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.
