Fes to San Francisco

The last days in Morocco, before heading to the States for a 3-month stay, were filled with organization and anticipation. I packed all my clothes and personal belongings into one small room to make a 4th room available for sleeping. The house looked great and it was so gratifying to see every room in the house in use and cleaned. I actually felt very proud of myself as I looked at the totality of the house and recalled all the work it has taken to get it to this stage.

The heat was on and Hassan and I spent the last few days at Hotel Reda where they have a great, natural spring swimming pool and poolside food and drink service. Hardly anyone was at the pool as it was the first day of the season and the water was sparkling clean. In the evening, a group of musicians came with dancers and played until late in the night. It was so relaxing to be by the pool and have the ability to climb the stairs up to an air-conditioned room when the sun was at its highest. It was the one and only time Hassan and I agreed on hotel accommodations. Usually he thinks my choices are too posh and I think his choices are too, well, too 'limited' for my tastes and comfort. Finally, after 3 years, we agreed on something!

On Saturday afternoon, at 5:00 we headed up to Casablanca to the airport. A friend of Hassan's accompanied us so he would have some conversation and driving help on the return trip to Fes. We arrived at the airport in good time (3 hours before the flight) and only one near-death driving experience only to find the flight was delayed an hour. Oh well, nothing to do but wait so I urged Hassan to return to Fes and the comfort of Hotel Reda where he and his friend would spend Sunday at poolside.

No problems at all with the long travel to San Francisco. Just the reality of the fact that my connections were far between and I spent as much time waiting in airports as I did actually flying to my destination. That, plus the fact that the seats are far too small and a little bit like torture and I had 30+ hours of transit time. I finally arrived in San Francisco where my friend, Mary, was waiting for me with "WELCOME HOME EVELYN" sign in hand. I cried a few brief tears of gratitude and relief that I had arrived back in my favorite place in all the world.


Bacon and toast the next morning. What a lovely smell and even more heavenly taste. Champagne at dinner. Mixed green salad. Conversation. Phone calls where I can talk as long as I like. Well wishes from friends who know I have arrived, sitting in front of the television with a box of Wheat Thins on my lap. All so comforting and familiar.

Making the Morning Rounds

I opened my door this morning to go to a few local shops for breakfast items. As usual, the first thing I did was sweep the debris the street cleaners left in front of my door. This is the only place I know of where street cleaners deposit dirt at your doorstep rather than take it away. Oh well. I must say, great care seems to have been taken to ensure it is evenly distributed.

After tidying up a bit, I took the short walk to the end of my street. I greeted the egg man. Once again, he is fostering a young chicken. She struts around his shop, pecking at anything and everything on the ground. Once she’s grown and fattened up, she will inevitably become part of a tagine or couscous.

Hakima was lolling around on the ground, as she does every morning. Sometimes she is sitting upright but I gather the heat is depleting her considerable strength. Hairy legs sticking straight out, plastic bags of food and ‘God-only-knows-what’ surrounding her and eyes keeping tabs on everyone who passes, Hakima is a fixture on Derb Ben Salem. I, however, keep my distance from her ever since she tried to poke my eyes out one day when I tried to retrieve the 50 dirham note that fell out of my pocket and which she deftly snatched into her hands. We keep the peace by ignoring one another now.

I turned left onto Talaa Kbira. A lot of the shops won’t open as it is Friday. Those manning the stores were dressed in white to honor this holy day of the week. Wares were being displayed, tea was being poured, and the sounds of Koran recitations filled the air.

I continued down the road to Malika’s shop where I bought some coffee and water. We exchanged our standard greetings and money changed hands. When her father is there, it is necessary to speak very loudly as he is partially deaf and you must be very patient as he peers at each coin handed over to him and makes change. His sight is rather dim and making change takes a little bit of time.

Next, there was a stop for pastries around the corner on Derb Tariana. An old man dressed in a galabah was leaning against the counter and greeted me. I returned the greeting in Arabic. A long, one-sided conversation ensued -- in Arabic. I nodded at what I thought were the appropriate pauses in the ‘conversation’ and took my leave after buying 5 petite pain au chocolate.

I passed a friendly young Moroccan man who always says hello and tells me it’s nice to see him (he could use a little help with his pronouns). He offered me some of his deep fried donuts which he carried on a circle made from a strip of bamboo stalk. I wanted one (they are delicious) but graciously declined his generous offer.

The man who sells light bulbs greeted me, as did the simsar who lives on my street. The simsar was walking with some tourists and greeting a foreigner like me gives him extra credibility. I know this but take the friendly ‘hello’ at face value.

Back to my house. I open the door and close out the world on the streets. I have my coffee, pastries and computer to occupy me until it’s time to prepare for school. Inside, my world is clean, organized, un-peopled and calm. I look at the calendar on my refrigerator …

… in two weeks I will leave for Casablanca and from there, after a 2-day visit of the city, will board a plan to the U.S. for the summer.

I wonder … will I miss the color and the chaos? Or will I revel in the familiarity of the world I grew up in?

Colorful or Contemptible?

Seems to me that the answer to this question is the key to my own peace of mind. – or lack thereof. If I can answer ‘colorful’ I am much happier and accepting. If I answer ‘contemptible’ I am in for a lot of suffering. It’s my choice. As is everything in life I suppose.

So I practice finding the color in situations that give me a start. Here are a few examples of finding the color (sometimes a light tint) in everyday occurrences.


#1 The Man With the Slashed Face

The other day I opened my door to see a man walking past with blood streaming down his face. As I unabashedly followed his progress down the street, I noticed his right ear lobe was flapping and barely hanging on to rest of his ear. Apparently, a neighbor had ‘punished him’ for some insult (or worse) to his wife.

Color it “Expedient Justice”.

The two men had a problem with each other. The aggrieved party could have pressed charges with the police and sent the aggressor to jail. But a quick knife slashing settled the score and the slashed party now has a ‘badge of courage’ in the form of new scars which some young men here seem to covet.

#2 Litter, Litter Everywhere

There is a lot of foot traffic on my street and children come and go many times a day … either for school, to run errands or play in the street. These youngsters are the major contributors to the trash that accumulates everyday. They unwrap their candy, cakes and cookies and just throw the trash on the ground. Of course there isn’t any receptacle for them to use so the wrappers end up being discarded ‘in the moment’.

Color it “Opportunity”.

Because there is trash (and more) on the streets every single day, it creates jobs which must be performed every single day. This keeps people employed and feeling useful. Also, if someday, someone wishes to educate the children about the joys of environmental friendly practices, there is a big need to be fulfilled here offering yet another job opportunity which will serve generations to come.

#3 Donkeys, Carossas, Motorcyles & Other Impediments

Walking through the medina is an exercise in navigating an obstacle course. One needs to keep an eye on the ground for open holes, animal dung and uneven pavement so as to avoid a twisted ankle or redolent footwear. And there are also the obstacles created by machinery, handmade conveyances, trains of donkeys, mules with oversized loads on their backs walking downhill, and masses of people.

Pedestrians come barreling out of a side street without looking, stop unexpectedly with you right on their heels, and aimlessly veer right and left making it impossible to pass. And then there are the herds of tourists following a guide through their tour of the medina. They take up all the space, stop without warning to take photos and generally behave with blithe ignorance of the fact that most of the people traversing the medina are trying to get some where or accomplish some task. And my all-time favorite is two women, each holding one handle of an overstuffed bag, walking side-by-side. They unerringly expand the space they occupy at the very moment when an opportunity to pass them arises, thereby making it impossible to go around them.

Color it “Developing Dexterity”

In order to get from here to there in the medina, it’s necessary to keep good “eye/foot” coordination and be ready to stop and adjust in an instant. This is excellent practice for cultivating quick thinking and even quicker action when responding to an endless array of obstacles. It also helps cultivate mental dexterity for it helps immensely to tint the situation with tolerance and patience for the flow of life before you. I like to look at the traffic in the medina like a river. The obstacles are the boulders in the river and I am the water that must meander or rush around it in order to keep flowing in the direction I want to go.

#4 Give Me …

… a dirham, a pen, a cigarette, 200 dirham. Everyday I get asked to give something. Or lend something. But I’ve learned I must be prepared to part with the requested item forever when someone asks me for a loan. It’s not that the person doesn’t intend to pay me back when they make the request. I believe they do. But often they just can’t … otherwise they wouldn’t be asking for it in the first place.

People knock on my door, grab my arm when I am passing in the street, and follow me for a short while as I am traverse the street of the medina and the new town and beg my favor for something.

Color it “Count Your Blessings”

I come from one of the wealthiest areas in my country. When I am there, I am the one without. Most people where I come from have more money and more holdings than I could ever dream of possessing. Here in Fes, I am the one who has more than most. And even though I barely have enough money to cover my own modest expenses, I do try to remember each day that I have what I need and I remind myself to be grateful.

#5 Being “Strange”

I am a stranger here. People stare and comment because I am different in look, attitude, clothing and experience. I am ‘other’ and that calls forth a host of responses; curiosity, contempt, envy, pity, interest, indifference, delight and more. It runs the gamut.

Color it “Compassion and Understanding”.

I now know what it feels like to be a stranger in a strange land. So many people in my own country have been in this position and I’ve never really understood what they deal with day in and day out. I have a newfound compassion for foreigners and expats. Also, I am now deeply aware of my own thoughts when they head in a negative direction and with this awareness I am able to work on turning those thoughts around to something beneficial to me and to my fellow human beings.

More than Homesick

I miss my friends.

Two of the four friends expected last month made it to Fes, despite the air traffic mayhem following the volcanic eruption (the first one, that is). I was so lucky half the party made it and their visit was a needed tonic.

But then again, their visit highlighted something missing in my life ... good friends with whom I share some history. Ever since they left I have been full of wishes to return home to California. I struggle every day with my dissatisfaction about my life here and have to work hard to acknowledge the good things about my life in Morocco.

But there are, indeed, lots of pleasures that fill my day. Many of them are very small moments, but that doesn't mean they aren't full of meaning and good medicine.

The sticky kisses bestowed upon me by the neighborhood children and the ritual of greetings from each and every person I encounter as I walk through the streets let me know I am alive and acknowledged. And the offerings of a prayer on my behalf, the small treats from the shops that I frequent, and the invitations to tea remind me that Fes won't leave me alone. And for me, a person who can be rather reclusive and introspective, that's often a good thing for it forces me to interact and cross a cultural divide that is all too easy judge.

And then there are the big things that jar my sensibilities and continually knock me off balance. Like the recent debacle with the tourist police (who, by the way, refused to let my husband take my friend's niece through the medina the following week even though we registered her presence in our home with the police upon her arrival). And petty thievery from people I know, the unending absence of job opportunities for my husband, and, and, and.

And while I miss the comraderie of my longtime friends and I miss my country, I am willing to acknowledge that it's the new and the challenging experiences in life that afford me with the best opportunities for personal and spiritual growth.

But I can't help but wonder ... have I grown enough? Can I go home now?

Being Philosophical

Before the eruption of the volcano in Iceland (I’m not even trying to remember its name, yet alone how to pronounce it) there was a plan in place for four lovely friends from San Francisco to converge at my home for a weeklong visit in Fes. We haven’t seen each other for two years. They were coming from points in America and Europe and were expected to have been happily ensconced in my house by mid-afternoon. After I arrived home from school (around 6:30) I had planned to take them to an art exhibit in a Batha riad.

But, disappointedly, it’s nearly 8:00 and I am sitting at home without any visitors. And I can forget about the art exhibit because I am on standby mode and must let time metamorphasize.

One friend never made it out of San Francisco. Another is stuck in Italy until Tuesday (that leaves 3 or 4 days to visit). The last I heard (via a Blackberry email this morning) the remaining 2 were on their way from Barcelona, even though 75% of the flights had been cancelled. I had sent a driver to pick them up at their scheduled arrival time at midday, but received a call at 1:30 that the first flight was cancelled (I already knew this) and the second flight was in reportedly in Marrakech; its arrival time was unannounced. I haven’t heard anything since and am wondering where my friends are.

As much as I wanted to see all my friends, it’s surprisingly difficult to get too worked up about the situation. After all, as disappointing and frustrating as it is, there are so many bigger problems caused by this volcanic eruption. I just can’t help but see the irony that it’s all happening around Earth Day and I can’t help feeling that I am bearing witness to something so much bigger than me and my little life here on this planet.

Yes, I dearly want to see my friends. And yes, I am saddened that they aren’t here right now -- and some cannot come at all. And yet, I am in awe of the force of nature and know I will find more peace if I just submit to her power and accept what comes.

Cafe Clock

I often say that if it weren’t for Café Clock, I wouldn’t still be here in Fes. It’s no secret that I’ve had a great deal of difficulty here and yesterday was one of those days when I would have given anything to just pack up and leave. I was fed up. Again!

As so often happens when I have a meltdown, I still had to pull myself together and go out into the world to work. I guess that’s because I work everyday … either teaching, or giving dance lessons, or doing writing assignments or working on some project related to the house.

I did my best to put on a composed face and went to The Clock for an appointment to interview someone for their blog (I write most of the articles on www.cafeclock.com). I sat down at a table, plugged in my computer and ordered a coffee. But I wasn’t able to hold my composure and I felt the tears coming on. Luckily, this was before my appointment arrived and in an unobserved moment with Max, Café Clock’s head domo. Max was full of warmth and compassion and gave me the strength to carry on.

Support comes in such a variety of forms from the people who work there and from my fellow expats who frequent the café. The café owner, Mike Richardson, is always giving me interesting projects to do or distracting me with his endless energy and head full of plans for a new project. Often, we work out a trade for food. This is wonderful for me because I don’t cook. I know how to cook; I just don’t do it. It’s not one of my talents nor is it one of my interests. So this plan works out great for me. Especially since the café is only a block from my house.

When I’m feeling lonely on a Sunday evening, there is always a concert to attend. The same goes for Wednesday evenings where a jam session is always underway. Inevitably I go alone to these events but also sooner or later someone I know comes in and keeps me company or greets me with warmth that fills a hole in my heart.

When I need a ladder or extra seating for guests or glasses for a gathering, Café Clock is there to help. They send me belly dance students and introduce me to interesting people who I get to interview for the blog. I get free wifi and effusive greetings upon my arrival and all manner of love and support every time I go there. Souad, who works in the kitchen, calls me “the flower of Café Clock”. A great photographer willingly photographs my house for nothing; people ask for my advice and offer some in return. Contacts are made, friendships are formed and English is widely spoken. And all this is just a few steps from my doorway and away from the curious eyes and the wagging tongues that are always present in Fes. Café Clock is truly an oasis for me and a tonic that never fails to soothe me.

Living in a culture that’s so different from the one I grew up in is an endless lesson for me. I must confess I sometimes feel like I am punishing myself with the hardships that I naively arranged for myself and with my inability to find balance when the cultural differences are so extreme. But in my more lucid moments I realize I am becoming a better person for unearthing the differences, looking them straight in the eye and being willing to bear witness to my own prejudices (which I previously thought were nonexistent) and I always make a conscious attempt to dispel the negative thoughts. And Hamduliallah I have a place to go where I feel welcome and supported and appreciated as I struggle with myself to broaden my perspectives and self-correct.

The Monthly Marjane Shopping Trip

Once a month I go to a superstore here called Marjane where I load up on cleaning supplies, paper products, beauty products and some foodstuff. Occasionally I purchase something I’ve been wanting for a while … like a vacuum cleaner or a chauffage to heat the house. I also routinely buy myself a treat like any cheese that isn’t “La Vache Qui Rit” and crackers, or a medium-sized bag of peanut M&M’s (which never seem to remain unopened during the taxi ride home).

I always try to go when the store isn’t crowded because I don’t really like to shop at superstores and I prefer to get in and out as quickly as I can.

But that’s not always possible.

One deterrent to my swift shopping is the products themselves. I rarely recognize a brand name and rarely purchase brands I know because they cost a lot more. So I find myself peering at labels in French and Arabic trying to sort out if it’s the product I need. I look at the pictures and try to recognize some words. Cleaning products pose the biggest challenge.

Another deterrent is the store is constantly changing the layout. Paper napkins used to be in the front isles but now all paper products are in the back along with other household goods. Summer patio furniture now occupies the space previously devoted to kitchen utensils.

The merchandise is haphazardly priced and even then you can’t trust that the price on the product is what you will be charged at the register. And woe to the shopper who picks up a product without a bar code. Try to purchase it at the register and you’re in for a lengthy wait while someone ambles over to the register, looks quizzically at the product, then saunters off to search for its location. If you are extremely lucky, they will find another with the required sticker. More often than not you are told the product can't be located and it’s impossible for you to purchase it today. Then the cashier sets it aside.

I don't like hypermarches.

Some people like to ‘shop’ at Marjane and fill their cart to the brim with anything and everything that catches their fancy. Then they just walk away, leaving the full cart in the middle of an aisle, creating a kind of obstacle course for those actually intending to purchase the contents of their shopping cart. This seems to be a kind of leisure activity.

And while there are plenty of employees wandering around stocking shelves and arranging displays, and putting things back from overfilled and abandoned shopping carts, they aren’t very useful if I have a question about a product. To begin with, I can’t communicate with them as I can only speak a few words and phrases in Arabic -- and my French is not much better. When I do manage to get my point across, the employee generally tells me to buy what I am asking about -- or not.

After getting through all this and filling my plastic bags with my purchases, there is still the challenge of finding a taxi and schlepping the twenty-some-odd bags to my door. Of course I could always hire a carossa to wheel my purchases home when I emerge from the taxi at Bab Boujloud, but there never seems to be one handy. So I distribute the weight of the bags as evenly as possible and race down the derb before the circulation to my hands is cut off.

Once home, I survey my purchases. Invariably I have spent 1,000 DH. I see before me a relatively small display of products for the cash outlay … mostly over-packaged, brand name knock-offs and some cheaply made products from China.

I am relieved that my monthly shopping foray is over as I put everything in its proper place and sit down to finish the bag of M&M’s.