William worked twelve- to fourteen-hour days, six days a week, all of which left me on my own a lot. On one of his rare off days we ventured into one of the world's largest souks, the Djemaa el-Fna. To learn precisely what this marketplace looks and sounds like, watch the aforementioned Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much, which features Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day. Shot in 1955, this movie captures exactly what the place feels like today.
Thousands of people, mostly men, wander among circuslike entertainers dangling silver pots, smoking cigarettes, twirling cobras around their necks or playing with monkeys on leashes. Fire-eaters and storytellers trick and dazzle onlookers for cash. The large, dusty square is surrounded by narrow passageways of tented storefronts packed floor-to-ceiling with mirrors edged in orange camel bone and etched silver, hand-woven rugs, brass lamps, animals carved in teak, glazed pottery tagines and crimson or sky-blue bowls designed intricately as Russian nesting eggs.
Reams of silk dyed in pink, turquoise and chartreuse hung to dry above skinny walkways. William and I passed apothecaries, their walls lined with thousands of bottles. Mysterious potions, dried lizards, crushed wildflowers and herbs all promised easy digestion, an end to headaches and toothaches and, of course, the ever-popular elixirs of love. The scent of rosewater competed with tangy spices...cumin, mustard and allspice.
In woven baskets, vividly colored vegetables waited for purchase next to large white tin bowls overflowing with olives, olives and more olives in various shades of green, brown and burgundy...shiny and marinated, perfect for evening cocktails in a Moroccan sunset.
Because it was early December it seemed the right time to shop for unique and authentic Christmas gifts. William stood aside as I rattled off queries in French, then proceeded to negotiate like a hardass in the kasbah. William couldn't speak a lick of French, which made impressing him a cinch. The salesmen, on the other hand, barely disguised their smirks at my rudimentary French, but nonetheless carried on the bartering as if I were fluent.
Of course, I ended my haggling with a look of dismay followed by a sad shake of my head, finishing up with a shrug and walking away. After a few moments I was sure to be chased down. The seller would beg and holler and in the end I gave in, a little, in order for a fellow to save face. William and I ended up with trinkets for home.
I don't even know you, William remarked as we left the market, arms filled.
Sure you do.
No, I don't. Who was that back there negotiating like a rum-runner for a couple of bowls and that mirror....Where are we going to put that mirror, by the way?
Okay, you're right. That was another me. The French-speaking, world-traveling, ready-to-strike-a-bargain-any-time-anywhere me.
I was ready to pay and walk after his first quote, William said.
But this is the game...it's a game for them and a game for the shopper.
You don't think it's possibly insulting?
It's insulting if you don't play the game, sure.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
MOROCCO: November, 2002 (Part 3)
One afternoon, on an outing in a new direction, I became lost. I was in the resort area outside the walled medina, but because most of the hotels are painted the same exact shade of rose, they were nearly indistinguishable. After walking forty-five minutes in unusually quiet and nearly deserted streets, I decided to return to our hotel as darkness descended.
Panic rose like bile as I whipped around in circles trying to locate our home, le Sofitel. Shyt. Unlike the old town, the hotel neighborhood is neither crowded nor busy with locals. I didn't experience being shepherded by motorbikes, but there was also no one to ask for help until — oh boy — men on horseback. Perfect. Rescue in a cinematic fashion. Police on tall white stallions were clip-clopping up the street and I ran to catch up.
The two most prominent languages in Marrakech are Arabic and French. As I did in Paris, I once again reached into the "high-school French" closet of my brain in order to get out of this pickle. The dusk had turned into a starry, starry night...lovely and romantic, but unnerving for one alone and lost.
Bonjour, I squeaked out to the officials. They peered down at me from their lofty position high atop their muscular beasts. Ou est le Sofitel, si'l vous plait?
I blinked, plastered a worried look on my face and played the woman in distress for all its worth — because I was genuinely in distress. The policemen glowered down at me with looks of disdain, then disgust, and finally disinterest. This hit me hard. I shrank. One guy delivered a snide smile and the other perused the skyline as if I hadn't spoken at all.
I stumbled again in French, pointed "out there" somewhere, trying to indicate I was quite at odds direction-wise. The interchange ended with one officer shaking his head, the other drawing his hefty shoulders to his ears and letting them drop heavily, and both of them steering their animals away from me. They had offered neither a word of assistance or interest in my predicament.
Lights clicked on around me in household windows. I was no longer bathed in twilight as the blackness deepened on the street. I could smell roasted lamb and cinnamon. Dinners, families, warm kitchens and tagines filled with fluffy couscous. I panted in short hard bursts. I searched for calm and was reminded of my sojourn in the countryside of the Czech Republic, where I had been dumped off a train. I will find my way...I will...I will....
I didn't have a cell phone to reach William and the empty suburbia had me thinking in the "thriller" and "horror" genres. I was Doris Day in The Man Who Knew Too Much. I was Doris Day in anything, always breathless and vulnerable. Pop a pillbox on my head and I would be humming a fast-paced rendition of "Que Sera, Sera."
I chose a direction and walked with purpose, manufacturing confidence with each step. I swung around a corner and kept going. I stuck my hands deep in my coat pockets, tilted my head downward and moved forward, forward...and, after another hour, was even more confused.
Circles upon circles had me dizzy. I can't say why this idea took so long to formulate, but it came to me and I raced into the lobby of a Hyatt. At the front desk I begged for help and was set straight. As it happened, I wasn't far from home. Three more blocks and I arrived at the horseshoe driveway of the Sofitel Marrakech. The lobby, draped in heavy silk curtains, glimmered in Moroccan lamplight and welcomed me in a warm embrace as if murmuring, "Shhh, silly girl...ssshhhhh."
I concluded Marrakech is wholly inhospitable to a woman alone.
Panic rose like bile as I whipped around in circles trying to locate our home, le Sofitel. Shyt. Unlike the old town, the hotel neighborhood is neither crowded nor busy with locals. I didn't experience being shepherded by motorbikes, but there was also no one to ask for help until — oh boy — men on horseback. Perfect. Rescue in a cinematic fashion. Police on tall white stallions were clip-clopping up the street and I ran to catch up.
The two most prominent languages in Marrakech are Arabic and French. As I did in Paris, I once again reached into the "high-school French" closet of my brain in order to get out of this pickle. The dusk had turned into a starry, starry night...lovely and romantic, but unnerving for one alone and lost.
Bonjour, I squeaked out to the officials. They peered down at me from their lofty position high atop their muscular beasts. Ou est le Sofitel, si'l vous plait?
I blinked, plastered a worried look on my face and played the woman in distress for all its worth — because I was genuinely in distress. The policemen glowered down at me with looks of disdain, then disgust, and finally disinterest. This hit me hard. I shrank. One guy delivered a snide smile and the other perused the skyline as if I hadn't spoken at all.
I stumbled again in French, pointed "out there" somewhere, trying to indicate I was quite at odds direction-wise. The interchange ended with one officer shaking his head, the other drawing his hefty shoulders to his ears and letting them drop heavily, and both of them steering their animals away from me. They had offered neither a word of assistance or interest in my predicament.
Lights clicked on around me in household windows. I was no longer bathed in twilight as the blackness deepened on the street. I could smell roasted lamb and cinnamon. Dinners, families, warm kitchens and tagines filled with fluffy couscous. I panted in short hard bursts. I searched for calm and was reminded of my sojourn in the countryside of the Czech Republic, where I had been dumped off a train. I will find my way...I will...I will....
I didn't have a cell phone to reach William and the empty suburbia had me thinking in the "thriller" and "horror" genres. I was Doris Day in The Man Who Knew Too Much. I was Doris Day in anything, always breathless and vulnerable. Pop a pillbox on my head and I would be humming a fast-paced rendition of "Que Sera, Sera."
I chose a direction and walked with purpose, manufacturing confidence with each step. I swung around a corner and kept going. I stuck my hands deep in my coat pockets, tilted my head downward and moved forward, forward...and, after another hour, was even more confused.
Circles upon circles had me dizzy. I can't say why this idea took so long to formulate, but it came to me and I raced into the lobby of a Hyatt. At the front desk I begged for help and was set straight. As it happened, I wasn't far from home. Three more blocks and I arrived at the horseshoe driveway of the Sofitel Marrakech. The lobby, draped in heavy silk curtains, glimmered in Moroccan lamplight and welcomed me in a warm embrace as if murmuring, "Shhh, silly girl...ssshhhhh."
I concluded Marrakech is wholly inhospitable to a woman alone.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
MOROCCO: November, 2002 (Part 2)
I arrived in Marrakech for a three-week stay with my computer and a writing project. My first morning there, I awoke to the sound of a muezzin's call to prayer. This person, usually in the minaret atop a mosque, acts as town crier. From our hotel window I could see the blue-grey Atlas Mountains in the distance, backlit by the rising sun, and down below a man kneeling on his small rug, facing Mecca, as the throaty appeal of the muezzin rang out over the city.
The amplified summons happened five times a day and every time I took comfort in the sound. Perhaps because it is a ritual. Perhaps because everything stops for prayers. And perhaps because it seemed if a community could pause for God, could we not pause for each other?
Once awake, I went downstairs for breakfast. Seated at a table in the dining room, a novel in my hand, I viewed lush gardens and the swimming pool, edged with date palms. The hotel served a huge buffet of egg dishes, fruits, meats and smoked fish. Chefs in white hats whipped up made-to-order omelets with sides of ham, bacon or sausage. Wicker baskets overflowed with brioche and fat, buttery croissants. I could count on a newly acquired ten pounds if I wasn't careful in my three weeks here.
After a disciplined meal of a soft-boiled egg, one croissant and two cups of dark, rich coffee, I swam laps in the pool. I needed to jump-start my endorphins or risk sinking into a confined moodiness. This was in December, mind you, and damn chilly. I was the only guest using that pool. I swam fast to heat my body up. I followed my swim with a few hours of writing and at one o'clock I arrived downstairs to join William and Tom for lunch, poolside in winter sunshine.
Tom, at seventy, had traversed decades of Hollywood filmmaking. He wore the quiet bravado of John Huston or Ernest Hemingway and had a million colorful stories to share. Because of Tom, lunchtime became a delightful respite from the hotel room. He told us of working in Spain, where he drank the wine, appreciated the women and saw his share of bullfights. Tom had won an Oscar and traveled far and wide among a cast of legendary characters. Lunch, dinner or a walk with avuncular Tom was always entertaining.
After lunch I returned to our room, wrote, napped and then ventured out at dusk for what became a speed-walk through the neighborhood. Marrakech, I discovered, is not a place a woman can comfortably wander and sightsee alone. I didn't feel so much afraid as irritated. A woman alone on the street in Morocco means one thing. A western woman alone on the street means an even better chance of that one thing being a better thing.
I stepped along sidewalks and into chaotic Marrakech traffic. Flatbed trucks competed with horse-drawn carriages and motorbikes brushed close to small cars on roads with roundabouts and unclear signals entirely ignored by the locals. I only crossed streets when I could submerge into a crowd moving en masse because street lights and stop signs appeared to be wholly irrelevant. Throwing oneself headlong to the other side was the only sure way to get there.
The danger was made worse by the motorbike drivers pulling up alongside me on the walkway for a quickie introduction. They hopped their bikes up onto the sidewalk, gunned the engine for effect, and I would be neatly corralled against the stone wall. I shook my index finger — no, no — thrust my face forward and pushed past. My stroll turned into a half-jog. Galled, exasperated and infuriated I took comfort only in the fact that I had to be burning off croissant calories at an astonishing rate.
The amplified summons happened five times a day and every time I took comfort in the sound. Perhaps because it is a ritual. Perhaps because everything stops for prayers. And perhaps because it seemed if a community could pause for God, could we not pause for each other?
Once awake, I went downstairs for breakfast. Seated at a table in the dining room, a novel in my hand, I viewed lush gardens and the swimming pool, edged with date palms. The hotel served a huge buffet of egg dishes, fruits, meats and smoked fish. Chefs in white hats whipped up made-to-order omelets with sides of ham, bacon or sausage. Wicker baskets overflowed with brioche and fat, buttery croissants. I could count on a newly acquired ten pounds if I wasn't careful in my three weeks here.
After a disciplined meal of a soft-boiled egg, one croissant and two cups of dark, rich coffee, I swam laps in the pool. I needed to jump-start my endorphins or risk sinking into a confined moodiness. This was in December, mind you, and damn chilly. I was the only guest using that pool. I swam fast to heat my body up. I followed my swim with a few hours of writing and at one o'clock I arrived downstairs to join William and Tom for lunch, poolside in winter sunshine.
Tom, at seventy, had traversed decades of Hollywood filmmaking. He wore the quiet bravado of John Huston or Ernest Hemingway and had a million colorful stories to share. Because of Tom, lunchtime became a delightful respite from the hotel room. He told us of working in Spain, where he drank the wine, appreciated the women and saw his share of bullfights. Tom had won an Oscar and traveled far and wide among a cast of legendary characters. Lunch, dinner or a walk with avuncular Tom was always entertaining.
After lunch I returned to our room, wrote, napped and then ventured out at dusk for what became a speed-walk through the neighborhood. Marrakech, I discovered, is not a place a woman can comfortably wander and sightsee alone. I didn't feel so much afraid as irritated. A woman alone on the street in Morocco means one thing. A western woman alone on the street means an even better chance of that one thing being a better thing.
I stepped along sidewalks and into chaotic Marrakech traffic. Flatbed trucks competed with horse-drawn carriages and motorbikes brushed close to small cars on roads with roundabouts and unclear signals entirely ignored by the locals. I only crossed streets when I could submerge into a crowd moving en masse because street lights and stop signs appeared to be wholly irrelevant. Throwing oneself headlong to the other side was the only sure way to get there.
The danger was made worse by the motorbike drivers pulling up alongside me on the walkway for a quickie introduction. They hopped their bikes up onto the sidewalk, gunned the engine for effect, and I would be neatly corralled against the stone wall. I shook my index finger — no, no — thrust my face forward and pushed past. My stroll turned into a half-jog. Galled, exasperated and infuriated I took comfort only in the fact that I had to be burning off croissant calories at an astonishing rate.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
MOROCCO: November, 2002 (Part 1)
In October of 2002 William was offered another job, one far away. The money was good and he would be working for his previous boss, Tom. I peered down at a map because my only reference to this location was a song by Crosby, Stills and Nash.
The job end up taking William to Morocco, Rome and New York City. My television coaching job conveniently finished at summer's end; the show had been sold to a new company and production was moving to Australia. I was relieved to be off it and had enough savings to last for...a little while. I was working on a screenplay and was free to follow William in November. In the pit of my stomach the future of my career nagged at me but I shoved those thoughts aside because...
Would you know we're riding on the Marrakech Express....
If you're a person with a natural facility for north, south, east and west, Marrakech is the place for you. If you're a woman who likes to stroll in neighborhoods, perhaps passing time in an outdoor cafe to study the locals or read a book, Marrakech is a nutty choice.
Even with a king, Morocco is considered the most democratized of Middle Eastern countries. The government, made up of a parliament with 29 different political parties, is helmed by King Mohammed VI. His Highness carries the authority to appoint or dismiss the Prime Minister or to dissolve the legislature if he so decides.
Still...it is a country with a western bent. Satellite dishes perch from many apartment balconies and its citizens walk with cell phones glued to their ears. The predominant religion is Islam of the Sunni variety. There are sprinklings of Jews and some Christians, descendents of French colonialism. Societal dictums frown on the gay and lesbian culture. William and I were careful not to touch or participate in any PDAs but Moroccan men wandered past us, hand in hand like school girls. They kept a good distance from their wives, who lagged behind.
Marrakech is separated into two parts. The walled medina, or old town, a beehive of tiny twisting and turning alleys originally designed to confuse enemy intruders and now confounding directionally-challenged tourists; and the outer city, where modern, palatial hotels awaited guests. The resort neighborhood is only minimally less disorienting than the maze inside the fortressed walls.
William and I were booked into a Sofitel hotel, where the film production had set up its offices. His morning jaunt to work was a mere elevator ride to the first floor. The luxurious hotel, complete with a stunning infinity swimming pool, proved, however, that even a beautifully decorated prison can be a prison nonetheless.
The job end up taking William to Morocco, Rome and New York City. My television coaching job conveniently finished at summer's end; the show had been sold to a new company and production was moving to Australia. I was relieved to be off it and had enough savings to last for...a little while. I was working on a screenplay and was free to follow William in November. In the pit of my stomach the future of my career nagged at me but I shoved those thoughts aside because...
Would you know we're riding on the Marrakech Express....
If you're a person with a natural facility for north, south, east and west, Marrakech is the place for you. If you're a woman who likes to stroll in neighborhoods, perhaps passing time in an outdoor cafe to study the locals or read a book, Marrakech is a nutty choice.
Even with a king, Morocco is considered the most democratized of Middle Eastern countries. The government, made up of a parliament with 29 different political parties, is helmed by King Mohammed VI. His Highness carries the authority to appoint or dismiss the Prime Minister or to dissolve the legislature if he so decides.
Still...it is a country with a western bent. Satellite dishes perch from many apartment balconies and its citizens walk with cell phones glued to their ears. The predominant religion is Islam of the Sunni variety. There are sprinklings of Jews and some Christians, descendents of French colonialism. Societal dictums frown on the gay and lesbian culture. William and I were careful not to touch or participate in any PDAs but Moroccan men wandered past us, hand in hand like school girls. They kept a good distance from their wives, who lagged behind.
Marrakech is separated into two parts. The walled medina, or old town, a beehive of tiny twisting and turning alleys originally designed to confuse enemy intruders and now confounding directionally-challenged tourists; and the outer city, where modern, palatial hotels awaited guests. The resort neighborhood is only minimally less disorienting than the maze inside the fortressed walls.
William and I were booked into a Sofitel hotel, where the film production had set up its offices. His morning jaunt to work was a mere elevator ride to the first floor. The luxurious hotel, complete with a stunning infinity swimming pool, proved, however, that even a beautifully decorated prison can be a prison nonetheless.
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