Oh Atlanta, I hear you calling….

I spent five weeks in the US with my family. It’s funny because over that time there would have been great things to blog about, like seeing a large portion of my family that I haven’t seen in years, like watching two people simultaneously forgive and love each other, like seeing the joy that an infant can bring, or like having to say goodbye. But of course, when life is that interesting, sadly, a blog seems to be last thing on my mind.

Now, however, I’m back in Marrakesh sitting in my apartment listening to the sounds of the Moroccan streets below me. Mostly they are pretty normal sounds only distinct because of the language spoken. The catering company across the street constantly has trucks pull in and out with a new load of chairs and pastries for yet another party somewhere in the city. The community guardians get together to have tea and talk about the latest news unless someone in their building requires assistance. It’s about to be lunch time, so groups of kids are coming home chattering about whatever it is that middle-schoolers talk about–boys, probably. While I sit here in my apartment, and honestly, think of Atlanta. 

It’s funny what going home for 5 weeks can do to you. For me, I became comfortable again. I started to forget the little intricacies of my Moroccan life, and just fell into the defaults of my old one. I mean, I think that’s normal. It’s hard to be dodging traffic on I-75 and simultaneously think about how hard it is to get change for a 200 dirham bill (financially equivalent to about $20) when paying for a cab. Granted, it would essentially be like paying for a stick of gum with a $20. Still, that’s what ATMs give you! People should have change…

I also got use to things like sweet tea, coffee in a to-go cup, and mexican food. I remembered that I could actually speak a language well, and most people around me aren’t automatically trilingual. I also realized that traffic lights and road lines are not just a suggestion, and most people are actually driving Miss Daisy. It’s funny what you notice when you go home. The big stuff doesn’t ever really surprise me. I know how tall the buildings are and how much traffic there is during rush hour on 285. I could never forget that as long as I lived, but the sound of thunder on a warm spring night or the light of the firefly at dusk are things that I re-experience every time I go home.

And now, back across the ocean, I realize the other intricacies that I had so easily forgotten. I am again awed by the sound of the call to prayer as the sun sets over the red city. I am touched by the kindness of a Moroccan stranger and reminded the joy that a simple (sometimes toothless) smile can bring. And I am again enticed by the smell of freshly squeezed orange juice, sold en masse at orange stands for only 50 cents a cup.

To me that’s the beauty of traveling, or the aesthetic of lostness–the ability to re-experience beauty and to continuously feel that excitement for the little things  in life. It’s what gets me through the day when I miss my family and all that coffee in to-go cups.

Being a tourist in Morocco

So, I moved to Marrakesh.

I know my posts lately have been sparse at best, but I suppose life got a little out of control. For one, I didn’t realize that moving myself, my motor, and my cat to basically the other side of the country would be as big of an ordeal as it turned out to be. I know, I know. Foresight is a bitch.

Either way, I am in Marrakesh. 

I have been for a week now. It’s funny because life in Fez had gotten to be equally overwhelming and equally rewarding. I had become a Fessi. I know the streets of the Medina like a Fessi, and I knew exactly where to shop, for everything. 

Now, I must learn about Marrakesh.

A friend of mine came to visit for the weekend, and of course, we toured the Marrakchi Medina. I had to use a map. I had to wonder into shops where I didn’t know the owner and gasp at items that were more expensive and lesser quality than those at my tried-and-tested Fessi places. I had to deal with the ‘welcome to Morocco’s and the ‘where are from’s more than I have to in months. 

I guess, I am a tourist in Marrakech.

In the medina, there is a main square called Djemma El Fna, which is ‘the Morocco that people come to Morocco for’ as one friend put it. There are snake charmers, fortune tellers, woman that do henna, and the best fresh squeezed orange juice you can find for less than a euro. It crawls with this orientalist lure that captivates most travelers and leaves them wondering if it in fact it was all a dream. A dream perfumed with incense and faded with time. It is the world of the ‘Moroccan’ where modernism only comes in the form of a credit card machine at the local tourist shop.

Really, I am a Fessi in Marrakesh.

My cynicism comes from my longing for Fez. I realized that I am looking for my spiritual haven within the snake charmer’s lute. I am looking for the beautiful mosques and religious schools that have been built on centuries of religious learning and spiritualism. I am looking for that Fessi hospitality where you can’t walk through the Medina without being offered tea at least 10 times by various friends.

The people of Marrakesh are different.

They are a fun loving people, where tourism is a livelihood that doesn’t damper their joyous spirits. In fact, it almost invigorates them. They seem to enjoy their own orientalism, and to them, Marrakesh is their dream where the foreigners are the spectacle and even awake, life is a party. 

Either way, welcome to Marrakech.

If the walls could talk….

It goes without saying that I haven’t written in a while. Actually, ‘a while’ is an under statement, as it has been almost two months. My time has been spent general living life and generally neglecting communication. Not to say that writing in my blog isn’t living life, but I have found that in the recent past I have spent more time on the streets of Morocco and less time behind my computer. All-in-all, I believe that I had made the right choice, and as time continued to pass, it seemed that after a month, one more day of not writing really did not matter. However, I do find this blog to be therapeutic and I enjoy the thought of a semi-captive audience to talk about my current passion in life: houses.

Although I have many interesting stories from the past few months to tell you, including my first ski trip to Ifrane, I have a greater desire to tell you about an aspect of my research. I think it’s because I am moving houses and in a month, I will be leaving Fez for Marrakesh, but I am beginning to feel like I should be wrapping things up and coming to some sort of conclusion. However, I have discovered with cultural research that there are no conclusions, maybe a few new ideas, and a lot of new questions, but never any real conclusions. Maybe that’s why I should have stuck to economics, but it’s too late now.

The history of the Fez is layered in the walls of its ‘old city’ – Medina. The 12,000 houses, the 9600 alley ways, and the countless fountains tell the lives of sultans, philosophers, artists, travelers from 1200 years of modern history. It is not the oldest city in Morocco – Moulay Idriss and Sefrou are two that can count themselves as older than Fez – but it is the oldest Imperial city and its Medina stretches across a greater distance than any other in Al-Maghrib. Fez was founded by Moulday Idriss II as a capital for a new empire that would soon stretch across Southern Europe and Northern Africa and would produce the famed Arab Philosopher Ibn Khaldoun, the world traveler Ibn Batouta, among others. Although in the future Fez would be abandoned for Marrakech, Meknes and finally Rabat as the political capitol of the Western Kingdom, it remains the cultural capitol of Morocco. In fact, in 2007 it was chosen as a capitol of Islamic Culture and during Ramadan, works of Islamic Art were shown throughout the city.

What makes Fez so special? What is about this city tucked in the Atlas Mountains that makes all of us stop and pass even a bit of our lives here?

I think the answer to this question is that Fez has something for every person, and that is what has appealed to people for 1200 years. For the farmer in the Atlas Mountains, Fez offers a place of rest and trade. A place to make a living and a metropolis with enough goods to supply his entire family. For the orientalist, Fez offers a city stuck somewhere in the Middle Ages. Tanneries that still use traditional pigeon feces to die leather and tile factories that haven’t changed in 10 generations. For the religious scholar, Fez is the ultimate penacle of study. An opportunity to learn in the halls of the Qaraouyyine, where countless religious leaders (including Popes) have spent hours analyzing Islamic scripture. For the wanderer, Fez offers a welcoming community. The inner courtyard houses and the smiling Morocco mom ushering you in for couscous allow a break from worrying about the next step in life that we all must take.

Fez has a culture of refuge and protection. The famed Al-Qaraouyyine mosque and university were built in a district given that name for the people seeking refuge from a district sharing that same moniker in what is now Tunis. Al-Andalous is another area of the Medina where Muslims, fleeing persecution in Spain, found a home once again behind the Medina’s walls. The Mellah is the Jewish Quarter – an area under the explicit protection of the king where the vast society of Moroccan Jews could live peacefully beside their Muslim brothers. Now, those people are no longer around, and a majority of their descents have gone to other cities looking for better jobs, better schools, and better opportunities (a subject which I will discuss later). However, a welcoming and hospitable culture still grips the traditional Fessis that remain in the city.

If these walls could talk, they would surely tell you of the city’s impressive history. They would weave a tale tall enough to shame even the story tellers of the Marrakchi Djemma El-Fna, complete with victorious sultans, medieval artists, and confused foreigners. But in my opinion, before all of that, the first thing that these walls would say is, “Welcome.”

The Big Holiday

Yesterday passed the Eid Al-Kabir, lit. Big Holiday, for the entire Arab world. The holiday comes two months after Ramadan ends, and it symbolizes the sacrifice that Ambraham was going to make for God. The story is mostly the same in the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions except for the son to be sacrificed. The Jews and Christians say it was Isaac while the Muslims say it was Ishmael. Either way, the story is meant to emphasize the obdience of Abraham, and the holiday emphasizes the need for all to follow in his footsteps. However, as with all religious holidays and practice, the primary meaning and the execution of it are all very different.

In order to follow in the footsteps of Abraham, every Muslim family is supposed to sacrifice a sheep on the Eid. The day is similar to the Christian Christmas in the sense that the entire country comes to a stop–presents are given and money is spent where it has not been earned. The week leading up to the Eid, it became clear that Moroccans were getting more and more stressed about this very large holiday. Eid-begging is very common, and most people started off with “please give me money so that my family can buy a sheep.” Normal street-side vendors, who usually sell off-brand clothing and random house goods, had an overabundance of kinves and cleaning tools. Marjane (the hyper market) had set up a large tent to sell sheep, and they were even going to give away 100 sheep on the Eid. (The tradition is that a family that is weathy enough should buy two sheep and give one to another less fortunate family, but I did not hear of a single person doing that.)

If you can’t tell my tone is a little cynical about the holiday. Although I understand the importance in the Muslim tradition, it is hard for me to get behind anything that sanctifies the mass-killing of any animal. Furthermore, it only emphasizes which families are wealthy and which ones are not. My parking attendant had a goat in the back of his little truck, and all I could think was, “He must not have enough money for a sheep.” I actually felt bad for him. Normally, I try not to think in terms of wealth because then I feel overly responsible due to my converted income, but it is hard not to when such importance and pride is placed on the owning of a sheep.

My landlord invited me over to his house to watch the sacrifice and partake in the internal organs of their sheep.We watched the sheep meet it’s maker, and we laughed along with the family as the skinning process took place. Laughter was about the only emotion we could stomach between the river of blood and frying organs. We stomached it all not really because we agreed in it, but because we love our landlords and we wanted to respect their holiday.

There is something poetic about the concept that everyone that believes what you do is doing the same thing on the same day as you. It is as if action transcends locality and all people are one even if for only a short time and only with the words bismillah, in the name of God. In that moment all are equal, and the brother in the Nation of Islam, the royal Saudi Family, and Atlas Berber village are together as one. This is the beauty of Islam, the interconnectedness of it. There is something sacred in the unity, and even though I don’t always understand the impetus behind organized religion, I can respect any faith that strives for such connection and brotherhood.

A session of Moroccan thanksgivings

I know that I am a week late (and hence, probably 7 dollars short) but my Mom crossed an ocean to visit me, which means that the blog writing had to take a hiatus. I fully plan to detail her trip in a series of posts (because let’s face it, one long post is fairly daunting) but I intend to start from the very beginning: our Thanksgiving.

In my family, Thanksgiving has always been the really big holiday. It was the holiday where everyone gathered to eat food and generally comment on the growth and the progression of the grandkids, nieces, nephews, etc. The trials and tribulations of the past year would be rehashed, and yet somehow everything always ended in a laugh (maybe it was the beer, I don’t know…) There would always be the awkward first few days when I couldn’t remember half of the faces, but yet somehow everyone knew not only my name but also my entire life story. Then, there was that year when I finally got to sit at the big kids table, and I truly felt like a grown-up. (Yes, I know 18 definitely calls to mind the idea of an adult, but I was excited.) Granted, my family lives all over of the United States, so this very large reunion didn’t happen every year, but this is what I always think of when we say “Thanksgiving.”

This year, of course, I would be spending my holiday in Morocco. Therefore, when we combined Lufthansa’s fabulous one-day sale and Ryan Air’s always cheap tickets, we discovered that my Mom could fly to Morocco for less than $1,000 during this illustrious holiday. Granted, it wasn’t my entire family, but at least a small part of home could cross the Atlantic ocean.

She got here the night before Thanksgiving, so I’m sure a majority of her day was a blur of Jet Lag and way too many faces, but for me, it was one of the best Thanksgivings that I’ve ever had. The various American communities that I am part of in Fez decided to put on their version of Thanksgiving, which means that my mother and I partook in three different turkey-oriented festivities. The first was a potluck, where my mother was a huge hit, mostly because she brought the American staples: Jiffy cornbread mix and cranberries; both of which are impossible to reproduce in our Moroccan kitchens. The second was fancier set-menu kind of deal, where we enjoyed Quince and Apple pie and quite a lot of wine. The third was a small feast cooked entirely by a friend of mine on the following day (again my Mother was a hit because she brought the Stove Top.)

Although all three thanksgivings were fabulous and were perfect examples of people getting together to eat, drink, and enjoy in each other’s company, I am going to steal a story from the final Thanksgiving because it’s just too entertaining to pass up.

Here in Morocco, if you want meat of any sort, it is still quite normal to go to your local butcher and have it killed in front of you, especially when it comes to poultry. The concept of buying a back of frozen Purdue chicken breasts still escapes the majority of the population, except of course for the upper class. Either way, if you think about it, this is one of the most organic ways to eat an animal because it has a very open and healthy life until that final moment. Anyway, my friend (who cooked the entire thanksgiving by herself) bought a live turkey a few days before the event, in a typical Moroccan fashion. She lives on the top floor of an 8-story apartment, so she just kept the turkey on the roof, and the butcher would come by the day she needed. Until then, he had pretty free reign on the roof of this building, where he even had a little turkey pen.

Now, I have always wondered if  animals bred for consumption are aware when they are about to meet their maker, and this turkey gave me the answer. On the eve of Thanksgiving, he climbed on the ledge of this apartment building. The only other landing, besides the ground 8 stories away, was at least 150 m across the street and probably a 5 story drop down. He climbed down when my friend noticed his actions and went back into his turkey pen. The next morning, he had finished contemplating his options. Death was near and maybe those big wings could make the distance. Therefore, as my friend climbed onto the roof he climbed back onto the ledge. He took one final look at his would-be predator and set to flight.

Upon landing safely on the other ledge, said turkey finally grasped his freedom. In another bold move he flew to another nearby landing placing him and his captor even further away. My friend stood there and watched from the balcony until her Thanksgiving dinner was well out of sight.

Granted, another turkey was not so lucky because we will had a fabulous turkey dinner that night, but at least one very large bird had one thing to be thankful for this season: freedom.

Culinary adventures

One of the most interesting aspects of life after college is food. At school, I had a hot plate and a microwave, but a majority of my culinary activity was limited to Annie’s Mac & Cheese and Moroccan Mint Tea. Plus, we were forced to have a meal plan, which meant that the campus dining hall was my main source of sustenance. Now that I am theoretically an adult living in a very large house with a full kitchen and Annie’s is no where to be found, my cooking has needed to transcend to an entirely new level.

I actually taught myself to cook only 4 years ago. I use to be one of the delusional feminists who believed that learning how to cook only further perpetuated female stereotypes and men should be in the kitchen, dammit. Well, then I wised up and realized that cooking is a valuable skill and a life abroad will be without take-out Chinese and Annie’s. Therefore, one summer, when my leg was broken and productivity was out the window, I became best friends with Rachel Ray, Paula Dean, Giatta, and the rest of the food network crew in order to assuage my ineptitude at the stove.

Not only did I find that cooking is a fun and useful art, but I also discovered that I have a knack for it. Granted, I’m not about to open my own restaurant, but my culinary ability goes beyond reading the recipe on the back of the rice box.

Now, a large part of my life in Morocco has been to find new ways of cooking my favorite dishes and as well as discovering new ways to cook in general. Some of my recent dinners have been 7 vegetable couscous, falafel, carrot ginger soup, hamburgers, and my biggest success, french fries. Now, my latest food quest was to understand and hopefully master the pressure cooker. Every home-goods shop in Morocco has the few basic necessities in a Moroccan life: hammam buckets, plastic table cloths, couscous pots, tea kettles, and pressure cookers. As I own the former four items, I figured that I should finally try my hand at the latter.

Let me just say that I love pressure cookers. It has taken me at least two hours to cook even the simplest of meals in my Moroccan kitchen, and I am convinced it is the fault of the Butagaz as well as the need to do everything from scratch. I didn’t realize that pressure cookers actually reduce cooking time by at least a half and more in some cases a third! The water portions are still a little difficult to understand, but now I feel like a whole new world is open to me. Last night I made homemade chili, which was not only edible but also quite delicious. I think I am now going to use my pressure cooker for everything because let’s face it, I don’t want to wait two hours every day for food to cook.

It’s a little funny that I have technically been a Fulbright researcher for a week now, but my largest success has been homemade chili. I think the difference is that I didn’t realize how much time actually living takes up. You know, in college, everything was done for me. The dorm was cleaned, the food was made, and the schedule was set. Here, I have to do everything myself (well, except for the house cleaning, we hired someone), which means that life in and of itself takes more time and includes so much more than just studying. I love it, absolutely love it. Life exists besides school, who would have thought?

Crazy plans equal crazy fun

I ended last week the same way that I end most weeks here in Morocco, chill nights with friends yet no plans for a weekend adventure. My life here has been very sedentary (my previous excursion to Meknes not withstanding), and I did not expect the past weekend to be any different. However, when a friend came up to me and said, “You know, the great thing about a 12 hour train ride is that you know eactly what time you arrive!” I was instantly intrigued. She was referencing an insane idea to travel 12 hours south to see a conglomorant of Arab, American, and European artists play on the beach in a Moroccan resort town. My encampment in Fez has made this trip sound even more appealing than it already did, so at 3 am on Saturday morning I boarded the train with 5 friends on the road south.

14 hours and very little sleep later, we arrived in the town of Agadir. This is usually considered a resort town, as really the only thing to do their is surf and eat seafood, and as one man at the hotel aptly put it, if there is no sun there is no Agadir. You see, it has been raining almost non-stop in Morocco this fall. In fact, some people are saying this is the most rain Morocco has seen in over 30 years. Although this can be good for crops, this poses a serious problem for an outdoor concert. Therefore, when we finally made it to the hotel, the receptionist informed us that the concert was canceled.

Down trodden and tired, we went for a walk on the muddy beach, ate seafood, and tried to convince ourselves that it really was ok to travel 14 hours for a non-existent concert. However, during the cab ride back to the hotel, we were informed that the artists were gathered a the Sofitel (5-star hotel chain) to put on the concert anyway. Now imagine, a group of very tired and disshelved Americans (with muddy clothes) arriving at one of the nicest hotels in the city. Then imagine these same Americans entering said hotel without any problems and without having to pay a dime. Can’t imagine it? Yeah, neither can I. We ended up standing right next to the sound booth about 20 feet away from the stage, all-the-while looking around us and saying, “How did we get here??”

The concert itself took 7 hours because some odd 15 artists performed (including Enrique Iglesias, Daniel Powter, Pauline, Fnaire, Maryam Ferras, Sheryfa Luna, and a lot more), and it was put on by a Moroccan TV channel (hence the entire endeavor was very disorganized.) By the time we made it back to our hotel we only had two hours of sleep ahead of us before the beginning of our trek back to Fez.

I cannot explain how much fun the entire adventure was. It was one of those days that I’ll look back and say, “Huh? I can’t believe I did that.” I spent time with some really interesting people and saw some amazing international artists. Granted, there was a serious lack of sleep and way too much time on a train. But hey, that is why I said crazy plans = crazy fun, not crazy plans = lots of sleep. That is what nap time is for

A small victory

As a way to keep in shape and generally extend my world a little larger than the Fez Fulbright Sphere, I decided to start horseback riding again. Back in the day, I considered myself a competitive hunter jumper, but various injuries and life got in the way of ever fully realizing that dream. Either way, watching the 2008 Olympics re-inspired me and I decided to go on the look-out for a riding stable once I got settled in Fez.

Well, last session at ALIF (American Language Institute) I was in a class with one other American who just happened to be living in Morocco. It turns out that she is a French-American educated horseback riding instructor. What are the odds? I mean, really? Anyway, one day last month she took me and another Alif student out to the stable she teaches out for an introductory trail ride. I instantly fell in love.

The stable itself is situated about 10 minutes outside of town, where the backdrop is open fields and green mountains. The horses themselves are Arab-Berber mixes (a common thing in Morocco) and they are trained for trail rides, lessons, and shows (granted, not all of them are show, naturally). Lesson instruction can be in either French, Arabic, or English with French being the main method of communication, as it is in most upper-class forms of life. Our instruction, however, is in English, considering that we are all American.

Now, the last time I had a serious horseback riding lesson was almost four years ago, and rusty does not even begin to explain how I started the month of October. A simple trot-canter was painful and nerve-racking, and the thought of jumping sent uncontrollable shivers down my spine. However, my instructor was fabulous and patient, knowing the time would rebuild my muscles as well as my confidence. And yesterday, I actually successfully completed a double jump. A real proper double jump. Granted, they were only two foot high, I entered at a trot, and I still have a long way to go if I ever want to be competitive again, but no, I refuse to down play how exciting that was. For the first time in a very long time, I felt confident again, and I remembered exactly why I keep getting back on.

I’m beginning to think that certain activities are made for certain times in our lives. (Or well, at least my life.) I have always loved horseback riding, and I cannot talk about a period of my life without mentioning a horse of some kind, but yesterday made me realize that my riding has been lacking a certain mental and emotional maturity that seems necessary for a sport so dangerous (and refined ^_~). Yesterday’s small victory over those 2-foot jumps was also a small victory over whatever fear has been holing me back for the past 8-years. Plus, the adrenaline rush doesn’t hurt matters.

P.S. To plug my stable…there is also a guest house attached to the stable, so if you love riding and you’re coming to Fez I would recommend checking this place out. They are also willing to plan horseback treks through the Sahara and the Atlas mountains, so if you’re search of a different kind of Morocco vacation check out www.marocrandocheval.com

Good ole fashion fun, the hashuma way ^_~

So, I know I wrote here two days ago, but as I have no class (aka no homework) and today is one of those rainy, boring days, I figure I’ll update again. Plus, I did something interesting, which is more than I can say for most days when I just do the general routine. (Class, riding, Marley, cook.)

I have spent every night and day in Fez, Morocco for the past 6 weeks. I have not traveled outside the city except for once, to a small city named Sefrou for a few hours. Now, if you know me, then you know how stir crazy I can get. If you don’t know me, well, I get cabin fever like you would not believe. Therefore, I had decided to spend a majority of my long weekend (class ended Thursday) in Casablanca with some friends.

I LOVE Casablanca. Most tourists can’t stand the city because they expect a Hollywood Film, and they are sorely disappointed when they find a booming economic metropolis. This is the reason that I love it so much. It is a thriving, big city that doesn’t rely on tourism. There is great shopping, great food, and great fun that you could only find in a city that is as teeming with life as Casablanca. However, don’t go if you’re looking for some piece of what you think ‘the Moroccan Experience’ is because, trust me, you wont find it in Casablanca.

Anyway, I was geered up all week for this trip to one of my favorite cities in the country, when my friend called me and changed her plans. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was mildly relieved that she had done that because I knew that one weekend in Casa would blow all of my cash, and I still have to make this stipend last two more weeks. That being said, I knew that I still had to get out of Fez, even for a day. I just do not have a nesting personality in any way, shape, or form.

Therefore, I decided to take a little road trip to another Imperial City about an hour away called Meknes. (Imperial cities are cities that at one time where the capitol of Morocco. Each dynasty liked to have their own little twist, which usually included moving the capitol and building even more fabulous buildings than the previous guy.) So I hopped on my bike and went. Now, let me tell you, the 50 degree (Fahrenheit) and cloudy weather didn’t seem that bad in the city, but on the open highway, I could barely keep from shivering uncontrollably. However, my intense cabin fever and general determinedness didn’t allow me to stop or turn around. I braved the cold and made it to Meknes. (I also got a cold, but who is surprised about that one?)

I am now in love with Meknes. I actually went last year with a SIT trip, but I was terribly sick and with a group of 40 college students, so it was hard to be excited about this random city, especially when compared to the excitement of Fez. Plus, we only stopped for half a day, which is not long enough to see anything. Meknes is definitely calmer than Fez, but that is also because it does not rely on tourism in the same way. Tourists will come to Meknes for a few hours to see the Medina, but usually it’s just a stopover to Fez or Volubilis, an ancient Roman capitol. You have no idea how much a breathe of fresh air this is compared to Fez. Finally, I wasn’t a novelty to the Moroccan population. Most people either assumed I was Moroccan or another foreign student. There was no hassle. There were no faux-guides. There was quiet. The concept of a women wearing western dress didn’t illicit reaction from anyone in the street.

I originally went to see the Haras of Meknes. This is a Royal Breeding Stable and the largest stud farm in Morocco. It was pretty cool and beautiful. It’s not necessarily worth a trip just for that but if you’re in the area I say check it out.

After that I wondered around the Ville Nouvelle, where my hotel was. I did a little shopping , which included cheap set prices and good clothes–a real shocker compared to Fez. I had some great food (also cheaper than Fez), and went to a bar/nightclub/restaurant by myself as a woman and was not sketched out. This is a big deal. A huge deal. There are so many bars in Meknes (seriously, one on every corner) that it wasn’t as sketchy as it is Fez. Granted, a majority of them were for only men, but I found quite a few (the nicer ones, of course) where there were Moroccan women having fun and not prostituting themselves. In general, all the Moroccans were having fun. Good, healthy fun and not the binge-drinking-I’m-so-hashuma-so-I-have-to-go-overboard sort of way. (Hashuma is the catch all word for sin or bad things in society. It’s a noun and an adjective, and we use all the time. Mostly because it’s fun to say and almost everything about us as foreigners could be considered ‘hashuma’ to somebody.)

Because drinking is illegal for Muslims, most Moroccans consume alcohol in a really unhealthy way. Mostly, just consider how a 19 year-old with a fake ID drinks. The entire point is to get ridiculously drunk without any real consideration or care for taste or moderation. Most of us were that 19 year-old at some point in time (granted, some people still are…) but we all grew up and realized that drinking isn’t as exciting when it’s actually allowed. Well that and we realized that there is something else out there beside boxes of wine and cases of Natural Lite. Moroccans are never allowed that realization. Drinking is always bad. So, it’s seems as if there is a entire country of 19 year-old college students. Scary thought, isn’t it?

Let me give you an example. I love to cook with wine, I think it adds great flavor, especially to pasta. So, when I went to Acima, the grocery store, I did a little shopping and then went to the wine section to buy a bottle. You have to check out in the alcohol section if you’re buying anything of the sort, so naturally I saved this for last. I was literally the ONLY person in the line buying food, and I was the ONLY person with only one bottle in my hand. Most people had enough alcohol to send their livers into shock. However, I was the weird one. I was the one that was out of place and making everything awkward for everyone else. I was hashuma.

This really made me get to thinking. A part of this is because Fez is such a conservative city. Like I told you, there was good ole fashion healthy drinking in Meknes. (Hell, even one place had happy hour specials! Throw back to DC, man.) However, Meknes is a bit of a rarity, and I remember how tense alcohol purchases were in Rabat. It really makes me wonder how life was during the Prohibition Era. Now Jazz Lounges and Swing Music are cool, but it must have been so hashuma. So really, is prohibition of alcohol a necessary transition through cultural advancement or is it actually healthy? What is the impetus behind prohibiting alcohol? And why is that it becomes such an integral part of so many cultures?

The funny thing about all of this was that I didn’t even have a drink when I was in Meknes. I went to the bar/nightclub/restaurant because it was the only place where I could find good soup at 10 pm. The drive had me sick and tired, which caused my afternoon nap to extend into the night. Therefore, my selection of restaurants had become somewhat limiting. I guess my whole point is that I didn’t have a drink. I could if I wanted but it wasn’t necessary. Finally, I wasn’t hashuma either way.

Time flies, but can it also fall?

So I know that the phrase goes “time flies,” but that does not truly capture the movement of life through time. The verb ‘to fly’ implies zero acceleration, a constant velocity, a horizontal, albeit fast, movement through space. A bird flies, a plane flies, and even though there is acceleration and deceleration involved in the take off and landing, to me, flying consists of that constant movement through air. While time, once it begins its quickened pace, seems only to move with greater speed until that fateful moment when it collides with life, love, death. Therefore, it seems like time actually falls as our perception of it only seems to get faster and faster as we move through our lives.

I say this because it has been too long since my last post. Time truly got away from me as my semester ended and the pace of my life quickened. Nothing has intrinsically changed in my life here (well, except that I exchanged one roommate for another), but the sheer aspect that I have begun to settle has seemingly changed my perception of my movement. My research begins shortly, and instead of recanting my life from the past two weeks, which is merely a summary of too much Arabic and my first successful (horseback) jumping experience in two years, I will detail my ideas for my research as that commences in two weeks.

My initial proposal involved some high-faluting language about the economic and social impact of riads within the Medinas of Morocco. However, Fulbright is a cross-cultural grant. If you’ve read my previous over-detailed post explaining my application process, then you’ll know that I mention that fact at least 5 times. This is the priority of the Fulbright program with research coming in a close second. Therefore, as I have been in this country for six weeks, I have tried to look at my initial idea from that stand point. Essentially, I was interested in how tourism has changed Morocco, and it did not occur to me that Morocco can change tourism.

First of all, tourism is a fact of life here. It always has been. The history of Morocco is littered with foreign travelers. The Jews leaving Egypt, the Phoeneticians budding sea empire, the Romans and their conquest, the Muslims fleeing catholic Europe, white man’s destiny, and now the “Westerner’s” quest for life in a postcard. They all came to Morocco to start a new life or briefly escape an old one. They saw Morocco as an experience or at least as a haven for the different or the brave.

This idea of tourism involves looking not only at economics (social and otherwise) but also at the culture, the history and the concept of society within this country. In this light, Morocco has sustained tourism for over hundreds of years, as it has welcomed the outside world since its inception. This causes my analysis to extend beyond the economics (social and otherwise) of how bed & breakfasts (aka ‘riads’) have changed Morocco. This involves investigating the idea of sustainable tourism, and how riads fit into this puzzle of sustainability.

I will live and research in Fez and Marrakech, two of the oldest cities and biggest tourist hubs. I will interview anyone involved with Riads, and I will delve into the concept of sustainable tourism as seen through the houses of Morocco.

I hope to publish this in travel books or some sort of sustainable tourism guide, but this is much further down the line. In general, my hopes for publishing this year have fallen by the way-side; therefore, at the moment I will focus on wrapping my head around this ever evolving project.

Which is just becoming the love child of an architect and social scientist, but hey that’s me.