Marrakech

I’m not sure I like Marrakech. It’s loud and crowded in a way that makes me feel claustrophobic. It feels like a mix of New York streets, the market stalls of Naples, the treacherous cobblestones of Faneuil Hall, but without the charm. It’s a lot colder than I expected and further exacerbates whatever it is I have (the common cold, the flu, walking pneumonia, legionnaires disease). It’s overwhelming with the constant sound of motorbikes, the donkeys pulling carts through narrow alleyways, the conversations being spoken in Arabic. So many men try to talk to me, overly friendly so as to make me and my decidedly Bostonian coldness want to retreat, but because I’m actually nice, the conversation goes on and on and I get so uncomfortable. I have an idea where I want to go - please just let me wander! I don’t know if they’re flirting with me but a couple guys tell me I have an Arabic face. Okay, so why are you automatically speaking English to me? I feel so lost and it’s unsettling - maybe because it seems everyone around me seems to walk with determination and expects me to do the same. I can’t breathe (but that’s probably because I’m so sick).

The taxis here are confusing and I think I didn’t pay enough for one ride because I didn’t understand either the Arabic or the French the cabbie was speaking. I’ve gotten in taxis going the complete opposite direction of where I was headed because they do ride share taxis a la Uber. I’ve hopped in just to get right out because they wanted to charged 20 Euros for a trip that would likely cost 12 Durhams (about a buck twenty). I was told by more than one person that both the Palaces I wanted to visit were closed for some unspecified Berber holiday (something about them coming down from the Atlas mountains) and the Jewish Quarter was the only area up and running in the morning. Someone who was all smiles tried to teach me Arabic (the response to “Salam aleykoum” is “Aleykoum a Salam”), gave me the name Fatima after his mother while also calling me Sister, led me through the Jewish quarter, and deposited me at a Berber spice shop. The owner talked to me for twenty minutes, offered me a seat, had someone bring me hot tea, and proceeded to tell me all about the medicinal properties of his spices. I’m so much more agreeable when plied with tea, so I ended purchasing what I think is arnica balm just to be able to leave. I stumble around a bit more and an older gentleman has taken it upon himself to lead me to the Jewish cemetery and then demands payment.

Walking around the Medina and its twisty walled turns is dizzying and there’s just so much to look at - I want to buy all of it and none of it and remember that the only thing I want from each place I’ll visit is a book and a pair of earrings. There are no real bookstores in Marrakech - I learn that Moroccans unfortunately don’t read that much - and all the earrings being sold aren’t my taste.

I do manage to make it to one place on my list - Max and Jan, a hip restaurant in the heart of the Medina recommended in a travel group I belong to. I make my way up to the terrace and sit myself on a low seat in the shade. I ask for mint tea - a staple here in Marrakech - because tea will always soothe any of my anxieties. Like all my meals in Paris, I take my time with this one (due in large part to having to stop between chews to breathe out my mouth). First - briny, marinated olives in green and red, and bitter oily olive tapenade to spread on the bread, which are thick round loaves of chewy dough textured with little crunchy bits at the bottom. The couscous is so light, airy and buttery, cut with stewed vegetables (zucchini, yellow squash, potato, carrot) and four different skewers of meat - chicken that tastes of cumin, steak, minced meat mixed with something nutty, and fatty links of sausage. It takes me so long to even eat half and I can’t finish; I can’t taste or smell the dish fully and I end up bored, through no fault of the food. The disappointment of coming to a place where such seasoned, flavorful food abounds and being unable to partake in it fully, to experience it in all its exotic history, is crushing and likely colors my entire trip - maybe I don’t like Marrakech because I haven’t had a chance to understand it through its food. The three cats that have been meowing and putting their paws on my table are adorable nuisances. The most lovely part comes at the end when the call to prayer sounds out - a melodious chanting that’s grounding and gives a sense of duty and purpose, even if I’m not Muslim.

Upon leaving the restaurant, I decide to make my way to Le Jardin Secret based on another recommendation and this place is the oasis I need. Unlike the Jardin Majorelle I visited on Tuesday, there are significantly fewer people here and glory to God in the absolute highest, a chair sitting in the sun. The stillness is not silent: there are chirping birds, a rustling of leaves from a light breeze, the slight murmuring of streams of water. Even though it recently opened to the public, it doesn’t feel new. It’s so lush, full of palm trees, cacti, succulents. A bubbling fountain with turtle statues and swimming koi stands in front of a muted red pavilion that houses an intricately carved wooden panel that’s all the curlicues and arabesques of the Arabic alphabet. I wander into the Islamic Garden, four quadrants of desert plants and flowers. An iron gazebo commands from the center - a beautiful dark scroll work with a hanging brass lantern. Another pavilion faces the gazebo, larger, bleached white with a blue roof and fluttering curtains. While entirely maintained by humans, the garden connects me to the earth and that wonderful nostalgia that lives in our blood-memory of being of the land rises to the surface. I turn my face to the sun and hope to soak up some of its warmth to fortify me for my departure from this little bit of calm.

Once outside, I’m thrust again into the market and I idly traipse through the stalls, feeling unsure of what I want. I start to look at some postcards to send to my mother and myself; a young merchant (I’m talking 12 or 13 years old), stands by as I spin the stand round and round before plucking two illustrations of shoes and spices. I’m led to a different stall to pay - a barbershop. At another stall, I put back one of the two pieces I wanted to buy simply because I don’t have the cash, but the vendor waves it off and just asks for how much I can give him, seeing my open wallet. I refuse to part with the 20 Durham bill I have - I need some way to get back to my hotel, but I end up with both the box and the camel I initially picked up. His friend out front works a wood carving machine with his feet and holds a little wooden trinket, slides a string through it and presents it to me as good luck. I then find a collection of brass and tin hands - the ahimsa, delicately embossed, and Hindu. It’s not until later that I wonder why, in such a deeply Islamic country, the image of a philosophy (ahimsa means ‘non-injury’ and ‘compassion’) of another religion would be so prevalent. I know of it because it’s one of the five Yamas of yoga. Curiosity has driven me to once again reach out to my tour guide from Tuesday. A lot of things have driven me to reach out to him, but that’s for later. He informs me it’s actually the Hand of Fatima, an ancient talisman that symbolizes feminine power and wards off negative energy. Upon learning that’s what I’ve purchased, I feel like I’ve appropriated something unknown to fit into a box of things I do know. Once again, I’ve reformed another culture to fit into a narrative I understand. It’s disturbing how easy and quickly its happened.

After a couple more purchases, I walk back to my hotel and decide not to leave my room for the rest of the night - I have to cancel a reservation at a posh restaurant because I don’t want to waste money on food I can’t taste. And I don’t leave until it’s time to check out the next morning. I’m having a hard time deciding if this trip was worth it. But like this entire move, I’m learning to be present, to experience life as it happens. Nothing about this month has been in what I would think is my favor, but I need to remember that I’m like the rocks of a new river and all these things that keep happening to me is a slow watery trickle, eroding away my habits, my comforts, all those things I cling to. I came here to do this, to be uncomfortable and right now, I am so uncomfortable. I find myself wanting to ring up my therapist and tell her all about the shit that’s gone down, not to lament (which I feel is all I do in my writing - I’m not an optimistic writer), but to tell her how I’m being challenged and refined and while I don’t yet know how it’s happening, I’m changing. And as I process and think on my trip; I come to realize it was worth it.

On Tuesday, I went out and met three other people: Joseph, a doctor from Philly, Nadia from Manchester who had just moved to Morocco to open a guest house outside the city, and Ayoub, our tour guide. We were all the same age (or maybe I was the oldest? I always feel like I’m the oldest in every group), but pretty different backgrounds, even though we all seemed to be more progressive. The conversation was so easy and all over the place - later in the night, it centered mainly on my lack of love life and how terrible I am at flirting. I should not drink with strangers - I become very open. I’m always honest, but it’s easier to get me talking about all my flaws and the things I care deeply about when I’ve had a few drinks. Although, I’ve been told my vulnerability is one of my most attractive qualities, so maybe I should drink with strangers. Whatever I did, I managed to miraculously endear myself to Ayoub. With my raspy, whispery voice, my hair plastered to my head from running in the rain, my shivering body (I was so cold that night), he seemed to really like me. I found him attractive, yes, but also incredibly funny, smart, and sweet - he lent me his jacket, refusing it later when I noticed he himself was cold. He could do a great Mancunian accent and was super quick. During the night, little things happened, intimate with the sense of habit that I felt belonged to just us even though we were with others: complete awareness of proximity, him digging in the pocket of his jacket as I turned to allow easy access, knees and toes constantly being knocked together without apology anytime either of us moved, my tapping his side as I held out a spoon. Tiny little touches that constantly reminded me that, although I absolutely love being single, I wouldn’t mind trying to be in such close relationship with another human being. I found him the next day on Instagram and right after following him, he messaged me, addressing me as Fancy based on my bougie opinions from the night before. He checked in on me, to see if our run through the rain had made me any sicker, glad it hadn’t (or so I thought). He told me that he wished he had known that I had been in my hotel all by myself so he could at least convince me to come down to the hotel bar for some drinks. I told my friend Joli about it - I’m much more comfortable trying to flirt over text (not that I think I’m very good at it) and asked why I couldn’t be more endearing to guys who I’m able to spend more time with. She, the truly wonderful friend who knows her audience, said, “Don’t write him off. He may show up in another chapter.” Normally, I try to be all, “If it happens, it happens” but something about what she said really resonated with me. I’m a co-author of my story but I do have some say and power over my actions so I’ve kept talking with him, even extending open invitations for drinks if he’s ever in Paris.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to accomplish, if accomplishment is something I’m even thinking about, given that he hardly travels outside his own country. Other than the fact I just really like talking to him, does there need to be any other reason? The romantic futurist in me says yes, the pragmatic presentist says no and while they’re having an argument over a bucket of ice-cream, the writer in me says, “The prince is always changing in your story.” Each of those princes of mine have had their own chapters (some longer than others), but the story is not about them. It’s about me and who I am, what I do, what I want. Because this conversation between my three selves started over something that happened in Marrakech, I can’t help but fully realize that it will be worth it in the long run because of what I’m learning about myself. Those gentle reminders to just be were all over the place and helped me observe all that was happening around and inside me. Through this examination and retrospection, I know that I’ll grow as a person - more kind, more aware, more patient, more available to freely give of who I am.

Growth is always worth it, don’t you think?