Fez, Morocco

I’m on a local bus bouncing and swaying back to Marrakech right now, but I think I left you on my way to Fez, so let’s backtrack a bit, shall we?

. . .

We arrive in Fez and are greeted by the government guide we had arranged for. The medina in Fez is large and guarantees you’ll be lost for days if you go it alone. About 250,000 people live within the 9th century walls, and there are over 9000 narrow lanes and alleyways, most unmarked and looking just like the last. Our guide takes us to a riad that is within our price range. Fatima and her daughter Khadiva run the business. They’ve converted their home to a guest house, living on the bottom floor while guests stay in the next three floors in tidy rooms situated around a communal area and open column. Fatima’s husband died a few years ago and Khadiva is in school, so they’ve worked out a way to make ends meet while providing a comfortable and homey place for travelers.

We go to the king’s palace, the large brass doors and blue mosaic tiles are illuminated beautifully at dusk. We walk through the old jewish quarter, stopping to sample dates and almonds, buying a bag for the next day’s snack. We hurry back to our riad before it gets too dark and enjoy dinner of couscous and veggies that Fatima has prepared. She wanted to use her best dish to welcome us, which was a very kind gesture, however it was about two feet in diameter and contained probably five pounds of 

vegetable couscous, and this came after our soup and salad. We do the best we can, which barely makes a dent, and ask her to keep it for us for tomorrow. 

. . .

Now, if you’ve ever traveled abroad, you’ve probably experienced interrupted sleep for one reason or another, be it the roosters in Central America, the endless jackhammers throughout Asia, or the rowdy Aussies everywhere (just kidding, I love Australians). If you haven’t traveled to a Muslim country you might consider these fairly annoying little wake up calls. However I assure you, roosters and jackhammers don’t hold a candle to what it’s like to be jolted from your very merry dreams at 5am for the morning call to prayer. I’m not exactly sure who regulates the time at which they sound, or the length they’ll run, but it’s usually a little different for every town. Now this particular medina we’re staying in has dozens of neighborhoods, and each neighborhood has five public buildings and services, a water fountain, bakery, hammam (bath house), school, and yes, a mosque. I now advise you, while choosing accommodation in Muslim communities, if you value your sleep and sanity, please take note of the nearest mosque. We had arrived tired and not thinking clearly and had overlooked this very important detail. I am awoken by the local mosque which is directly next door, the loudspeaker not more than ten feet from our screened window. And whomever is in charge of the length of this particular call to prayer does not believe in brevity. They do however, appreciate the anticipation a lengthy pause can create, and I’m toyed with for 45 minutes as the prayer sounds for several minutes, followed by a minute of silence and then is resumed with newfound vigor and volume. I feel the need to warn you of this not-so-small nuisance because I also happen to be an avid wearer of earplugs when I sleep, and there is not a pair on this earth that can save you if you’ve failed to notice the mosque next door. 

. . . 

After catching a few hours of sleep we get up early and eager for our day. Fatima serves us crepes, olives, cheese and fresh apricot jam for breakfast. Our guide meets us and we head out to explore the leather tanneries that have been producing much of the leather in Morocco for the past nine centuries. The 250 family cooperative comprises one of the largest tanneries in the world and the process has not changed much in hundreds of years, and I assume, neither has the smell. I am given a sprig of mint to hold under my nose as I look down at the dying vats full of hides from our perch on a rooftop above; the mint does little to mask the horrid smell. We’re told that in the summer months it is much worse, hence I also advise you to not travel to Fez during this time; I honestly don’t know if the unaccustomed human could survive it for more than a minute, honestly. 

Nonetheless it is quite something to behold such a timeless process and I leave with a newfound appreciation for how leather is procured. We’re also told that the animals are killed primarily for food, harvesting the soft hide is a useful byproduct of getting to the tender baby goat meat....awe shucks, they really know how to make a vegetarian feel good about purchasing baby skins. 

Medina life has not changed too drastically since the walls were erected. Men yell Balak, balak! (watch out) as they push carts of various herbs and goods, while mules silently carry heavier loads along the uneven cobblestones. You can peer into the low-ceilinged workspace of craftsmen making wooden furniture and sewing by hand the traditional male garment, a jilbab, which is a long cloak with a large pointed hood....let’s just say you wouldn’t be buying one in white and wearing it back in the States. Stalls of fruits and vegetables line the wider passageways, where you can buy a bag full of produce for two bucks. We walk through the meat district. They keep the chickens alive until someone orders a slaughter and the butcher’s stall has no sign on it, just a freshly severed cow head hanging over the door, still oozing with it’s enormous tongue out to one side. And past the University of al-Karaouine, founded in 859 it is the oldest university in the world and still one of the premier spiritual and educational centers of the Muslim world.

After a day wandering the medina, my senses are completely shocked; Fatima’s leftover couscous couldn’t taste any better. We enjoy it on the rooftop terrace as the sun sets and warms the red mud walls and roofs surrounding us. The hills in the distance are dotted with plots of color, the dyed hides left out to dry for days in the sun. The real beauty of the medina is found in its quiet. No cars, horns or sirens. Just the very real noises of children shrieking, hooves on stone, men storytelling and alas, the covered women whom navigate their daily lives very much like a hushed whisper. 

. . .

We board a train for Marrakech in the morning, it’s an eight hour journey. Flocks of sheep graze next to the tracks, their tails still in tact, the young ones clean and white, looking awfully cute. A river winds next to us, rushing water pushes around the boulders. I stand at the window between cars to take it all in. Just as I start to daydream that I am traveling quickly back through time, I notice the sheep herder is on his cell phone and the satellite dish on the roof of the mud home; still very much in the 21st century.

Salaam Morocco!

Well, well, well, where do I start?! How about the first of the year! 

We left Paris for Tangier, Morocco, flying Europe’s budget airline, RyanAir. And by budget I mean they’ll squeeze every extra dime out of your overstuffed carry-on bag and have the gull to offer sleep deprived, New Years day travelers $15 shots of 5hr energy drinks. Also take note,  if you ever find yourself in the mother of all pickles, the kind that requires you to hi-jack a passenger plane, do it here, where the lifeless ticket agents are also security screeners and stewardess’ too!!! 

Despite the deck being stacked agains us, we did actually make it. Upon arrival we couldn’t face another big city right away, so opted to take a grand taxi (which is an old 1980’s mercedes 240D) to Assilah, a sleepy beach town 45km south of Tangier. As we swerved past donkey carts and old Honda motorbikes, cruising down the coastal highway, the rush hit. It’s the feeling you get of having absolutely no idea where you’re going, what you’re doing, and how the hell your driver is going to clear this black-smoke sputtering chicken bus before he has a head-on with the lumber truck whose lane you are very much in right now. Ah yes, the good rush.

. . .

For a first introduction to Morocco, Assilah is a perfectly civil, easy-going place. Our taxi drops us at the gate to the medina. The medina is the old, walled section of each city in Morocco, many have foundations that date back over 1000 years. We are immediately overtaken by the town tout, unofficial guide, who will take you wherever you need to go for a few dirhams, but only after trying to talk you into whichever hotel pays him the most. We’d be utterly lost without his guidance though, and follow him through tight alleyways, past herds of feral cats and restauranteurs beaconing our business. Arriving at our chosen hotel, our tout disapproves (he must not be in on their cut) and assures us that this is where the sluts go after the disco; perfect, I brought earplugs for that. 

I’m pleasantly surprised by the weather, I’d expected it to be a bit more chilly, but days are in the 60’s, although the nights are still cold. We have vegetable couscous, pickled beets and moroccan soup; a delicious, garbanzo broth with a couple bits of spaghetti noodles waiting at the bottom. We can’t see the sunset from this side of the red-mud medina wall, but the swaying palm trees and carts of sticky sweets make up for it. 

Dumb luck must be traveling with us, because the first shop we stop in happens to be owned by perhaps the sweetest and most mild man in all of Morocco, Omar. And wouldn’t you know, it’s a carpet shop, just what Courtney and I came here for. Now I’m not being sarcastic; those of you who don’t know what we’re up to, the short story is that we’re traveling the world for the next couple of months buying up everything that strikes our fancy for our little pipe dream, an international home decor and design store called Delyea Navone. I can’t give you too many details, the cat’s still kind-of in the bag, but after several glasses of sugary mint tea, the only beverage in Morocco, and hours of oh-ing and awe-ing, we’d made our decisions and sat in front of a stack of carpets bound for the US.

We spent the next day wandering around the medina. Green doors indicate a mosque, while most doors to homes are painted in various shades of blue and turquoise, in perfect contrast to the white stuccoed walls. Away from the main square area, where all the life is happening, it’s a quiet mosaic maze. Pairs of women disappear silently around corners, leaving the faintest impression of a bright purple or leopard print head-scarf. Climb a set of stairs and you’re looking across the Atlantic; fishermen dangle their lines thirty feet to the gentle surf below.

. . .

Back in Tangier we hire a taxi to take us to Cap Spartel, where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic. We stop along the way to play tourist and have a quick camel ride. It was worth it just to see the three babies misbehave and run away from their handler; grace was not granted these lanky, knobby animals, or at least not in the early years. Tangiers is big, loud and pulsing with tourism, not quite our scene and I’m glad to soon be on a train headed south for Fez. 

Happy New Year's Paris!

Hello All! I’m writing on a train from Tangiers to Fez, Morocco. It’s Friday afternoon and it was t-shirt weather when we left the hotel at 10am this morning! 310 dirhams (about $40USD) bought us two first class births for the four and a half hour journey. The climate is mild here, so we’re passing fields of citrus, olive trees, rows of cyprus, pines, yucca and cactus. It appears a mix between parts of Turkey and Mexico; cold nights and warm, sunny days. We’re headed to Fez to explore the leather tanneries and government carpet cooperative....oh my the treasures we will find! But more on that later, let’s go back to Paris...

As the plane descends and the countryside comes peeking through the clouds, I see the rows of poplars sheltering homes of white stuccoed walls and red tiled roofs. There are fields and fields of patch-work green and brown churned soil; yes, France on first impression appears just as it should. 

Paris is a lovely city. As instructed, I arrive at the Notre Dame metro station and take the escalator up. You would think that I’d have expected to see Notre Dame standing right before me, hence the name of the station, but I hadn’t, and so stand drop-jawed, amazed to be face to face with such an iconic and unfathomable building. I gather my bearings and take off in the direction of Courtney and her dad, Mike’s, hotel. I stop though, and turn around and go the opposite way, I decide again that I must be heading in the wrong direction finally ask directions twice and am pointed along the right street...I couldn’t be been happier to be lost within my first two minutes in the city! Before I reach the hotel I am surprised on the street by Courtney and Mike, who’d been waiting at a nearby cafe. 

We walk for days; to Montemartre and the Basilica of the Sacre Coure for mould wine, to the Champs d-Eulyses for a ferris wheel ride and bird’s eye view on the Eiffel Tower and Arch d’Triumph, and back to the Latin Quarter for four cheese fondu. Courtney and I explore the museum d’Orsay, which was once a train station, but now houses Monet, Van Gogh, Latrec, Rouseau, and many, many more. We peer out of the enormous clock face at the top of the building at the quick, brown Seine below and bustling Paris beyond. 

When hungry we stop for a baguette with either brie or chevre. If thirsty, wine is cheaper than water. We go to Notre Dame at night, when the crowds are thin, and just watch, sit, and marvel over the cathedral. 

We are joined by Courtney’s brother, Justin, and friend Shayla and move across the river to a studio apartment. We visit Notre Dame again, but this time went in. I could barely put one foot in front of the other; to be in the midst of such a vast and impeccably executed space, I can only imagine it’s like seeing snow fall for the first time. Maybe that’s how the Church does it, they shock the heck out of you and leave you so awe-inspired that you feel like you’ve seen something greater than yourself. But each stone and piece of colored glass was lain by man, yet the sum of all the parts add up to something equalling that of a religious experience.

The Louvre certainly isn’t nothing, and at night, the modern glass pyramid glows like a beacon in stark contrast to the centuries old, statue lined buildings surrounding it. You can sneak a peek through the windows at the painted ceiling and grand archways, among which lies the most fabulous collection of artwork that has ever been compiled. It is good to live in a society that values art in such a way. 

On New Year’s Eve we go to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery, seeing the sites of Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison. The weather has turned cold and we are glad for our hats and scarves. We enjoy a great dinner at a Chinese restaurant and make our way down to the Eiffel tower. I am a firm believer that it’s best to see the sights at night, when the crowds have gone home and the lights are lit. Tonight, as expected, the lights are lit, but the crowd is also thick, and there are shouts of merriment and well wishes from all around. The tower is of course something to behold. As you walk under it it morphs, presenting something altogether new from every angle. 

We wander up the river, back towards the heart of Paris, stopping to buy a bottle of champagne from a street vendor and pausing at the eternal flame monument that has been erected over the tunnel where Princess Diana died. It’s been raining, well, more of a persistent drizzle for us Oregonians, and we squeeze amongst the thousands of black umbrellas for a view of the tower. On the strike of midnight the crowd cheers as the tower becomes a giant sparkler; thousands of tiny flashing lights make it shimmer. We cheers our bubbly and kiss cheeks. It’s been one heck of a year, with plenty of ups and downs, but we’re grateful for our friendships and are giddy with excitement for the year to come, or perhaps that’s the third bottle of wine and champagne. Either way, we have an early flight for Morocco in the morning, so we join in singing Auld Lang Syne and head to catch a cab back to the flat. Paris has treated us well.

Bessalama!