Riad Revelry (Morocco-Part 2 of 6)

My Portugal Era (absolutely no nod to Swift-unless it's Jonathan, because he matters) ended with a lovely run on a clear crisp Lisbon day before my flight out, but oh what a horrible apartment I stayed in.  My AirBnB track record is pretty good, around 90%, I’d say,.  And I get that this is part of travel; we encounter, assess, modify behaviors and expectations, and adjust.  Simple.  It’s just that all of this is easier to do when one has clean briefs.  I thought I would be able to accomplish this at the Lisbon place.  The owner said I could; I coordinated with him on it 2 or 3 times; but, alas. The machine didn’t work. It beeped with confidence, flashed boldly, but wouldn’t turn on.  I messaged the owner of the place, and he told me he could come by in the morning. But I had to fly so the timing didn’t work. The owner ended up coming over… at around 10:30pm. While I was asleep on a bed that felt like granite composite, but seriously with this guy? I had already done it by hand in the sink. 

The place was bad enough (coffee machine didn’t work, either!), but now the really awful part, and that is when I was laying out my wet sink-scrubbed clothes on the rusty balcony railing.  So, I’m doing the chore and then I hear screaming down on the ground three floors below.  I see a guy gesturing, yelling, and running. It seemed he was having a manic episode, but it happens that his dog, a brown mid-sized pup had escaped his leash.  The guy was in frantic panic mode because the streets were busy with cars. The dog miraculously made it across the street into a massive circular park surrounding the city bull ring, Campo Pequeno, which had a mall underneath it. The man got within a foot of the dog and almost had him, but then the dog sprinted away again, toward another busy thoroughfare.  This time he wasn’t as lucky and was struck full on. I heard the awful thud of simple physics from a distance.  The man screamed (it was horrible), traffic stopped,  and a group  ran into the street and gathered around to support the guy and see to his dog, which wasn’t moving. I don’t know how it all resolved other than seeing the dog’s body being carried off the road to a median. Maybe the news would be good.  Not a great happening. Makes my whining about a stupid busted washer pale in comparison. Poor pup.

And with that I Ieft Portugal and arrived into Casablanca without event. I took a taxi into town. That was a white-knuckle affair. It was almost as bad as Cairo when I was there in the early 90’s.  Almost. The bumper to bumper clearances could be measured in millimeters as my driver raced to get me into the city and drop me off at what would soon be revealed as a cesspit of a building within which was situated a chambre du squalor. Honestly, the place was utterly misrepresented on AirBnB.  It was difficult to find, in an old dusty crumbling building that reeked, on the 3rd floor, and to get up the cracked and slanted stairs in the dark I needed to use my iPhone lamp to see because there were no lights. There were also some very sketchy harsh-looking dudes hanging around.  The room wasn’t a stand alone with facilities, desktop, bed etc, either.  It was basically a room in a house.  Shared shower (which had a broken head), no coffee available, shared kitchen which was blasted and under construction and full of cement dust, tiles on the floor which were loose and sharp, and the added bonus of rave techno/EDM ambience across the street which I discovered  would last until 4am.  Not great at all, but this is part of travel.  Suck it up and move ahead. Fortunately I would only be in Casa for 2 nights and one full day before I trained back up to the airport to pick-up Ida. 

So, while the place was sub-optimum, I still wanted to make the best of my Casablanca day, so got excited about that. I knew I wanted to run, see the Hassan II mosque, and visit the Old Medina. But I was starved after I arrived. I had no agenda but to have a beer and some food, I didn’t care what kind.  I ended up at a funky little local restaurant about a half mile from my  hovel, called Le Trica.  Filled by locals who stared at me, I went in all proud and tall wishing hello to everyone in my broken French, probably saying, “Good breakfast, you rank toad-curs,” or some such. I sat, ordered a beer and a pizza (don’t judge), and attempted to ask the waiter if he was happy with Morocco’s draw in the World Cup. He is.  Funny about alcohol.  This is a pretty devout city, and there isn’t much booze around.  Those places that have it seem to be secreted away down alleyways and with no signage.  Almost like a speakeasy. Or in my case, speakhard. The pizza was small but sufficient, I had it with a side of Moroccan chicken fritters. Oh, and pizza is served with a side of Tabasco there. Additionally,this place had one wall full of Marvel characters and this made me smile. I had Jack Kirby thoughts.

I walked home in the dark and slept for most of an evening that featured a hootenany across the street in a hotel. The din ceased at around 4am. I arose at 6am. I needed coffee, which wasn't available in my place, so I went out in search of an open cafe, which I found.  A couple of hot noirs got me going and I was energized for my run. This I did, a bit nervous wearing shorts, as I didn’t want to offend the locals.  Turned out to be fine as there were many guys out running in Arab League Park, a beautiful green space in the midst of the city. Good run. Flat.  Not like the hills of Porto and Lisbon. 

One of the highlights in Casa is the Hassan II mosque, down by the waterfront.  It is massive, its edifice dominating the coastline for miles. On my way there I took a wrong turn and found myself in an area of crushing poverty.  Indescribable destitution. Emaciated adults in rags, suffering kids, fish waste parts being sold for next to nothing, many beggars.  No buildings intact.  Dust and rubble and just that. And I also somehow lost my cheaters. It was annoying but I knew I had to find a replacement. I was a bit low after seeing what I saw, but the tour of Hassan II was fun because our guide was sassy. That said I’m rarely impressed by new buildings, and this behemoth was built in 1993. It was fine.

After that, the quest was on for reading glasses, I tried by navigating to two places where Google told me were opticians, but found naught but nothingness, and these in more very sketchy areas. My head was on a swivel. I did get the opportunity to chat with a couple of Moroccan midshipmen in broken French and Arabic because it turns out the Moroccan Naval Academy was right there in the neighborhood. That was cool.  Finally, I stumbled into a massive mall.  Marina Mall, I think it was called.  Anyway, it was incredibly vibrant with many clothing boutiques, shoe shops, phone hockers, ridiculous kiosks selling things I didn’t understand, and, thankfully, an optician.  So, I got my glasses, enjoyed a mall schwarma (surprisingly tasty) because I was starving, and exited.  I saw that the Old Medina was right across the street between me and my apartment. 

Beyond that I noted that on the east end of the Medina was Rick’s Cafe.  As in Rick Blaine - Bogie’s character from 1942’s Casablanca.  It was a re-creation, of course, as Rick’s Cafe Américain only actually existed on the Warner Brothers set. I love that film, a classic. And I knew this place was a tourist gimmick (started in 2004 by an American diplomat) but I bit hard and am glad I did. There was gaggle of Korean tourists there when I arrived and I had a blast watching them do poses on the steps of the place. Pointing, pursing lips, peace signs, tongues out, the basic drill.  I am so glad Instagram was created in my lifetime.  It adds such richness and meaning to our global culture. I also enjoy being stung in the eyes by bullet ants. So, I bribed the be-Fezzed doorman to let me into the bar and I enjoyed a mid-afternoon Sour Jdid.  The interior is a remarkable and brilliant recreation of the place from the film. I just wish Sam was there playing.  All in all, I see Casablanca as a 1-day city.  I enjoyed my full day and its little adventures but was ready to bolt back to the airport, pick up Ida and head off to Meknes, the first of our three city tour, which would also include Fes and Tangier.   

Ida and I found each other at the airport and hugged out the missing feels for a while. Her solar smile always makes things better. We hired a cab to take us to Meknes, opting for that so we could get there for dinner.  The train would have gotten us in too late. I have a friend from way back in grad school, a Moroccan guy, Mohammed (Mo).  He got his PhD in Electrical Engineering in the US, married an AF intel officer, and works for the Navy in high voltage control systems.  He is also a devout Muslim and is very interested in Sufism. In my studies years ago, as a Philosophy student, I was mostly focusing on and writing about Epistemology, Logic, Philosophy of Science, and the like. But I also had a great interest in Medieval Christian Theology to include Aquinas and some of the mystics.  So Mo and I, when we met a few years later, had a lot to talk about. And we did.  It had been a while but we reestablished comms and he gave me so many wonderful contacts and recommendations for our trip.  One rec was that we should visit his hometown of Meknes and stay at a lodging owned and operated by his friend, Rauff. Riad Ritaj.  So we did.  That place was magnificent- exotic, scented with incense, adorned with tapestries evoking the sultans of yore, and filled with all sorts of cushions and pillows.  Really breathtaking.

Ida and I were hungry, so we went in search of a restaurant.  The place we chose was called Dar Baraka.  It was well-reviewed and many eaters, mysteriously, included the word “quirky” in their notes. Spot on. So we navigated to the place, which was close and easy to find. There was a sign that indicated “Open,” but the door was closed and locked. Yet we heard sounds inside.  I recalled some review that mentioned, "Hey the door might be closed and you have to knock." So we knocked more than a few times.  Finally, a short, wizened, older man opened the door and gruffly asked if we had reservations (he reminded me of a Sackville-Baggins with his attitude and expression).  We did not. It was about 6pm, and he finally invited us in, insisting that we had to be finished by 8pm because he had people who had made a rez coming in.  We walked into the place which was small, comfortable, colorful, and a bit dusky. It was set up with small chairs and tables in front and lovely cushions with embroidered coverings on the floor along the wall in the back room.  He seated us in back.  After that he was no longer an annoyed hobbit, but our host; and he was very sweet. When he took our order he sat down with us and took notes on his pad, with a pencil.  We ordered a Moroccan salad, and Ida and I each had tagines.  I think I had kefte, and she had chicken. And khobz, lots of khobz, too much kobhz, the distinctive Moroccan round bread.  Delicious.   Turns out this was the man’s home and he was the sole server/busser/host and his wife was upstairs cooking everything. It was Ida’s first meal in Morocco and a fine one too.

The next day, our only full day in Meknes, was spent wandering throughout the Old Medina, getting lost in the winding alleys, finding our way, and getting lost again. One of the highlights was seeing the Bab al Mansour, the giant arched doorway leading into the medina. We toured the gorgeous and extravagant tomb of Moulay Ismail (1645-1727), Sultan of Morocco, while deftly evading offerings of calash rides from aggressive taximen, and we spoke with some artisans at the coop.  We talked with shopkeepers, drank hot minted sweet tea, smelled spices, admired olives, sampled honied baked goods, and even marveled at the buffet of cow parts for sale in the butcher shops from aged hooves, to livers the size of my back pack, to cuts of meat I didn’t recognize, and of course no pork. We remarked upon the power of markets to build community, to encourage conversation (sometimes this can be wonderfully heated in the course of negotiations) and civic thickness.  It is a common theme in our travels together to compare and contrast cultures. This is an especially rich theme with Ida as she is a US citizen, who emigrated from Albania to the US via Italy as a political refugee.  She’s seen a lot.  And at times the US rightfully takes its hits. Airpods vs Engagement; Self-importance vs Community; Processed vs Fresh; Futbol vs Football…these kinds of things.  In the case of the butcher shop in Medina, however, and as much as I am generally concerned with overregulation and dumbass nannification policies, I’m happy we generally have clean points of sale for meat.

We were due to head out to Fez the next day so in the morning I arose and got a quick run in. While out there I received a text from Ida that Rauff, the riad owner, wanted to meet us.  So I got back all sweaty and sat down for a coffee with Rauff.  Nice chat, and then he insisted to take us around and show us his town, of which you could tell he was very proud. As we walked around, it was clear that Rauff was a man known and respected.  We later learned that he is a direct descendant of Moulay Ismail, and his family is ancient.  He took us around and showed us his various properties in the medina. They were stunningly beautiful, though careworn and on their way to rejuvenation by Rauff’s good works. It was as if the 17thC were right in front of us.  Ida was so inspired by the beauty and it was nice to see because as a recent empty nester she is now in a place where she needs to no longer sacrifice as much, which she has done a lot, and can focus on surrounding herself with a beauty found in her own unique aesthetic.  And since she is Albanian by birth she is drawn to interiors and colors which are tied to 7thC Arabian wanderers and travelers of the Silk Road. Mystics, Rumi-readers, Ottomans, merchants, nobles.  And knowing this woman as I do, I realize that the nomadic theme is apt. Our tour ended and we caught a petit taxi to the train station for our next leg-Fes.

Word on the street is that Marrakech is tourist-central.  That may be the case, but Fes was running a close second.  You can feel the energy of the place.  And the energy is derived from rapacious commerce.  Fes is about the medina and it’s legendary 9000 streets/lanes/alleys/roads. Markets abound, proprietors are almost rabid for your coin, and the breadth of wares is galactic: shoes, pipes, books, underwear, socks, caftans, jalabiyas, hijabs, records, ceramics, almonds/walnuts/pistachios, nougat, tea sets, junk food, healthy food, coffee, mint tea…and rugs.  Oh, the rugs. 

One of the highlights of Fes was helping Ida purchase her rugs. She was motivated to buy and I was prepared to ensure a good purchase.  I did a lot of research and knew that I would have the advantage if I could negotiate in English, so we found a quality place that had been featured in the NYT, and the owner was pretty good with English. More importantly he loves the US and was proud of the NYT feature.  Advantage me. Instrumental, transactional me (but only in this case).

I told Ida to just follow my lead because I would burnish my thespian chops and put on a show.  I would raise my voice, gesticulate with great animation, and speak in very serious tones. So we started.  My strategy was to begin by ignoring the guy (this is all a dance, remember) and control the showroom space by selling Ida on certain elements myself.  And I wanted to do it very vocally so he could hear me, and know that his only purpose here was to be a price negotiator, if it even came to that.

Sheep wool vs camel wool, size difference calculations, room configuration, fringe color, geometry,  Kelim or regular rug style, etc. We went through all of it. After a while I told (not asked) the man to please lay out three separate rugs Ida had liked- one larger one and a couple of  wide runners.  Once he did that, I began talking again about lots of nothing to Ida, not letting the guy say anything.  All tactics at this point.  Then with a heavy sigh, I said, “Ok, what are you asking for these three pieces?”  He’s not stupid, so came in hard and high. I laughed, and told him he’s a funny guy and that we had seen the same thing in Meknes at the coop for far less. Then we said thanks and started to walk.  He called us back as I knew he would.  So the waltz went on and on. I played the “Hey Babe, let’s go at least see what others can do for us.” card, and started to walk out again.  Then he stepped in front of us and asked us for a LAFO. It was fun and amusing. Long story shorter, we got an excellent deal and dropped the guy about $2200 from his original play. Everyone left happy and I got him about 300 bucks less than I thought I would.  The whole thing took 90 minutes and I was exhausted.

After that we strolled around and came upon a surprise delight in the form of the University of al-Quarawiyyin. This is a school started in the 9th century by a woman called Fatima al-Fihri, and is the oldest degree-granting university in the world.  It was a delight because I remember writing about this place 40 years ago when I was an undergrad.  I won’t go into a massive digression except to say that there is a largely unknown (in the West) period of history known as the Islamic Golden Age (roughly 9-12thC) where the Muslim world blossomed in fields as diverse as math, history, optics, theology, philosophy, and education. I was fascinated by this back in school because I was working on understanding how Aristotle’s work influenced Christian thinkers like Aquinas and Duns Scotus, and learned that much of their access to the Greeks came via Arab translations.  And this university was part of that whole ecosystem, along with Cairo and Córdoba.  So kind of wonderful I got to see it. Or, to be honest, be reminded of it.

Another highlight of the Fes visit was the tannery.  We were planning to visit it anyway and it just so happens that on this morning we were shanghaied by a man who demanded to take us there personally.  So, we smiled and went with it. We got there and he demanded a tip. Because of course he did.  Anyway, I thought it was fascinating because they were using techniques and technologies from centuries ago.  Water wheels, vats, drying racks, men in the dye vats traipsing around. But it smelled strongly of uric acid, and the merchants were over the top in our face. All part of the experience.  Ida thought it was exploitative and barbaric. She’s not wrong.  All in the name of the tourist dollar.

Tangier was our next and last destination.  We took a bullet train up (impressive!) and arrived at Zoco Riad, a nice place in the medina with a generous breakfast and fantastic staff.  We immediately realized that Tangier had a different energy.  Cleaner, tighter, more cosmopolitan, and most definitely not as driven by the tourists as was the case in Fes. One of the first differences is the close proximity to Europe.  Literally.  Up at the Casbah museum you can see Spain clearly across the 8 mi strait.  Ida got emotional.  She is a US citizen and has been in America for decades, but she is a European at heart, and there is that longing.  That saudade. And that European influence plays in Tangier.  More Spanish spoken, than French. Fewer burkas and hijabs.  Different foods.  More wines. Pretty clean.  Good public service operations in full view of the public. I liked it. I also noticed a correlation with cat health.  There are tons of these felinities on the streets of Morocco (not unlike Istanbul).  Of the 4 cities I visited (Casablanca, Meknes, Fes, and Tangier), I saw that there was a correlation between the cleanliness of the city with the health and disposition of the cats.  Tangier cats were fat and friendly.

For me, the highlight of Tangier was our first morning spent up at the archaeological museum. We went there right after spending some time in the Casbah Museum, which featured a very powerful exhibit by African Union artists.  Excellent. The archaeological displays were fine, not spectacular; but that day happened to be a school day for the local kids and there was a field trip going on, and that was spectacular.  I walked out of one of the exhibits and was approached by a little boy.  He was confident, yet shy, as he asked me where I was from and whether I liked the exhibit. I told him I was American and that Ida, my partner, was too.  He smiled deeply, clearly excited.  Well, as soon as the conversation started, I was swarmed by kids who were fascinated by my language, by the fact that I liked their museum, their heritage, their culture. All of it. They were 5th graders, so 10 yo, and there were probably 40 of them scattered around the stone square.  The questions were endless and asked with earnestness and urgency, and the sweet innocence of youth.  Do you like Morocco?  Are you a Muslim? What’s your favorite meat?  But pork? What football team is your favorite? Top player? What video games do you like?  Do you have children? What are their names?  Would they like our country, too?  How is your wife so kind and beautiful? Where do you live?  Can you speak Arabic?  

It was the greatest. Meanwhile Ida, an educator, was talking with the kids’ teacher and comparing notes.  These children were truly remarkable.  They were deeply interested in me and Ida, but they also saw us as a way to practice their English, and they did it with energy and desire to get better.  Ask them what they wanted to become as they grew up and they saw themselves as doctors and business owners, and yes, footballers, the common boy answer.  It was vibrant.  I signed at least 10 autographs, my only celebrity being to exist as a human in that moment with those kids and engaging truthfully.  That’s it.  It started to become disruptive with the noise and excitement from the class so we were politely asked by the museum staff to wrap it up, so we did. But I wanted to stay.

The next day we took a trip out to The Blue City, Chefchoaun. It is a beautiful place aesthetically, but we'd both thought that the blueness went way back centuries.  Wrong.  They painted the city blue in the 1970s and it was purely for the tourist draw. It was a good day, though TBH I was disappointed when I found out the recency of the blueness.  What was interesting on the trip was the van load of people.  There was Jet, the US-Bangladeshi UVA student studying neuro science, an interesting mixed race UK couple, a NY Jewish Progressive female solo traveler, and her counterpart a Wisconsin Cheesehead MAGA female, also going solo. The ride back from Chef featured a spirited debate between the two ladies regarding US voter fraud. It was annoying because I go on vacation to avoid that bullshit, but also fascinating to see two natural predators go after each other in 3D. MAGA lady was more effective because she was more rhetorically aggressive, and more wrong;  but she ended up crying and apologizing to NY Progressive lady. I said nothing, enjoying the show, knowing that whatever sense I laid down would be meaningless. I guess that's kind of sad.

Morocco was wonderful.  We stayed at a lovely villa near the airport the night before we flew.  Me to Istanbul and Ida back to the States.  It was owned by Alain, a friendly and gregarious Belgian man, and his wife Soumia, a beautiful, brainy, and statuesque Berber woman and professional midwife.  We ended the evening before the flight by enjoying tea and cake with them while sitting on Berber cushions and conversing long into the night, trading contact information so we could stay in touch.

Saying goodbye in the morning to Ida was hard. But hard things make us stronger, as they say.  Until next time, then.  Onward to the land of Ottomans and Orthodoxy.

Thanks for reading.

Questing for Olden Times on the Iberian (Portugal-Part 1 of 6)

A Quick “Why?”

I’m here on this trip because:

 (1) I crashed and burned on the Appalachian Trail.  I was attempting my second thruhike, injured my hip somehow and it was too painful to continue. Disappointing, but we must move on. That gave me plenty of time and some treasure to expend wisely.

(2) My youngest son, Ethan, is taking care of my place.  He shifted his life around to come down, support me, and stay in Burlington while I was on the AT. He was planning to work, live, mind things, help my Mom when needed,  and continue to work on his music in the studio he built in one of my guest rooms.  I didn’t want to compromise that experience for him after coming off trail. So I flew away.

(3) I wanted to.  I like to travel. (I’d much rather my favorite traveling companion and native European, the lovely Nereida, were with me, but she’s still working hard as an educator, so will only be able to join me for the Morocco piece). Plus, I retired a bit early just so I could enjoy life while I’m still robust enough. This is that.

When the AT hike ended, I expected lacerations of self-pity and a difficult recovery from the disappointment. That lasted all of 24 hours.  I was not slashed and exsanguinating from the failure.  I was punctured, it was uncomfortable, I didn’t bleed much, and then I recovered.  Move on, don’t dwell. What’s next?  I began brainstorming travel ideas and settled on the itinerary I’m on.  

Where I’m Going & Kinda How

Portugal-Morocco-Vietnam-Singapore-Malaysia. (as of the writing this is in flux because my Morocco to SEA flights have been canceled due to the Iran conflict. I'll sort it out and report back but it may entail adding Istanbul and Bangkok, and shortening stays in Vietnam.) Almost 2 months on the road. I have rejected the overzealous planner in myself, and decided to take this trip as it comes.  Sure, I have foods to eat, sites to visit, and sights to see, but I’ll plug those into my days as the mood strikes.  I also want to run in these places because that is a great way to learn about a city, possibly get lost, act pathetic, plead for directions, and so doing get invited into locals' houses to drink and eat and otherwise assimilate. I also intend to write about what interests me whether it does or does not directly relate to where I am on the journey. So, this series of posts may be a bit of a Rochester Garbage Plate full of loose themes, broken connections, and random musings, all thrown in a blender. Apologies ahead of all that.

I love getting there.  I despise going there.  Travel days are worse than a blood draw from a drunken phlebotech. So many things can go wrong:  infinite lines, delays,  cancellations, noisy construction, document drama, losing things, weak-ass customer service, expensive Old Fashioneds, immigration officer attitudes, lack of sleep, jet lag, undelicious and hyper-priced airport meals, repetitive announcements,  broken patellae from flight cart collisions, and generally being surrounded by those souls who have similar angst. Those things. But, once the preemptive handwringing is over, one must simply commit to the inevitable ass pain. And I did, because there would be a lot of that on this journey. I packed my carry-on (nothing checked, Ida-style), threw my computer in my little backpack and, passport in hand, departed the pattern.

Ethan dropped me off in Waterbury to catch the train to Grand Central. It was March 17, St Patrick’s Day.  Other than my less than charitable opinion of that gritty city, it all went to plan. I was greeted at GC by drunken and shouting revelers, very few of whom seemed like the typical phosphoresent white Irishman one expects; but I was taken by how much a Bengali guy in a hockey shirt could imitate one. I walked outside for a while before catching the LIRR to Jamaica and was delighted by the numerous interactions an old Asian NYPD traffic cop had with taxi drivers.  I couldn't stop watching. The language was salty. The encounter was sweet. Navy cursing is one thing and I appreciate the masters of the craft; though I decry the coarsening of the world, generally, and to which I contribute too frequently.  But that has less to do with swearing and more to do with the fact that no one reads Hardy’s poetry anymore.  Thomas, not Tom, though my attitude was Venomous.  Anyway, NY cabbies have mastered the color of oaths more effectively than Monet mastered that of paint. I got to JFK early and without incident.

My focus in Lisbon would be to just walk and explore and observe.  And eat and drink.  There were certain comestibles I had to try, and did. I skipped out on the octopus though because I don’t eat problem solving aliens, as a life rule.  

The Diplomat’s Wife

But, before I get into the Lisbon part of THIS trip, let me share a funny anecdote from the last time I was in town. This is the one about the time, three decades ago, when I was younger and stupider and made a big, bold pass at a beautiful woman. Right here in Lisbon. Actually right here off the coast of Lisbon, on the Rio Tagus, at a party on a US warship, the USS Guam (LPH-9), in the summer of 1996.

We were at the end of a deployment which had taken us into the Med and entailed visits to Naples (pizza, pasta, and a Sasquatch sighting), Trieste (we played drinking games with the angelic chaplain and had to carry him back to the ship), and Malta (we ate rabbit and searched for a local milk stout called Lacto).  I also led a visit to the Russian carrier, FADM Kuznetsov, as part of that trip, but that is too long a story and shall be told another day. But it was peppered with hilarity, ribald toasts, and a fighter pilot transfixed by an underdressed woman on a Zippo lighter.  All this happened within the first 2 ½ months or so, then we were sent down to Liberia which was in the midst of yet another uprising. So the Navy, partnered with our USMC brethren, had to evacuate diplomats from Liberia, lest they die. 

So we did that.  We were down there off West Africa sailing around in boxes in the East Atlantic for about 3 months while our Marines were saving the day in the capital, Monrovia. When we were finally ordered to come home the government asked us to stop by Lisbon and have a party. Specifically, we were tasked to host a 4th of July party for Portuguese politicians and international diplomats.  We received special dispensation to serve alcohol on the ship, so the Supply Officer set up a bar on the flight deck. There were banners, flags, flowers, lanterns, and other decorative delights festooned around the party area. 

Our officer corps was invited to attend and there was a lot of excitement around it because: (1) it was a needed party after a long and grueling deployment, and (2) we were heading home.  Spirits were up. Mine was for sure, apart from the fact that my marriage was crumbling and I knew it was doomed.  It ended soon after I got back to Norfolk.  Hala was a force of nature, and together we created our beloved son, Alexander Gavin Hakim. She died a few years ago, in Cairo. God rest her soul. 

Officers were ordered to wear our service dress white uniforms.  For Navy guys this is what we call “choker whites,” the one Richard Gere wore in An Officer and a Gentleman. And honestly, they are an incredibly sharp fit - its white giving the illusion of moral purity, and the stiff neck collar implying integrity and forthrightness. An approximation of Truth, in my case back then. I'm slightly better now.  Even Steve Buscemi could score wearing that thing.

Greg, a good friend and my counterpart with the embarked Marine contingent and a strictly fundamentalist and devoted Christian (Young Earth Creationist, so hardcore - oh the discussions we had!), attended the party together. He did not drink. I may have had a beer or two before we began making our rounds in and amongst the beautiful people. 

I look across the flight deck to the bar area.  There was a line.  It was July in Lisbon so it was hot and humid. People needed refreshment.  Standing alone, demurely, quietly, serenely, and dressed in a form-fitting plum dress, was a woman who could have been Hera, had this been a dream. On an impulse, confident in my ridiculous suit, and emboldened by a couple of cocktails, depressed about my marriage and needing validation,  I strode over there and said, “Excuse me, Madame,” at this point she looked at me with massive brown eyes set into a smooth, tan, gently lived-in face, with smile lines as subtle as peach hair, and I, barely able to speak, continued, “ I am compelled to tell you that you are, without question or ambiguity,  the singularly most beautiful woman at this gathering tonight, and the fact that you are alone, is a tragedy and an insult.” She held my eyes, and responded, her breathy utterance informed by a distinctive and mysterious accent,  “Commander, that was a brazen and courageous entrance.  And were I not married to the <edited, Ha!> Ambassador, who happens to have run off to the rest room, I would be very interested to have you fetch my cocktail and continue the conversation in a quieter space.”  I wasn’t chastened.  I was delighted in a very strange way.  I bowed, walked away, and the evening progressed.

Lisboa and Its Things

That was that time. This time I arrived in Lisbon pretty much on-sked and presumably more emotionally mature.  The flight, a redeye, was fine, even though I didn't sleep well and was surrounded by 7th graders from NYC on a French field trip to Morocco.  Lucky ducks. They weren’t loud but their collective obsession with The Instagram was troubling.  Lots of 12 year old girls swiping, tittering, and pouting for photos. The boy sitting next to me, Jude, was on the spectrum and a sweet kid trying to interact, however awkwardly, with his classmates. 

Took an Uber into Belem to my apartment, and promptly napped. So deeply.   I rose after a couple of hours and went for a walk down by the river. The Tagus.  I hadn’t eaten so enjoyed a bifana, a simple spiced tender pork sandwich, on light-bodied bread, best served slathered with mustard, and a Superbock, brewed up in Porto (SUCH a rivalry between Lisbon and Porto, I later discovered). On my way down to the river I passed the Portuguese School of Equestrian Art.  I actually saw a Lusitano!  They are the global boss of war horses. Such bold and proud creatures. If Jack Kirby were to draw a horse it would be one of these.  He was being ridden by a guy in full 18thC regalia.  I liked the tri-corner hat and I want one.  The leotards I can do without because I already have running tights.

Over a few days I did a lot of walking and running around town. There were certain things I knew I “had to have.”  The bifana on the Belem waterfront was one.  Simple and delicious. One day I accidentally (that’s the best way) discovered a very moody, stony, narrow thoroughfare way back in the hidden regions of town called Green Street.  I went into a tiny establishment and had a less than stellar Old Fashioned (Luxardos, people. Please be civilized!), but that was countered by a couple of excellent fresh shrimp tacos and bolinhos de bacalhau.  Not overwhelmed with the volume of food but the quality was high, the flavors powerful, yet subtle. Cod, huge in Portugal, is mild, substantial, and healthy.

One cold and drizzly afternoon, I stumbled across another little closet-tavern and had chouriço assado, an inappropriately gigantic spiced sausage link flame-roasted in what seemed an ancient clay plate shaped and fired by the Gallaeci themselves. Fantastic, but wish they had served bread with it.  I also endured an unambiguous come-on at that place by two inebriated British women on holiday, one of whom was from Essex. I could tell from the pint of lip gloss she applied and the spackled-on adobe-colored. My final big meal in Lisbon was the bacalhao a bras, which is a delicious concatenation of cod, onions, very fine and crispy shoestring potatoes, all bound together by an egg.  They say it is the iconic Ronaldo’s favorite dish. The footballer though,  not the Portuguese McDonald’s icon, which would have been ironic, if not iconic.

I absolutely lose control when I am confronted with fresh crusty bread, good cheeses, cured meats, olive oil, and briny herbed olives. Helpless. It is my kryptonite. Sweets have never been a real temptation for me, though when I do eat them, I have a hard time not going stupid big. Why have one cannoli? Why a single sfogliatella? It doesn't make sense. And the chocolate-nut combo? This can also be challenging. Portugal tested me on this front. Their signature sweet pastry is called a pasteis de nata. It is essentially a finger-held mini-custard pie, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar. But the crust is a slightly denser version of a flaky croissant shell, and the custard is the most addictive, perfectly spiced, flame-crusted, ideally-bodied exemplar of decadent delectability in this country. Flan is good, but it can be too firmly gelatinous. Vanilla pudding is good but it can have too sebaceous a mouthfeel. This threads the needle perfectly and consistently. And these temptation tarts are everywhere. This is something any discerning traveler must try. But beware, it may break you.

Riding Tram 28 on its full route between Praça Martim Moniz and Campo Ourique is another thing many travelers have raved about, so I thought I’d give it a try, the plan being to run a couple of miles from my place in Belem to pick it up in Campo, ride it to the other end, and then run back. Great plan, and got me 7 or so miles in the morning.  Crowds are notorious for the ride, and locals resent it because they actually have lives and need to go to work.  So, I went early.  I got to the stop and the only people there were a Norwegian Mom and her daughter.  We got on, and began the journey.

I’d highly recommend this.  It has a very “days-of-yore" feel to it with the aesthetics of the tram itself- the yellow color with numbers in a non-Arial font, the driver’s compartment, which was a Steampunk dream, and the aural landscape consisting of goose honks from the horn, banshee-like screeching of the brakes, and the clanking of the brass hand-turned throttle.  Super cool.  The route gives you a superb full scan of the city, complete with monument views, riverscapes, museum facades, and VERY close contact with pedestrians walking on the narrow channelized streets.  I could have easily stolen some guy’s hat, and I would have if it were a tri-corner.  And I should have because I may be a hat guy. Still not sure.  Been thinking about it since Istanbul in ‘23. Maybe a Trilby.  The only part of the ride I didn’t like was when an elderly lady came aboard and she was wearing tight leather pants. Too tight.  Too leather.  She was at least 75.  It was troubling to my innocent eyes.  I think we should unify as a global community and enact very clear international laws around phenomena such as this, and it would also, most obviously, apply to the appalling Speedo phenomenon - an egregious violation of the common man's sense of decorum.  To help recover from this insult, later in the day, I enjoyed a sweet cherry liqueur called, ginjinha. It looked like Cherry Nyquil, but tasted like Michigan, with a kick.

The Port of Porto and the Porto of Port

After a few days I took a train up to Porto, which would be the majority of my stay in Portugal. It was an easy, smooth, lovely ride made the more interesting by a pair of rambunctious identical twins alternating between racing rowdily in the aisle and watching, transfixed, a couple of teenage girls sitting a row across from me who were hand-painting ovos de páscoa, or Easter Eggs.  It was one of the most adorable things I’ve seen. These twins watching and cooing with wonder, and the girls gently, calmly, seemingly maternal well beyond their years, and while they continued painting, explaining to the kids exactly what they were doing and why. 

Playing Porto loose and free, I had nothing really on the docket hardwired up front, apart from doing my morning run, and walking hither, sometimes yon. Sure,  I had things on my list I wanted to see (bridges, churches, museums, towers) and eat, of course, but no real plan. This city is absolutely breathtaking. It’s architecture, its terrain, its design, its very clear relationship to the river. Its pride. It is a palpable thing. In some places people live in a city. In others people are part of the city's DNA.

My researches indicated that Porto is the home of the most beautiful bookstore in the world, Livrario Lello.  One needs tickets to get in (shocking, yes?) and the cash value of the ticket could be applied to a book purchase in the store.  Sweet business model.  I had a 12:15 appointment to get in, and of course I was there at 11:30 (Ida, you can stop laughing now).  So, with that 45 minutes, realizing I needed to take the edge off of my hunger, I went into a nearby restaurant and essentially inhaled a charcuterie board and small beer. The cured meats here are phenomenal and they must be tried.  I had presunto, smoky chouriço, spicy linguiça, and salpicão, accompanied by a goat cheese, a sheep cheese, fresh bread, briny green olives, and a dollop of fig jam.  A wonderful Iberian lunch before my literary excursion.  

The multi-story shop was indeed breathtaking, replete with soaring curvy staircases (legend has it that these stairs inspired the ones in Hogwarts, but this has been found to be false), Baroque woodwork, stained glass, shiny brass, and stacks and stacks of well-curated books in Portuguese, English, French, German, and Spanish. The architecture reflected the open space of ideas rather than a linear and logical order designed to contain. Libris cathedra.  Go to there.

I discovered that authentic Port wine is a treasure.  I had no idea.  I learned this because one of my Porto days was a wine tour well outside of the city, and into the mountain valleys. Bottom Line:  I loved it. But it was a scratchy start to the day.  The plan was to rally in the morning, travel by bus to visit a vineyard, stop for an hour long river cruise on the Douro, and cap it off with a farm-to-table dinner at another vineyard.  The day pretty much played out like that.  Except for the morning.  It was at once a laugh riot, and a claustrophobic fever dream.  We were to meet at 11:00 at the provided dot on the map, check in with the guide, mount the bus, and take off for the day.  Simple.  Well, apparently there was a problem with the on-line platform we used to register, and all of us missed the e-mail that said, “Hey, we’re going to be an hour late (...something to do with the boat trip)".  So we were there at 10:30 per the original instructions.  The gathering point was in front of a city theater, which apparently was open for business.

So we are waiting there.  A bus pulls up around 10:45 and we’re thinking, “Hey, maybe they solved it and we’re going to be on time.  Yay us.”  But no.  The doors opened up and out flowed a chaotic herd of 7th graders. They are shouting, poking, grabassing, all the things they do. So, it wasn’t our bus.  The kids, teachers futilely trying to control them, get into a cacophonous cluster they pretended was a line.  They are going to the theater. Five minutes pass.  Another bus pulls up, another platoon of hormonal tweens debarks.  This happens at least five more times until we have a deployed regiment of loud awkward students surrounding us and closing in.  We gather together like Leonidas’ troops at Thermopolyae poised for either an attack or the arrival of reserves to rescue us.

The bus came and we mounted up with no reported casualties. Our guide, Luis, was apologetic and gave us all a free bottle of wine at the end of the day.  The day was full.  We visited the Vinho Verde region where we got a wonderful tour of a vineyard from the suave and snarky owner/winemaker and snacked on fresh farmhouse bread and cheese while enjoying a fresh white, a sparking pink (he refused to call it a rosé), and a big bold smooth red.  Delicious.  From there we traveled to Pinhão and took a boat tour along the Douro, led by our loquacious and sassy captain, Lilly, who kept our glasses full of wine and our heads full of lore, one bit of which involved a Texan named TV Munson basically saving Port grapevines from a nasty aphid infestation, back in the 19th century.  Then we headed out to another mountainside winery to finish the evening with a beautiful fresh dinner of pork, salads, bread, cheese, fruit, and incredibly, and surprisingly, complex Port wines.  

The hostess, a full-on sommelier, was fantastic and I finagled a one-on-one with her for a tasting. I know very little of substance in this life, but lots of meaningless drivel, and I'm even better at speculation.  And I can bullshit and improvise with the best. Here’s the dialogue:

Her:  (She pours an ounce or so, delicately) “Smell deeply, notice the richness, notice the complexity.  Tell me what you feel.”

Me: “I feel the end of the world is nigh, but it just may be countered by the fig, the apricot, the plum, and the elderberry I am detecting right now and I feel more optimistic having encountered its scent."

She smiles, knowing I am full of it.

Her: “Now taste.  Let it wash over your tongue and breathe it in. Tell me what it says to you.”

Me: “It is quite verbal. Oh, what an inspired and refined tawny tease this is. At once surly and gentile, this unicorn sweat adds a point of IQ with every sip. I came here bewildered by Gen Z memes and depart having mastered Derrida. Bold notes of ripe apples, sage, and dry raw honey are nicely undergirded by a well-bodied, delicately balanced demerara punch.   This should be enjoyed at a forest picnic, a gathering of friends around a summer fire, or at a museum. It makes me want to dance and sing.  And I neither dance nor sing.” Or words to that effect. I wish I could have said it in Portuguese.

She laughed, knowing I know nothing. So that was fun. Cheers to that.

Run to Eat. Eat to Run.

I'd mentioned before that one of the ways I like to learn about a city is to run it. And I've done plenty of that in Portugal. Probably 80 or so miles to date. But one day in Porto, I splurged and went on a 15K "run tour" with a local company managed by local racers. My guide and companion for the morning was Paulo, and man was it worth it. Paulo loves his city (but has a secret passion for Madeira, where he ultimately wants to end up), and even more, loves to share it with guests. We ran all over the place, seeing ancient churches, beautiful gardens, a Michelin 2-star restaurant, the local historic train station, Port wine processing warehouses, soaring bridges, towers, hidden stone back-alleys. It was terrific.

And of course, other than the tripe stew, which I have no interest in after having had a bad experience with that befoulment in Romania one time, Porto has a couple of classic dishes:  The Francesinha, a monster of a cheese sauce-covered multi meat-layered sandwich crowned with an egg and sitting on a bed of fries (batatas), and The Cachorrinho, a Porto version of a hot dog consisting of a split local sausage, cheese, piri piri sauce, all forced into a light and airy roll and pressed like a panini and cut with surgeon-like precision so you can match each bite with a swig of beer. The Cach was a snack.  The Fran was a project that I waited until 4 days into the Porto leg and after a long-ish run to try.  Every person I mentioned that sandwich to said a version of, "Have it for lunch.  It is too much, too heavy for late in the day.  You'll never sleep." Good advice.  They were both tasty, unique experiences I will remember and share until dementia hits.

The Longing

Portugal has been wonderful.  But there is no one experience or location, or food that will conjure this country for me.  Rather it is a word, a concept, an idea. It begins and ends with "Saudade." This is a word I never knew, but encountered as I began to look into the country and put my general plan together. I saw it referenced after listening to a playlist of Portuguese Fado music.  Fado, a music unique to Portugal, reflects a deeply felt melancholy.  The chords on the stringed instruments, inevitably minor, combined with the throaty, intense vocals which seem at times almost non-biological, evoke a soulful existential despondence, but peppered, however slightly, with hope.

Saudade is, at its root, longing. But an existential longing which is nowhere close to simply wanting or desiring. It is to wanting what ennui is to boredom. I enjoyed talking with Portuguese locals about this. Portugal was an incredibly important sea-faring nation. A force in world history. They had ships everywhere. They say that the idea of saudade is directly linked to that and the longing the sailors felt for home when they were at sea and the longing their loved ones felt while they were awaiting a safe return from these long voyages. But it grew into more.

Portugal was a global empire. Far flung and exotic and enabled by its maritime excellence. Galleons, carracks, caravels - these ships dominated the oceans and its commerce for most of the 16th century. But it weakened. It withered. It collapsed. Yet the Portuguese today still dream of reestablishing those days of power, of reputation, of dominance. And so saudade reflects this intense historical longing as well. It is not taught, a man told me. It is absorbed by living here, and it grows over time in a person. So when a Portuguese person listens to Fado, for example, they simply get it. No analysis required. Beautiful

I love this concept.  It is very real, arguably very vague, and subjective, yet it almost transcends language to signify a fundamental Truth.  It resonated with me very deeply.  It makes me think about the general longing people (most definitely including Thine Truly) have for Truth, for a tonic to the Chaos, for Love, for God.  This latter point, my personal explorations into religious practice, is one I will attempt to unpack in a later post. Suffice to say that I have, and have had, an intense longing to uncover the Source of the Good, the Source of the Moral, the Source the Idea of Human Perfectibility.  I’ll leave it at that for now.  But, I depart Portugal with gratitude for giving me better language to deploy. Also those pastries.

Thanks for reading.