Pardon, is this Hassan II street?” I asked an older woman. She replied with a blank stare and some words I couldn’t understand, so I said shukran and walked away. My guy friend had the same luck, so we decided to hope for the best and brush off the unfriendly first impression. We were indeed headed in the right direction and soon came out onto the Jmaa al-Fna, Marrakech’s main square. Which is where the shock set in.

Picture the rowdiest county fair you’ve ever been to. Imagine being the center of attention of a huge crowd. And you still won’t have the feeling of walking across Jmaa al-Fna. Everyone is trying to sell something, and they will say all of their English vocabulary to try and convince you. Harry Potter! Lady Gaga! Spice girls! Berber musicians are dressed in gaudy hats and clanging their cymbals in hopes that a tourist will snap a photograph so they can send one of their party after them with an upside down tambourine until the poor tourist gives them money. Men lead small monkeys, chained around the neck, towards visitors, placing the poor animals on the startled tourists’ heads and demanding payment. Taxi drivers gesture to their vehicles and ask if you need a ride, across from their horse-drawn carriage competitors. Although Jmaa al-Fna is a pedestrian square, motorcyclists weave through the crowds, so close you can feel the heat of their engines on the back of your legs. And every orange juice vendor tries to catch your attention and sell you the best glass of fresh juice you’ve ever had. (For once, they’re being honest – Marrakech’s orange juice can’t be beat!) 

Orange juice vendors in Jmaa al-Fna

Once we turned off into the labyrinth hiding our hostel, we were approached by children and men asking if we needed help finding our way – for just a small fee. Luckily, our friends guided us without asking for compensation and we put down our backpacks and gathered in the hostel living room for some unwinding and planning.

Eight of us were staying in the same hostel, operated by a young, fun-loving British man and occupied by a young guy from Quebec, a Spanish woman, and a backpacker from Florida in addition to our group. More people from our program were staying down the street, so we all met up and headed out to find dinner.

As dinnertime approaches, large tents pop up in the middle of Jmaa al-Fnaa lined with picnic tables and loud waiters. “Free drinks! Free tea!” they shout as we walk by, shoving their menus into our faces. In the middle of each tent is the loosely-defined kitchen, with a hefty matriarch doling out kebabs, shwarma, soup, and vegetables. We decide to try Chez Aicha 1, looking hungrily at the piles of olives, spinach, eggplant, kefta, shrimp, and cilantro in the center display. For once, being a vegetarian was advantageous, as the prices were low and the variety was boundless. The tent and long tables with plasticky covers felt just like the fair, and I almost expected the next tent over to be hawking blooming onions. I ordered four “appetizers”: a giant plate of spicy tangy olives; pan-fried green peppers just like my beloved Spanish pimientos de padron but bigger; chopped spinach cooked with olives and lemon; and eggplant so tender it almost dissolved on your tongue. The table was set with bread and harissa, so we scooped and spiced our way to a delicious dinner. Our afore-promised free mint tea finally arrived after minimal nagging, stuffed with fresh green mint leaves. 

Next to the menu of soup, tea, dates, and shubakiya, a man prepares mint tea in the tent next to ours. Note the ample mint leaves...and the giant blocks of sugar!

After dinner we met up with the Spanish woman from the hostel. Her name was Carmen, of course. We wandered around Jmaa al-Fna while I talked to her about Rajoy, Garzon, and other facets of current Spanish politics. I remind my girlfriend all the time that she’s got tough competition from Spain - the country was my first true love, and my passion shined through in my lisped, although rusty, conversation with the lady from Santander. My poor friends from the program couldn’t get a word in as I took in the glory of the true Spanish accent from the first Spanish person I’ve had a long conversation with since coming back from Spain. As we strolled under the tower of Rabat’s central mosque and through the brightly-lit Jmaa al-Fna, my senses were so over-stimulated that I didn’t even notice it was raining until we got back and my hair was wet.

(Marrakech only got better, so get excited for part two!)

Salsa in Rabat!

Last night, I finally felt at home. It wasn't because I found American food, or finally adjusted to everything that was different here. But when the familiar Latin rhythms came on at salsa class and we all started dancing, I felt like I belonged.
I dance a lot in Chicago, and even when I was terribly busy last quarter, I always made time for Monday night salsa. So it was one thing I very much wanted to continue here in Rabat, even though "danse oriental" is the more common offering.
A Google search revealed that there was one salsa group in Rabat with a facebook page. A couple messages later and I was on my way last night to an intermediate lesson in Agdal, Rabat's modern neighborhood. I caught the tram (6 dh each way - cheaper and cleaner and faster than the CTA!) to the Nations Unis stop, excited since I knew the name of the stop in both Arabic and French when the universal feminine announcer's voice named the prochaine estacion.
Mislead by Google maps, I headed down the street in the wrong direction. Luckily I was early, so once I realized the house numbers were far too high and increasing, I turned around and headed all the way north until the street ended in a mind-boggling knot of a five-way intersection. The road had ended...but I hadn't seen the salsa company. Sighing, I gave up and decided to take a taxi. Knocking on the window of a parked Petit Taxi, he rolled it down and I said, in Modern Standard Arabic (fusha), that I wanted to go to the address of the salsa school. He pointed and said, "This is the right street." Since I had just walked all the way up the street from a number much higher than that of the school, I repeated the number. "There, there," he pointed. "Al-shaar3ia intehi huna?" I said, grammatically-incorrectly asking if the street ended where we were standing. "N3m," he said. Yes. Thanking him, I walked away utterly confused. With only five minutes before the lesson theoretically began in the school that was theoretically right in front of me, I headed back down the street from whence I'd came, eyes peeled.
That's when I noticed "Danse Latin" on the sign of a gym I'd passed twice already. I walked in, and a friendly personal trainer came out to meet me. Although I should have been able to ask in darija, I fell into the slightly-more-comfortable fusha and asked about the class. "Yes," he replied, continuing in French.
It's a common happening that no longer phases me. I ask in Arabic, my conversation partner responds in French. I'm clearly a foreigner, and most foreigners know more French than Arabic. So I just have to say, "Je ne parle pas francais" and explain that I speak shwiya - a little - Arabic, and they break into a smile and attempt to communicate. This particular young man spoke some English, which he was eager to show off. After explaining that the class met upstairs and I just had to wait for the instructor, he asked if we could maybe get coffee sometime - so I could practice my Arabic, so he could practice his English. Although it's probably politically incorrect to doubt his intentions, I most certainly did and responded with a hesitant maybe.
I was saved from the awkward situation by the arrival of a regular, and the trainer wandered off with him into the musculation room. I saw a group of people gathering outside head into another door, so I tentatively followed and found myself in a dance studio surrounded by the familiar salsa beat.
Class went well - just about my level, fast-paced, lots of partner rotations so I didn't feel bad that I was a new addition who threw off the balance. The language of instruction was a combination of French and darija, with English borrowings thrown in at just the right time: "Five, six, seven, eight" rotated between French, Italian, English, Spanish, and Arabic; we were cued by a loud "Go!". There was an American guy in the class, but he already had Moroccan friends and didn't seem eager to regress to talking to a fellow countryman, so I tried to resist asking him to translate for me when anything more than a short instruction was given in French.
Luckily, the class repeats each Monday and Wednesday, so I have plenty of time to make Moroccan friends of my own.

A Protest? Where?

Last year, the Arab Spring started while I was applying to study abroad in Cairo. Besides causing numerous revolutions that are still happening today, the unrest that spread to Egypt around January 25 prompted the University of Chicago to move their Middle Eastern Civilizations study abroad trimester to Rabat, Morocco. I knew that Morocco had mostly been spared the unrest of the Arab Spring, so I was surprised when a student sent an email to our program's listhost with a link to this article. Two days ago, while I was eating ghaif and drinking sweet mint tea and watching Arab Idol, protesters set themselves on fire in the main square of Rabat. And if the student hadn't alerted me to this fact, I would have never known.
I always thought that cities would have a certain buzz when protests were happening. Some feeling in the air of unrest, of excitement. However, on the walk to school this morning, the air held only exhaust fumes. I walked past parliament, visible in the video accompanying the above Al Jazeera article, and the streets were clear except for crushing traffic. The only crowd was a small one, maybe 20 people, mixed civilians and officials, outside the Egyptian embassy, perhaps anticipating a demonstration on the upcoming anniversaries of Egypt's revolution. My host family didn't say a thing about the protests. Our center only commented that we should not go.
I'll try to stay abreast of Moroccan politics, but with the language barrier, it's difficult to know what's going on. My Arabic is not nearly good enough to read a newspaper, and international news organizations don't seemed to be overly concerned with Morocco. Right now, making friends and perennially attempting to catch up on the 200 pages of reading every night occupies most of my time. But hopefully I'll wake up soon and realize that I'm in Morocco, and the Arab Spring is still happening, here.
(Reassurance to family and friends that I will never do anything that could remotely cause any bodily harm. And, also, I still haven't eaten a sheep.)

Quality Time with the Host Family (or, Ruminations on Moroccan TV)

      “So, what exactly is going on?” We had to ask about ten times last night while watching a singing game show on Arabic MTV, and we still didn’t get it. The contestants were famous singers, who had to do abbreviated karaoke ranging from “Someone Like You” to “Oh, Susanna” as well as Arabic and French songs. After singing, each celebrity team of three had to choose a number from one to six, which corresponded to a box. Behind each number was a word from a lyric in another song. If the contestants chose the right number, the box lit up blue and another word was revealed. If they guessed incorrectly, the box was red but still revealed a word. The turn of play transferred to the other team, who proceeded to sing another section of another song. But the rhyme or reason to what made the guess wrong or right evaded us for the entirety of the show, as did the relevancy of any of the songs. The singing, however, was sing-a-long style with the lyrics on screen, so we belted our hearts out to Bryan Adams and Maroon 5. Our host sisters had to sing along alone on the Arab hits – for now. Our host sister (who turns 30 soon) compared the host to Lady Gaga – “She’s very strange,” she said after I couldn’t help but let out a “What is she wearing?!” Personally I wouldn’t subject Lady Gaga to the insult of being compared to this host, but she definitely added an extra element of confusion to the show.

        The night before, we’d all enjoyed Arab Idol (after catching the end of Project Runway, in English with Arabic subtitles). It was the first Friday night elimination round of the show, and we were rooting for the three Moroccan female singers. The contestants’ names would be called after clips of their songs from the previous episodes. Everyone sang in Arabic, one of the requirements of the show. This surprised me, since our host brother in Fez and his friends listened almost exclusively to English music. After we were reminded of how talented everyone was, the crying began as contestants were eliminated. The men managed to mostly stay stoic, but a couple of the women sent back to their bleacher seats on the side of the stage let out a few tears. The shockingly skinny Moroccan girl advanced, but the hefty Egyptian with a deep and moving voice to match was, in my opinion, unfairly denied. Some of the contestants returned to their seats with smiles, and our host sister explained, “They got a second chance.” We weren’t entirely sure what that meant, since there proceeded to be no additional singing.

        Whereas I’ve only seen one woman wearing a T-shirt on the streets, on television all concerns of modesty disappear. Strapless shirts and dresses, short skirts, and tight everything is suddenly okay. Even in family photos, arms can be bared without protest. I’d like to return to Rabat in the summer, since the winter weather could be the motivation for the conservative clothing. Even if I could wear shorts, it’s far too cold, except in direct sunlight in the middle hours of the day, and never inside these ice-box buildings.

        Our Arab Idol viewing was cut short by a text from our friends inviting us out for a post-dinner snack. We took them up since dinner at our place had been more like teatime, with some light breadstuffs and tea around 6:30. That’s not to say teatime wasn’t utterly delicious. We were treated to ghaif, a thin flaky pancake reminiscent of scallion pancakes but without the scallions, and Moroccan crepes with honey. Since we’d sat around chatting and watching Arab Idol for an hour it too, it was lucky that our inviters were guy friends, since it was well after dark. Yesterday afternoon, I walked alone through the medina as well as the new part of the city without any problems – my long pants and sleeves and high collar helped me avoid all but a few cat-calls – and I felt completely safe sitting alone in the Andalusian gardens of the Kasbah to read. But once the sun goes down, the city takes on a different feel and unaccompanied women disappear from the streets. It’s weird to be walking along a main boulevard and suddenly realize that you and your friend are the only females you can see, while the streets are filled with men.

        Our exploits last night, though, were completely safe, thanks to our escorts who picked us up at our door and walked us back. (I'm going to owe these guys a lot of baked goods when we get back to Chicago!) We headed down Muhammed V street, the main boulevard of the modern city lined with cafés, bakeries, and newsstands. We bought small ice cream cones for less than an American dollar each and tried some falafel and schwarma at a Middle Eastern restaurant for about $5 total. We were home just a little after the suggested arrival time of 10:00pm – but our host sister didn’t seem to mind unlocking the “big door” to let us in to the vestibule that leads to the main house’s door and our own wing’s door. When we asked if being out a little past ten would be okay, she said, “Yeah, don’t worry, I’m open minded.”

        Although Moroccan television has been utterly confusing so far, I’m sure American shows are just as incoherent without the correct cultural and language knowledge to pick up on everything. And the show isn’t the point of our evening rendezvous in the big house’s sitting room. We gather around sweet mint tea for a quiz from our host sister’s son (aged 2) on the words for “bread” and “coffee” (he doesn’t tire of asking until he’s checked our knowledge 40 times), to learn new ones from our host sisters, and to bond over our praise and criticisms of the celebrities who smile at us from the TV. While watching television together, the reach of globalism is undeniable. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before the laxity in dress trickles down to the streets. Whether that would be good or not is a matter for another day, when our dinner conversations move beyond pop songs and my host sisters can weigh in.

Tourist Troubles

 A bab (gate) in the mellah at Fez.

            We safely arrived in Rabat yesterday, but before I regale you with tales of the modern capital, I want to let you in on the secret tourist police.

            Being a tourist in Morocco can be difficult. And although I’d like to convince myself that since I’m here for three whole months and living with a family that I’m not a tourist, it’s also true that I will never blend in. Sometimes the boundaries are obvious. Most cafés, especially in Fez, are male-only, so it’s easy to tell that those are off-limits. It’s frustrating when the young men on our program talk about the really cheap and delicious tea there, or the feeling of camaraderie of being in a café filled with smoke and soccer fans glued to the television watching a game. At the same time, though, I got to help my host mother in Fez shell peas; hopefully here I’ll eventually be allowed to help cook.

            Sometimes, though, it’s hard to know what is allowed and what isn’t. Will I get sick if I eat some almond brittle bought on the street? Can I take a picture of the snazzy-looking guards outside the Hassan tower? Is that policeman blowing his whistle at me because I’m not supposed to go down that street, or is he motioning to the motorcycle whizzing by? Not to mention all the trials of a host family.

            But as far as one aspect goes, I know that the Moroccan law enforcement officers are out there to actively protect me. Meet the undercover tourist police, whose targets are supposed “guides” who trap tourists into paying a fee for a tour of wherever without any credentials whatsoever.

            False guides are a huge problem in Fez, and many tourist-frequented cities. When we visited the old Jewish quarter in Fez, the mellah, we didn’t end up seeing any of the synagogues because of the constant pestering. Walking down the main street of the mellah, which is lined with boot and carpet and fruit sellers, shady men constantly approach and say, “Synagogue?” Or, “The synagogue is that way,” pointing a greasy finger down a narrow street. The first category is easy to repel: ignoring them or a sharp “La!” (No!) is sufficient. The second type, though, are tricky. Their seemingly innocent offer of advice is actually an invitation to hire them to show you the synagogue. If you follow their pointing finger they follow you, demanding money for their service. The only way to avoid these characters is to keep walking, no matter how much you want to turn down the street they showed you.

            Although we had no idea where we were going, we made wrong turns with confidence and followed our streets all the way to whatever end they had to offer. We didn’t want to subject ourselves to a second round of guide offers by doubling back. 

A main street in the mellah, decorated with Moroccan flags since the king was in town - his palace is also located in Fez al-Jdid, the neighborhood that includes the mellah. In the foreground is a "petit taxi". We tried to get back to Fez al-Bali by foot, but somehow ended up back in the mellah...so my roommate and I shared a taxi with an elderly woman back to Batha, the square by which we lived. Total cost when the ride was divided by three (the maximum number of passengers): 2 dh each, or 25 cents. If only the taxis in Chicago were that cheap!

 

            Unfortunately, there were no plainclothes cops around to check the guides’ harassment. Harassment, it seems in Morocco, is treated differently than in the U.S. Guides are only persecuted once someone hires them; but aggressively talking to tourists (or cat-calling women) is acceptable, since it is only words.

            While they weren’t there when we needed them, the tourist police are indeed there. One day last week my roommate and I were walking home with our host brother. A man approached him and asked him something in Arabic. Our host brother pulled out an attestation that certified that we were visiting students staying with his family. The school passed them out to us on the first day, instructing our families to carry them if we went anywhere together. Luckily, the attestation satisfied the policeman, and we continued on our way.

            Here in Rabat, I have yet to be the recipient of any over-eager tour proposals. The street harassment seems to be better in general, and I’ve even passed cafés with women patrons as well. The streets are wider and mostly cleaner (probably due to the significantly smaller number of donkeys). It’s also possible to walk from our center in the modern area of the city to the old medina with its winding streets and souks to the ocean and to the half-finished Hassan mosque tower, Rabat’s main landmark, in just a couple hours. I learned from experience – we competed in a scavenger hunt today, with points assigned for completing tasks like photographing our team of 4 waiting for the tram, taking a picture with a baby, bonus points for each pharmacy and cat photo, and a brochure from a gym. We walked for three hours and, although we lost by a mere 10 points, we gained a wonderful knowledge of the city. It seems like a great place to call home for the next two months: modern but also medieval, offering the benefits of both. Although not everything is as modern as I’d like it to be…

            Our host family’s house here is a gorgeous traditional riad, with a lovely courtyard and a separate wing for my new roommate and me. We have our bedroom, a sitting room with a dresser, and our own bathroom, equipped with a faucet, a bucket, and a squat toilet. (For those of you at home who have been fortunate enough to have been spared the experience of encountering squat toilets, I’ll leave detailed descriptions to the internet.) These are the norm in Morocco, although in my last house I was spoiled with a Western-style toilet. Although it’s only our second night here, I can assure you we’re already getting used to our new arrangement.

Savoring the Last Day in Fez

Our school in Fez

As familial strife erupts in the living room, I’m taking refuge in my warm bed until our host brother has been sufficiently chastised for coming home late and our younger host sister (age 7) has stopped bawling since our older host sister stole her favorite pen. Usually our sisters are bubbly, giggly, and far too hyper, but like all siblings they have the occasional spat. Their voices get two octaves higher as they each whine their side to our host mother, who does her best to calm them down. Unfortunately I can’t understand most of the colloquial they say in a normal voice, so when the two girls engage in a verbal race to tell their side first in as high a pitch as possible, I can’t catch even a word. 

The view from my bedroom window

Luckily, though, most of the time is peaceful and full of laughing. My roommate and I finally feel like we belong – and tomorrow we leave for Rabat, to start the process all over again with a new roommate and a new host family! Last night’s dinner, though, was marvelous. The night before we had helped our host mother shell peas, and I’d learned the word – jelbana. My pneumonic device for remembering it was to picture a mountain (jbl) named Anna. So when my host mother set down a beautiful pea and carrot dish for dinner last night, I said, “Hada al-jbelana!” and our host sisters burst into laughter. Imagining the mountain had caused me to switch the order of the consonants, much to their amusement. “La, la!” they said, “No, no! Smeetha jelbana!” and then fell into another pile of giggles. Our older host sister (age 10) then started convincing us that her younger sister was crazy – hukma. The “h” is an aspirated one, which in Moroccan sounds a lot like the “kh” letter, but not quite – it’s more throaty then we learned in class. So our host sisters proceeded to tease us for the next ten minutes about our pronunciation of hukma until my roommate and I pronounced the judgment that they were both crazy.

So today, I’m enjoying my last day in Fez by doing what I’ve done most every day in Fez. The alarm goes off, and I head to brush my teeth. Our sisters are getting ready for school and on my way back from the sink tell me that the shower is ready – i.e., the hot water has been turned on. After fulfilling my silly American habit of showering every day, we sit down to breakfast. Today was a treat: malawi, small fried pancakes delicious with the soft spreadable cheese and the “Pop Cream” carob and 1.5% hazelnut spread. And as always, a steaming pot of sweet mint tea and a basket of fresh baguette. 

the sun streaming in through our bedroom window

Our first class starts at 10:00, Islamic Civilizations. We’ve covered about 1200 years in a week, so we’re all ready for a break even though it’s only been 7 days! We have a test tomorrow, right before leaving for Rabat – it’s a full day when you add in packing and saying goodbyes to our wonderful host family!

We break for lunch at noon, eating around 1:30 or 2. Often we stay at the center for another thirty minutes to study or use the internet, then head to Batha, a main square, to drop off some letters or postcards at the post office and buy stamps at the hanoots across the street.

We were treated to a true vegetarian feast for lunch today: an elaborate and beautiful salad of carrots, artichokes, cabbage, beets, and shredded hard-boiled egg, plus pickled carrots, fava beans cooked in olive tapenade, and potatoes with preserved lemons. And it wouldn’t be a meal without the ubiquitous Moroccan bread!

Now it’s back to school for a Moroccan Arabic class – in Rabat, I’ll have Modern Standard Arabic instead. Today we have a quiz on the verb conjugations, which take some studying. To say “he studies” in Modern Standard Arabic is “yedruss”, but in Darija it is “kaiqraa”. The negative is even more different! I’m glad I had this week of Moroccan Arabic since I can now pick up on the most basic words in my host family’s conversations, and I can visit a hanoot and ask for water like a local.

We’ll probably head back to the old medina one last time today, perhaps buy one last giant macaron cookie or a quarter qilo of shubakiya to share. However, we can take comfort in the fact that all our new favorite things will surely be available in the old souk in Rabat as well. It’ll be hard to reach the high bar set by my Fessi host mother, though. Her shubakiya are the best – and I shamelessly asked her to serve some at our last lunch tomorrow!

Volubilis and Moulay Idriss

 Volubilis, a Roman settlement 2 hours from Fez.

Today we all boarded two minibuses and drove to Volubilis, a Roman city whose ruins are located about 2 hours from Fez, next to the modern town of Moulay Idriss. Well, relatively modern - whereas Volubilis was founded around 85 BCE, Moulay Idriss was established in 789. 

 Our guide told us this room was a dining room. Whatever it was, it's beautiful. And startlingly open to the elements and theives.

The ruins include a large residential area, remains of shops, a central square and temple, and a triumphal arch (below). While our tour guide was a huge fan of tangental fun facts about the Romans' vomitariums and brothels, his factual knowledge was pretty limited, so unfortunately I'll have to direct you elsewhere for detailed historical information about Volubilis! I can attest to the beauty of the site, the cleanliness of the air, and the surreality of walking where, two thousand years ago, Romans contracted syphilis.

 After an unfortunately brisk walk through Volubilis, we headed to Moulay Idriss to enjoy the spectacular view. Both towns had an agriculture-based economy, since the soil around the area is incredibly rich. We saw daffodils, Cyprus trees, and innumerable plants coloring the hills a wonderful green.

We have a test on 1200 years of history on Wednesday, so I should get to studying - and although dinner tonight was a bit underwhelming (warmly-spiced tapioca pudding...), at least I still haven't eaten a sheep!

FOOD

 I promised a communal oven photo. Here you go!

Fez, as far as I can tell, doesn’t really have a restaurant culture. My first restaurant experience was disappointing: we went as a whole group to a touristic restaurant in the old medina before our guided tour last Sunday. The vegetarian tagine I ordered was bland and about 75% potatoes. The water was overpriced (10 dh for a small bottle, whereas 1.5 liter bottles are just 6 dh at the hanoots), and the service was less than satisfactory. We concluded that food in Morocco would be best in the home, where women who learned from their mothers cook every day with ingredients bought fresh from the market.

Spices, oranges, clementines, and more for sale at the souk.

We were correct. The food at my homestay has been more than phenomenal. On the rollercoaster of study abroad, the comfort of a hot meal waiting at home cannot be underestimated. Breakfast is a reliable assortment of baguette, delicious tangy spreadable cheese, flavourful mesquta (Moroccan breakfast cake), sweet mint tea, and today, since it was Saturday, a fried egg with cumin and sea salt. Lunch and dinner are always surprises, although couscous is a Friday tradition. I’d had couscous once already before yesterday, at the riad that we stayed at on Sunday night. The meal leading up to the couscous – the soup, dates, and dozens of salads – had been one of the most flavourful and diverse meals of my life. The couscous, however, was a disappointing finale: it was good, it was fine, but it wasn’t up to the excitement level set by the rest of the meal. But after a week of my host mother’s cooking, when she said we’d have couscous, I had confidence that it would be delicious.

It was. Like all Moroccan food so far, it was not served in isolation. Soup is always accompanied by shubakiya and dates. Beans and lentils come with a salad and a pickled vegetable; today at lunch we were treated to pickled carrots, tangy and zesty. Couscous, we found out, is served with harissa, a condiment made from spicy red peppers and paprika. I found it in a supermarket aisle in Chicago once, and love using it to add flavour to soups and sauces. Here, we mixed it into the couscous to add a bit of heat, with a savory broth added as well. The onions were caramelized, the carrots were so deliciously carroty, and the couscous itself was like eating a cloud. I wish I were going to be in Fez next Friday just to eat my host mother’s couscous again! Hopefully my family in Rabat also cooks well – fortunately or unfortunately, I now have a high standard.

 A sweets seller in the old medina. The cylindrical pile to the right is a glorious golden stack of shubakiya.

Even my restaurant expectations were raised today. Our host brother had said he’d take us to his friend’s birthday party, but plans changed and when I called from our designated meeting spot, he told us we were no longer going. My roommate and I quickly called a friend who was meeting some other students for an early dinner – they’d gone hiking and had missed lunch. We met up with the group, even though we’d eaten not too long ago, and went to Restaurant des Jeunes, right near Bab Bejloud, the entrance to the old medina. I just ordered a glass of sweet almond milk, but the others took advantage of the prix fixe option: soup or salad, couscous or tagine, and clementines for 40 dh ($5). We were also served bottomless Moroccan bread, ample harissa, and lentils. The tea that some people ordered came with delicious marzipan-filled crescents. Although nothing was quite as good as our host family’s meals, it came surprisingly close.

Although the souk and hanoots are the main source of daily foodstuffs, supermarkets do exist. About twelve of us took an expedition to Marjan, the Moroccan version of Target (plus a produce section). Some of the aisles could have been straight from the United States: notebooks, tape, staplers; cleaning supplies, toilet paper, towels. And then you’d happen upon a bin of tagine pots; the olive section, brimming with tempting varieties with pickled lemons and veggies as well; the couscous, available only in bulk next to pyramids of dry pasta; or the spices, a giant rainbow display. The chocolate-hazelnut-vanilla spread section offered a staggering selection. Our host family buys the Pop Cream brand, and the jar is always out and open at breakfast, but between the very sweet tea and the breakfast cake, my body can’t handle any more sugar before 10 a.m., so I reach for the Laughing Cow cheese instead.

 

 So. Much. Choco-hazelnut cream.

And thanks to the hanoots, bakeries, and street vendors, Fez has a very healthy snacking scene. Lunch is usually taken around 1:30 or 2, and dinner around 8:30, so snack-time falls anywhere from 4-7 (or, since everything looks incredibly delicious, all the time). I did indeed try some cashews from our favorite hanoot yesterday – possibly the best (and least expensive) cashews I’ve ever eaten, freshly roasted and lightly salted. And today I tried a cookie from a wandering street vendor – like a giant French macaron, less delicate and more satisfying (and only 2 dirhams, or about 25 cents).

I promise I do more in Morocco than just eat! But in a city like Fez, touristic destinations are limited. It was built for being lived in, not necessarily enjoyed. The new part, the Ville Nouveau, echoes Spain and France. It was built by the French, and features wide streets with gardens in the middle, and looks exactly like a slightly dingy and much longer Calle Independencia in Zaragoza. The dinginess isn’t a sign of inferiority – all of Fez looks rather dusty and drab from the outside. Since Islamic culture places an emphasis on humility and privacy, one is not supposed to show one’s wealth with an elaborate or ornate façade. On the inside, most of the buildings are gorgeous, with lovely tiling and plasterwork. But from the outside, they are all equally gray. This is especially true in the old city, Fez al-Bali, where we live and study. Our school, which is incredibly beautiful on the inside, looks like every other building on the street. Fez al-Bali is devoid of gardens or public spaces besides a few squares with fountains and the souk. The mosques are, I’m sure, breathtakingly beautiful, but non-Muslims are barred from entering. (Understandably – I imagine gaping tourists and flashing cameras are not conducive to private reflection and prayer.) So after a day spent wandering the old market, Fez doesn’t have much to offer to tourists.

Luckily, we are not tourists. Between our families, snack time, and studying in Café Clock, we manage to find lots to appreciate in this quotidian city.