Three (Root)Beers for the Red White and Blue

A short train ride from Casablanca and I got into the familiar Rabat train station and got a cab to the “Rabat American School”. The cab driver obviously didn’t know where it was (something he was not willing to divulge before I got in the cab). Three false attempts to convince me we were at the right place and two stops for directions later, I hear the jazz band, and see throngs of white people walking towards a gate more heavily guarded than the queens palace.

The reason I had decided to go back to Rabat was the root beer. Let me explain. Because Monday was July 4^th, the American ambassador threw an American-style 4^th party on Sunday and invited all US citizens with visas in Morocco. Separated from the outside Moroccan world by 10 feet tall walls with barbed wire and about 50 Moroccan special guards with machine guns, the inside of the school grounds felt like a little slice of America. Surrounded by the metallic crack of a metal bat against a baseball, a navy jazz band softly riffing in the open field, the sizzle of hamburgers on the grill, and English, real, unaccented English, spoken everywhere, I felt like I was a 8 hour plane ride away.

I get a burger and a rootbeer and find a spot alone on the grass. A few minutes later Im joined by four college students that entered right behind me. Turns out this was half of the American contingent studying Arabic in Fes on the Critical Language Scholarship. We were soon joined by the rest of the group and the conversation flowed naturally. A few minutes later I realized that all ten of us were actively involved in a passionate discussion about the historic and modern-day applications of a second person plural form…I love language nerds so much.

Although nothing notable happened, (we debated tackling the guy in the Ronald McDonald costume [yes there was a guy in a McD costume, I was ashamed of our culture until I realized he was giving out free ice cream sundays, then I came to terms with it]) it was a great experience meeting so many people with so many incredible stories all united around living in a foreign country. Three rootbeers, a singing of the national anthem, and an “accidental” run in with the ambassador later, I redawed my long pants and conservative shirt (I was wearing my peachtree road race shirt, but I think the image of a huge, billowing American flag would attract some unwanted attention), and walked back to the train station.

Casablanca

So continuing on with the busiest weekend ever, I arrive at 11PM in Casablanca, and get a taxi to my hotel. The taxi driver starts asking me directions and I started getting nervous. Three stops for directions later, we arrive at my dead-end (but clean) hotel.
Upon the recommendation of my dearest sister, I went out in search of a gin joint to honor the movie Casablanca (which I have regrettably never seen). After some walking around I find an enticing endroit, sit down and order a gin. Fatigue sweeps my body, I haven't stopped moving for 17 hours, I skipped dinner, and Im running off 4 hours of sleep. Suddenly coming to the realization that traveling the way I do is taking a physical toll on my body I resolve to be more conscientious during part three of the summer.
Apparently all drinks at the bar come with free tapas, usually for 4 people. Seeing as I was alone they still brought all the food and it turned into a pretty substantial meal. Back to the hotel and straight to sleep.
I wake up, haggle down a taxi out to what everyone agrees is the only real attraction in Casa: the Mosque Hassin II. This is one of three muslim buildings (and the only mosque) that non-Muslims are allowed in, so it is something I had to see. I was not disappointed.

Notre Dame doesnt have anything on Hassin II. Finished in 1993 (it only took 6 years to build!) its a reativly new building and is amazing in size (16,000 praying muslims) and intricacy, and wow factor (it has a retractable roof and is build completely suspended over the ocean).
For anyone who visits Morocco, you have to visit Hassin II. It was my favorite activity so far.

I take the 40 minute walk back to the train station and stumble upon Rick's Cafe. It was tempting to stay in Casa until 12:00 when it opened, but I had a date with some rootbeer in Rabat

The one where I dont wear a fez

Before anyone asks, my trip to Fez in no way included me wearing a fez. It just wasn't happening.

I take the first train to Fez and roll out of the train station at 1PM. I barter down a taxi to a reasonable price and get dropped off in front of the main door of the medina. Every travel guide that exists on Morocco lists the Madina at Fez as the #1 must do thing in morocco (why I was willing to spend 9 hours on a train for 5 hours in the medina. But no matter how many books I read about the laberyth of streets or how vigorously I studied my map on the train, I was not prepared for what was in front of me.

I passed through the portal and the rush of air, smells and sounds transported me a hundred miles into a distant land and a hundred years into the past. This was the morocco I had expected. Little shops crammed at obscure angles in buildings selling everything imaginable; streets so narrow you could touch both sides at the same time crammed with so many people you loose your identity as an individual unit; smells of tanned leather, exotic woods, and spices the Western world doesnt even have names for. I have a bubble around me. Not of space, but of languages. People trying to guess my nationality and language because to guess properly usually means business for them. They weren't ready for this white guy. By rotating the language and refusing services in from English to French, to Darija, to Spanish (I even tried it in Italian once to no avail) I caught people off balance and made it throughout the initial rush of guides, and overly priced vendors. I somehow pick a guide to talk to, he shows me his "official guide" card (I dont think the government issues official guide cards) and matches my linguistic prowess. He tries to shove me into a restaurant the is the "best ever". I (correctly) guess that he gets a portion of the proceeds, and quickly ditch him, stick to my literature and follow the signs to Clocked Cafe.

This is the first hipster joint I've found in Morocco. It feels a lot like the Grit back home. He hands me the menu but I already know what I want even though it's the most expensive thing on the menu. I mean when else am I going to eat a Camel Burger? Served with a side salad and a mountain of fries, the burger is Stacked high with tomato, onion and pepper jelly. The lean meat tastes like nothing I've had before. The sweetness of the jelly comes through strong at first but the finish is all camel.

I ask the waiter for some basic orientation and then dive into the depths if Fes' Madina. I promise a particularly friendly shopkeeper that I'll come back, and continue into the grimy streets. Not to much long and I'm met by a very friendly guy about my age, who dispatches some hecklers and tells me he likes practicing his English. I never agreed he could follow me, but he starts to follow me around and talk me up. He offers to show me the highly acclaimed tanners den and I ask "for free?" and he says "nothing in life is free." I reasonably explain that I don't want to pay for a guide and he gets hostile. I stand and take comments like "why all you f@$&ing Americans like that" "big country, no brains," and "just go back to your hotel you tourist". I start to ignore him and he follows me, shouting "compliments" at me.

I finally backtrack, about a quarter mile and he leaves me. I then realize everything I want to see is the direction. I run into him again, and he stands directly in front of me sidestepping as I do. I had no choice but to pull out my pocket knife and threaten to stab him... Just kidding mom: got ya!

When I explain that it's nothing against him, it's just I don't have enough money to pay him, he switches back to happy nice Moroccan and offers to show me everything for free. Once again I don't agree but he follows me and becomes my defacto guide. I decide to embrace it. He shows me everything from the tanner to the mosques to the panoramic view to the silver bridal carriage craftsman. I pass a bearded man in a red shirt for a second time. When I ask Ali why he is following us, he smirks and says "protection". Over the rest of the tour I discretely open my wallet in my pocket and transfer all but 20 Durham into my back pocket. When we get to the isolated rooftop which was the final stop, our follower and Ali start talking about how great the visit was. I get the cue and hand him the 20. The protection firmly says "that's nothing" I toss him my empty wallet. Ali tears up the 20 and wishes me the best.

I find my way back up the main road, pick up some souvenirs at the man I promised I'd come back and get my day made. "You haggle like a Moroccan."
Grinning from ear to ear I catch a cab for my night train to Casablaca.

Glottal stops, confidence drops, and roll the Rs

I was particularly proud of today’s title, although it has nothing to do with the first two paragraphs.

On Sunday, Imad invited me to go to the beach with him and his ex-lifeguard friend. So we hop on a bus, walk a quarter mile and arrive at the most pristinely blue water I have seen. It was a small public beach, away from the city. One of those places only locals know about, but that’s not to say it wasn’t croweded. It only took us 10 minutes to walk the entire length of the beach, we then found a spot for our towels, and went for a swim.

When we were half way to the rock we were swimming towards, I realized why Imad and his friend had repeatedly asked if I knew how to swim on the way over: while I am no Michael Phelps, I can pull off a pretty convincing forward crawl Imad cannot. A combination of doggie-paddle and drowning, it’s apparent that not all Moroccans, despite going to the beach every weekend, know how to swim. After our 20 minute swim, we get back on land, Imad et al. go off to smoke somewhere which gives me some time for a light nap and some heavy people watching. I see the sharp contrast in my foreign beach experiences; in France, we were the overly clad Americans, with women rarely wearing tops, and both sexes not wearing anything a moderate amount of the time. Here, the common male swimsuit is the synthetic male-capris that everyone wears so often and girls (although the beach population is only 10% female) are clad in long-sleeves, long pants, and a shawl. This would be very modest attire in Athens during Christmas mass, much less a 100° day at the beach. Nonetheless everyone seemed to be having fun playing (very competitive) pick-up beach soccer, thrashing in the water, and soaking up the sun. I started to feel the burn coming so I found Imad and headed home just in time for dinner.

Monday, I came home from work to find Vincent (the Dutch volunteer who is staying in the other rented room) back from his 2 week trip home and met his little brother Sebastian. I offered to use my Meknes culinary skill and tried to recreate Zaalouk, a tomato eggplant paste spread over bread. While it was edible I think I put in to much tomato paste. Ill get it right before my food network pilot premiere. After dinner, we went out for a drink, and I marveled at their English level. While they both went to bi-lingual schools, and assured me not every Dutch person speaks as well as they do, I felt a little ashamed of our foreign language education system. While my French is first-rate as far as non-native languages go back in the states, their English blows my French out of the water. I guess I’ll just have to go for quantity and learn Darija.

Monday I started my formal Darija classes. While it is 2 weeks later than I requested (thanks Fenna), I’m still excited to pick up a new skill. I figure I’m pretty good with words, accents, and languages (heck I’m doing phonological research!), how hard could picking up the basics be? Very hard, actually. We started with the alphabet, and by the fourth letter, the scene was something out of a SNL sketch:

“Raba-ah”

“Raba-ah”

“Non non, ecoute: Raba-ah”

“Raba-ah”

“Non repete: Ra”

“Ra”

“Ba”
“Ba”

“ah”

“ah”

“Raba-ah”

“Raba-ah”

“Non! Pas Raba-ah, Raba-ah”

“THATS WHAT I’M SAYING”

Although it is frustrating at time (I find her constant usage of the phrase “well of course” particularly innerving:

“so there are gender specific pronouns in the singular but not the plural”

“But of course”

[to myself] “that’s not that obvious”)

I think the courses are going pretty well.

I’ve graduated from the patented Passarello point-and-grunt (or maybe it’s a copyright, Nick can I get the legal interpretation?), and after two two-hour classes, I can go through salutations like nobody’s business, count to 100, ask simple questions (how much, where, when, why, who, how), and express needs and desires. Maybe at then end of my lessons (five two-hour sessions) I will be past the single-word utterance phase (which linguistically would put me at the intellectual equivalent of a 2-year-old).

Meknes

First off, congratulations to anyone who can correctly pronounce the name of this post and city; it took me a while (meh’ keh nes).

This weekend, I visited Meknes Morocco for two reasons: I was very close to spending my summer in Meknes and not Tanger, so I wanted to at least see what could have been; and there is a Moroccan cooking school that comes very well recommended (second only to one in Marakesh which is far too far). So Friday morning I play hookie from work and hop on the first train to Meknes. I sleep most of the 4 hour train ride and meet Corey at the train station. You’ll notice from his name that he is American. On our car ride to the school I thought back: when is the last time I had an actual conversation in English? Debbie and I talked in English a little, and Sara and I had one conversation in English, but other than that it has been 45 days. I was a little rusty. Around 1PM I get shown my floor (yes I have my personal floor with two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a bathroom) and told my first lesson starts at 4. So naturally I decide to go wander around.

I get a super touristy carriage ride around the old city, go into the old stables (which used to house 12,000 horses), walk around the big square with “take a photo with a camel” booths, and then head back for my first Moroccan cooking lesson. Enter Fazamahara (sp?), my college-age, Moroccan, cooking instructor. We start by properly making Moroccan tea (up until now I had just been dumping all the ingredients into a pot and adding boiling water, turns out theirs more to it), then we head into the kitchen. It’s a unique set-up. We both have our own station which are these pushcart style cooktops with extendable work-areas both positioned in the foyer. From the backroom, the prep-cook/ dishwasher brings out all of the hardware and software we’ll need. Chicken already deboned, beef with the silver skin already butchered, spices already measured in tagines. I could get used to having a prep-chef. We go through how to cook a chicken dish with lemons and olives and a lentil soup. I didn’t think it was anything revolutionary, mostly just chop everything up and throw it in a pressure cooker, but it was still fun. Fazamahara and I talked the whole time and at the end came my favorite part: eating. Now like I say I wont say that I had any culinary epiphanies, but it was still really good (and I didn’t even have to do any dishes at the end).

That night, I headed back up to the main square of Meknes, got scoffed at when I asked if there was anywhere in the old city that serves wine or beer, and plopped into a wicker chair for a mint tea. There was some sort of assembly in the square that day, and I am assuming it was about the new Moroccan constitution for which there is a vote on Friday. They old man speaking was either very for or very against it. I couldn’t tell which. He was followed by a karate school performance, and traditional Moroccan dancing (which consists mostly of spinning around in circles really fast and then jumping up in the air and clapping under your legs). Either way there were a lot of people, and it felt very Moroccan.

The next Morning I took my coffee and bread on the rooftop patio (which was my favorite room in the guest house, I’m defiantly going to have one of these when I get my own place), and then headed inside for my second lesson. Chris, the Texan owner of the school, and a ex-personal chef stayed for this one, so we were able to talk non-stop throughout the whole cooking and eating process. This meal was a lot more culinary expanding. Beef Tagine with prunes and roasted almonds, and Zazook (roasted eggplant and tomato mash served with bread). From roasting the almonds to making the syrup for the prunes to whole roasting an eggplant to making a tomato-peel rose, I learned something with every step of the process. And I learned one more thing when we sat down to eat. I really like Beef Tagine with prunes and roasted almonds, and Zazook.

After finishing lunch, I headed up to the Mosoleum (its one of the 3 Islamic buildings that non-Muslims are allowed in) which I hadn’t been able to see because its closed on Fridays. I arrive just as the workers are headed out to lunch; they assure me they’ll be back in 2 hours. The 15 minute walk up the hill made me realize how incredibly hot it was. While 42 doesn’t sound that hot, plug it into google converter and realize I was trekking around in 108 degree heat. I find a café, and order a cold drink. Although I was in the shade, you could still feel the incredible heat engulf every surface. Exacerbated by my (and everyone’s) always wearing long pants, I sat in my head-induced stupor for an hour and a half.

A quick shoeless tour of the Mossoleum and I headed back to gather my things. I told myself that after the Mossoleum I would spend the rest of the afternoon exploring new-Meknes (also where the train station is), but the heat had other ideas. I instead hailed a taxi to the train station, and sat wallowing in my sweat.

The girls next to me on the train talked about me the whole way back. While I don’t speak Darija (yet), the frequent use of the word “Américain” and frequent giggling glances at me are dead giveaways. I put in my headphones and tried to zone them out but then I realized I only have 10 songs. It was a repetitive 4 hours.

I liked Menkes a lot more than Rabat. The whole town felt more welcoming, more like a small town. It did help that the focal point was food. But Moroccan cuisine better watch out now: I know its basics and it’s about to get tinkered with…a lot.

Rabat Hunting

I wake up at 7h00 like I do during the week, except today is Saturday. I don’t mind the hour because I’m excited about my weekend trip to the political capital of Morocco, Rabat.

I had decided to make a day trip at 17h00 the day before, after writing the blog post about almost being half way done with my time in Morocco. I told Fenna this while I was cooking dinner, and what a coincidence she was headed to Rabat this weekend too. She convinced me to spend Saturday night in Rabat and catch the 9h30 train with her and her friends (didn’t take too much convincing, I was planning on taking the 5h15 train yuck!). She even offers to make me a room reservation and share a taxi to the train station. Perfect.

I shower, pack, eat, and eagerly wait. It quickly turns into 9h00 and no signs of movement from Fenna’s room… I knock to no response. Maybe she’s planning on taking the 11h30 train so I wait. It quickly becomes 10h45 so I knock again this time more forcefully. I get cursed out in a mix of Spanish and French but I get the gist: Im not going to Rabat today, let me sleep. Fuming, I grab my bag, storm out the door and with my best New Yorker whistle hail a cab. It takes me the cab ride to the station and an hour on the train to wrap my head around the situation: Im headed to Rabat, where I know no one, I have no hotel reservation (or even a name of a hotel), and I don’t know anything about the city. Shhhhhhhh, I’m Rabat hunting.

I get of the train, ask the police officer where I can find a cheap hotel, and start walking. I roll into the madina, and pass about 15 hotels. I have no logical explanation for how I chose, but I follow the tattered sign for the Hotel de la Madina and ask for a room. 80 durhams get me a private room with a sink, access to communal bathrooms and a home base. I was 10 extra durhams for a shower but what did I care? (I didn’t even bring shampoo).

Before I continue with the story, I’m going to go off on a little tangent: I think I am the hardest tourist to pickpocket ever. Between keeping everything in one pocket which I then put my hand inm and randomly crossing the street, backtracking and pretending to tie my shoe at irregular increments (I get funny looks when people realize I’m wearing sandals). And even if someone did get in to the Belagio vault that is my pocket, (and why this is in this post) I never carry more than 300 durhamm and hardly ever have plastic. Here’s my thought: anything that I want to buy that is more than 40 bucks should require some thought, and incases of emergency/danger, 30 durhams will get me a privet taxi anywhere including an escort to the door.

Bags and cash securely locked up, I stroll through the madina. It has a lot of similar qualities to Tanger: old cobble stones, juice, snail, corn vendors lining the street, and attention from everyone. I can see the tip of a lighthouse far in the distance, looking for the view I continue past the end of the madina and into the largest cemetery I have ever seen (with the best view too).

A man from a local café comes and sits down next to me and starts making small talk. I know his game, he’s a guide who will gladly show you the city for a price. My first reaction is to blow him off (albeit politely) but then I realize this guy supplies something I am ready willing and able to consume. This is how I met Mon Pote (pronounced like the first syllable of “potable”). We walk to the Kasba and beaches, hop in a friends car to drive out past the kings palace to the ancient city, and end up at a supermarket buying booze. He invited me to hang out with him and party tonight and I thought what the heck, ready willing and able. There are five of us in his small apartment. It’s about 10’ by 5’ and completely filled by 3 couches, a small table and a dresser with a TV on it. I followed their lead. In a small glass, they’d pour a shot of wine, when it was their turn everyone would drink it in one gulp, then immediately dip a lollypop in fromage blanc the sweetness of the candy and the tangyness of the cheese mixed well. (Not exactly what you think of when you say “Wine and Cheese” huh?) Of course there was beer to drink while the glass was coming around. A few hours/bottles later we head out to their favorite barm and order a bottle of wine and a whole fish. I had only eaten a half a loaf of bread for dinner so I greedily tore at the charred flesh of the fish with my fingers. I fit right in. It might have been the wine, but this was the best fish I have ever had. The crunch of the skin and creamyness of the meat combined with the outstanding flavor to make a good ensemble. Also, there was something about the presentation, the consumption that appealed to my inner neanderthal.

Then is when things started to get a little sketchy. Mon pote pulled me aside and asked if I could “lend” (he guaranteed he would pay me back tonight) him 800 durhams to pay for the wine and fish. I truthfully said no. I gladly gave him the 150 durham I had left (excluding the emergency 50 I had tucked in the waistband of my boxers. When he said suggested I could withdrawl across the street I tossed him my wallet. Nothing but a photocopy of my passport: I had beaten his game.

During the trip back to the medina I debated whether or not to feel angry or used. I decided no, he supplied something I demanded, I spent a half a day with a guy paid for a healthy portion of our food and beverage, and had a good time.

I slept in for the second time in Morocco (although this time I didn’t have food poisoning so it was decidedly more pleasant). I hit the streets, taking a tea in a scenic café mon pote had showed me, stopped by his room to say thanks and goodbye, and then found the market.

I’ve already expressed my man-crush on Moroccan markets (or just markets in general), and this one was love at first sight. While I had seen all of these stores before (Spices, clothing, shoes, shoes, leather, tapestry, hooka, spices, clothing, café, spices) there was something new and more exotic about this one.

Vendors hung colorful cloths in front of their stores to protect their patrons from the sun causing the whole place to be colored by a stain-glass-esque light. Because the road twisted and turned slightly, you could never see more than a hundred feet down the stretch making the market seem infinitely long (in reality it was about a half mile long). I did my first souvenir shopping of the trip, and haggled down a Moroccan soccer jersey (which will debut next soccer jersey Monday). I caught the earlier train back and four hours later Im home… but not for long. I’ve caught the Moroccan travel bug, and I have a feeling Im going to like this illness more than food poisoning.

Mid-Terms Exam

I cannot believe Im already two weeks into my Moroccan experience, but alas it is true.

I've had a couple of experiences in the past few days that were especially testing, and it feels a lot like midterms.

I went to the clothing market to buy some sunglasses. I looked around for a half an hour before finding a vendor with which I could communicate well in French. Then began the negotiations. Before I left I read a few books on Moroccan culture and traditions and most of it has been completely useless. The only exception has been the haggling with prices for which I picked up several useful tips:

1)-Never give the first number, and never look like you're trying to buy what you actually are-
I come up and ask how much the "rolex" watch is. He starts selling me hard on watches and then after I get a feel for how he negotiates, happen to notice the sunglasses. I catch him off guard and get him to give the price: 60 durhams.

2)-A common strategy for lowering the price is pointing out imperfections and implying that it is of low quality. The vendor will refute these claims. Cite other vendor's prices as significantly lower-
"60 durhams for this piece of crap? Look here it's scratched, this breaks sooo easily I could snap this with one hand."
"No no look at this one it's better, it looks better on you."
"This one? The guy across the street has these same glasses for 30 durham." (which was a lie)

3)-They will pretend like its a done deal even if you dont consent, never hold a product in a bag-
"30 durham? No its not possible, Here 40 Durham that's good price" [he starts to put them in a bag"
"No, no deal, I'm not paying 40 durham. 25."
"25? I sell these [gestures towards kids glasses] for 25. Here 30 durham."

Now while my travel guide got him to cut the price in half (to what I wanted to pay), I pulled out some Tony Passarello car buying advise:
4)-Dont be afraid to physically walk away-
"Oh now you sell for 30? No. 25."
"Not possible, no, no, 30 as low as I can go"
"Fine I'll just by from the guy across the street, he didnt try to cheat me" [I turn my hips and walk away]

25 durhams light, I am now the proud owner of a pair of Ray Dans.


Also fitting with the theme, I proctored an Arabic exam, and by proctored I mean sat in the front of the room and pretended like I knew what was going on. Given the fact that I dont speak Arabic I dont think I was qualified to answer questions regarding the test, and given I dont speak Darija I dont think I was qualified to answer questions like "can I go to the bathroom." Luckily there were neither.

I hop in the grand taxi and remark how unremarkable it has become. I throw around the 7 Darija words I know like they're nothing. I get back to the appartement, make myself some lunch and a pot of tea. I realize that I dont have anything planned for the weekend so I quickly look up the train times to Rabat. I now have plans for the weekend.

I meet Imad at 6 for some tea. Imad is being a really good host and I very much appreciate the social contact. That, and the man knows where to get a tea with a view:
I had planned to go see a movie tonight, but I opted for sleep instead. That and the guy at the theater really pissed me off:
"Hello I would like one ticket for the 21h30 showing"
"Im sorry that's not possible"
"Oh is it sold out"
"What movie?"
"The only one showing at 21h30, Fleur de Mal"
"No that's showing on Saturday"
[I leave, check the movie times and come back]
"Nope, it's playing at 21h30 tonight"
"....oh"
If you work in the ticket booth of a movie theater that has 2 movies, ya think you'd know when they are?
(I heavily debated putting that in all caps despite my dislike for all caps writing)
I thought it might be a language problem, but I keep replaying the French in my head and it was grammatically correct. Now I recognize that my French accent isnt the best in the world but c'mon man.

Le Grotte d’Hercule

After I get back from the Kasbah, I’m due for a nap: because of the big meal and the fact that it’s really hot and I’m wearing jeans. No sooner do I change into shorts than my phone rings. It’s Imad asking if I want to meet him for a tea. Of course I do. So I jump back in my jeans and he and a friend come pick me up in a car and we head out of the city. An unexpected 20 minute drive later and we pull into a parking lot. We find a space right next to the Camel Valet (for tourists Im guessing), buy some nuts to snack on and climb the stairs chiselled into the stone face to a café (sorry for the accent there, not trying to be a tool, this French computer keeps on automatically changing it). The view is surreal, with the sun setting over the Atlantic.

I now want to rant about two things:

1) I’m tired of outrageously hot beverages I currently have blisters on three different fingers from trying to pick up coffees or teas that are too hot; either invest in some glasses with handles or bring down the temperature 30°.

2) It seems that every time I’m in a café, I am the only person not smoking either cigarettes or pot (or both). I’m not trying to say that people don’t smoke in the States, but I’m not going to miss the constant nauseating fog of every café. I understand and am sympathetic towards the fact that it’s a cultural difference, but it’s gross: cut it out.

I blow on my tea and take some photos trying to act oblivious to every table around us rolling and smoking cigarettes and other things. We stay for hours, nursing our teas, talking about Morocco and the US, differences, life, music, and anything else we can think of. Around 10 we scarf down a bowl of snails from a vendor in the parking lot and head back home.

Will _____for food

I had my snails and I ate them too. It was kinda uneventful.

They’re served in a super saltly boulion broth, and you pick them out of their shells with a tooth-pick. Slurping is allowed and encouraged as you suck the last bits out of the shell and pick up the whole bowl to drink the broth.

The next day I continue my accounting work (I’m really glad I took Accounting 2 because that’s actually about 90% of what I’ve been doing) and duck out a little early for Lunch. I head back into town and climb up to the Kasbah to try to find Karim. He had told me about a traditional Moroccan restaurant that had the best Tagine in town and was pretty cheap. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but it was decent and it was really cheap.

I've added some photos to previous posts, so scroll down to check out some photos, or just go to my picasa!

Madina Madness

I was charged to have something unexpected happen Sunday, so in a constant effort to impress my charger, I walked into the Medina. The Medina looks like something out of Aladin: there are vibrant fabrics everywhere, traditionally clothed men trying to sell their products. A key service in the madina are “guides”. Usually homeless men who offer to show tourists around for a price. As a white guy, I’m immediately approached by a number of men. Someone trying to sell me a “real” rolex, a café owner asking if I wanted a traditional Moroccan tea, a druggie offering me the “good stuff, not the stuff I normally sell to tourists” and a begger, with his tragic story about how he lost his leg (even though its obvious he’s just lifting his leg up and hiding it behind his body). I managed to dismiss all of them and a few steps later am approached by a bearded, graying man in is mid 40s. He asks if he can show me around and I say (in French) that I know the madina well (a lie) and don’t need a guide. He then switches to English. “Oh you’re American? And I’m no guide, I’m just headed back to my family store and wanted to know if you wanted to see it.” This struck me for two reasons: first his English was very good, hardly any accent, and second, he was able to identify my accent in French (a skill few Moroccans can, most think I’m French, and even most French people think I’m from Belgum.) This man was obviously well educated, and not homeless, so I said what the heck, let’s try it. He then starts to lead me down back alleys and deep into the labyrinth that is the Madina. I’m visibly nervous as we arrive at a natural pharmacy. My guide waits outside as I duck inside. An overly friendly man starts to show me all the products he has laid out for display: a dry rub for meat, message oils, and herbal teas. Just when I start to relax and think this wasn’t a bad idea, he rubs a bag filled with black rocks against his hand and shoves it under my nose just as I inhale. Great, he just drugged me. He explains it’s for headaches (it certainly did a good job of causing headaches for this overly tense tourist). I buy some simple green tea, and leave. My guide quickly snuffs out his cigarette and whisks me a couple of stores down to their family tapestry store. They shrug off my comments that Im not looking to buy a tapestry and I’m pushed up 6 flights of stairs to the roof where the view of the madina is astonishing. He points out several landmarks (most notably Antonio Bandares’ house) and starts ranting about how he loves Americans. I get back down 3 of the fights of stairs before I get coerced into a chair and he starts unfolding tapestries. I’ll hand it to him, they are beautiful: stories of love, war, expedition, each one unique. He then asks which one I’m going to buy. I have to explain to him that I’m not going to and he immediately changes from a personable, smiling, pro-America, guide to a disgruntled, peevish, ruthless salesman. “We invite you into our home and show you are city and you wont support our village?” I stick to my guns, and book it toward the door. I try to interject that if I do need a tapestry Ill be sure to come back and that I did forewarn him but I doubt it got through the barrage of ruthless sales pitches he was spewing. I get to the open front door, thank him my most sincere Darija and he turns back into the personable man I first met. “Ok my friend I trust you, I hope to see you again if not just drink a tea”. As I leave I recall an exerpt from Jean de la Fontaine: “apprenez que tout flatteur vit aux dépens de celui qui l'écoute.” It seems that in Morocco you can get treated as nicely as you want, as long as you’re willing to pay at the end.

Some good meals

The past two days have been filled with two of my favorite meals of my time in Tangier, and they couldn’t have been more different.

Saturday, I slept in hoping to put to rest any and all residual sickness from Friday’s adventures. Since I saved so much on food on Friday, I decided to treat myself to a nice restaurant. I did my research, and found a restaurant called “La Fabrique”. This French/International restaurant got great reviews, wasn’t too expensive, and was on a road that I recognized. As I found the address, I realized that I walk past the restaurant every day on my way to work. I really need to be more observant.

I walk in, get a table for one, and we mount the spiral staircase out of the empty lounge and into the empty dinning room. Legit, empty. It’s 2PM on a Saturday and the only other person in the whole restaurant is the waiter. I go for the 4-course menu and a glass of red and sit back and enjoy the ride. I will now go into excruciating detail about the meal, feel free to skip down to the next paragraph.

First the bread, a normal basket of baguette slices is brought with another plate of green olive tapinade and five really thin slices (like quarter inch thick). The appetizer is a green salad with a dill vinaigrette. The lettuce is a mixture of spicy greens, most notably in both taste and quantity being arugula. Sometimes the leaves overpowered my palate, so I would have mixed in some less knock your socks off leaves (say some baby spinach?). You can really taste the dill in the sauce, but they tried a little too hard and I could have done without the two full dill sprigs for garnish. They bring my glass of red during the salad, but it actually goes surprisingly well. Throw in a beefy cheese, and I could actually see the red-wine salad pairing. Something I’ll have to try. The wine is cold, and while I probably can’t be too picky if I keep ordering table wine, I think that’s a major rouge faux pas. Then comes the main course. Duck confit, mashed potatoes and something else (I stopped listening to the waiter after “duck” because it sounded so good.). The duck is beautifully layered with fat; I don’t think I could have gotten a bite of purely lean or fat unless I tried. It’s cooked perfectly and the demi-glaze drissled over top is very well done: just barely coating the back of a spoon. The potatoes are served in a 2” diameter cast iron ramekin, you have to take of the top and feel the steam rise. They’re well mashed and go great with the duck, I would have preferred a little lighter, but it contributed to the stick to your bones feel of the course. Finally a ratatouille sits off in the corner. It’s a little heavy on eggplant, but they’ve cooked it well enough that it doesn’t have that undesirable chewy texture. I have to wave off the bus boy because he thinks my sitting back with my eyes closed was an indication I was done; I was just enjoying the food. When I finally do finish, they take away my plate and I see a white woman walk out of the kitchen, I recognize her face from the website and ask as she walks by my table if she’s the chef. She is. She says for a minute or two, asking how my food was and explaining how French chefs are pretty common in the high end food industry in Morocco. She was very nice. She then left to eat lunch (finally someone else eating in this joint) with the GM. Just as soon as she leaves dessert comes out. Two scoops of vanilla ice-cream topped with whipped cream and an unidentified orange fruit. They also bring the espresso. I’m used to eating dessert and then drinking coffee, but I’m glad I mixed the two. The sweetness and cold of the ice cream and the bitterness and hot of the coffee mixed perfectly together. I now see where the idea for coffee ice cream came from. The mystery fruit an orange berry slightly smaller than a cherry. It’s brown leaves are intact and look like the wings of a dead dragonfly (in a good way….) it’s tangy and sour, and completed the flavor spectrum of the meal.

More than satisfied, I leave my 23 bucks (not bad for a 2-star, 4-course meal with wine eh), thank the chef again and immediately head for a nap.

The second notable meal of the week happened Monday when Imad and headed out for a coffee after work. He then asks if I’ve eaten some traditional Moroccan soup (still cant say the name of it). I hadn’t and was really eager to try. We sit down in a run-down restaurant/deli in Bir Chifae next to a man just finishing his sandwich. His area is covered with crumbs and bits of sandwich, and is face dripping with sauce. The waiter/chef/dishwasher/Owner brings us two bowls of soup, a baguette torn in half, and a plate of sliced over-processed spicy sausage and two hard boiled eggs. We then began to eat like cavemen. Tearing bread in big hunks dipping it into the soup and shoving the whole thing into your mouth, snatching bits of sausage off the communal plate. Picking up the bowl and drinking the soup greedily. The soup is a slightly watered down tomato soup, heavily spiced and herbed with some tiny noodles lurking at the bottom. I asked Imad if I could have a glass for the communal pitcher of water. He looked at me strangely and then pointed to the tin cup in front of from man across from us. I nodded. He pointed again. I then took the pitcher of water, poured it into the cup and drank the luke-warm liquid. I asked Imad if he wanted some and handed him the cup and pitcher. This meal wasn’t for the prudish or agoraphobics but I loved every second of it. It was the first time I have actually felt 100% culturally immersed… and that I’ve been able to put my elbows on the table without getting stabbed with a fork by my mother.

The day of no pants

Today I spent most of the day without pants and horizontal. Now before all of you get too excited, no, I didnt meet a lucky Moroccan girl. Unless if by a lucky Moroccan girl you mean a gastrointestinal food born illness. Using my keen investigative skills Ive narrowed it down to a list of four foods.
1)The salad in Montpellier, although a while ago, Debbie too got food poisoning two days ago, so this would lead me to believe something we ate together caused it. The only thing we both ate that could have caused it (in my opinion) was that salad.
2)The taboule I made yesterday. Yesterday I made a rediculous amount of Taboule (couscous salad). Something about it didnt quite seem right, I thought it was my cooking but it could have been any number of the raw vegetables that I bought from the market in bir chifae.
3)The squid. This is like the butler in a scooby doo episode: I'd be crazy not to expect it. But it seems too easy
4)The tap water. I've been drinking from the tap water since we got here, but I really hope its not this because I am under no circumstances buying bottled water for all of my aquias intake.

Either way this gave me a good day of semi-relaxation. I managed to pick myself up off the floor for dinner (my first meal of the day). I needed something familiar, so I allowed myself to go to what Fenna said was the best hamburger joint in Tangier. It was very very good. I went for the "all the way" which included grilled eggplant and a fried egg (although he broke the yoke intentionally making more of a scrambled eggs patty which defeats the whole purpose of putting an egg on a burger in my opinion).


I walked around a little more and discovered a really cool street I want to explore more thoroughly. Just as I was about to turn back I spotted a section of street carts. I bought some delicious fresh orange juice (which was served in a glass and consumed right on the spot [usually while discussing Moroccan soccer but my inadequate Darija turned this into stand around as everyone else discusses Moroccan soccer while you look like an awkward foreigner.]) I almost ordered up a big bowl of snails (for a measly 7 durham) but I decided to save it for another day. I gave myself one day, but tomorrow Im going back into my mostly "weird stuff" diet. Im going to be once bitten, an twice..... well bitten again.