My Unfortunate Marrakesh Diet

From Marrakesh

Marrakesh (also sometimes spelled Marrakech) is a hot, dusty city.  Much bigger than Essaouira, it has a sultry, Arabian nights type of feel.  Although Essaouira is reportedly more laid back than other cities, we found Marrakesh to almost be refreshing.  (Almost, because the scooters zipping past you within inches of your body in the narrow medina streets, leaving a trail of exhaust, would tax anyone’s nerves after long).  Perhaps we preferred Marrakesh because there are more people to hassle, so the focus is shifted off of you.  People are hustling about the medina and villa nouvelle (outskirts of the city) doing their own thing, whereas in Essaouira one gets the sense that the tourist and fishing industries keep the city afloat.  That’s not to say that there is not a lot of energy devoted to tourists in Marrakesh – you can tell from the flowers lining the road to the airport, the snake charmers in the main square, and the thousands of people wanting to sell you something.

Jem Al Fnaa is the heart of the city.  It is the giant main square locals called “The Big Square” in heavily accented English, as in, “Monsieur, the Big Square is this way.  Do you need help, Monsieur?  Come look in my shop.  I’ll give you a nice price.”  It is alive at all hours of the day, but particularly at night.  Hundreds of people mill about.  There are fresh orange juice stalls, nut stands, grills, henna artists, snake charmers, musicians, monkeys, donkeys, and men praying in every direction.  At one end of the square, there is a maze of souks selling everything under the sun, including underwear.  It was also a nice change of pace to get out of the main part of the medina, where we wandered around the city’s colorful gardens and former Jewish school, and made use of the cyberpark.

Everyone says you need a calm, peaceful oasis when staying in Marrakesh, and we found that to be true.  We stayed at Riad Argan, a riad run by a French couple with the most gracious hospitality.  The riad centered around an open courtyard with a plunge pool, with rooms above on the balconies.  At about $140 a night, the riad was a splurge for us, but well worth it.

Unfortunately, our visit to Marrakesh did not end well.  Although we have been enjoying the tagines and cous cous dishes, something we ate gave us food poisoning, me in particular.  I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that it was a very long last night in Marrakesh.  On the plus side, I think my pants are too big again, but I much prefer the Parisian diet.

So Runs the World Away

Today is a happy day. Josh Ritter and the Royal City Band (now fully named!), my absolute favorite band, released their new album So Runs the World Away today.

As per usual, it is fantastic. One listen in, my favorite song appears to be Southern Pacifica, but I find that often times deeper meanings and appreciations open up upon repeated listenings. If you like your lyrics with meaning and layers, and your music to accentuate and enhance, you’ll want to check out Josh Ritter and the Royal City Band. You’ll find that each of their albums are unique, and this one is no different. (P.S. to the Pittsburgh folks: they are playing at Diesel on May 18).

It seems So Runs the World Away is getting rave reviews from others besides me. You can stream the entire album, at least for now, at NPR’s website.

It doesn’t hurt that this was the backdrop to my first listen to the album, but I assure you that you’ll appreciate Josh’s music any where in the world.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Paris anymore.

On April 26, we bid our friend Matt and the comforts of Paris adieu and flew to Essaouira, Morroco: a new city, new country, new continent.

We didn’t so much land in Morocco as we were hurled into Morocco.  It was as if the pilot suddenly thought, oh crap, here’s our destination, and pointed the plane straight down, straightened out in time to barrel down the runway, and slammed on the brakes when he ran out of road.  As soon as the plane screeched to a halt, and everyone wiped the shock off their faces, the passengers exchanged glances, with thoughts like, So how about that?  We’re still alive.

Our arrival was symbolic of our time in Essaouira.  Along with two Parisian girls, we took a taxi from the airport (which consisted of one runway, a customs office, and…well, that’s about it) to the medina of Essaouira.  In many Moroccan cities, the heart is still within their medinas, and Essaouira is no exception.  A medina is a section of the city enclosed and surrounded by walls, with souqs (shops) and riads (buildings with an internal courtyard) tucked inside.

Located on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, Essaouira is famous for its fierce winds, which were exacerbated by the taxi driver’s insistence upon driving what felt like 100 mph.  Sean and I once had a wild cab ride in New York City, where a driver got us across town in about 3 minutes flat, but the Moroccan cab driver made the NYC cabbie’s style seem more akin to a Sunday drive with your grandparents.  The Moroccan cab driver insisted upon being first on the roads, which apparently required getting about an inch away from the other cars, trucks, horses, and scooters, and then whipping around them on the left.  I’m told by Sean, who was sitting in the front, that we passed rows of other cars completely blindly.  I wouldn’t know, because I was too busy ducking in the backseat to hide from the wind belting through the open windows.

From Essaouira

Even though we negotiated a 10 euro fare with the driver at the airport, upon arrival, he insisted we owed him more.  We insisted we didn’t, and considering we had no more Euros, we prevailed.  We also didn’t have any dihrams, the Moroccan currency.  We gave an American five to the cabdriver, who finally accepted it and drove away.  We entered the medina, without any dihrams and without a complete map.  He doesn’t speak the language…he holds no currency…

We’re told by our guide book that Essaouira is more laid-back than other Moroccan cities.  If that’s true, we’re screwed.  As we wandered through the medina, trying to find our hotel, I laughed, recalling how we felt so disoriented in a French bakery only two weeks before.  A bakery, for crying out loud.  With our confused looks and backpacks, we attracted touts wondering if we needed a place to stay?  Directions to our hotel?  Good price on spices/pottery/carpets/shoes?  Even if we wanted any of those things, we did not yet have any dihram, because there was no currency exchange or ATM at the “airport.”  Sean’s attempts to exchange money in advance failed because dihrams are a closed currency, which means they cannot leave the country.  One man was particularly insistent, and followed us for at least ten minutes.  We tried ignoring him.  We tried telling him directly, no thanks. Neither approach worked.  Every time we thought we lost him, he popped up again, saying, Hello.  Bonjour.  Sure you don’t need a place to stay?  It is very nice.  I will give you a good price. At one point, behind us but hurrying along to stay by our side, he started spouting off in Italian.  You know Italian?  I know Italian.  [Insert random Italian here].  See, I know Italian.  Fuggetaboutit!

I’m not sure how we finally lost him, but when we finally found our hotel, exhausted, sweating, I was shaken.  Not scared, but anxious.  The feeling remained for two days straight.  Although I read countless blogs, talked to various people, read many guidebooks, nothing can quite prepare you for this.  The touts are more persistent and more aggressive in real life than I ever thought.  I have no idea who to trust, because I assume everyone wants something.  The smell – oh the smell – is more constant, more putrid, and more disgusting than I ever imagined.  The sight of the stray cats around every corner makes me sad.  At first, I am charmed by them, until I realize that most of them are sickly and mangy and look like a cat a friend once nicknamed Death.  The sight of people – really, really poor people – begging you for what amounts to about 10 cents is harder to ignore than I think I can stand.  I feel overwhelmed, and for one of the first times since leaving work, I get a migraine.  The thought creeps in, way in the back of my mind, that maybe this isn’t so great after all, and maybe, just maybe, we aren’t cut out for this.

But then I see tourist families, with small children skipping down the street, who are relaxed and having fun.  I see friendly people, whose whole lives depend on the tourist economy, who warmly tell us, welcome.  I remember that I am fortunate to grow up in a country like the United States, and that real, actual people live here, every day.  I start getting used to our surroundings, and by the third day, I don’t feel so anxious anymore.  I begin enjoying certain aspects of Essaouira, such as the bustle at the busy working harbor or the flocks of seagulls, who fly gracefully through the sky above the water.  The seagulls fly in tandem.  They are inches away from us, close enough to see their wings outstretched and feet tucked up behind them.  We ride camels named Cappuccino and Zerban on the beach.  We chat with a fishmonger over lunch, which consists of fish caught less than an hour before and grilled in front of us.  During lulls in business, we hear him singing, If you liked it you shoulda put a ring on it… We walk along the beach, and watch the soccer games playing out on the sand.  We enjoy our dinners, the first at a restaurant with a French influence, the second traditional Moroccan, or the third in what could have been a funky loft in Soho.  We enjoy the solace of our room, especially once we upgrade to one with a view of the ocean crashing against the rocks.

We’re in Marrakesh now.  I’m happy to report that our rattled nerves in Essaouira must have been a combination of adjusting to travelling in a completely foreign land and something about Essaouira not being for us, as we both got an instant good feeling about Marrakesh.  More on Marrakesh to come…