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.