Marrakech

I arrived home from Switzerland at midnight on Sunday and caught a plane at 2pm on Monday. Just enough time to do some laundry (well, actually not, it was cold and the clothes didn’t quite have time to dry) and repack for warmer weather.

I met Greg (my French friend from earlier posts) at the airport and we took a cab to our “riad”. We were staying in the Medina or the old section of Marrakech. The taxi dropped us off at the entrance of an alleyway and a kid grabbed our suitcases and took us down these narrow windy alleys to a wooden door. I was a bit scared and this did not look like anyplace I would want to stay. But once the door opened and we stepped into the courtyard I felt like I was staying in one of the buildings in the Alhambra. It was absolutely stunning and after much paperwork to fill out for the government, they took our bags up these tiny stairs to the second floor and into one of the most beautiful hotel rooms I’ve ever stayed in, it wasn’t huge, but enough room for the two of us. There was a slight issue though- the bathroom doesn’t have a door- no, that’s not going to be awkward. But we figured out a routine, and there was a nice terrace to hang out on when it was some elses turn in the bathroom. We dropped off our bags and met the host on the rooftop terrace for a pot of Morrocan tea. It was ser ved in a purple tent with purple silk couches and lots of pillows. Greg said he felt like he was in a theme hotel, I said this is what the themes are based on, but it’s the real thing.

We went to dinner that night. Because Greg actually researches cities before he shows up, he had a very specific restaurant he wanted to go to. A man asked us if we needed directions, and assured us he knew the restaurant we wanted to go to and he’d take us there. Well he took us to completely different restaurant, that was our first lessonn in Morrocan hospitality, they all have an agenda. But it was cool and too late to turn back. We were greated by lines of people all clapping and rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring while we walked in. There were musicians and dancer going around, and the entire restaurant was done with the Moroccan plaster that is just breath taking. We decided to have an aperitif and I wanted champagne. Greg ordered me a glass and the waiter came with a small bottle and said the price was $220 Durham for a glass or $315 for the entire bottle. I said I’d take the whole thing, and he kept repeating the price and confirming that was what I really wanted. Please I’m going to nitpick between $2.20 or $3.15. for champagne just give me the whole tiny bottle. I mentioned how cheap it was to Greg and he said, actually, you have your exchange rate wrong, it was $31.50 for the bottle. Oh, um sorry. The food was amazing, and there was so much of it, I just couldn’t stop eating. (by the way, I realize after Morrocco and Switzerland, that I’m not really a picky eater, I just don’t like most Spanish food). Greg was not impressed with the belly dancers, “they’re fat”, well of course they are- give me a month with this yummy food at my disposal and I’ll be fat too, and they’re all wearing Berkas- who cares if they’re fat. When the bill came it was then Gregs turn to goof up the math. The waiter said that 10% was a fabulous tip, and Greg tipped him. The waiter asked him three times if this is what he meant, he waived them off saying, of course. Then he sat back and thought. Shit, I just tipped 20%. We must have looked like the most stuck up rich people ever to the waiters. Dinner cost $1,600 Durhams, about $160 euro, or $208 U.S., not cheap by any means. Might have been cheaper if we hadn’t been such idiots.

We left the restaurant around 11pm and the streets were deserted. We found out why at 4am when the prayer sirens went off for a half an hour and the streets were filled with people around 5am starting their day. We too were up early and went to the terrace for a yummy breakfast. We were the only ones there and sat down. I have no idea how they knew when we’d get up, but almost instantly they were there were piping hot pastries, fruit, juice and coffee. One of the pastries was a thick tortilla like thing, that I just couldn’t get enough of. It was the closest thing to tortilla I had had since January and it was good. If it had been thinner I would have sworn I was in South Tucson.

We set off to explore the Medina with plans to be back for the Hamman (traditional Morroccan bath) they have at the riad at noon and for my massage at 1. The market was everything you would expect, with people everywhere and those awful “direction” people. You couldn’t stop to look at anything or get your bearings without somebody wanting to give you the history or take you someplace, or course for a fee, that was never discussed up front.

It took us a couple hours after our “spa” and a shower to find the restaurant Greg wanted to go to. He was really annoyed with the people at this point and wouldn’t talk to anybody.

And fair enough, Morroco’s second language is French, so he had to do most of the talking and negotiating, and he’s really not used to negotiating- as much as I tease him about being a nasty Frenchman he really is very polite. When I asked him to come to Morrocco with me, it was because I didn’t want to be a single woman in an Islamic country on my own, I had no idea that he would have to be the translator too. So he was more than allowed his bitching, and it was usually pretty funny too.

Dealing with that market and trying to figure things out really did exhaust us, we went back to the Riad to have a couple beers, and take a quick nap before we went to dinner. We never made it to dinner- and once again were woken by prayer sirens at 4am. You’d have thought, that meant we’d be up early, but we still slept in till 9:30, but still in time to get up for breakfast on the terrace. Seriously, this town is exhausting.

We left the riad to go find one of Greg’s friend’s older sisters. I guess she used to be a famous teen actress in France, and moved to Marrakech to open an art gallery. It took us awhile to find it, and kept meeting old women that wouldn’t let us go down their streets, kept saying “it’s closed, it’s closed” (meaning don’t come down our street). Fair enough, how much of your life can be a tourist attraction? When we finally found her gallery it was in fact closed.

By the way, I really do like being lost in cities with Greg, it’s pretty funny. We got suckered by another kid who knew where we wanted to go and ended up at an herb store. He was talking to Greg about how he liked the French and the Brittish, but hated Americans. Greg smiled and pointed to me and told him that I was American. Without blinking he said, “Yay America! Bush Bad, but Obama Good!” The salesman at the store I didn’t want to go to, was so good that I spent $55 euro there. What can I say, I’m a salesperson and I loved to be sold to.

We then walked 45 minutes out of the Medina through the new part of the city to the Jardins. Greg was not impressed, “this we walked 45 minutes to? It took us 10 minutes to see it all. I’m going to buy a big piece of land outside of Paris, plant some crap then expect people to pay $3 euro to walk through it.” But we did have yummy treats at the café there.

On our way back I asked Greg if we could go back to the Medina so I could buy the gord I had seen. He put his hand on my shoulder and said sweetly “of course, my horse”. I gave him a funny look and he said, “this is a phrase yes? I have heard this before.” (Have any of you ever had the recurring dream that you were walking African streets discussing talking horses to a Frenchman?- oh just me then?)

After being lost in the Medina for a few more hours trying to find the Espices square where I had first seen the goard, and a little bit of play acting by Greg and me (I don’t want this awful thing in our apartment- why do you want this?) I was finally owner of the goard I coveted at the price I wanted to pay.

Walking back to the riad we were trying to cross the street and waiting for the city bus to pass. All of a sudden it stopped in our way. I looked, there was nothing blocking it, and it was holding up traffic. Then I looked at the bus and noticed the driver and a few guys around him were waving madly at Greg with big huge smiles. I looked at Greg who was staring at them trying not to smile. Um, what the hell was that? Greg was shaking his head while he explained that they were just letting him know that they were impressed with his choice of companion. Are you kidding me? Do you know how pissed I would be as a passenger on that bus? Up until that point I was very impressed with how unlike the Spanish they were in this regards. I hadn’t even felt as much as a leer (thank Allah). I guess in Islam they just don't leer directly at you. (oh, and by the way people when you do visit an Islamic country, please wear some clothes. Short shorts and tank tops without bras are fine in Mexico, they are just lack respect here)

We changed our clothes and took off for a restaurant I picked out (but not before Greg consulted the guide book to make sure it was worth it, he’s a bit like an old man that way). That one was pretty easy to find and we found a policeman to guide us there, so it didn’t cost us anything.

This restaurant was even more amazing than the first one. And as Greg pointed out the belly dancers not as fat. He all of a sudden was interested in the entertainment. Go figure (oh, that’s a funny pun). I’m not sure how dinner last 6 hours but we didn’t get home till the sirens were going off. Greg had to leave at 8am to catch his flight and I stayed in bed and enjoyed the riad till I had to leave at 11:30.

I really did love this city, I loved the outfits, the sounds, the smells, the negotiating, the being pissed off, the almost being hit by scooters every 5 minutes. They only serve beer at hotels and expensive tourist restaurants- which is a good thing, because you need every wit about you while traversing these streets, but somehow you become intoxicated just being there.